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Her of a Compliment

       27: “Saint Hillary”

       28: I Hate Everyone

       29: “You Should Be So Pretty!”

       30: Prince Harry

       31: The Plane Situation

       32: The Gaffe Tour

       33: “Let Donald Be Donald”

       34: Stay Just a Little Bit Longer

       35: The Kids Are Alright

       36: Writing Herstory

       37: Who Let the Dog Out?

       38: “Man, Y’all Are Jittery”

       39: The Bed Wetters

       40: Off the Record … Until Hacked

       41: The Red Scare

       42: Gladiator Arena

       43: “HRC Has No Public Events Scheduled”

       44: “Media Blame Pollen”

       45: The Fall of Magical Thinking

       46: Debate Hillary

       47: How I Became an Unwitting Agent of Russian Intelligence

       48: The “Big Ball of Ugly”

       49: Bill’s Last Stand

       50: Chekhov’s Gun

       51: Hillary’s Death March to Victory

       52: The Tick-Tock Number One

       53: The Tick-Tock Number Two

       54: The Morning After

       Footnotes

       Acknowledgments

       About the Author

       About the Publisher

       Author’s Note

      THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF NONFICTION in that everything in it happened. But this is not a work of journalism, in that the recollections, conversations, and characters are based on my own impressions and memories of covering Hillary Clinton and her family beginning in 2007 and ending with the inauguration of Donald J. Trump on January 20, 2017. I hired a professional fact-checker to review—and scrutinize—my version of events. My story is based on hundreds of interviews that took place during this ten-year period, documented in transcripts, audio recordings, and stacks of reporter’s notebooks that I stuffed into plastic containers and kept under my bed just in case I ever wrote a book. I also referred to campaign materials, archival documents, and the Miller Center’s oral history of the White House years. I’ve always kept journals, and even at my most exhausted would scribble down conversations from the campaign trail and my musings about whatever town we were in or news events that unfolded that day. I took lots of photos to help re-create scenes. I changed some names and identifying details, and gave lots of people pseudonyms, sometimes to protect the innocent but usually to protect the story—I think having to remember the names of dozens of political operatives who all essentially perform the same purpose is boring. In the rare cases in which I couldn’t confirm exact details or dialogue, I re-created them from memory and, when possible, reviewed them with the people involved. Any material that was initially mutually agreed upon to be off the record was passed on to me by a separate source or used with permission. This book—indeed, my role in it—would not exist without the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times entrusting me with the Hillary beat, believing in my journalism and springing for me to travel the country to trail the would-be First Woman President.

       1

       Happy Hillary

      Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.

      —KURT VONNEGUT, SLAUGHTERHOUSE-FIVE

      NOVEMBER 8, 2016

      No one spoke on the press van. I rested my knees on the seat in front of me and sank into the back row looking out the window at the Hudson River. In the past twenty-four hours, I’d slept maybe forty-five minutes and that was by accident. I’d fallen asleep sprawled out longways in an armchair in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton in White Plains, New York, waiting for her campaign staff to wrangle us back into the press van to go watch Hillary Clinton vote. Ever since Labor Day, we’d basically lived in the slim silver tower that, until Hillary’s press corps’ arrival, seemed built for the sole purpose of accommodating hedge-fund managers and hookers.

      Hillary and Donald Trump both liked to fly back to New York at night so they could sleep in their own beds. The Ritz put the traveling press in proximity to the Clintons’ home in Chappaqua while still acquiring Marriott points, which were really the only thing that sustained us in those final months on the road. Entire conversations revolved around Marriott points, how many we had, how we’d cash them in when the campaign came to an end.

      I couldn’t tell if I was just tired or still had the busy, swirling head of someone who had downed three Dixie cups full of lukewarm champagne before filing my final campaign-trail story for the New York Times at around 3:45 a.m.

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