“I’ll beat this in the Senate, just like Clinton.”
“Mr. President,” said Mulvaney, “There are 22 Republican Senate seats up next year. Not all of them are eager to defend voting to keep you in office. A Senate acquittal is not guaranteed. And you’ll hand the Senate to the Democrats in the process, maybe with a filibuster-proof majority.”
Flood jumped in. “And an impeachment trial will not serve you well. The Democratic managers will force you to testify or plead the Fifth in public. And we’ve resisted the House subpoenas for your financial records, but Chief Justice Roberts will order those documents produced. The Russian transactions will create a very bad impression. After that, if you’re pardoned, New York State is almost certain to indict you for money laundering.”
He waited, then shook his heavy face solemnly again. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Ivanka said quietly, “Dad, we’ll lose next November.”
He’d endured all this pretty calmly, but now he felt anger, his constant companion, flushing through him.
“That’s crap,” he said.
“Dad, your polls have never recovered from the Mueller report.”
“The polls said I’d lose last time. The only way the D’s win is if the Deep State rigs it. My people will riot.”
“Dad, the market is down. The tariffs and the deficit are slowing the economy. Kasich is ahead of you in New Hampshire. And Rubio will jump in, if Kasich wins. The party will tear itself apart. But if you sign this, Mike runs. He’s soothing. He’ll win. Otherwise, 15 months from now, a Democrat will be sitting in your chair, reversing everything you’ve accomplished, with a new A.G. investigating your pardon.”
He didn’t answer.
“And worst of all, Dad,” she said, “they’ll call you a loser. For the rest of your life, wherever we go, there will be crowds chanting, ‘Loser.’ The historians will say it.”
He let his eyes meet hers. She meant it.
“But this way,” she said, “when Mike wins, you win. You’re the winner.”
