I
booked a ticket to New York. I left clothes in the dryer and milk in
the fridge. I told my French boyfriend I'd meet him on vacation in
Sicily in two weeks. (As it turned out, I wouldn't really return to
Europe for 10 months.)
I
took Aaron and his family to the Stonewall Inn, the birthplace of the
LGBT rights movement. The Supreme Court had just handed down its
decision to legalize gay marriage, and thousands of happy people
gathered to celebrate. I marveled at how open this country had become.
Love had won. I was ready to go home.
But
then Trump announced his run for the GOP nomination, descending a
golden escalator in Manhattan's Trump Tower. Paid actors cheered.
(Trump's camp denied they were actors.) But the bigger story became his
labeling of Mexican immigrants as "rapists" and "criminals."
Because I happened to be around—literally just standing around the newsroom—I got the assignment for NBC Nightly News and the Today show.
A couple of days later, when the Trump story wasn't slowing down, my
cell phone rang. NBC's head of news coverage had a proposal.
"How'd
you like to spend the summer in New York?" he asked. "We want you on
Trump's campaign. It will be six weeks, tops. But hey, if he wins,
you'll go to the White House."
"Bright and early the next morning, Trump and I sat down for a talk
inside Trump Tower. The result was a combative 29-minute interview that
MSNBC aired three times in eight hours."
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My
first Trump "rally" was that very night in June. Trump was at a New
Hampshire home, pitching himself to a couple hundred overdressed people
around a backyard pool.
"I get more standing ovations than anyone," he bragged.
Trump must have recognized me from my days at NBC's local New York station; he called me out by name to pay attention.
"You're
looking at your phone!" "I'm tweeting what you're saying!" I said. He
nodded and continued talking. Afterward, I asked Hicks for an exclusive
interview with Mr. Trump. A week later, Trump agreed. I panicked. I was
known as a dogged, unflappable live reporter, the kind who runs barefoot
to the camera, high heels in one hand, notebook in the other. Most
recently, I'd spent months covering airline disasters in Asia and
Europe, from the downing of MH17 to the disappearance of MH370 and the
murder-suicide of Germanwings.
But
I was not a political reporter, and I didn't know much about Trump.
With one night to prepare, I read until my eyes crossed and took notes
until my fingers cramped. I also bought a pair of Jimmy Choos to feel
powerful.
Bright and
early the next morning, Trump and I sat down for a talk inside Trump
Tower. The result was a combative 29-minute interview that MSNBC aired
three times in eight hours.
Trump
called me naïve. He told me I didn't know what I was talking about. He
shamed me when I stumbled on a question. And when the cameras shut off,
he was furious. He didn't like my questions, which were direct, or my
tone, which was conversational.
"You couldn't do this," he said, searching for a put-down. "You stumbled three times."
"It doesn't matter if I stumble," I said. "I'm not running for president."
That's when he landed what he saw as the harshest insult of all.
"You'll never be president," he said. I laughed. What else was I supposed to do?
