The Trump trial from afar

COMMENTARY

I'm jealous of those journalists that scored tickets to the Trump hush money trial rolling toward a conclusion in Lower Manhattan, but not necessarily for the reasons one might think.

I'm suffering from something resembling professional withdrawal.

I've covered several "celebrity" trials for various news organizations, including Sean "Puffy" Combs on weapons charges in 2000, Martha Stewart's 2004 court date for insider trading and philanthropist Brooke Astor's son Anthony Marshall's conviction for bilking her estate 2009.

But this one dwarfs them all. Taylor Swift's sold-out Eras tour hasn't generated the hype and hoopla surrounding this event. I'm missing not just the visceral in-person drama but also the seductive illusion that you're at ground zero for global news, at the very center of the universe.

Even so, I'm having trouble getting too worked up over the blow-by-blow coverage - and envy at not getting invited to the party only partially explains my skepticism.

A friend recently messaged me: "How obsessively are you checking The New York Times' updates of Michael Cohen's testimony?"

The answer was only slightly obsessively.

My curiosity has been leavened by the belief that while I consider Donald Trump an existential threat to the American way of life, convicting the guy for trying to hide payments to a porn star seems a rather circuitous path to seek truth and administer justice while the big crime - trying to overthrow a free and fair election - doesn't seem to be exciting much urgency on the part of the judiciary before voters return to the polls in November to decide whether democracy remains their preferred system of government.

Of course, I don't miss everything about attending a celebrity trial, let alone being expected to pound out a pithy, amusing column on deadline. I was heartened to read an interview in Politico with CNN legal analyst Jeffrey Toobin where he was asked what kept him up at night as the Trump hush money trial approached.

His answer: Scoring a seat.

In theory, media seats are allocated on a first-come, first-served basis.

But I find it hard to believe that some of the celebrity anchors that have filled the courtroom's uncomfortable wooden bleachers in the dour Depression-era Criminal Courts Building joined the line at 6 a.m. as I once did. (OK, more like 7:30 or 8.)

Far more civilized were the arrangements at Martha Stewart's trial in federal court a couple of blocks south and far cushier than the Criminal Courts Building. In that case, accredited journalists were issued laminated passes that they were required to flash upon request by court officers.

Also, the cafeteria at the Daniel Patrick Moynihan United States Courthouse, open to the public, offered stunning views and satisfying food at modest federal government employee prices.

Come to think of it, the greatest obstacle to providing fair and unbiased coverage these days might be my bladder. Nature's call would require me to risk my place in line every hour or so. Not that I believe the need for bathroom breaks, jockeying for place on line or even the traffic jams caused by backed up metal detectors are something that Anderson Cooper, Rachel Maddow or Lawrence O'Donnell would have become overly familiar with before their chauffeured corporate cars whisked them back to the studio to share their insights as surrogates for a public whose physical presence in the courtroom was notional, limited to only a handful of civilians every day.

I'm unfamiliar with the seating politics at Trump's trial, but I can't imagine it's pretty: deciding which journalists rate admission to the courtroom while the rest are relegated to the overflow room. None of the trials I covered, not even Martha Stewart's where satellite trucks were arrayed up and down Centre Street, required an overflow room.

The best indication of how celebrity journalists scored primo courtroom seats might have been offered by a New York Times metro desk editor before the trial started. He described placeholders as "the real unsung heroes of the whole thing."

Missing out on being an eyewitness to history only partially explains my remorse at having to imagine what's going on in the courtroom: how Stormy Daniels or Michael Cohen comported themselves under cross-examination, whether Donald Trump was fast asleep or merely resting his eyes or gauging the emotional temperature of the jury. Based on personal experience, it's not even worth trying. Jurors' primary allure is presenting themselves as blank slates upon which sleep-deprived reporters are free to project any psychological theories they desire.

What I really miss is the camaraderie. Several weeks into a high-profile trial, with all its twists and turns and star witnesses, you start to feel like a family. By then the seating arrangements have sorted themselves out. Journalists and court officers have developed a nodding acquaintance. Reporters compare notes during breaks and come to something like a consensus about what was said on the witness stand.

Best of all, the judge, whatever you might think of his or her ability to control a courtroom - they, as well as their gestures and quirks and senses of humor or lack of same, are under the spotlight as much if not more than the defendants - usually offers a generous lunch break.

That allows the media horde to network, compare notes on the morning's proceedings and, most important of all, sample the bounty of Chinatown and Little Italy's cuisine.

Ralph Gardner Jr. is a journalist whose work has appeared in The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times and New York magazine.

He can be reached at ralph@ralphgardner.com.

More of his work can be found on Substack. The opinions expressed by columnists do not necessarily reflect the views of The Berkshire Eagle.