Life in a political thriller
We've had over 12 hours to digest yesterday's firing of FBI Director James Comey by the current illegitimate occupant of the Oval Office.
It feels like the moments after a terrorist attack, when we don't know what's happened and we have no idea what the repercussions will be.
Donald Trump has doubled down on the firing, saying the critics will thank him. As if the putative reason for Comey's firing—his press conference last summer over the Hillary Clinton investigation—will absolve him from Democratic ire.
Many Republicans are, at the very least, disturbed by Trump's action. He's not meeting with the solid red wall of approval. What this means for whatever toady he appoints to head the FBI remains to be seen.
Meanwhile, it's turning out that the memo Deputy Attorney General Rod Rosenstein wrote didn't actually call for Comey's head. It merely detailed—rightly—the former Director's mistakes. Trump and Attorney General Jeff Sessions seized on the memo to rid themselves of the troublesome priest.
We are on a precipice. Grand juries have been empanelled. Investigative product is being dissected by these juries. The cat is not only out of the bag, but roaming the streets. And the firing of a Director popular among his agents will usher in a bloom of a thousand leaks.
The crime and the coverup are running neck and neck for the title of which is worst. We would have all preferred the relative peace of a Clinton administration. But, as I've said before, sometimes you just have to let the fever run its course. A Trump defeat last fall would not have destroyed Trumpism. The boil has been on the body politic since the 1960s, growing larger and more pustulent. It was going to burst, at one point or another. Now it's up to the rest of us to clean it up and heal it.
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