As the night dragged on, other reporters simply began filtering out of the designated enclosure—approaching guests, retrieving refreshments, policing bathroom breaks amongst themselves, often at the behest of chaperones too distracted by plates of filet mignon and risotto. “I’m mingling,” announced Jon Levine of the New York Post. “I’m gonna go talk to Steve Bannon, I don’t give a fuck.”
Meanwhile, capitalizing on my newfound freedom, I set out to hear from the city’s young Republicans, dressed in sequined ball gowns and fur coats and tuxedos, who dished out $700 to $1400 to hear Trump speak over a four-course French-service meal. As it happens, many of them were not young and not from New York. “Are you French too?” an elderly woman named Nancy asked me. Nancy is not French—she is from Savannah, Georgia—and it is unclear what gave her the impression I might be. I quizzed a number of attendees on what they would want out of a second Trump term. Most of the responses were mild: austerity cuts, heightened border security, a kneecapped bureaucratic state. But one club member, Conrad Desouza, told me he wants to see members of the Biden family convicted for treason. “You know, the penalty for that is death,” he added.
Trump finally took the stage well after 10 p.m., his fists pumping to the rhythm of Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA”—his standard walk-up tune. The rabble was enthralled. They climbed atop chairs to get a peak at him, chanting his name in unison and swaying giddily as the line “from New York to LA” blared from the speakers. The whole affair, situated in a domed hall surrounded by Corinthian columns lit up in red, white, and blue, might as well have been commissioned by the Trump inaugural committee. He was introduced as “the 45th, 46th, and 47th president of the United States.” The club’s eagle crest, projected imposingly above the venue’s stage, served almost as a stand-in for the presidential seal.
Wax was pleased with the exorbitant arrangements. “President Trump is used to these dinky places in Iowa,” he told me. “He didn’t know what he was walking into.”
The former president was in rare form for much of his nearly 90-minute speech, perhaps because he was mostly among true believers. Remarking on his motorcade’s bulletproof glass, he said, “I have guys walking up to that thing, if they held a little [gun], I’d say, ‘go ahead, shoot.’ You know what happens? The bullet bounces back and kills them”; on Alina Habba, one of his lawyers, he said, “She happens to be a beautiful woman. But I never think about that.… I can see the most beautiful woman in the world—that doesn’t register with me at all”; on his post–Access Hollywood tape debate performance in 2016, he said, “A fantastic general, actually, said to me, ‘Sir, I’ve been on the battlefield, men have gone down on my left and on my right. I stood on hills with soldiers who were killed. But I believe the bravest thing I’ve ever seen was the night you went onto that stage with Hillary Clinton after what happened.’”
Of disgraced former New York police commissioner Bernard Kerik, whom Trump pardoned during his final months in the White House, Trump said, “And now Bernie is cleaner—this is the expression I never quite understood—than a newborn baby’s ass.… But you are, you’re the cleanest person in the room. We’re gonna get Bannon there too. He’s pretty close.” (Trump also reiterated his promise of a one-day dictatorship in the event that he returns to office.)
As for his supporters, they spent the evening snapping selfies with Paul Gosar and Lauren Boebert, passing around a comically thick congressional report on Hunter Biden, and flaunting various political merchandise. One aged attendee I spoke with wore a MAGA-themed scarf that he said his Guatemalan maid had crocheted. I spotted another older guest with a CIA pin fastened to his lapel; he declined to explain its origins.
Not everyone took kindly to the added security measures that accompanied Trump’s “grand arrival,” to borrow from the program’s parlance. One club member, an attorney named John who resides in Gramercy Park, practically feared for his life after being pulled aside by the Secret Service. Eavesdropping on their interrogation, I heard a pair of agents say they were warned he was intoxicated and might approach Trump. John denied this. “No,” he replied when asked by an agent if he had notions of crashing Trump’s dinner, before adding softly, “…unless he invites me.”
Later, I caught up with John, who did appear intoxicated and declined to provide his surname. He told me the whole thing was a misunderstanding caused by his admittedly true observation that Trump was “literally right there,” that “you could just walk up to him.” The subsequent Secret Service questioning John faced in the Cipriani cloakroom only furthered his disdain for federal law enforcement. “They’ll just kill you and make up an excuse,” he said of the agents. “And if they did,” he added, envisioning his own death, “half the club would side with them.”
