Brandon and Travis became my dragons. My code name is Daenerys, Mother of Dragons, from Game of Thrones. We were insta-family, and they are a team of equals. Brandon is stoic and analytical. I watch him watching everything in whatever public setting I go into, his eyes scanning the entire scene, taking in any anomaly and assessing if it’s a danger. But he is also incredibly goofy. On long drives he’ll be in the front seat doing the most dead-on but respectful Obama impression you’ve ever heard. Travis is more passionate, like me, always listening to his intuition. I call him my M&M with the hard shell and soft interior.
After the second night I was under their protection, they later told me they went back to their hotel room and sat there quiet for a moment. Travis recalled saying, “Are you going to say it or am I?” They agreed they were going to leave all their other clients and work with me full-time. I had been praying they would but was afraid they would feel obligated.
They knew I was going to New York for Michael Cohen’s April 16 hearing in a federal courthouse about the documents the FBI seized from him. Michael Avenatti wanted me to be at the hearing in case I was needed. If the conversation isn’t with you, it’s just about you, right?
“Who’s going to be with you in New York?” Travis asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“We got you,” said Brandon.
THIRTEEN
I was half dressed in the back of a speeding car in New York City, trying to zip up my skirt. My flight out of West Palm Beach—where I had had a dance booking—had been delayed, and there went all my plans to prep for Michael Cohen’s April 16 court hearing. The FBI had raided his home, office, and hotel room on April 9 seeking information on, among other things, the $130,000 he paid me. The hearing was about who got to look at the seized documents—Trump’s lawyers, who I would not trust to hold a Red Bull for me while I ran to the bathroom, or, as is more usual, a panel of prosecutors unrelated to the case. Michael and I wanted to be there because I am a firm believer that if someone is talking about me, they can say it to my face.
Now we just had to get there in time. My dragons, Brandon and Travis, hustled me right from the plane to the car. Glen wanted to come to the courthouse to stand by me, but I left him at the airport to wait for my checked bag. It was full of my dance costumes, the things I most care about after my people and horses. Thank God I had thought to roll up my court outfit in my carry-on.
I had lined up a hotel to go to before the hearing, so I could shower and steam-iron my skirt suit. It was lilac, sure to show every wrinkle. Now I didn’t even have time to touch up my makeup. I just had to wear the remnants of the makeup from the night before and run my hands through my hair, limp and tired from the humidity of Florida.
If this wasn’t enough of a shit show, there wasn’t even time for me to go to the bathroom before getting in the car. There’s no other way to say this: I was on my period and I desperately needed to change my tampon.
“Dude,” I said to Travis, “the second we get in, I need to find a bathroom.”
“Can you hold it?”
“It’s not about holding it,” I said.
This big giant of a man grimaced and whispered, “You have to do number two?”
“No,” I said. “I have to do number three.”
“What the—” he said. “Oh. Oh. I got you, girl.”
We got to the federal courthouse on Pearl Street in downtown Manhattan and I could see there was a mob of photographers and press waiting. Travis and Brandon have a routine for getting me safely out of a car when there are a lot of people, but I had never been in something like this. “Wait,” I yelled to Travis before he opened his door. I didn’t want to carry my bag, and I didn’t want to walk in like I was looking to be a feminine hygiene spokesmodel. “Here,” I said, handing him the tampon. “Hold this in your jacket for me.”
“You got it,” he said.
“You ready for this?” Brandon asked.
“Nope,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Michael Avenatti was suddenly there, just as the sea of men with cameras rushed toward us. I was unprepared for them being so close and able to jostle me. I thought because it was a legal building, there would be police and everyone would be cordoned off. They were pushing at the dragons, who were trying to keep me steady on my feet. I almost fell, and I was frightened. A man was screaming, “Stormy, are you here to rattle Michael Cohen? Stormy, are you here to rattle Michael Cohen?”
I got inside, and they just pressed up against the glass, watching me as I went through the metal detector. I didn’t realize I was shaking until Brandon put his hand on my back to steady me. I could hear a woman scream outside, like it was a rock concert, “Stormy, we love you!”
We were told the courtroom door would be closing soon, so we raced. No time for a bathroom. I have to face Cohen and all I’m thinking about is Is my tampon gonna hold? I was wearing this light skirt, and that was what would be all over the front page the next day. STORMY DANIELS, SHOT IN THE ASS. Tragic. People would think I did it on purpose for attention.
We got to the doors just in time and a guard stopped us. “You can’t go in,” he said. “It’s full.”
“Excuse me, what?” I said.
Michael asserted himself. He doesn’t like to be told no or be embarrassed. The guy went away for a minute, then came back. “I have to bring someone to bring some chairs in,” he said. “You can’t walk in and stand. You’re going to be in folding chairs in the back of the gallery. Give me five minutes.”
Five minutes. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I said.
I started walking, and Travis opened his suit jacket and handed me the tampon in a high-five gesture. It was the perfect handoff. Tampon, check. I did my female thing and came back with seconds to spare.
The doors opened, and I stayed stoic as I took my seat. Cohen was already there, sitting at what would be the defendant’s table if this were a trial. Every single head but his turned to register my appearance. He didn’t look at me once.
The Honorable Kimba Wood entered the courtroom. At seventy-four, she’d been a judge for nearly thirty years, having been appointed to the bench by Ronald Reagan. I had done some googling on her and liked her. When she was young she went to the London School of Economics, and she took a job at Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Casino. She quit after six days of training as a croupier. Hey, if you don’t want to be a Playboy bunny, be a federal judge. American women deserve to have choices.
I had heard she was annoyed at Friday’s hearing, three days before, because Cohen hadn’t shown up. He was too busy smoking cigars with cronies—and paparazzi—in Midtown, the buffoon playing the part of the Mafia-movie tough guy. Judge Wood had said Friday that she needed to know who Cohen’s clients were by Monday morning. His lawyers said he had just three.
Now, we already knew two of them: President Trump, obviously, and a Republican fund-raiser and lobbyist named Elliott Broidy. After the election, Trump named Broidy deputy national finance chairman for the Republican National Committee—a title that Cohen shared. I knew that Cohen dealt with Playboy model Shera Bechard’s signing of an NDA about an affair with a man who got her pregnant, a man whose alias in the hush agreement will ring a belclass="underline" David Dennison. The same name Cohen chose for Trump in my NDA. Hunh. Shera even got my alias, Peggy Peterson. That Friday, The Wall Street Journal reported that Cohen helped Broidy negotiate a payoff of $1.6 million to Bechard through Cohen’s shell company Essential Consultants LLC to, guess who, my ex-lawyer Keith Davidson. When reached for comment by The New York Times, Broidy sure copped to Trump being the guy fast. In the Times, Shera’s new lawyer, Peter K. Stris, also accused Cohen and Davidson of working against his client’s interests, or, as he put it, “profoundly disturbing and repeated collusion.” I get that.