Books, Reviews, Short Stories, Authors, Publicity, a little poetry, music to complement...and other stuff including politics, about life... "Books, Cats: Life is Sweet..."
In the annals of prosecutorial missteps, few have unraveled with the operatic flair of Fulton County District Attorney Fani Willis’s fall from the Trump case. What began as a historic indictment—charging Donald Trump and 18 others with racketeering for their alleged efforts to overturn Georgia’s 2020 election results—has now been eclipsed by a scandal of intimacy, impropriety, and institutional consequence.
This is the story of how romance, salary, and scandal collided to derail one of the most consequential prosecutions in Georgia’s history.
Willis appointed attorney Nathan Wade as special prosecutor in the Trump case, a move that drew scrutiny not for his legal acumen, but for the compensation he received. Wade was paid hundreds of thousands of dollars in public funds—money that, according to court filings, helped finance lavish trips he took with Willis to Napa Valley, Aruba, and beyond.
The optics were damning. Wade’s invoices, Willis’s reimbursements (often in cash), and the lack of clear financial boundaries between the two raised questions not only of ethics but also of legality. Defense attorneys argued that the relationship created a conflict of interest, undermining the integrity of the prosecution.
The relationship between Willis and Wade became public after Trump co-defendant Michael Roman filed a motion alleging misconduct. What followed was a courtroom drama that rivaled the case itself. Willis testified that the romance began after Wade’s appointment and that she paid her share of expenses. But the damage was done.
Judge Scott McAfee ruled that Willis had shown a “tremendous lapse in judgment” and that the appearance of impropriety was too great to ignore. The Georgia Court of Appeals agreed, and in a rare move, disqualified Willis and her entire office from the case. The Georgia Supreme Court upheld that decision, effectively ending her role in the prosecution.
With Willis removed, the case now rests in the hands of the Prosecuting Attorneys Council of Georgia, which must appoint a new prosecutor to determine its fate. Trump’s legal team celebrated the ruling, calling it a victory against “lawfare persecutions.” Willis, for her part, expressed disappointment but vowed to cooperate with the transition.
In the Georgia case, Trump was practically caught red-handed with his hands in the cookie jar. The defeated President is heard on audio tape asking the Georgia Secretary of State to find him one more vote needed to change the 2020 winner in Georgia from Joe Biden to him. This case could have proceeded to trial before the 2024 Presidential election, and a conviction on the racketeering charges brought by Willis would have made Trump ineligible to hold the office of President and potentially prevented the constitutional crisis facing the country during Trump’s second term as President.
The scandal has not only derailed the prosecution, but it has also reshaped the political landscape. Willis, once seen as a rising star, now faces reputational damage that may be difficult to repair. The case itself, once a symbol of accountability, now risks becoming a cautionary tale of ambition undone by personal entanglement.
This isn’t just about money or sex. It’s about the fragility of public trust. When the pursuit of justice becomes entangled with personal gain, even the most righteous cases can falter. Willis’s downfall is a reminder that integrity is not just a legal requirement—it’s a moral imperative. That Black girl magic notwithstanding.
Ultimately, the Trump prosecution in Georgia may still proceed. But it will do so without the woman who once stood at its helm, undone not by political pressure or legal complexity, but by the choices she made behind closed doors.
~~~
I was thankful to Michael for writing this story. The issue in Georgia had floated in an out of my mind ever since it happened... But I wasn't surprised with what then actually occurred...
Of course, with all of the conspiracy activities headed by Rudy Giuliani, I even wondered if this was another of the schemes that was arranged and blown up into reality by Giuliani. We all remember how he lied about two election workers! At least a court judgment has given them both a settlement from that individual even though it will never be the same for these two women of our Black community...
Fani chose personal arrangements, while refusing to acknowledge that her relationship with a peer in her office, was bound to lead to disaster. What a waste of talent. Anybody who watched the news during this time could clearly see that she was not only qualified, but also had the guts to go up against DJT... We will probably never know her personal story unless she writes a book about it. But "Pride goeth before a fall" comes to mind... I'm saddened that, once again, a sexual scandal has affected a legal matter, while, daily, we see the Republican Administration doing everything they can to blame their opposing party, when in reality, more laws have been broken by the president himself than have EVER been not only performed, but APPROVED, by our highest court by their own action!
I can understand the Georgia fiasco, MUCH BETTER THAN I CAN THE SUPEREME COURT SITUATION!
We MUST listen to those who are working to stop the madness now being spewed across our national... President Barack Obama adds his words to Michael... We MUST work to ensure that ALL God's people are remembered as OUR neighbors!
“I am a 20th-century escaped slave.” —Assata Shakur
Assata in Freedom
Syncopated Survival and the Score of Resistance
Assata Shakur was sentenced in 1979 to a life confined behind prison walls for a murder, she affirmed she did not commit. But she did not vanish into the abyss. She escaped and recomposed.
In 1984, Assata surfaced in Cuba, where she was granted asylum by a nation that recognized her not as a fugitive, but as a freedom fighter. Her escape from a United States prison was not just physical—it was metaphysical. A refusal to be silenced. A refusal to be written out of history.
She called herself an “escaped 20th-century slave.” A reality that far too many Africans living in America can’t grasp because they refuse to realize enslavement remains with us. Neither can they wrap their collective heads around the fact that escape is still a viable option.
Assata understood Imperial aggression abroad and its connection to political and economic aggression at home. In doing so, she reframed exile as a form of authorship. Her life in Cuba became a syncopated survival—a rhythm of resistance that pulsed across borders, generations, and movements.
In Havana, Assata penned Assata: An Autobiography, a text that braided memory, poetry, and political critique. It became scripture for the dispossessed—a guidebook for those navigating the intersections of race, gender, and state violence.
“It is our duty to fight for our freedom. It is our duty to win… We have nothing to lose but our chains.”
While living not in exile, but living in freedom in Cuba, Assata also wrote, Assata: In Her Own Words, a collection of essays, speeches, and other musings where she preached the gospel according to Assata.
Her words echoed through hip-hop, protest chants, and classroom walls. She became a symbol not of escape, but of endurance.
Assata’s so-called exile was not retreat—it was syncopation—a deliberate break in the beat of American tyranny. Like Coltrane’s solos, her silence was never empty. It was charged and composed.
“My music is the spiritual expression of what I am—my faith, my knowledge, my being.” —John Coltrane.
“Artists are the gatekeepers of truth.” —Paul Robeson.
“Revolutions overturn systems.” —Malcolm X.
Assata lived her revolution, not in spectacle, but in sustained refusal. She refused to let the state define her. Refused to let history erase her. Refused to let exile mean invisibility.
Today, as the U.S. government teeters on the edge of another shutdown, and as state-sponsored repression slaps the entire continent in the face, Assata’s legacy feels urgent—the system stalls, the people suffer, and the rhythm of governance stutters again. This time, White, Red, Yellow, and Brown people are caught in the crosshairs of a tyrannical empire in the making, alongside their Black brothers and sisters.
But Assata reminds us: survival is not submission. Silence can be a strategy. Exile can also be a form of authorship.
Her life offers a blueprint—not for escape, but for endurance. For composing truth in the margins. For refusing to be forgotten.
Let Assata’s legacy be more than a memory. Let it be a method.
Let us write in her rhythm. Speak in her syncopation. Refuse in her resolve. And strike a blow for freedom, the kind of freedom long sought by our ancestors, and not the freedom of a non-repentant reconstruction designed to appease the confederation.
“If the system won’t change its tune, maybe it’s time we write a new one.”-
I've been reading Chase since 2009, so I encourage all of you to check out some of the earlier books I have read--and which makes me want to keep on checking out her latest books...
There was a low whine. Katie reached down to pet her black German shepherd, Cisco. He had been by her side ever since she did two tours in the Army as a K9 explosive detections team. She had been extremely lucky to be able to bring Cisco back with her, with a little help from her uncle (and now boss), Sheriff Scott. Not only did she bring back Cisco, but also post-traumatic stress. A mental state that was more like a grief cocktail with highs and lows at some of the worst possible times, but she didn’t let it stop her from performing her job. She was determined it was to be a reality that would take a back seat to her life. Cisco sat up in front of Katie. The jet-black dog with amber wolf eyes watched her with curiosity, slightly tilting his head. It was clear he felt Katie’s moods...
Several loud thumps against the cabin jolted Katie back into the present. Cisco instantly turned his focus toward the interior of the house. His body stiffened and a low grumble vibrated from his chest. He stood still, taking in sight, sound, and smell to catalog the incident. Katie instantly moved quietly back into the house with her cop instincts alert and grabbed her Glock from her suitcase. Straining to listen, she didn’t hear any more sounds despite expecting to hear another thump, a voice, or even footsteps. But it remained hushed. Cisco padded lightly behind her, watching her back. Katie slipped out of her pajamas into a pair of jeans and a hoodie, quickly pulling on her boots. Her mind seemed to always jump to criminal activities instead of thinking it might just be the trees swaying against the cabin or a forest creature making its way across the roof. She inched from her bedroom to the living room and then stopped at the front door. Pausing there, she listened. No other sound. Her nearest neighbor was a couple of acres away and she wasn’t sure if the occupants lived there year-round—it was most likely vacant. There wasn’t a convenient peephole in the door to see if someone was out there. Instead, her hand grasped the deadbolt lock and she quietly eased it clockwise before gripping the doorknob. Furious knocking broke the tense silence. The rapping was fast and frantic, rattling through the cabin. It startled Katie, causing her anxiety to rise. Her breath became shallow, and her hands tensed. Cisco rapid-barked. She turned to the dog. “Nein, bleib,” she said in German to command the dog to stop barking and to stay in place. Cisco immediately stopped and stood in position. His eyes fixed at the door.
With her gun down at her side, but ready if she needed it, Katie said, “Who is it?” There were soft cries. “Please…” said a female voice. “I… I… need your help.” Katie’s first thought was that someone was trying to bait her as a ruse to get her to open the door, but that was her cop way of thinking. Everything wasn’t always the worst-case scenario. She turned the doorknob and opened the door. A teenage girl, who looked to be about seventeen to eighteen years old, stood there staring at Katie, her eyes wide. The girl wore jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a jean jacket. Her fur-lined leather boots were laced up to her knees. Her long blonde hair was braided and gently laid over her right shoulder. She had several piercings on her ears and wore a leather choker with unusual beads. “What’s wrong?” said Katie glancing around to make sure there wasn’t anyone else. “Please help me…” The girl eyed Katie’s gun. “Please, I saw your car… There’s a…” The teen was clearly distraught and had obviously seen something. “I’m Katie. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” “I found a woman in the woods. She needs help.” Katie’s interest heightened, but she still wasn’t sure if the girl was making complete sense. “Where?” “She’s just a ways. Please… you need to come and help.” Katie glanced back to where Cisco waited. “What’s your name?” “TJ.” “Okay, TJ, show me where this woman is.” Katie grabbed her phone and keys from the small wooden table by the door. She wondered why the girl hadn’t called the police for help. Katie slipped the Glock in her waistband. “Do you have a phone?” She shook her head. Katie thought that was strange, that a teenager didn’t have a cell phone—or at least didn’t want Katie to know she had one. “Please hurry,” said TJ as she began to walk down the gravel driveway. Katie closed her cabin door and locked it, leaving Cisco behind. She wasn’t sure what was going on, so she decided not to bring the dog. It was one less thing to worry about.
“This way…” the girl said. Katie had to jog to keep up as they weaved their way around trees and across overgrown areas. The brisk morning brought out a strong aroma of oak and pine trees, pushed around by the slight icy breeze. Katie made a mental note of the route they took, as the trees and winding areas began to all look the same. They moved through the wooded area for less than ten minutes before TJ abruptly stopped, her arms at her side. It was as if her feet were glued to the forest floor. Katie could see that she was shaking and her eyes were filled with tears. TJ then raised her arm slowly and pointed. “There,” she barely whispered. Katie looked to where she indicated and instantly sucked in a breath. She blinked twice to make sure she was really seeing what she thought she was. About twenty feet away was the body of what appeared to be a woman hanging in a pine tree, her feet barely a foot above the ground, the body swaying slightly. Katie could see bright pink nail polish on her toes and fingers. It was clear by the condition of the body and its disturbingly pale-bluish color that the woman seemed to have been dead for a while, more than a couple of hours. She was dressed only in pale-pink panties and a thin white T-shirt, and there was a brown burlap sack over the woman’s head. The rope around her neck made an eerie creaking sound against the branch as the body rocked back and forth.
~~~
Chase started out with police procedural books and soon won the reputation of local police that her books were right on the mark for her understanding and ability to write about the procedures that police routinely use. Since then, she has moved into various sub-genres, but always with villains who seek out targets that are chosen based upon some type of psychological problem that they possess. I didn't know until the video above, that she had experienced a neighbor with such an affliction, which ignited her desire to know more...and then write about what she had learned. Her ability to dive into a new area, such as with adding Cisco as her ongoing partner, keeps this reader coming back...
It should have been anticipated, but Katie had not expected that she would be pulled into a murder investigation while she was on vacation--a vacation that she had been forced to take since her uncle was also her boss...
Still she was unhappy. She liked to keep busy, to stay on the job and always be working to help somebody in trouble... But this time, she shock of finding a hanging woman had her scrambling as to how and what she might be called upon to do. One thing she knew was that she had to go back to the cabin, find something to help preserve the scene of the crime since snow had abruptly started... She was still at the cabin when the local police arrived. And immediately started asking her lots of questions... You know, like she could be the one who committed that murder!
But, of course, that would change moving further into the story... In fact, with her living so close to the actual crime scene, and just enjoying the area in which she was to vacation, would pull her deeper and deeper--that's how her mind worked out cases...
The crime scene buzzed through her mind. Cisco whined once more and then curled up at Katie’s feet. In order not to forget what happened, Katie typed up her report from the time TJ knocked on her door to the time the police arrived. She found an email for the police department and sent her report and contact information. She then began checking out the town of Echo Forest. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for but wanted to try to get a feel and understanding of the area. She also checked out the website for the police department. She didn’t find much, but it did refer to Chief Beryl Cooper and his bio stated that he had grown up in Colorado working as a police sergeant for Colorado Springs Police Department. He then moved to Echo Forest five years ago after being appointed to the position of chief. Katie continued to scroll through the site, but it was mostly highlights and not much substance. She let out a sigh.
Maybe she’d have better luck with the so-called Woodsman. Typing in this name, and ignoring all the results about hunters and lumbermen, she found a ton of information including movies, books, and various blog articles that were based on a type of mythical monster that stalked people, namely children, in forests. There were artistic renderings and people’s accounts, which seemed to cross over into other countries. She then narrowed the search to the specific area and across three surrounding counties. After scrolling through several pages, she found an article from almost fifteen years ago written by local newspaper The Pine Cone that featured “the Woodsman.” There wasn’t much to the article, but it did say a woman was found dead about five miles from where Katie was staying. The case had remained unsolved and the article suggested that something powerful had murdered her. The commentary inferred that something in the forest had killed her—and it had then gone on to cite “the Woodsman.” The article wasn’t very helpful; it was more from the writer’s point of view. Katie couldn’t find anything about local folklore or any evidence related to the cold case. It was all too cumbersome to try to pinpoint what she was looking for. It frustrated her. Katie leaned back in the chair and took a sip of coffee. There was nothing glaring or conclusive, but she found it troubling that TJ had been so terrified of what was most certainly a well-spun tale. It could have been stories she had heard growing up—or, though unlikely, it could be something more. “Well, Cisco… what do you say? Should we go on a hike and check out the location of this cold case from fifteen years ago?” Cisco immediately jumped up, wagging his tail. She dropped the location into her phone and hoped the spotty cell signal would be available when they got there. Even if she found nothing, it would still be nice to get out for some fresh air. Before closing her laptop, Katie decided to check out something. She typed in Jack Thomas, veterinarian, Echo Forest, California. A simple website popped up. It showed some stock photographs of cute dogs and cats. There was an image of an older warehouse with a sign out front: “Thomas Veterinary Clinic.” Katie put the address into her phone: 1216 Timber Road. “C’mon, Cisco,” she said. The jet-black dog hurried to the front door, not missing a step. He breathed heavily at the doorknob. Katie tucked her Glock into the holster underneath her sweater and jacket—just in case. She checked her phone and was surprised she hadn’t received a text message from her uncle—or anyone else. She thought at least her partner, McGaven, would have checked in with her by leaving a funny message. But her phone was quiet. She supposed everyone was giving her rest and privacy.
Katie and Cisco climbed into the Jeep. Cisco stood in the back seat behind Katie, staring straight over her shoulder. His tail wagged and every few minutes he let out a whine. The little bit of snow that had come down earlier was now melting. The roads were completely clear and the only evidence of the previous flurries was spotted along the tree branches. It took about ten minutes before she came to the downtown area. She passed a couple of trucks with single drivers and one utility van. The traffic was nonexistent compared to what she was used to in Pine Valley. The main street was scattered with a few stores and was about a mile long with adjacent side streets where the grocery, hardware, and supply businesses were located. She decided to stop and get some groceries just in case the weather hit harder overnight. When Katie was back behind the wheel, her GPS told her to turn onto a gravel road and then travel farther west. The longer she drove the more rural the area became. She had just passed the five-mile marker, which was near a hiking trail entrance. There were no other cars parked. She wasn’t sure what she would find, if anything, but she wanted to get a sense of what had attracted the killer to use the densely wooded area to dump a body.
After making sure the Jeep was secured and locked, she and Cisco headed to the trail. Cisco trotted about five feet ahead, stopping once in a while to sniff something of interest. She tied the dog’s leather collar around her waist in case she needed it. Katie looked at her phone, which amazingly had a signal, and which showed that she was close to the described location. But it wouldn’t give her the exact coordinates. Either way, she estimated they were near the site. Katie slowed her pace, then stopped and surveyed the area, wondering how different the forest was from fifteen years ago. In the article there weren’t any details about the crime scene, just that a woman had been murdered. No name. No details of the scene. No cause of death. No mention of any suspects and so forth. Just that it was a cold case. The article seemed to be a mishmash of information, and most of it not informative. The air was cold and the bitterness of it stung her face, but the wind was so slight as to be almost perfectly still. The forest area around her was quiet—too quiet. Katie noticed that Cisco had stopped and was staring straight ahead. His body was tense, unmoving, looking with intensity at what appeared to be nothing. Katie’s arms tingled. She thought she had heard something, but then dismissed it. It wasn’t because of anything she saw, but rather, something she sensed. She looked around a few minutes, but was satisfied it was a combination of the cold weather conditions and that she was surveying an area that was once a crime scene. “Cisco…” she said. The dog hesitated, but then turned, wagging his tail as he approached Katie. She took another few minutes to look around. It was definitely an overgrown area, but the walking path had been kept clear—most likely by the county for hikers. She didn’t have anything to go on and there wasn’t anything obvious she could scrutinize and she couldn’t even identify the exact location. Katie sighed. The clouds blocked all the daylight. The temperature seemed to drop more, making her shiver. Maybe it was a stupid idea, trying to fill her boring days with something she could sink her teeth into, such as a cold case. “C’mon, Cisco.” She headed back up the trail as Cisco effortlessly trotted ahead.
That’s when she heard it… a soft whisper in the wind, “Katie…” Katie spun around with her hand on her Glock, expecting to see someone, but there was no one there. She continued to take a slow three-hundred-sixty-degree scrutiny of the forest. There was nothing. Cisco had moved close to her. She felt his warm body at the side of her left leg. His body language had changed, becoming vigilant. She took a few more minutes until she was satisfied there was no one there. Katie took a breath and continued toward her Jeep. One thing was for sure, she had definitely heard her name. She was not imagining it...
~~~
Whether or not she was asked to participate in working the crime, it appeared at least somebody was calling for her participation... And before long, she was happy to welcome McGaven, her partner from back home, who was now there to be by her side...
Soon they were on a trail. And there were signs they they were coming nearer. Katie then saw two sets of feet coming from below nearby bushes... Two bodies were there, with a sign Three down...More to Go...
These investigations were not only the hardest they’d had to investigate, but the twists and turns were both unusual and horrific. It was as if they were being dropped into a play with no script and didn’t know what was going to happen next.
Haven’t you noticed that it’s just enough information and reports to give the appearance of transparency?”
Chase publicizes this book as being addictive--it is... But, no matter what does happen before the book ends, be assured that this author will have the case(s) all tied up and the serial killer identified and convicted...
Most villains these days remind me of those who spread hate on the news these days... I'm always relieved when the book is wrapped up tightly and the law officers have control again... May we be encouraged to know that many, many people do recognize and know the difference between the good and bad players... May more real-time Jennifer Chases work to help us break down the worst attack ever on the United States Democracy!
At 5:29 p.m., staff alerted me that the British singer-songwriter Charli XCX had posted: Kamala is brat. Brat was the title of her latest album and identified me with her brand: edgy, imperfect, confident, embracing. From then on, our rebranded Kamala HQ social media site was awash in her signature color, lime green, and posts supporting us used that color. At ten p.m., I finally decided it was too late to call anyone else. We had been going for eight hours. I’d spoken to more than a hundred people. Every single call had mattered. I’d had to be entirely present for each one, giving out and taking in important information. Now the dining room table was strewn with scrawled notes, sandwich crusts, and the greasy remains of a pizza with anchovies—my favorite, no one else’s. I was still in my workout clothes, my unbrushed hair tangled in its scrunchie. Despite that, I decided we needed to record the moment. Before I went upstairs to take a long-overdue shower, I gathered my team. “Things are going to get wild,” I said. “There will be hard days ahead. We have a lot of ground to cover. But you are the best team in the world, and I know we can do this. Let’s take a photo.”
Donald Trump lied over and over and over again, as he is wont to do. He would not disavow what happened on January 6. He would not give a clear answer on whether he would stand by the election results this November. He went back and forth about where he stands on one of the most critical issues of freedom in America, which is the right of women to make decisions about their own body.” As I went on to point out that women suffering miscarriages had been denied emergency care, he tried to interrupt me, saying that the president hadn’t been able to clearly make that case. I shot back that what mattered more is a president’s actions in office, pivoting to what Trump had done in inciting the attack on the Capitol.
“This is the process. If anyone wants to challenge me, they’re welcome to jump in. But I intend to earn the support of the majority of the delegates and I’m doing it right now.” Each call took no more than two or three minutes. Outside, in the fierce afternoon heat, a media scrum swarmed. A few hours into this day of frenzied, nonstop calls, I realized I needed centering. I stopped everything to call my pastor. Reverend Dr. Amos C. Brown is a Baptist preacher who marched with Dr. King. Of course he had already heard the news. I put him on speaker so the whole table could listen to his wise and sonorous voice, and we prayed. He talked about Queen Esther, who saved her people when they were threatened. “You were born for a time such as this,” he said, and I teared up. He asked God to protect me, my family, my team, and to give us an understanding of our purpose in this moment. It grounded us all. Then we were back on it. Outside, the sky darkened...
You know, folks, when I saw the exclusive first interview with Rachel Maddow, related to the release of her book, I knew I wanted to have the book, at least in my personal library... and documented here at Book Readers Heaven!
When I began to read, however, I realized that, since I had watched the news daily during that time period, I was reading what I already know, mostly. What I do when I'm sharing about a new book, I look for an excerpt that I think will be most informative, yet not share something that will affect others in knowing something before they, too, read the book. That, of course, is primarily for fiction novels. Given the news involvement of the election, as we followed Kamala's campaign, the book already does most of that. Therefore, I am doing something that I've never shared before... I'm sharing the ending of the book... As far as I am aware, there is no restrictions of what you excerpt from a book for a review. Except if you give away the ending that is been built up from what happened in novels.
I chose what Kamala writes as an Afterword. We know that the election was not what was expected for most of us. It was by a very narrow margin, contrary to what you may have heard boasted by Trump... Little did the citizens of the United States really comprehend what would be happening--even if we had learned about Project 2025... It was impossible to gather sufficient information about how the republican party planned to take over the entire nation through deceit, lies, illegal actions, and ignoring our Constitution. We still are being attacked daily as our lives are being affected mostly negatively--if not totally--about what is being permitted by this party's president...
I decided I wanted to hear what my candidate felt afterward... I believe it is important for all of you to know her words at this time as well.
Afterword
In the midst of half-filled packing boxes at the vice president’s residence, Doug and I sat in silence in front of the television, watching LA burn. I had seven more days as vice president of the United States, and I was spending them in FEMA briefings, making sure my home state had all the support we could give. Still, Doug and I felt powerless as we watched walls of flame, driven by searing hundred-mile-an-hour winds, incinerating familiar neighborhoods. A mandatory evacuation of our neighborhood had been called three days earlier. Kerstin Emhoff phoned me and offered to rush to our house to gather whatever few precious photographs and keepsakes I could describe to her. As we sat three thousand miles away, a chyron crawled across the bottom of the screen: “Kamala Harris’s house is now in the path of the fire.”
In seven days, I was supposed to climb the steps for my final flight on Air Force Two. The plane was supposed to take me home. But now it looked like we might not have a home to go to. We lived with that uncertainty until the day before we were to leave. The direction of the fire changed, sparing our immediate neighborhood, and on January 19 the evacuation order was finally lifted. On the afternoon of January 20, Doug and I took off from Joint Base Andrews. As I was heading to the base, I learned that the Air Force had decided to give me an all-women crew, the first time in history for this type of plane. We went straight from LAX to Altadena. World Central Kitchen had set up at Gordy’s Garage, so we helped distribute meals alongside other volunteers, many of whom, as so often, had suffered losses themselves. One woman looked at me sadly as I handed her a meal. “I really wish you weren’t here,” she said.
Almost a year before the election, Doug and I had planned to take a brief vacation to Hawaii. A crisis blew up, and I needed to stay in the West Wing. We’d paid the rent for the house and couldn’t get a refund, but the owners said they’d give us till the end of the year to use it. After election night, DC felt unbearable. Numb and grieving, we were in no condition to organize a trip, but then we remembered that house near Mauna Kea. “Let’s go now,” Doug said. “Let’s get out of here.” Lorraine and my other team members made it happen. This was not like going on vacation. It was reaching for the oxygen mask that had dropped from the ceiling. In that house, at that distance, we started a process that is still continuing.
Two of the trending searches after the election: What is a tariff? Can I change my vote? Gore Vidal called them “the four most beautiful words in our common language”: “I told you so.”
I disagree, I don’t think they’re beautiful, and I wish I had no cause to say them. Tariffs are a tax on everyday Americans. We are at risk of a recession. The marines, war-fighting warriors, have been deployed in our streets against civilians. The authoritarian, nationalist Project 2025 is the blueprint for the Trump administration’s second term. As of this writing, of its 316 objectives, 114 have been fully realized and 64 more are already in progress. The Justice Department is going after Trump’s enemies list, while Trump supporters have been pardoned and released: January 6 rioters who attacked police, the fentanyl dealer Ross Ulbricht, numerous tax cheats.
Foreign leaders have played him with flattery, grift, and favor. A luxury jet, or a Trojan horse? He has lined his own pockets and enriched billionaires while doing nothing for the middle class and worsening the condition of the poor. The destruction of scientific research aimed at fighting our worst diseases and the climate crisis, the targeting of SNAP, Medicaid, and programs for our veterans, the deterioration of our global friendships, the terrorizing of our immigrant communities, the starvation and sickening of millions around the world for lack of foreign aid, the reckless abandonment of clean energy, the rollback of environmental protections, the attack on intellectual freedom in our universities, the bullying of law firms, the breathtaking corruption. I could go on.
Trump says he has a mandate for these things. He does not. His victory was whisker-thin. He beat me by 1.5 percentage points in one of the closest elections in a century. A third of the electorate voted for me. But a third of the electorate stayed home. That means two-thirds of our country did not elect Donald Trump. Two-thirds of us did not choose this man or his agenda. That’s why I have no patience for anyone saying, I’m giving up on America because America wanted this. We did not.
Of the third that voted for Trump, a good part of them voted for him on promises unkept. He did not “immediately bring prices down starting day one.” Instead, the opposite. He did not “cut energy prices in half within twelve months.” He could not bring peace to Ukraine “before I even become president.” Instead, he has acted as enabler to the aggressor and shamefully attacked a brave leader defending democracy. I predicted all that. I warned of it. What I did not predict: the capitulation. The billionaires lining up to grovel. The big media companies, the universities, and so many major law firms, all bending to blackmail and outrageous demands. So what do we do? The answer will not come out of Washington, DC.
Their immediate task is to win the midterms and restore some checks and balances on this unchecked and unbalanced president. What we the people must understand is that the dismantling of our democracy did not start with the 2024 election. The right-wing and religious nationalists have played the long game, working for decades to take over state houses, gerrymander districts, and dominate local government boards. Their think tanks like the Federalist Society created the blueprint for stacking the Supreme Court, while the Heritage Foundation created Project 2025. Their plans have been amplified by the rise of a right-wing media ecosystem built to operationalize their agenda through massive propaganda, misinformation, and disinformation.
Trump was their vehicle, his road paved for him, years earlier, by a hot and pungent brew: Ronald Reagan’s celebrity, Newt Gingrich’s belligerent discourse, and Pat Buchanan’s nativism. Don’t be duped into thinking it’s all chaos. It may feel like chaos, but what we are witnessing is a high-velocity event, the swift implementation of an agenda that was written many decades ago. “This is how fascism begins,” warned Françoise Giroud, a journalist who served in the French Resistance. “It never says its name. It creeps, it floats. When it reaches the tips of people’s noses, they say: ‘Is this it? You think? Don’t exaggerate!’ And then one day it smacks them in the mouth, and it is too late to get rid of it.”
It is not too late for us, but we need to think both strategically and tactically. When we go to the streets, as we will, we must not give them the spectacle they are craving. We will go out of love of our country and belief in its promise. We cannot let them lie about that. We need to come up with our own blueprint that sets out our alternative vision for our country. A blueprint on how we will lead a government that truly works for the American people. There will have been so much damage done. Perhaps so much damage that we will have to re-create our government. And that doesn’t mean nostalgically reproducing what has been before, but something leaner, swifter, and much more efficient. At the heart of my vision for the future is Gen Z. The youngest member of that cohort is thirteen now, the oldest is twenty-eight. In five years, the younger members will be about to vote, the oldest might be having kids. They have lived through the pandemic, the resulting economic upheaval, the accelerating climate crisis, the increasingly toxic dominance of social media. And now they are living through Donald Trump’s global tariff chaos, isolationism, and slashed safety net, including health coverage and food assistance. Their generation is larger in number than the Boomers’. We need to invest in them.
I’m talking about something on the scale of the investment that we made in the Greatest Generation. Initiatives such as the GI Bill allowed people to harness their potential, to realize their greatness. Since Ronald Reagan, we’ve systematically gutted Pell Grants, which once covered much of the cost of college for talented but low-income kids. These grants now cover less than a third, making them useless to the kids most in need. The education we fund shouldn’t focus only on college degrees but should equally value and uplift the trades and skills that build our homes, modernize our electric grid, improve our infrastructure, realize the clean energy transition. As they enter the workforce, Gen Z is feeling the greatest impact as AI and robotics revolutionize industries.
We will need to govern with vision so that the opportunities of the new era fall equally. It is a challenge of massive complexity. Gen Z needs access to an education that is supple enough to adapt to rapid change and that helps them move nimbly through those innovations. This generation is the destiny of our country and the world.
These days, unemployed for the first time, I have literally been unpacking my life. Folders of letters and emails sent to me, some by voters, some from people in distant countries, expressing gratitude for the campaign we ran and despair over the aftermath. Boxes of awards I received in elected office and before. Each engraved plaque or lead glass tchotchke reminds me of the work I have done, the people helped by it. That’s consoling.
But it also brings up a swell of regret for all the work that I wanted to do. By now, maybe, young people would be applying for their $25,000 housing down payment assistance. An increased child tax credit would be lifting thousands more families out of poverty. Medicare would be helping thousands of families and people in the sandwich generation to provide home care for their elderly loved ones. People in Africa would still have access to their AIDS medications. Our global friendships and our national reputation wouldn’t be in tatters. I can’t help having these thoughts, when the daily barrage of bad news becomes overwhelming.
But I’m not looking back. Of all the advice and consolation I have received since the election, Minyon Moore’s words have moved me: “God gave you a beautiful 107 days to reclaim who you are. You have been able to push back against the caricatures, all the vile and ugly things, and be yourself. You gave America your heart and soul. You gave it your all.” I did. And I’m not done.
When I decided to become a prosecutor, I had to defend that decision to my family, like a student defending a thesis. I asked why, when we seek change, must it either be by breaking down doors or crawling on bended knee? I wanted a seat at the table. I wanted to make change from inside the system. Today I’m no longer sure about that. Because the system is failing us. At every level—executive, judicial, legislative, corporate, institutional, media—every single guardrail that is supposed to protect our democracy is buckling. I thought those guardrails would be stronger. I was wrong.
To keep people safe and help them thrive. That’s what I’ve always worked for, and that work has never been more needed—when the government sends armed, masked men into churches and courthouses, when children are washed away in known flood zones starved of resources for adequate warning systems, when the Department of Education is torn apart and the hungry and sick are denied their basic needs. In this critical moment, working within the system, by itself, is not proving to be enough. I’ll no longer sit in DC in the grandeur of the ceremonial office. I will be with the people, in towns and communities where I can listen to their ideas on how we rebuild trust, empathy, and a government worthy of the ideals of this country.
One hundred and seven days were not, in the end, long enough to accomplish the task of winning the presidency. But we accomplished other things, as I learn every day. This spring, Doug was winding up a business dinner when one of the restaurant staff, Myshay Causey, shyly handed him a menu, on the back of which she had written a note to me: While I hope this message doesn’t cross the line of professionalism (considering our meeting place) I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to speak on the class act and inspiration you’ve been, especially to young Black girls like myself… handling adversity with a smile, a laugh, and levelheadedness. I hope to develop into someone similar one day and be someone of benefit to my community. Three weeks later, I attended Myshay’s graduation from Compton High. In the fall, she will be going to Cornell to study public policy, with an emphasis on education. She has already served as the student representative on the school board for the Compton Unified School District. A good start. Sitting among the faculty, I looked out on the bright faces of the graduates, filling their new football stadium. Their proud parents, packing the stands. As Myshay walked across the stage and accepted her diploma, I felt real optimism for our country. She had written that I inspired her. That morning, she returned the gift.
~~~
The Devastation Continues...
Note: Comey's book right after leaving the FBI is available here
When good people are fed lies over and over and/or told they are affected in one way or another, they will begin to think the liar may be right... Do this: Are people being hurt right now by the government? Are programs for the elderly, the hungry, those who need medical care being taken away... If you don't know the answer is yes to just a few of the examples listed, then you need to change your television station, Watch for those who are concerned about what is happened, rather than a belief that the republican party is only for Christians... I chose to be a democrat after 2015 when I opened my eyes and ears to the elected president... I speak of the love of Jesus who asks us to love all of our neighbors!
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