TWO
Republicans were at a crossroads that summer of 2017, pleased to be holding power across Washington but increasingly unnerved about Trump and his response to Charlottesville. One of them was Paul Ryan, who had been Mitt Romney’s running mate in the 2012 presidential election.
Ryan, a tall, dark-haired Midwesterner, was the opposite of Trump in many ways. He was a devotee of the grueling “P90X” workout regimen, a straitlaced family man, and an insider on Capitol Hill since his early twenties. He had been elected House speaker in October 2015.
Trump’s personality confounded Ryan, who told friends he had never met another human being like him.
Throughout the 2016 campaign, Ryan had been supportive of the Republican nominee, whom most GOP leaders doubted would be able to win. But his support of Trump started to crack that October, when Ryan publicly said he was “sickened” by Trump’s lewd, caught-on-tape comments about women, which were revealed by The Washington Post.
Once Trump won, Ryan was caught off guard. He now had to deal with him. Ryan, as speaker, was second in the line of presidential succession, right behind Vice President Mike Pence. There was no avoiding it.
Ryan began, on his own, to research how to deal with someone who is amoral and transactional. The exercise initially was difficult. Ryan liked to call himself a “policy guy,” but his wonkiness did not extend from the realm of Social Security and Medicare into psychiatry.
Then a wealthy New York doctor and Republican donor called Ryan and said, “You need to understand what narcissistic personality disorder is.”
“What?” Ryan asked.
The doctor sent Ryan a memo and an email with his “thoughts on how to best deal with a person with anti-social personality disorder.” He also sent along hyperlinks to dense articles in The New England Journal of Medicine.
The memo contained material from the International Statistical Classification of Diseases and Related Health Problems, 10th edition, called “ICD-10.” Ryan studied them for weeks, convinced Trump had the personality disorder.
Ryan’s main takeaway: Do not humiliate Trump in public. Humiliating a narcissist risked real danger, a frantic lashing out if he felt threatened or criticized.
Ryan tested out his research on December 9, 2016. He and his senior aides, including soon-to-be chief of staff Jonathan Burks, arrived at Trump Tower in Manhattan for a transition meeting with the president-elect.
Ryan, Burks and others stepped into the gleaming elevator and said nothing. Burks wondered if the elevator was bugged. Trump had a reputation for secretly recording.
Once upstairs, they were ushered into Trump’s office on the 26th floor. Burks stood up to close the door so the speaker and president-elect could have a private meeting.
“Oh, no, we leave that open,” Trump said.
“Okay,” Burks said, sitting down.
Trump shouted at his longtime administrative assistant, Rhona Graff.
“Rhona! Rhona! Get the coffee. Get the good stuff. It’s Paul Ryan,” Trump bellowed. “We’ve got to get the good stuff for him!”
A parade of Trump people kept strolling in, then walking back out. Steve Bannon, the unkempt conservative strategist who had migrated into Trump’s orbit from Breitbart, a hard-right and anti-Ryan website. Incoming national security adviser Michael Flynn. Ivanka Trump.
Well, this is New York, Burks thought.
Trump nodded as Ryan spoke earnestly about taxes and health care, then looked down at his cell phone, which was ringing. It was Sean Hannity of Fox News. He answered the call as Ryan and his advisers sat silent.
“Yeah, I’m here with Paul,” Trump told Hannity. “Oh? You want to talk with him?”
Trump looked at Ryan then put the call on speakerphone. “Sean, talk to Paul,” he told the host, and Hannity did for about seven minutes.
The pattern of disjointed behavior continued once Trump became president. Trump kept erupting with erratic decisions and anger about perceived slights.
On April 26, 2017, Ryan got word that Trump was ready to announce that the United States would leave the North American Free Trade Agreement, NAFTA, the pact linking the U.S., Canada and Mexico. Ryan told Trump he risked public humiliation.
“You’re going to crash the stock market,” Ryan warned. Trump pulled back.
A lasting rupture came on August 15, 2017. On a hiking trip with his family in Colorado, a member of Ryan’s eight-person security team approached with the satellite phone.
On the line, an adviser had bad news: Trump was at it again, blaming “both sides” for Charlottesville. The media was asking for a comment. Ryan sighed. This time, he had to pop Trump publicly.
Standing alone on the side of a mountain, Ryan began to dictate a cutting statement that was then tweeted out.
Once back in normal cellular range, Ryan’s phone buzzed. It was Trump.
“You’re not in the foxhole with me!” Trump screamed.
Ryan yelled back. “Are you finished? May I have some time to speak now?
“You’re the president of the United States. You have a moral leadership obligation to get this right and not declare there is a moral equivalency here.”
“These people love me. These are my people,” Trump shot back. “I can’t backstab the people who support me.”
There were white supremacists and Nazis in Charlottesville, Ryan said.
“Well, yeah, there’s some bad people,” Trump said. “I get that. I’m not for that. I’m against all that. But there’s some of those people who are for me. Some of them are good people.”
Ryan later spoke to John Kelly, Trump’s chief of staff and a retired four-star Marine general. Kelly said Ryan did the right thing with his tweet.
“Yeah, you need to hit him for that,” Kelly said. “Don’t worry about it.”
On March 21, 2018, Ryan went through another tiring episode when the president threatened to veto a $1.3 trillion spending bill, known in Washington as the “omnibus.” Trump had heard pundits pan it on Fox News. A veto could shut down the government. Ryan headed to the White House.
When he arrived, Trump started yelling immediately. He said he despised the omnibus and was now crosswise with his core voters.
“This is a terrible deal! Who signed off on this piece of shit?” Trump asked. No one answered.
“This is a piece of shit, a bad fucking deal,” Trump said, working himself into a rage.
“The wall! It’s not in here!”
“You have to sign this, we just passed it,” Ryan said. “I mean, we discussed this already. This is the military. This is the rebuild. This is veterans.”
When Trump again complained about only getting $1.6 billion for the border wall in the omnibus, Burks said the number in the bill was the number the president had asked for in his own budget.
“Who the hell approved that?” Trump asked.
No one spoke.
An hour in, Ryan asked, “Are you going to sign this bill or not?”
“Yeah. Fine. I’ll sign it,” Trump said.
As Ryan and Burks left, they huddled with Marc Short, a Pence adviser for decades who had agreed to serve as Trump’s legislative director.
“What the hell was that?” Ryan asked.
“It’s like this every day around here,” Short said.
“Oh my God. Jesus,” Ryan said.
Two days later, an unhappy Trump dithered again when it was time to formally sign the bill.
On Fox News that morning, conservative commentator Pete Hegseth, a veteran, had called it the epitome of a “swamp budget.” Steve Doocy, one of the co-anchors of Fox & Friends, lamented “there’s no wall” in the legislation. Trump tweeted he was “considering a veto.”
If Trump did not sign the bill by midnight, the government would shut down.
Ryan phoned Jim Mattis, then secretary of defense. “Mad Dog,” the president called him.
“You’ve got to get your ass over there and sit on him and make sure he signs this thing,” Ryan said. “If you’re standing there, he’ll do it.” Mattis cleared his schedule and spent hours with Vice President Pence and Marc Short, urging Trump to sign. Trump eventually did.
By early 2018, Ryan had had enough. Tax reform had been passed and signed by Trump. Ryan’s three kids back in Wisconsin were still young enough to spend time with him. Growing up, his dad had died when he was a teenager.
On April 11, 2018, Ryan announced he would not seek reelection. He was 48 years old. The political-media world was stunned. Ryan was considered a possible presidential candidate, or, at the least, a Bob Dole–type who could spend years atop the Republican leadership.
Ryan soon went to meet with Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell of Kentucky. The speaker and leader had worked together to manage Trump. McConnell, 76 and known for being guarded and calculating, also found Trump bizarre, resistant to logic and advice.
When Ryan entered the majority leader’s office, he thought McConnell might cry.
“You’re a very talented guy,” McConnell said. “We had a first-class relationship.” But he was distressed. He and Ryan were the two leaders of the Republican Party in Congress. The coaches on the field.
With Ryan exiting, would Trump now be unbound? Who else would try to hold him back?
“I hate to see you abandon the playing field,” McConnell said.