Michael Cohen Claims Trump Wanted Him Dead, Witnessed ‘Golden Showers at a Sex Club in Vegas’ in Jawdropping Book Excerpt
EDUARDO MUNOZ-ALVAREZ and AFP/Getty Images
Michael Cohen, the former attorney for President Donald Trump, has been battling with Trump’s current legal team to be allowed to release a tell-all book he’s written about his experiences as a close adviser to Trump for years, through countless real estate deals, reality television exploits, and then finally Trump’s groundbreaking presidential campaign.
The legal maneuvering finally resolved to the point that Cohen is moving forward with the book, titled Disloyal, A Memoir: The True Story of the Former Personal Attorney to President Donald J. Trump, releasing the foreword on his website today.
Cohen claims that “[a]part from his wife and children, I knew Trump better than anyone else did,” and he makes a number of shocking claims in the excerpt: accusations that Trump had communicated with Russian President Vladimir Putin through a secret back channel that Cohen set up, engaged in wild sexcapades — including golden showers — at a sex club in Las Vegas, committed tax fraud and a number of other legal violations, plus insinuations that Trump wanted Cohen dead for possessing all this scandalous knowledge.
Driving south from New York City to Washington, DC on 1-95 on the cold, gray winter morning of February 24th, 2019, en route to testify against President Trump before both Houses of Congress, I knew he wanted me gone before I could tell the nation what I know about him. Not the billionaire celebrity savior of the country or lying lunatic, not the tabloid tycoon or self-anointed Chosen One, not the avatar @realdonaldtrump of Twitter fame, but the real real Donald Trump—the man very, very, very few people know.
If that sounds overly dramatic, consider the powers Trump possessed and imagine how you might feel if he threatened you personally. Heading south, I wondered if my prospects for survival were also going in that direction. I was acutely aware of the magnitude of Trump’s fury aimed directly at my alleged betrayal. I was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses and I kept the speedometer at eighty, avoiding the glances of other drivers. Trump’s theory of life, business and politics revolved around threats and the prospect of destruction—financial, electoral, personal, physical—as a weapon. I knew how he worked because I had frequently been the one screaming threats on his behalf as Trump’s fixer and designated thug.
Ever since I had flipped and agreed to cooperate with Robert Mueller and the Special Counsel’s Office, the death threats had come by the hundreds. On my cell phone, by email, snail mail, in tweets, on Facebook, enraged Trump supporters vowed to kill me, and I took those threats very seriously. The President called me a rat and tweeted angry accusations at me, as well as my family. All rats deserve to die, I was told. I was a lowlife Judas they were going to hunt down. I was driving because I couldn’t fly or take the train to Washington. If I had, I was sure I would be mobbed or attacked. For weeks, walking the streets of Manhattan, I was convinced that someone was going to ram me with their car. I was exactly the person Trump was talking about when he said he could shoot and kill someone on 5th Avenue and get away with it.
