Betrayed by his friend and employer Donald Trump, besieged by the media, and hounded by prosecutors, attorney Michael Cohen silently escaped and now endures another solitary night in his New York hideaway, studying mounds of documents he prays the feds won’t discover and listening to explosive tapes only he and Trump know about. Many unpleasant people consider Cohen a mortal threat to the president, and he seldom finds sleep anymore. Thankfully, no one knows where he is. He rents and pays bills under a pseudonym. He enters and leaves his home incognito. He sends encoded messages to loved ones who haven’t seen him in weeks. So who could be pounding on his front door?
Cohen grabs his big pistol, edges to the bulletproof door, and peers through a peephole invisible from outside.
“Go away,” he shouts.
“Let me in.”
“We need to talk.”
Cohen cracks blinds over dark tinted windows on each side of the door and, seeing no one else, unlocks the doorknob and two deadbolts and pulls the door open. “You alone?”
He unlocks the doorknob and deadbolt on a heavy black security screen. “Come in.”
“I can’t believe you plan to testify Donald knew that Don Jr. and others were going to meet the Russians to talk about Hillary.”
“I don’t have a choice.” Cohen puts his pistol in a cabinet.
“You could be faithful.”
“At what cost? People are laughing I claimed he didn’t know about my payment to Karen McDougal before the election.”
“He appreciates that but still needs your help. He’s worn out.”
“Look how I’ve aged since he became president.”
“You look a lot better than him.”
Cohen smiles sadly. “I’m twenty years younger.”
“You have a lot of time left.”
“I’m not spending it in prison.”
“Quit worrying about those files the FBI took.”
“I know what’s in them.”
“You know he’ll pardon you.”
“He told me he wouldn’t.”
“He would now.”
“Too late,” says Cohen.
“This is a president who’s creating jobs and defending our borders.”
“He shouldn’t need my carcass to do those things.”
“Please come to the White House and talk to him.”
Cohen shakes his head. “I don’t like his deals anymore.”
“He’s done so much for you.”
“He made me his legal garbage collector.”
“I won’t let you keep hurting him.”
Cohen points to the door and says, “Time for you to leave.”
Reaching into her purse she grabs a cell phone, dials nine-one-one, and screams, “Please help me.”