I attended the Trump trial

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At first, I just wanted to burn off steam, make a sign, stroll outside the courthouse like a lunatic and go home, but it started feeling pointless. I decided I would attend the trial itself. As a former paralegal, I’d assisted at a few civil trials. I am unafraid of courtrooms and Latin.

When I got to New York, I went downtown to scope out the courthouse scene and asked some cops for advice on how to attend, where the line began, simple logistics. They weren’t helpful. In fact, they laughed at me. I actually said, “But I’ve come all the way from Minnesota to attend the trial.” The poo-poo’ing po-po would not deter me.

Until then, scant information was available about how non-press could attend. How many are allowed inside the courtroom? And what of the mysterious overflow room? Then, like a miracle, on April 29 — the day before I chose to attend the trial — the New York Post published a piece by a guy who’d done it.

Only six members of the general public are allowed in the courtroom. The overflow room holds a few more, including additional press. I emailed the article’s author; he emailed back to wish me luck and offer some suggestions to improve my chances. I’d need to be in line by 5:30 a.m. I set my alarm for 3:30 a.m., refrained from coffee and food, and hailed a taxi. By 4:45 a.m. I was in line and officially No. 3. I was going to Day 10 of the Trump campaign finance fraud — aka “hush money” — trial in downtown Manhattan. At 8:15, officers sorted press from the public and handed us date-stamped, color-coded entry passes. This was happening.

At 8:30 a.m., they marched us across the street into the courthouse through electronic security. IDs were not checked. Then we were led up to the 15th floor for another round of security, and subsequently lined up against a wall outside the courtroom adjacent to the spot where Trump gives his accordion-hands “witch hunt” press statements.

At 9:25, two Secret Service agents took seats in the back and the courtroom doors opened. Like a bride, in walked Donald Trump. He’s actually more yellow than orange in heavy pancake makeup, his hair a cotton candy swirl. Secret Service flanked the former president, and a gaggle of suits, including Eric Trump and Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton, rounded out his entourage. At 9:30 a.m. sharp, Judge Juan Merchan gaveled in and court was in session.

Throughout the trial, courtroom security was heavy — 10 officers plus Secret Service. They stood spaced, patrolling rows, glowering, sidearms at the ready, watching our hands and notepads, presumably to ensure no juror was being sketched. Not only could I not see many jurors, I can’t draw my way out of a paper bag. They looked like ordinary people to me.

Officers worked a position rotation and fought back yawns. Two officers were continuously positioned behind Trump, one facing the bench, the other facing the galley, glaring. It felt personal, but they glared at everyone. One fast move and we’d be toast. Later in the elevator, a member of the press described it as “security theater.” Seemed about right.

I’ll leave legal analysis to lawyers. Basically, Trump was fined $9,000 for violating a gag order nine times, and the witnesses laid necessary, but often dry, groundwork for the proceedings to follow. Prosecutors voiced a desire to add more stuff in another Sandoval hearing should Trump take the stand.

Did Trump nod off? It’s hard for me to say. The officers blocked my view. But considering Peasant No. 6 actually did fall asleep and I myself felt drowsy at times, having been up since 3:30 a.m., who was I to confirm what those in closer proximity have claimed about Trump’s alertness? I took notes so as not to miss a thing, but in part to stay awake.

Was I having a hot flash or was it just outrage over her pomposity in implying that the momentousness of the occasion was lost on rabble like me and that of course I’d be happy to give my seat to a first-grader. I told her, “Lady, I came all the way from Minnesota. I was in line at 4:45 a.m. I’m not going anywhere.”

Other than the trial proceedings the best part was the close visual access I had to Trump as he left the courtroom during breaks. Walking down the center aisle, he passed right by me. We were ordered to remain seated when he was on the move, and I enjoyed the fact that nobody stood for him. This wasn’t the Mar-a-Lago dining room. This was a criminal trial and he was the defendant.

One thing I didn’t see in the courtroom was Joe Biden or a cabal of Democratic operatives directing witnesses what to say or creating documents to back up incriminating testimony. Michael Cohen went to jail for the same crimes Trump is on trial for here. Joe Biden doesn’t make New York state or federal laws. Nor does he indict people; grand juries do. All the barking about this trial being a political witch hunt is actually what is political. Everyone with the gumption or curiosity should make the effort to attend this trial to see for themselves what all the fuss is about. Because it’s not nothing. Not a hoax.

One can read the trial transcripts, but nobody does. The media extrapolate and summarize — literally talk all day and night about it — but there’s nothing better than hearing it firsthand. Details that explain exactly what happened are not one-liners. Far from it. Hearing the lengths gone to in order to achieve X,Y,Z in painstaking detail is mind-blowing. The public not knowing is what Donald Trump is counting on. If the media is what translates the trial for the public, whatever they report can be discounted as partisan spin. In the courtroom, there was a furious choir of laptop tapping whenever a zinger came off the stand. But it’s the tedious details that are the truth and it will be the jury who decides — not the typers and yappers. And the jury is Peasant Row.

Each time Trump left the courtroom down the center aisle, I looked at him with a side eye, my body facing forward. But the final time, at 4:20 p.m., I repositioned my body to look him straight in the eye with my best face of revulsion. We made eye contact. When I didn’t look away, he squinted his eyes as if to say, “I can’t see you.” But he did see me. And I wasn’t small and I wasn’t meek. I got what I came for: to see an appalling con man with a cultish hold on a large swath of Americans, for myself. I got to see a know-nothing, do-nothing buffoon who’s running for office to stay out of jail.