I STRUGGLED FOR SEVERAL WEEKS, but my feelings of guilt over not telling the committee the whole truth eventually began to subside. Stefan was right. It wasn’t my responsibility to volunteer information. No sooner had I begun to move on than my name was broadcast on the news networks the evening of Friday, April 22. I received a news alert that the committee had filed a motion for summary judgment against Mark Meadows for refusing to comply with a subpoena. The filing included excerpts from my February and March transcripts.
I opened the link to a news article and started reading the filing. When the first page of my transcript appeared, my heart stopped. I don’t want to relive this. What exactly did I say? What exactly was I helping cover up? I put on a sweatshirt and shoes and went for a walk. I went in circles around the Navy Yard and finally sat on a bench on New Jersey Avenue that had a view of the Capitol.
I know I’m going to have to read this, and once I do, I know I’m going to be disappointed in myself. I did what I had to do, though.
I gazed at the Capitol for a long time, hoping that the view would reassure me. When that didn’t work, I retreated to my apartment. I guess it’s time to read it.
I read through the pages from the beginning, once, twice, and again. I opened my blinds for the first time in months and looked at my partial view of the Capitol, not much more than a bit of the top of the Statue of Freedom on the dome. I felt overcome by the thought that I had become someone I didn’t expect or want to be. There’s more to the story than what’s contained in these pages. I withheld information from the committee. I protected principals, not my principles. Is it too late to fix it?
I called Sam, who, as usual, offered sound advice. I asked if he had read my transcript. He hadn’t. I told him that I thought I had put myself in a position I didn’t want to be in.
“You have a decision to make,” he told me. “Go look in the mirror right now. I mean it, I’ll hold, go look in the mirror right now. Do you like what you’re looking at? And I don’t mean your appearance. Do you respect the person you’re looking at? Because you’re going to have to look at that person for the rest of your life. The only person you have to live with, Cassidy, is yourself. I can’t make that decision for you.”
I exhaled. “I’m scared.”
“You have every right to be scared. I’d be scared too. But are you more scared to live with that person, that person you’re looking at, or are you more scared to ask for a second chance?”
The committee’s filing was the main news story that weekend. The details reported from my transcripts didn’t tell the whole story, and I knew it. But they were covered as if they were breaking news anyway.
I pressed Stefan to acknowledge that my concerns about the depositions were valid, as was my guilt about my testimony. Stefan reassured me by text that no one in Trump World was mad at me, including the president. He’d heard from Mar-a-Lago that if Trump was “ticked off” at anyone, it was former advisor and spokesman Jason Miller, who was also cited in the Meadows brief. “It’s a good reminder that the boss does read transcripts,” warned Stefan. “Whatever he’s reading isn’t going to put you in a bad situation.”
My emotional dam was crumbling, but in my heart, I knew what I had to do.
I almost turned around as I walked up the flagstone sidewalk to Alyssa Farah’s Georgetown row house. But she opened the door, holding a glass of wine, and welcomed me inside. It was the first time I’d seen her since December 2020, and the first time in months that I felt I was where I should be. There was a bit of awkward tension at the start. At that point she and I were in two different worlds. She had encouraged me to join her, an invitation I had ignored. Now I was reconsidering, and I needed her help. But was it too late?
After two glasses of wine and an hour spent avoiding the subject, I mustered the courage to address the elephant in the room. “Alyssa, I think I’m on the wrong side of this. I’ve made mistakes. Probably some bad mistakes. I don’t know what to do.”
She placed her wineglass on the coffee table and scooted to the cushion next to me. She put her elbow on the back of the couch, and rested her head on the back of her hand.
“Who’s paying your legal bills?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I’m not trying to be cagey. I assume someone or something in Trump World, but Stefan won’t tell me.”
“How much trouble do you think you’re in?” she asked, trying to gauge the seriousness of my situation.
“I don’t know. Stefan told me I’m not in any trouble, that I did the right thing.” Alyssa rolled her eyes and began to respond. I cut her off. “But I don’t trust him. And I don’t know who to trust. I think I need help.”
She asked if I wanted a new lawyer. I told her I needed to do this in a way that wouldn’t alert Trump World to what I was up to. I couldn’t fire Stefan without tripping alarms at Mar-a-Lago.
“You can make the break, Cassidy,” she said, with frustration in her voice.
“I think I’m in too deep, Alyssa. Can we try something else first?”
We talked over my options, and she agreed to contact Liz Cheney on my behalf about scheduling another interview. I cautioned her that there would likely be aggressive resistance from Stefan. I would probably need a subpoena or he would reject the request. I had every intention of complying fully, I told her, but without another subpoena, Stefan may encourage me not to cooperate.
Alyssa nodded and said, “Liz will probably ask for a few things you wanted to talk about before she agrees to do another interview.” I knew she was right, but I couldn’t proffer information already covered in my earlier depositions. That would tip Stefan off.
“The committee never asked if I went to the Oval dining room on January 6, or whether I heard about Trump’s reaction to the rioters chanting ‘Hang Mike Pence.’ According to Mark, Trump said, ‘He deserves it.’ ”
Alyssa closed her eyes at my revelation about the vice president, her former boss. I wanted to comfort her but hesitated. For too long, and often alone, Alyssa had warned the public about the dangers of Donald Trump, a duty I now recognized as a badge of courage and endurance—of survival. While she refused to surrender, I had been complicit.
“Cassidy, if we do this, you must promise me you’ll be forthcoming. If Liz agrees, this will be your only shot at a second chance.”
I lifted my glass to my lips and swallowed a mouthful of wine. “You have my word.”
I knew what I was about to do would require a level of double-dealing I wasn’t sure I was capable of, and I feared getting caught by Trump World—by my own attorney, even. I wasn’t sure I had the fortitude to see it through.
Filled with anxious energy, I sped to New Jersey to Mom and Paul’s house. I needed a guide, a moral compass, to remind me what was at stake. I picked up my phone, ignoring safe driving conventions, and tapped “Watergate” into the Google search bar, looking for someone who’d had a role similar to mine in the Nixon White House.
That’s when I discovered Alex Butterfield, deputy assistant to the president and chief of staff H. R. Haldeman. I didn’t know it then, but the person whose name I had just seen for the first time would alter the course of my life.
This guy must have written a book. I searched. He hadn’t. Nor could I easily find a transcript of his Watergate committee interview, or any interview. I instantly had a good impression of him. I did find a book that had been written about him, by famed Washington Post reporter Bob Woodward: The Last of the President’s Men. It was a look back, fifty years after the fact, at Butterfield’s role in the Watergate investigation. I immediately ordered two copies. When the books arrived to New Jersey the next day, I tore open the package as I ran upstairs to my bedroom.
I read the book three times that night—quickly the first time; I devoured it. As I turned each page, I kept thinking, Oh my God, Alex Butterfield is me. The position he held essentially as chief of staff to the chief of staff, the way he viewed his role and operated behind the scenes, and how he valued his relationship with the president were all nearly aligned with my experience. In the inner circle, he was close to Nixon, but chose to add a small degree of separation, more than others around the president. He had information that he didn’t want to voluntarily disclose because of his loyalty to Nixon, and he valued his anonymity. But his fidelity was to the Constitution, to the country he swore an oath to protect, and to the public who demanded his trust. He felt he owed it to the country and the investigators to reveal the truth or else imperil our democracy.
While I found encouragement throughout the book, the final pages offered a revelation that would change the course of my journey. When asked if he were given the chance to turn back time, Alex declared he would not: “No regrets. If I had to do it over again, I figure I’d do the very same thing.”
In that moment, I recognized how fear had restrained me from making the decision I knew in my heart was right. For the first time, I felt empowered to make the difficult choice to correct course and found the strength to see it through. I had rediscovered my moral compass.
I ran down to get a bottle of water and a highlighter; back upstairs, reading the book the second time, I marked passages and created a personal index of sorts. I studied the evolution of Butterfield’s thinking about his congressional testimony. He had resolved to give a direct response to a pointed question by committee investigators, which supplied crucial details to the investigation. When I cycled through and started the book the third time, I stuck Post-its on pages I thought were particularly profound.
I was still reading when Paul woke up for work at five thirty. I went downstairs as he was making his breakfast. “Hey, kiddo, you’re up early,” he observed. “No,” I said with a laugh, “I’m actually up late.”
The first beams of sunlight came through my windows as I climbed into bed. I knew that what I was going to do was right for my country and right for me. Alex Butterfield would be my guide out of the morass of suspicions and misplaced loyalties that had kept me in a near-permanent state of anxiety. I took one last glance at The Last of the President’s Men on my bedside table before resting my eyes.
I’m going to pass the mirror test.
On my drive back to Washington, on Thursday, April 28, I missed a call from an employee of GETTR, a new social media platform founded by Jason Miller. I was offered a job at GETTR after my second committee interview. When I returned the call, the tone of his voice was different, apologetic. I immediately knew what was coming—GETTR was rescinding the job offer. My heartbeat quickened, and I muted my line while I steadied myself. I had to act natural, disappointed, but supportive of the decision.
It took several minutes for me to calm down after we hung up. Though I was desperate for income, I was relieved that my next paycheck wouldn’t come from GETTR. But this call struck me with intense fear that Trump was already onto me. My second chance relied entirely on zero suspicion from the former president and his associates. I had to be more careful.
Stefan called the next day to relay the committee’s unprecedented request for a third interview, in person.
“What the hell, Stefan! Why?” I moaned, I hoped convincingly. “You said we were done. What could they possibly want to talk to me about?”
He had no idea, he said, after sympathizing with me. He would follow up with Dan to try to get more information out of him. I told him I didn’t think I could refuse to cooperate. Stefan’s preference was to have me appear extremely resistant to the idea of a third interview. He thought that the committee might back off if we made enough of a fuss. “But,” he added, “if we even think about engaging with them, there is no way that we can do this without a second subpoena.”
“Trump World will not continue paying your legal bills,” Stefan said, “if you don’t have a second subpoena.”
Any hope I clung to about a proper attorney-client relationship disappeared like vapor. I didn’t remark on the disclosure or do or say anything to indicate I was anything other than surprised and frustrated by the committee’s decision.
“You’re right, Stefan. I think we would need a second subpoena.”
I was scared that Stefan would see through me. The news had gotten out that the committee wanted another round with me, and it was making Trump World nervous.
Stefan seemed to become a little distant right about then. He didn’t respond to my texts as quickly as he had before—or even at all, to some messages. He did encourage me to call Alex Cannon and another Trump lawyer, Justin Clark, about a job opportunity, assuring me that everyone was aware that the committee was treating me unfairly, and that everyone was working hard to find a good job for me. I heard from other Trump associates as well, with other job ideas.
Alex set up an interview for me with Red Curve Solutions, a political fundraising and financial services company run by Bradley Crate, the treasurer for Trump’s super PACs. “Brad has a really good job for you,” Alex promised. “It’s going to pay a great salary. We know you’re on our team. We know you’re going to do the right thing.”
Alex added, “Not to get too personal, Cassidy, but do you need anything else? Are you okay financially? I’m so sorry you’re in this position. Whatever you need, just tell us. We’ll make sure you have it.”
I interviewed with Red Curve Solutions on May 10. Their pitch was by now a familiar one: they’d heard great things about me and wanted to hire me, and were working on finding the right position. They’d be back in touch in a few weeks, which I took to mean after my next deposition, if I still had value to them. They wouldn’t have long to wait. I received my second subpoena that same day.
May 17, the day I hoped to gain a second chance, ideally with my intentions undetected, had arrived. I thought I was ready, but I panicked when I entered the small, claustrophobic room in the Cannon building where Liz Cheney and Dan George, senior investigative counsel for the committee, were waiting for my arrival. Large cameras pointed at where I would sit, on a small sofa with Stefan seated next to me. Liz and Dan would be on the other side of a coffee table. I dropped my purse and left the room.
I may have left had I not been able to collect myself in the restroom. Was I making the right decision? When I returned to the room, I perched uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa cushion. Stefan looked at me with concern. While he had tried to limit the questions in the new subpoena, the committee insisted that the conditions were the same as with the first, which meant that they could ask me anything.
“Okay to get started?” Dan asked. He ran through the preliminaries. Then Liz took over. “The committee has been involved in collecting information in a number of ways,” she said. “And additional information has come to light since we talked to you… I am going to ask you some questions about both what you may have heard and also what others may have told you that they heard.”
I listened intently as I waited for her first question. I expected her to ask a few easy warm-up questions to put me at ease before she dropped any bombshells. Instead she zeroed in, calmly asking: “Did you see or hear President Trump say anything on January 6th after he returned from the Ellipse?… Because we have information that the president said, ‘Mike Pence deserves to be hung.’ ”
She sat back and watched, unblinking, as I mustered my response. If she had wanted me to seem shocked for Stefan’s benefit, it worked. I was. Stefan knew that story, and he had probably breathed a sigh of relief that it hadn’t come up in my first two depositions. But it was plausible that someone else had told the committee that story, and now they needed me to corroborate it.
I replied carefully that I’d heard it “secondhand from Mr. Meadows… I don’t know if that was the exact quote, but it was something along those lines.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Stefan looking at me as I talked. How couldn’t he know? He opened his briefcase and took out a legal pad. He hadn’t taken many notes in my previous depositions; now he began to scribble furiously. He wouldn’t stop for five hours.
Liz didn’t address any of the subjects that I had previously discussed with the committee. But she raised all kinds of new and well-informed inquiries, which I haltingly answered. In response to direct questions, I divulged information about Mark speaking to General Flynn, on January 5, 2021, about his meeting in the Willard InterContinental, about burning documents in his office fireplace and taking home red folders with classified documents. I described the meeting in the Cabinet Room, on December 21, where the Oath Keepers and the Proud Boys were discussed, and the “find me the votes” phone call with Georgia election officials, on January 2. I told the committee that Trump had known that rally-goers had brought sharpened flag poles and other weapons with them, and that he had still wanted to get them into the rally on the Ellipse. I confirmed that the Outer Oval had stopped keeping a log of the president’s meetings and phone calls. I described the January 4 flight from Georgia with Marjorie Taylor Greene, when she bragged about her QAnon fans. I gave Liz the names of members of Congress and other officials who had wanted blanket or preemptive pardons, including Mark.
We took a few breaks, and Stefan and I walked down the hall to confer privately. Each time, he asked, “How do they know this stuff? Who’s talking?”
“I don’t know who’s talking,” I said with faux outrage. “But this is insane.”
When the five-hour deposition wrapped up, Dan brought up the possibility of another interview to dig deeper into the classified documents issue. Stefan wasn’t happy about that, and neither was I. When they turned off the cameras, I slumped back on the sofa, exhausted. Stefan shook Liz’s hand and then talked to Dan about something. Liz came over to me and gave me a hug.
Whispering in my ear, she said, “Thank you.”
“I’m really trying to do the right thing,” I whispered back.
Dan, Stefan, and I walked out of the Cannon building. I had a split second with Dan to say goodbye. We shook hands, and I said quietly, “I’m about to get nuked.”
He nodded slightly. “I’m so sorry.” He turned around and went back into the building.
It was 7:30 p.m., still sunny. My ears were ringing from the stress of the day.
When we reached the street, Stefan seemed perplexed. “I don’t even know what to do first,” he announced to no one in particular. “Let’s get something to eat,” he suggested. “We should eat.” No. I just want to go home. I was drained, and every moment I spent with Stefan came with a risk that I would reveal myself. But I didn’t think I could refuse his offer without doing just that, so I agreed.
He hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of Hank’s Oyster Bar at the Wharf. As soon as we took off, Stefan’s phone started ringing. I assumed it was Eric Herschmann or Alex Cannon, but was surprised when I learned it was a reporter calling.
“Stefan, did you tell the reporter that we were meeting with the committee today?” I asked.
“No, no, but I should probably answer to see if they know, right? I should answer,” he responded.
“Stefan, no. I don’t think you should answer that call. They probably want to know if we met with the committee today.”
“Cass, I’m just going to answer. It will be just two seconds.” He answered the call.
I could not hear what the reporter was saying, but I did hear Stefan say, “Yeah, yeah, we did just leave her third interview. You can put it out, but don’t make it too big of a deal. I don’t think she’ll want it to be too big of a deal. All right, thanks.” And then he hung up.
“Stefan, were they asking about my third interview?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
He was distracted, typing on his cell phone. “Yeah, but don’t worry,” Stefan started. “They won’t make it a big deal.”
“Stefan, I don’t want this out there.”
“Don’t worry, the reporter is friendly to us. We’ll be fine,” he said, but that did not really matter to me. What did matter to me was maintaining my composure—and cover—which would become more difficult when the public, and Trump World, learned that I sat for a third interview.
The taxi pulled up outside Hank’s. We went in and sat down at a table. I ordered an old-fashioned and downed half of it as soon as it arrived.
Stefan didn’t order anything. “I really need to call John Moran and George Terwilliger about this,” he said, referring to Mark’s legal team.
“Stefan, I respectfully disagree. I do not think we need to call Terwilliger or Moran to tell them about this. I think that is actually the opposite of what we should do.” I hoped the liquor would bolster my confidence, but it had not. “I do not think that they should know anything of what we just discussed with the committee, and I don’t think they have the right to know what we just discussed with the committee.”
Stefan argued the contrary. If we don’t tell them and the story leaks, “it’s going to look like you’re working against Mark,” he contended, “and then there’s a target on your back.” There will be a target on my back either way, I thought. I’d rather it not be me or my lawyer who puts it there.
Stefan’s phone lit up: John Moran.
“Stefan—” I started to plead.
“Just trust me,” Stefan interjected. “I’m going to take this.” I sat at our table, alone, as Stefan walked out of Hank’s to speak with Mark’s legal team.
I finished my old-fashioned and ordered another. “All good,” he announced when he returned a while later. “All good. Don’t worry. They know everything. They’re not mad at you. They know it’s the committee’s fault you were asked those questions.” Stefan appeared relieved. I was not.
We ordered dinner, and Stefan continued to apologize for the position the committee put me in. If only he knew, I thought, that it was not the committee that put me in this position. It was me. And I am not sorry about it.
When we finished dinner, I readily called an Uber. I was ready to put this day behind me.
“I should probably tell my law partners, Alex Cannon and Justin Clark, about today. And Eric Herschmann should know about what happened, too,” Stefan said. “Eric technically is not my law partner, but I think Eric deserves to know some of this, too.”
“Whatever you think is best,” was the response I could muster. I was not going to waste more energy trying to convince him to do something otherwise. If past was precedent, my efforts would be moot.
Liz and Dan had made clear that they would likely request a fourth interview with me in a sensitive compartmented information facility (SCIF) because of classified documents that we would discuss. Stefan wasn’t in a hurry to give the committee another crack at me. “I made you out to be unwilling,” he said, of his conversations with the committee.
One week after my third deposition, I received an email from Red Curve, notifying me that they did not have a job for me. With Stefan out of town, Alex Cannon took me out to dinner. He was genial, and mentioned a potential job with the Harriet Hageman campaign. Hageman was running in a Republican primary in Wyoming for the House seat then occupied by Liz Cheney. I had to put on my best poker face for this one.
Stefan continued to be elusive about a fourth interview and the possibility that the committee would want me to testify in a live hearing. I continued to press him for insights into his conversations with the committee. Despite multiple news reports that my name was on the committee’s short list of live-hearing witnesses, he denied having any conversation on that subject. Stefan told me that in his last conversation with Dan, he had emphasized that I would be an unhelpful live witness and would make it clear that I was testifying against my will. While I did not want to testify live, I was not planning to be unhelpful, nor would I accuse the committee of forcing me to testify against my will.
I was determined to uphold the oath I swore to tell the truth about what happened on January 6 and fulfill my civic obligation if I were called upon to do so. But with each passing minute, it was becoming increasingly difficult to dance around the Trump World land mines. I prayed the committee would entrust that duty to someone else.
On Monday, June 6, I woke up to a text message that I had prepared myself for but dreaded receiving. Over the weekend, the Department of Justice had declined to indict Mark and Dan Scavino for being held in contempt of Congress. In light of this decision, Stefan suggested that it was in my best interest to stop cooperating with the committee. “There is a small element of risk to refusing to cooperate, but I think it’s the best move for you. Do you agree?” Stefan texted.
I did not agree. I tried to set aside what I thought was my lawyer suggesting that a federal offense—which carried the possibility of serving time in prison—was a “small element of risk.” But beyond that, my reputation and livelihood would suffer severe damage if I was criminally referred for contempt of Congress. That might be the best move for someone else, but it was difficult to see how that was the best move for me.
I read his text repeatedly, as if the words before me would change under my gaze. Eventually my phone screen turned black, and I knew that it was time to respond. Rather than address his proposition directly, I asked Stefan, again, whether the committee had reached out about a live hearing. I thought that if he gave me a truthful answer in response, I might be able to salvage what remained of our attorney-client relationship and come up with a plan that worked for both of us.
An hour passed and he still had not responded to my text. I wrote another. “I don’t want to gamble with being held in contempt, Stefan. I’m sorry, but I just don’t think I can do it.” I tapped the words onto my screen and I sent the text without a second thought. Minutes later, my phone vibrated. “They have not,” he replied. I kept staring at the screen, waiting for him to acknowledge what I had said about risking contempt. He never did.
I flung my phone onto the couch and began to pace the length of my apartment. For weeks, I had thought about how I would react if this exact predicament were to arise. Practically speaking, I had several choices. I could accept Stefan’s counsel and run the “small risk” of a contempt charge, or continue trying to convince him I could comply with the committee’s requests and still balance Trump World’s interests, or admit to him that a crisis of conscience had compelled me to back-channel the committee to arrange my third interview. With each came risk.
But I knew in my heart that choice was a luxury I did not have. There was only one option—to fulfill my moral and civic obligations. To honor the oath I swore to defend, I had to free myself from Trump World. All I had to do was figure out a way to free myself without doing anything that would draw their attention and arouse suspicion.
Time, too, was a luxury I did not have. I estimated I had twenty-four hours—forty-eight, if I was lucky—before the pressure campaign intensified for me to agree with risking contempt. I found my phone on the couch and scrolled through my contacts to the only person I had not yet turned to for guidance. I sent a text asking if we could find time to talk on the phone and sent it before I had a chance to proofread it. I immediately began to panic and put my phone on Do Not Disturb before abandoning it on the couch. When I returned to it an hour later, I saw that I had a missed call. I texted again, and we agreed on a new time to talk. I inhaled deeply when Liz Cheney called, right on schedule.
“Hey, Liz. I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, and I’m so sorry to bother you.”
“Hi, Cassidy. Of course, and you’re not bothering me,” she replied. I offered a brief synopsis of the predicament I found myself in with my current counsel. I told her that I was not asking her to confirm or deny the committee’s correspondence with Stefan. Nor was I asking for a live hearing or additional interviews. But if the committee was interested in continuing discussions, I was not comfortable moving forward with Stefan and would likely represent myself. Her voice grew more serious, which I didn’t think was possible, and she suggested that I explore other options before serving as my own counsel.
I briefly explained how very unsuccessful my attorney search had been from November to January, and told her that I had only turned to Trump World for an attorney because of personal financial constraints. Since then, my finances had continued to suffer, and I had nothing to offer a new attorney. I asked if she or any of the members or committee staff might know an attorney who would be willing to put me on a payment plan. Liz said that she would follow up after she spoke with colleagues.
The next day, she called and provided me with contact information for multiple attorneys at various firms. I thanked her and promised that I would figure out a way to do the right thing, regardless of the outcome of the search for new counsel. I could not find the words to tell her that the committee was giving me one of the greatest gifts I could have received: hope.
I reached out to the attorneys to schedule calls, then packed a small overnight bag and began driving to New Jersey.
Afternoon traffic delayed my arrival at the rest stop I’d earmarked as the place to take my first call. Panicked I would miss the call, I swerved off the highway and into a Wendy’s parking lot just as my phone began to ring.
“Hi, Cassidy. This is Bill Jordan, of Alston & Bird. Hang on one moment, I’m going to patch my colleague Jody Hunt into the call.” I waited quietly until Jody joined. Though I strongly preferred in-person meetings over phone calls or videoconferences, I was immediately impressed with how natural the conversation seemed.
Bill and Jody listened intently as I gave them an in-depth recounting of my initial search for a non–Trump World attorney, and how Stefan had come to represent me. I provided an overview of my committee interviews so far, explained my current predicament with Stefan, and said that I was under the impression that the committee was possibly interested in a SCIF interview and live testimony.
There was a beat of silence, then Bill cleared his throat. “Well, Cassidy, it sounds like you’ve had quite the adventure the last few years.” He added that Alston & Bird was not representing any clients involved with January 6th matters, including to the committee. I felt my expression flatten. Back in November, a number of attorneys had said something similar before declining to represent me pro bono or at an affordable rate, and although I had just begun speaking to Bill and Jody, I thought that our conversation was going well.
“So, I’m actually a little tied up for the next two weeks,” Bill explained. “By that I mean completely off-grid. I’ll be in the desert on a Boy Scout backpacking trip with my youngest son.” I was about to thank them for taking the time to speak with me when Jody interjected. “But I’ll be around and will make myself available to work with you in Bill’s absence, then we’ll catch him up when he returns.
“Just so you’re prepared, Cassidy,” Jody continued, “whether you move forward with us or a different attorney, it sounds like there will be a lot of catch-up for your new team to do. The sooner you can retain a lawyer, the better served you will be.” I was encouraged, but we hadn’t yet addressed my least favorite discussion topic.
“I need to be up front with you two. I really don’t have any money to give you right now, and I do not have any resources to take out a loan. If it’s possible and you’re willing, I thought we could discuss a payment plan…” I began to ramble, but Bill cut me off. “I’m sorry. We should have led with this. There is no universe where you, a former government employee in your midtwenties, should be expected to shell out hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees. If you choose to work with us, your legal services will be one hundred percent pro bono.”
My mind whirred. I don’t remember the sequence of my responses, only that I checked and double-checked that they knew I had been expecting to pay them. When they reiterated the pro bono arrangement, I fought back tears while thanking them. Bill and Jody told me to take some time to think over my decision, and we ended the call.
I rested my head against the back of my seat and watched cars pull into the Wendy’s drive-through. Our call had exceeded my expectations. Bill and Jody had met when they worked together at the Justice Department under President George W. Bush. When Bill’s tenure at Justice had ended, he had returned to private practice at Alston & Bird, in Atlanta, Georgia. He remained active in Republican politics and had served as general counsel for the Republican Party and head of the state ethics watchdog in Georgia.
Jody had served in senior career positions at Justice for more than twenty years before he was asked to be chief of staff for Attorney General Jeff Sessions. He’d been selected for the job because of his outstanding credentials as a nonpartisan attorney who knew the intricacies of the department. As in my role with Mark, Jody had been privy to a lot of information in his role as chief of staff. He became a key witness during the Mueller investigation. After serving as the attorney general’s chief of staff, Jody was confirmed by the US Senate to serve as assistant attorney general for DOJ’s Civil Division. He had then moved to private practice at Alston & Bird.
While Alston & Bird had declined to take on clients who were involved with the January 6th matter, there was a rumor going around Washington that one of the firm’s attorneys, Bjay Pak, was slated to testify before the committee in the coming weeks. Pak had resigned his post as US Attorney for the Northern District of Georgia when Trump’s pressure campaign to get Georgia officials to overturn the election results intensified just days before the riot.
Both Bill and Jody were lifelong Republicans and unaffiliated with Trump World, and in my mind they checked every box—meeting every requirement and wish I’d come up with since I was first subpoenaed in November 2021. I was so optimistic about working with them that I was tempted to cancel the rest of the calls I had scheduled. But I had made a promise to Liz and the January 6th Committee and would follow through, and I fielded attorney calls for the remainder of my drive to New Jersey.
The next day, I called Bill and Jody during their first free moment and told them it would be a privilege to move forward with their counsel. We scheduled to meet in person at Alston & Bird’s Washington office the next day. Jody promised to have an engagement letter ready for me to sign when I arrived, and he asked me to bring a copy of the engagement letter I had signed with Stefan, as well as any other material Stefan and I had produced together. “Well, funny story,” I said. “I never signed an engagement letter with Stefan. I asked for one, but he said we weren’t doing engagement letters, that they weren’t necessary.” The line was quiet, and I felt an urge to fill the silence. “I’m sorry…” I started.
“Don’t apologize. But there’s really no engagement letter?” Jody asked.
“No, there’s not,” I replied. “Well, then, just bring yourself! I’ll write a draft email for you to send Stefan, if you’d like.” I accepted his offer.
I was soaking up the last few minutes of the day’s sun in my parents’ backyard before I drove back to Washington when my phone vibrated with a call from Stefan. He had been trying to reach me all day. I was trying to put him off until I switched legal counsel the following day. I answered the call and apologized for not having answered. Stefan was unfazed and picked up where we had left off about the contempt charge. I lay in the grass and stared into the cloudless sky, half listening as he droned on about how not cooperating with the committee was best for everyone.
“Everyone” did not include the tens of millions of Americans who had been lied to about the results of a free, fair, and democratic election; it did not include the families of law enforcement officers who had lost their lives defending the Capitol from the mob Trump had called to Washington. “Everyone” did not include the lawmakers, staff, and journalists who feared for their lives as rioters bludgeoned their way into the building. It did not include the investigators who were being stonewalled by former colleagues of mine who dismissed the investigation as a politically motivated witch hunt.
“Everyone” who would benefit from my ceasing to cooperate with the January 6th Committee was limited to people in Trump World whose personal interests could be affected by my testimony. In less than twenty-four hours, they would all find out that I was no longer protecting “everyone.” I had found my way out.
I asked Stefan if I could have a little more time to think my decision over. He agreed but repeated, “This needs to end at some point, and I think it just needs to end now.”
Those were Stefan’s parting words. We would never speak again.
I laid my phone in the grass and shielded my eyes from the sun.
This is going to end soon.