Skip to main content

Toobin: The Crimes of Donald Trump

 Jeffrey Toobin is my dream writer. I've read all of his books but his first one; they tend to be gossipy, smart, highly-opinionated accounts of scandalous national news events.

"The Run of His Life"--Toobin's book about OJ, and his masterpiece--can stand next to "In Cold Blood." (I think it's more fun than "In Cold Blood.")

One of many pleasures in a new Toobin book is the sexy title. Just look at this list! "The Oath," "The Nine," "American Heiress," "A Vast Conspiracy," "Too Close To Call" -- book titles are in this guy's big, big bag of tricks.

In "The Oath," Toobin had a nervous John Roberts attempting to get an oath from Barack Obama, while a bumbling Biden made foolish, unsolicited remarks in the background. The new book, "True Crimes and Misdemeanors," opens with a similar scene. This time, Mueller is meeting Trump. 

Toobin takes a moment to comment. Both of these men come from wealth; both have Ivy League degrees. Both have ties to New Jersey. But consider the differences. Mueller is in great shape; Trump, not so much. Mueller has many friends; Trump doesn't have that situation. Mueller was eager to serve in Vietnam; Trump dodged the war, then complained in the press that trying to date in New York while avoiding STDs was "like a personal Vietnam."

Not that Mueller gets off easily here. Toobin goes on to underline Mueller's failures: allowing Trump to get away without an interview, writing up findings too dense for most of the world to understand.

All of this is riveting, right away. I tend not to love new fiction, but a Toobin non-fiction book is like a great Victorian novel. There are the larger-than-life characters, making dramatic choices. There are the wars in the background, the clandestine meetings, the paunch beneath the long red tie....

I love this stuff. Believe the hype.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...