Stormy Daniels - Full Disclosure

“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 bell: 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.

But who was bachelor number three? One of Cohen’s lawyers told Judge Wood that he had consulted the third client over the weekend and the person didn’t want his name out there.

“At this point, no one would want to be associated with the case in that way,” said the lawyer, and I had to stop myself from yelling, “No shit!” But Wood wasn’t having it and demanded that the lawyer reveal the name.

“Your honor, the client’s name that is involved is Sean Hannity,” he said.

There was this eruption of gasps and do-you-believe-this chuckles in the courtroom, like a big reveal in a comic film. The Fox News know-it-all and Trump BFF was tied up with Cohen. (Right away, Hannity took to Twitter to deny Cohen ever represented him. That night on his show he had this hysterical take on the legal system: “Never paid him any fees,” he said. “I might have handed him ten bucks. ‘I definitely want attorney-client privilege on this.’ Something like that.”)

After that big Legally Blonde moment in the courtroom, it was kind of boring, to be honest. It just went on and on for three hours, with the lawyers saying the same thing over and over. I was very aware that my stomach was growling loud enough for people to hear, but at least I wasn’t bleeding all over the place.

The best part was that the world was finally seeing what I knew. They thought Michael Cohen was this mastermind, a consigliere who fixed everything. No, he’s a complete fucking moron. The world would not know anything about me without him constantly getting in his own way.

The sea of photographers was still raging when we walked out of the courthouse, but now there was a little island of sidewalk to stand on and make my statement. I went up to what looked like a tangled bouquet of fifteen microphones and leaned in. “Hi, everyone,” I said. The crowd noise was so loud that I couldn’t hear myself. But I had to get past my nerves. I was finally getting to speak without a filter.

“So, for years Mr. Cohen has acted like he is above the law,” I began. “He has considered himself and openly referred to himself as Mr. Trump’s fixer. He has played by a different set of rules, or should I say, no rules at all. He has never thought that the little man or especially woman—and even more, women like me—mattered. That ends now. My attorney and I are committed to making sure that everyone finds out the truth and the facts of what happened. And I give my word that we will not rest until that happens. Thank you.”

I looked at Michael, who was standing to my left. I gave him a look of Was that good? He suppressed a smile. I had said what I came to say, and I was just getting started.

The next morning, Brandon and Travis whisked me into the ABC Television Center for the April 17 live taping of The View . After 60 Minutes, I was determined to do my own makeup and told the producers so. When I met the ladies, everyone was very nice. But when I went to shake the hand of Meghan McCain, I could tell by the way she did it that she did not want to have to touch me. She clearly despised me. Meghan is the resident conservative, and right before the show I could tell people were super worried that she was going to say something that offended me.

I thought that if she had something to say that wasn’t a vicious attack, then she should say it. And I’m not lying, so I have no problem answering anything. I hoped she would.

I sat backstage watching the beginning of the show, with the announcer talking up my appearance and calling me “the woman everyone in America is talking about.” Right away, Whoopi Goldberg turned the focus to Meghan, asking for an update on the condition of her father, Senator John McCain. The senator had to have emergency surgery for complications in his treatment for brain cancer. “I had a really rough morning,” Meghan said, announcing that she would soon be going to be with him in Arizona. She added that her father would be watching the show. Now I really wanted to her to ask me whatever question was weighing on her heart.