I’ve been wrong a lot when it comes to Trump, but I’m pretty sure I was right about one thing: Trump didn’t begin his presidential campaign in 2015 with some Wile E. Coyote-type plan to upend the party and take over the country. Like everything else Trump had done in his life to that point, that campaign began as little more than a Barnumesque exercise in self-promotion, a chance to further the family brand.
It was happenstance, really — a collision of celebrity and social media, a nativist backlash against the Obama era, and a seething resentment toward the Clintons, the Bushes and the bankers — that made Trump’s rise possible. He didn’t need much by way of strategy or money. He needed only to break through the fourth wall of politics — to look directly into the camera, like the practiced reality-show star he is, and channel the rage of the audience.
It must have surprised Trump to find that the Republican Party could be acquired and replaced as easily as a failing hotel chain. In the eight years since that election, culminating in Mitch McConnell’s decision to step aside as the Republican Senate leader this year, Trump has done something that only presidents Franklin D. Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan managed to do in the century before: remake a party and reorder the electorate.
By attracting large numbers of alienated independents and driving out some corresponding faction of old-line conservatives, Trump has fundamentally changed what it means to be a Republican — isolationist instead of muscular, chillingly nationalist instead of ruggedly individualist. The real RINOs (Republicans in name only) now are the party’s Trumpist leaders themselves, who fly the tattered flag of their predecessors but embrace an entirely different agenda.
For Trump, however, all that conquering has come at a cost. His name, once a gaudy but coveted asset among hoteliers and resort-builders, is now anathema to a lot of the high-end customer base. Trump’s brand seems to have more value now on a pair of spray-painted sneakers than it does on the front of a high-rise.
Even as he finds it harder to leverage his name for cash, Trump’s liabilities keep mounting. Thanks to recent court verdicts, he now owes more than half a billion dollars in damages, and he won’t be able to operate what remains of his New York business for three years. He still faces two federal prosecutions; for the first time in his fast-dealing, illusion-conjuring career, Trump faces the very real possibility of trading his red tie for an orange jumpsuit.
Politically speaking, all of this is a gift. New York City’s trivial prosecution about hush money for an affair, along with the circus that now threatens to overtake Trump’s prosecution on election-meddling charges in Georgia, have helped Trump’s public cause immensely, allowing him to credibly portray himself as the victim of a leftist legal establishment.
But Trump must know that his Al Pacino routine (“The whole trial is out of order!”) won’t insulate him from the reality of multiple verdicts. His chances of riding out this storm as a private citizen — without incurring some serious damage in the form of financial ruin or a prison term — aren’t good. There is only one sure way out.
If you want to worry about autocracy in America, this is what you should worry about. It’s never a good betting strategy to predict Trump’s behavior, but at heart, he’s always been more of a craven entertainer than a scheming monarchist. He might not care very much about the principles of a democracy, but neither is it clear that he cares enough about the things he does care about — immigration, trade, white nationalism — to try to impose his will on the courts or the military.
But if there’s one thing we can infer from Trump’s career as a con man, it’s that he will do whatever it takes to save himself. The presidency would cloak him in a temporary immunity, which he desperately needs. Would he use his control over the Justice Department to shut down prosecutions? Absolutely. Would he attempt the legal contortions of issuing himself a blanket pardon? Bet on it.
Within days of his second inauguration, Trump would turn the executive branch into his sanctuary and his law firm, an instrument of protection and retribution. Everything else — and everyone else — would come second.
In 2016, Trump’s improvised campaign was a lark. Eight years later, he is running with the ferocity of a desperate man. For the star of politics’ greatest reality show, cancellation is no longer an option.
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