In a victory for abortion rights advocates, New Yorkers just voted to enshrine extensive anti-discrimination protections into their state constitution—permanently insulating the rights of pregnant people, abortion seekers, and the LGBTQ community, among others, from changing political winds.

Proposal 1 is one of 10 ballot initiatives to protect abortion rights that went before voters on Tuesday. Going into Election Day, supporters of abortion rights had won every single ballot initiative to go before voters since the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in June 2022.

With 33 percent of votes counted as of 9:50 p.m., Proposal 1 was winning with 72 percent of the vote Tuesday night, according to the Associated Press. But the ballot measure encountered and overcame steeper-than-expected opposition in the safe blue state. Opponents had mounted an openly transphobic campaign to block it, spreading misleading claims about the proposal’s effects on a range of Republican culture war issues, including trans youth health care, women’s sports, and noncitizen voting. In the final days of the race, conservative billionaire Richard Uihlein dropped $6.5 million into efforts to defeat the measure.

From the outset, Proposal 1 was designed to protect abortion rights. As Mother Jones reported last week:

New York’s Proposal 1 may not include the word “abortion,” but it would create first-in-the-nation protections for the rights of pregnant people.

The proposal is a broad version of the Equal Rights Amendment, the long-running feminist effort to guarantee women’s rights in state and federal constitutions. Right now, New York’s constitution only forbids government discrimination on the basis of race and religion. Prop. 1 adds more protected categories to that list: disability, age, ethnicity, national origin, and sex, including sexual orientation, gender identity, and gender expression. Those types of discrimination are already banned under state law, but by enshrining protections in the constitution, Prop. 1 would make them harder for legislators to attack in the future—for example, if New York politics keep trending rightward.

Here’s where abortion comes in: The amendment also bans discrimination based on “pregnancy status, pregnancy outcomes, and reproductive health care and autonomy.” Not only does that definition go farther than any other state, it leaves little room for judges to interpret in ways that might limit abortion access, according to Katharine Bodde, of the New York Civil Liberties Union.

Yet while New York Democrats initially viewed Prop. 1 as a surefire way to boost voter turnout, their right-wing opponents have seized on transphobic messaging to great effect—making this blue-state fight unexpectedly close.

The Yes on Prop. 1 campaign declared victory on Twitter on Tuesday night. “While the world waits for the national election results, tonight,” the campaign posted. “New York State lived up to our motto, ‘ever upward,’ and took an extraordinary step forward in our enduring work to build freedom for all.”

As the sun set over the New York Times building on election night, the Times Tech Guild—the union of workers that power the infrastructure for the company’s news, games, and cooking—closed out their second day on the picket line. Their strike, an attempt to push for a deal they’ve negotiated for over two years, might bring down tonight one of America’s most beloved and beloathed election-night prognosticators: the Needle. 

As reporter and polls expert Nate Cohn explained on X, the tech team “built and maintain the infrastructure that feeds [the Needle] data and lets [the Times] publish [it] on the internet.” As of the time of publication, the Needle is up. But it’s unclear if without the guild’s work it will last.

The Tech Guild wants pay equity, remote work protections, and—top of many minds on Tuesday night—protection from being arbitrarily fired, known as “just cause.”

The 173-year-old Times has over the past several years transformed into something more like a tech company with the news as a key, but not singular, component. Its games and cooking apps drive subscriptions; it has expanded into audio and sports. With that transformation has come a change in how workers organize at the company. Now, alongside their newspaper and advertising workers’ unions, the paper hosts one of the largest tech unions in the country. 

Kathy Zhang, unit chair for the New York Times Tech Guild, has had “probably hundreds of conversations” with her fellow workers leading up to this moment. I asked her about the picket line, the Needle, and why workers are striking.

What would you normally be doing on election day if you weren’t on the picket line? 

I am a senior analytics manager on the audience team at the New York Times, which means that I pull data around traffic trends, and I look at how people are listening to audio and engaging with our coverage.

This will be my third presidential election here. I’ve been at the Times for nine years. In 2017, on January 20th, inauguration day, I was the person who stayed up past 1 a.m. waiting for our data to come through to let our editors know what election traffic looked like. Election day is one day, but election season is a long time, and we spend a long time prepping for it. It’s unfortunate the management let it drag out this far. 

I know you all have been saying this could happen for some time, right? 

We have been bargaining for almost two and a half years. We started bargaining in July of 2022. It was September 10 when we passed a strike authorization vote with 95 percent support. We told management the very next day, we gave them two months in advance. We were in bargaining all last week, but on Sunday night, management decided to walk away from the table. So the ball is literally in their court. 

Online, I’ve seen right-wing media focusing in on some unusual concerns they claim you’re bargaining over stuff, like pet bereavement leave, trigger warnings on political topics, that kind of thing. 

The most important issues that are unresolved right now are just cause—meaning that we can’t be fired for no reason whatsoever—and flexible work, so that people who have caretaking responsibilities or live hundreds of miles away aren’t forced to come into the office. We’re a unit in which, you know, our members see a lot of inequity in how we’re paid. We want to be paid fairly. 

Management, instead of talking about the actual issues at play, has been seeding talking points to right-wing media. It’s actually pretty depressing coming from a newspaper that’s supposed to care about independent journalism; they’re putting misleading talking points out there. 

I saw a clip on Fox News that said we were looking for job security for illegals. Now, I’ve spent a lot of time working on the visas and immigration proposals that we have on the table. I don’t know what job security for illegals means, because it’s literally about people with visas, right? We care about people getting notice about whether they’re going to get their visas sponsored. 

I myself am an immigrant, I am a naturalized citizen, and I care about democracy—that’s why I’m out here in a union! It was a complete mischaracterization of our proposal. It brought up stuff that was maybe on the table two years ago, for maybe seven minutes, and hasn’t been talked about since. I think it’s really telling that the company would rather talk about things they think make us look like we are being unreasonable, rather than talk about the fact that this company has authorized $400 million in stock buybacks, which is money that goes directly into shareholders’ pockets, not to workers. 

It doesn’t do anything other than make rich people richer, and they’d rather threaten election night coverage than come to a fair deal with their workers. 

If this continues, how is the strike going to affect coverage during and beyond election night? 

There are so many interconnected systems that power what we work on, I couldn’t even tell you all the things that could go wrong or could maybe not go wrong. And there are systems that readers aren’t gonna see that will cause a lot of problems for us. 

But we have a lot of support from our colleagues in the newsroom and in advertising. They’ve written letters to management telling them that they need us. Our newsroom colleagues are the people who supplied our lunch today—some of them are on the picket line right now in their free time before their shift starts or after they’ve already worked a whole day.

This is the biggest tech-worker strike that I’m aware of in American history. What makes you all different from other tech unions? What’s helped you get this far?  

We are the largest “high-tech” union in the country with bargaining rights, but we had a lot of support and solidarity from other tech workers who have been unionized.

I think part of it is, that the New York Times is a newspaper company, but what other newspaper has six or seven hundred tech workers in the company? Sometimes, power comes down to the sheer number of people that you have. We have hundreds of people, and that’s hard to organize! But it also means that when people are standing together in solidarity, when we are out here fighting, we know that we can get through this. 

So, right now we’re fighting to make sure that we have more pay equity. We’re fighting to make sure that people just don’t get fired for no reason. That’s really all we’re fighting for. 

One of the most amazing things that I’ve seen is people that I knew voted against unionization and voted against the strike authorization vote, are on the picket line today. Because when it comes down to it, which side are you on, right?

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

I never paid much attention to America’s criminal justice system until I, unexpectedly, got into serious trouble. Being labeled a criminal felt to me as unlikely as someone finding Kool-Aid on Jupiter. I was the rarest of things, an honest dealer among the myriad elegant sharks and scumbags in the very prestigious realm of high-end art sales. Or so I thought. But desperate to keep my gallery afloat, I had to juggle some money and payments. I began lying about my receivables, paying Paul while putting off Peter—until I couldn’t pay him either. This was unsustainable and, it turned out, illegal. My assistant and my business partner lawyered up, distanced themselves from me, and ratted me out. I was arrested, charged, convicted of wire fraud, and sentenced to 18 months in a minimum-security federal prison.

As another convicted felon, former President Donald Trump, has pointed out, America has a two-tiered justice system. Trump just refuses to publicly acknowledge what that really means and the fact that he’s in the top bunk, so to speak. But should he lose and end up serving time, there’s a good chance that my experience might shed light on what he would be likely to face. You see, as scary as it is to be prosecuted, my experience was a dream compared to the plight of some others I knew.

I wrote this story to dispel certain myths, but also to give you an idea of what a white-collar prosecution and incarceration is like and how much of one’s experience hinges on wealth and connections, both of which Trump has in spades. As a billionaire ex-president, the strings he could pull would be far more influential than those of a merely well-connected art dealer from New York. But whatever strings exist, they matter—a lot.

Having the cash to hire a good lawyer, and not having to rely on an overburdened public defender, is the first step toward a better outcome. As you know, it often seems as though a lawyer has a professional obligation to fight harder for a client who is paying a ton of money. But what you may not know is that the conditions of your incarceration also depend, often quite a bit, on your position in the financial and social hierarchy. And the horrific Hollywood depictions of prison life for people who are not wealthy and connected can be pretty close to the mark. Consider this snippet from a Marshall Project report on conditions at an Illinois penitentiary:

In stories that echoed with the same visceral details, dozens of men said they lived under the pressing threat of violence from cellmates as well as brutality at the hands of staff. Specifically, many men reported being shackled in cuffs so tight they left scars, or being “four-pointed” and chained by each limb to a bed for hours, far beyond what happens at other prisons and in violation of [Bureau of Prisons] policy and federal regulations.

Let’s just say that nothing like that ever happened to me. Yet just because I had it easier—easy even—doesn’t mean that incarceration isn’t life altering. Being a member of the elite (more or less) and enjoying some privilege (more or less) won’t save you from the consequences of a not-so-bad incarceration. Notably, your family, career, and social standing are generally ruined forever. Your relationships that survive may end up stronger, but many will wither and die. And if you think you will ever reach the pinnacle of whatever it was you did before you went away, well, you won’t.

I know what I’m talking about.

“Do you want good news or bad news?” my no-nonsense criminal attorney, Danny Parker, asked me one bleak morning in December 2017. The weather may have been beautiful, but all days felt bleak then. At least Danny gave me an option. His news was normally just bad.

“Bad news first,” I replied. “Always.”

“There’s a warrant out for your arrest,” he said.

I struggled to breathe. I hadn’t thought this would happen so soon, even though I’d known I was in serious trouble for about a month and a half. But the justice system works in secrecy, and as I quickly learned, you never know what’s coming.

“The good news: It’s federal.”

Until that moment, I was ignorant as to the vagaries of the criminal justice system. As it turns out, the state system is more chaotic, a bit cruder, and uneven. There are 50 disparate jurisdictions, each with its own rules, characters, and, let’s call it, charm. The Bureau of Prisons tends to be better funded than state prison systems. It also has clearer standards and is a bit more humane. And the federal system prosecutes far fewer criminals than the states do overall—about 10 percent of the total. So in a perverse way, it’s a more exclusive social group.

The prisons themselves, though still awful, are generally less so than state and private prisons. At the state level, prisoners tend to have more options for getting sentences reduced, but the federal facilities are safer and their inmates less violent. Also, the food is better.

If I were to be found guilty—and I was guilty—I would likely serve my time in a minimum-security camp. Federal security classifications range from minimum (think Trump lieutenant Peter Navarro) to supermax (El Chapo). Only about 15 percent of federal prisoners end up in minimum security. But landing in one of the nicer facilities, like Otisville or Pensacola, is exceedingly difficult. As with exclusive Ivy League schools, it usually requires hiring a consultant who can lobby public officials to improve your odds of admission.

Shocked? I sure was. I learned from my lawyers that these consultants, much like college counselors, also advise prospective, uh, freshmen on which campus would suit them best. (This applies only to nonviolent criminals. If you’re a murderer or serial rapist, all bets are off.) Once you narrow down your list of prospective prison camps, like Tom Wambsgans in Succession, your consultants pull strings to try to get you your preferred choice. And once you’re accepted, they’ll advise you on what to expect.

When it became clear I would be doing time, I called prison consultant Joel Sickler, who boasts an 80 percent success rate in landing people the facility of their choice. Given my level and type of offense (felony, wire fraud), he was confident he could get me into Otisville—which we, the cognoscenti, call OTV. Roughly half of its clientele consists of white-collar criminals: disgraced executives, unscrupulous lawyers, careless politicians, and wayward rabbis. Most of the rest are in for more serious offenses, like nonviolent drug crimes, or because good behavior at a higher-security facility earned them an upgrade. Otisville is the clubbiest of Club Feds, the Harvard of the Catskills, the yeshiva of misconduct. The best possible option for the worst part of your life.

Otisville is the clubbiest of Club Feds, the Harvard of the Catskills, the yeshiva of misconduct. The best possible option for the worst part of your life.

It likely helped that I’m Jewish because OTV is viewed as the Jewish prison. For years, advocacy groups had lobbied federal officials to develop a lockup with accommodations for religiously conservative Jews. As such, Otisville has a real Torah, a kosher kitchen, and a huge Hebrew library. It makes accommodations for the High Holidays. (I’m basically an atheist, but I would take all the help I could get.) You’d have to be a fool, Sickler told me, to cause trouble and get yourself transferred out of this promised land. “Keep your head down and don’t mess around,” he advised.

But before you book a stay, let me dispel your preconceived notions about Club Fed’s reputation for being cushy and how white-collar felons get undue perks. Much of that is exaggerated. Maybe it sounds better than that cruise you took with your in-laws, but minimum-security prison is still prison. I figured that much out pretty quickly.

Danny called me into his office one day for a horrible conversation. The US attorney was offering a deal, he informed me. If I admitted to my crimes, which are not uncommon, as I once wrote, in my profession, I could expect a lenient sentence: 51 to 63 months—4¼ to 5¼ years! He then gave me the best legal advice I’ve ever received: Take the deal without counteroffers or complaints.

This is the dirty little secret of the federal system: Once indicted, you will almost certainly lose. Plead guilty should you ever find yourself in such a mess. I know many people who tried to fight, and they all got longer sentences. Guilty or innocent, you’re fucked at that point, so you might as well accept your fate. My only consolation was that I knew I was guilty and had no desire to pretend otherwise.

After carefully researching the various bridges in downtown Manhattan—they’re all about the same height, turns out—I drew up a list of “mitigating factors” to convince the court I was still basically a good guy despite my monumental fuckup. I stressed my remorse and said I would take my punishment like a man. For this, the judge rewarded me.

Sentencing took place in 2018, on a Thursday in September, and the judge put me away for 18 months. Two weeks later, I received my assignment in the mail: I was to self-surrender at Otisville on the last day of November. (I got in! I got in!) This gave me ample time to put my affairs in order.

I couldn’t believe my luck.

To enter Otisville, you first pass through the adjacent medium-security prison. Here, the guards questioned me about every aspect of my life and then led me into a small room with shelves containing uniforms, either green or tan. “What’s your waist?” a guard asked. He then instructed me to take off my clothes and put them in a bin nearby. I had heard about this part: the strip search. I would get used to it eventually.

Front. Back. Squat. Cough. Lift your right foot. Now your left. Turn back around.

“Up,” he said, and, when I looked puzzled, he motioned to my groin. I lifted my scrotum.

“Okay,” he tossed me a green uniform. When I pointed out the pants were loose, he assured me: “You’ll get a new uniform. Don’t worry.”

After my fingerprinting and a mug shot, the officer was joined by another guard. Rosado was loud and funny and perhaps a bit scary. He locked me up in an actual cell for several hours before giving me a bedroll, taking me out to the quiet parking lot, and pointing to the top of a winding road, where I would meet my new friends.

“This is weird,” I thought as I walked, unaccompanied, up the hill.

The camp at Otisville is very different from the prison it surrounds—a spartan enclave in the mountains of upstate New York. There are only two buildings. One is a dormitory that houses 100 men in a maze of 50 cubicles with 6-foot-tall cinderblock walls. No doors. Each two-man cubicle contains a metal bunk bed, two metal cabinets, and two plastic stools. The smaller administration building has offices for the “counselor,” who oversees the camp, and the case manager, who advises and advocates for inmates. It also has classrooms, a chapel, a dorm for 20 more men, and a visiting room with all the charm of a Greyhound terminal. One of the former inmates I’d spoken with in advance captured the vibe perfectly: “It’s like going to a shitty summer camp in the ’70s—in Alabama.”

“It’s like going to a shitty summer camp in the ’70s—in Alabama.”

Walking into the dormitory for the first time, I was full of trepidation. In the movies, the new guy is always a target. But when I entered my 8-by-9-foot cube—home for the next several months—I was immediately welcomed by several mild-mannered, middle-aged guys. They gave me a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and even new shoes. I arrived with nothing, and they gave me everything I needed. It was a Friday evening. Within an hour, I found myself at a full-fledged Shabbat service and dinner, replete with prayer books, brisket, and babka. Mickey, the de facto head of Otisville’s Jewish community, gave the following speech:

“As we know, this is the Sabbath of Unity. We are all reminded that in here, we are brothers, united in our shared experience. No matter how religious anyone is or from what background, we are all Jews. The Jews of Otisville…welcome to the Sabbath of Unity.”

Where the fuck am I?

Waking up at OTV for the first time was weirdly serene. There was barely any schedule and little to do, but also little to fear. I witnessed no violence during my time there. The camp is small, and with everyone in our green uniforms, it felt like being in the Army, only without drills and commanding officers. There’s neither reveille in the morning nor a specified bedtime. You can watch TV all night, play cards, or hang out and talk. I realized I’d be having plenty of interesting conversations, as I had in the dorms back in college.

I was genuinely shocked by how accomplished, educated, intelligent, and, dare I say, normal nearly everybody was—a far cry from the cartoon villains I’d imagined. Most of the prisoners were simply average (or above-average) men who’d screwed up, misjudged, gotten too ambitious or desperate, and were turned in by someone they trusted. Just like me!

The only major drama was the occasional abrupt shakedown, during which staffers would kick us out of the buildings and rifle through our belongings, looking for drugs, booze, cellphones, and other contraband. These raids usually followed a tip that someone had brought something in, like Billy McFarland of Fyre Festival infamy, who smuggled in a phone and a recording device—stupid transgressions that led to me and some others getting strip-searched again. Spoiler alert: None of us had an iPhone up his butt.

But mostly, we just wiled away our days doing the mindless “jobs” we were assigned; working out; and playing chess, poker, Scrabble, or tennis. There was lots of free time to talk, laugh, and bond. If Trump loses the election and eventually lands at Otisville or a comparable place, I can predict how his bluster might be received. Prison, even pampered prison, is a great equalizer. The uniforms, the demeaning jobs like cleaning toilets, the standing up to be counted several times a day, the inane “programming”—one class was called “Doing Time With the Right Mind”—strip away one’s individuality and dignity. Whatever fame or fortune you had in real life means little here. As your fellow inmates will tell you, “In here, you’re no better than me.”

That sentiment was expressed to the likes of former Trump fixer Michael Cohen (in for tax evasion, making false statements, campaign finance violations), Jersey Shore’s The Situation (tax evasion), and former New York state Sen. Dean Skelos (bribery, extortion, corruption). All of them managed to check their egos at the gate. Could Trump? A prisoner who acts as though he deserves special treatment tests the patience of his peers. And running afoul of their expectations can make for an isolating experience.

Thriving at a place like Otisville also requires a very non-Trumpian trait: selflessness. Inmates, despite their meager possessions, are usually quick to share their coffee hoard or shaving cream with peers who have run out. Commissary comes but once a week, and strict spending limits guarantee that everyone will be short of something at some point. There are also small indulgences from the outside that get shared on the inside—books and magazines are traded frequently; Cohen would give me his “cryptic” crossword from the Financial Times. Then there’s the shared intellectual property, knowledge, and expertise, and the legal, financial, or personal advice, whether good or not. Nobody expects anything in return. In fact, the long stretches of idleness and the need to coexist peacefully means that most of the guys look forward to helping a fellow inmate. Could Trump manage that?

He’d have to learn.

An age-old question about penal systems is whether they are designed to rehabilitate or simply to punish. America focuses on the latter. Formal punishment at Otisville ranges from relatively benign (cleaning the latrines) to harsh (a stint in the “Special Housing Unit,” or SHU, a.k.a. solitary confinement). But a big part of the punishment at any prison, even OTV, is the crushing boredom. Every inmate faces an immediate and severe demotion of self-worth and confidence. By the time you enter, you’ve lost everything you most value. Minimum-security prison may be a respite from the ferocity of prosecution, but once you’re in, boredom becomes your enemy.

The most insidious epidemic in prison—though I got out before Covid hit—is mental illness. Most of the inmates I knew seemed to experience almost constant depression and despair. In many cases, their pre-prosecution lives were filled with substance abuse, anxiety, paranoia, OCD, ADHD, and other mental issues that contributed to their extreme behavior. I don’t know, for instance, what might cause a successful financial adviser to gamble away tens of millions of dollars of his clients’ money, but it can’t be psychologically healthy. According to the New York State Bar Association, an estimated 70 percent of incarcerated people show symptoms of mental illness, and up to 1 in 3 have serious diagnoses such as bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. The comparable figure for the free world is about 1 in 10.

I reached out to Lauren Brinkley-Rubinstein, an associate professor of population health sciences at Duke University who focuses on incarceration, to ask about this. Given our insufficient public investment, “who ends up treating mental health? Well, jails and then prisons, primarily,” she told me. “Because there are no community alternatives. It’s a sort of perfect storm of people who are under-resourced and then traumatizing them further.”

“Who ends up treating mental health? Well, jails and then prisons, primarily. Because there are no community alternatives. It’s a sort of perfect storm of people who are under-resourced and then traumatizing them further.”

Even OTV’s most noteworthy inmates—formerly hotshot lawyers, esteemed doctors, and titans of industry—struggled with their alienation from society. If you thought Club Fed would offer adequate psychological support, think again. There were no therapists on hand beyond the one who managed care for the broader facility, including the medium-security prison, and she was rarely at the camp. Even accessing our prescriptions was a challenge. I had to lobby hard for my Wellbutrin after the medical team initially refused to give me my prescribed dose. When the doctor asked what I thought would happen if I switched meds, I replied, “suicide,” which apparently was enough of a magic word to change their stance.

One antidote to the boredom, however, was the revolving door of new enrollees. Before Trump pardoned him, his disgraced former campaign manager Paul Manafort did some time in a Otisville-esque facility in Pennsylvania. Trump adviser Steve Bannon, ineligible for minimum-security status on account of a superseding state fraud indictment, was just released from Danbury, a decidedly harsher low-security federal institution in Connecticut. Trump’s loyal accountant Allen Weisselberg was in the unenviable position of doing state time at Rikers Island, but with two sentences that didn’t even add up to a year, he survived. Trump himself could wind up in Otisville one day if convicted of federal crimes, but I hope not.

We have our standards.

I hereby interrupt this story to offer a quick cheat sheet of my own selected wisdom for indicted Trump officials and others who end up serving time—even at Club Fed:

• Time flies: Your days will seem to drag on forever, but the months and years move fast. And both for the same reason: Nothing much happens in prison. After a while, time becomes irrelevant. One new year blends into the next, and though you don’t feel it, you can sense the time zooming by and leaving you and your fellow inmates behind.
• Everyone hates a rat. Yes, just like on TV.
• Don’t expect any privacy: With more than 100 guys under one roof, there’s a good chance someone is watching you all the time.
• Remorse either: The idea that contrition will miraculously appear for those who sit and think deeply about the crimes they committed is just not a thing. When prisoners ponder their actions, it is usually to justify them. Admitting one’s faults is not only difficult but unnatural. People can’t walk around all day believing they are assholes. Denial, minimization, pride, and forgetfulness are essential to moving on. The rare person, like me, who is remorseful in prison probably came in that way.
• Enablers are everywhere: “It’s not like you killed anyone,” is a reassuring sentiment I heard a million times at Otisville. But I brushed it off. Because it was guilt and remorse that liberated me from the bitter feeling that I got screwed by the system. Blaming myself actually made me feel better.
• America needs to make its prisons less hellish. The relatively humane conditions at OTV should be much closer to the norm. We were all appalled when Vladimir Putin treated Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny so harshly in prison. Are we so far behind? People who commit crimes are still human, and they need a modicum of dignity. Some of them offered no mercy to their victims, so they don’t deserve any, the logic goes. But do we really want to be as bad as the bad guys at their worst?

Now back to the story.

Perhaps the most surprising thing I learned at OTV was that prison can catalyze a positive change in a person’s life. After a period of adjustment, including plenty of self-flagellation and disbelief at my stupidity, something began to shift. Nothing spiritual, but rather, I felt unexpectedly motivated by the trauma of confinement. I began writing, dreaming, making friends, and having deep conversations. I read all the books I’d previously only pretended to have read, got myself fit, and laughed my ass off. I later found out I was experiencing a phenomenon called post-traumatic growth (PTG) that was identified in the 1990s by psychologists Richard Tedeschi and Lawrence Calhoun and which psychologists and behavioral scientists have analyzed in depth.

PTG is experienced by a small percentage of people who endure something awful and unforeseen. Just as an actor might repurpose stage fright into the energy needed to perform, a person with PTG uses trauma to become a better and more productive person.

Lucky, right?

You bet. Now that I’m out, I am as happy as I was as a child. I’m less interested in money or success and more interested in just reducing stress and being with my girlfriend, kids, and friends—the real ones, not the jerks who populated my life before. I found that most of the guys I met at OTV were top-grade individuals and are some of the very few people from whom I experience no judgment. I’m happy I have them in my life. In prison, my entire world fit into a cubby. By comparison, a small apartment in Manhattan feels like a gift. Simply walking to the Hudson River as I write this article on my phone is a luxury.

Everything in life is.

Not that being a former felon is easy. Society cares little about the former part. We retain some rights, like voting (in most states) and paying taxes, but anyone ever convicted of a serious crime will face great difficulty keeping bank accounts or credit cards, getting loans, landing jobs, and having a normal online presence. Like substance abusers risking relapse, most former felons can never shake their odious tag. Thus, their incarceration reverberates throughout their families and communities for years.

I have charmed many a person with my intellect, my irrepressible modesty, and winning personality, only to be ghosted after what I assume was a little Googling. But that’s nothing compared to the plight of underprivileged former inmates who aren’t even eligible for public housing. Where are they supposed to live? Do we have enough underpasses to house all the formerly incarcerated in this country?

People who have served long stints have difficulty fitting back into society and are further stigmatized as they struggle to adapt. “When you are stripped of your agency for so long, you often feel unable to traverse these kinds of labels that have been put on you,” the Duke scholar Brinkley-Rubinstein told me. “Your power is gone, and you have to figure out how to get that power back. Often, people do get stuck in these systems, stuck in these stigmatizing categories, in part because the dehumanization continues after people get out.”

My criminal friends and I can at least take heart, I suppose, that a former—and perhaps future—president is one of us. Many of our fellow citizens are even treating him with respect and adulation! Is this our turning point? Will we finally be accepted again as equals?

I met recently with my wealthy and connected former business partner—the one who turned me in—in the hope of settling a lawsuit between us. Yes, it wasn’t enough that I paid for our company’s sins and served time, he then sued me for the last of my assets. But during our lunch, face to face after all these years, it was clear he felt bad for doing his best to ruin my life. He even apologized. Not only that, he extended a generous peace offering.

“If Trump gets elected,” he said, “I’ll ask him to pardon you.”

He actually knows Trump, who granted clemency to some pretty unsavory characters at the end of his first term. My billionaire cousin, who had already completed his sentence, received a pardon. I’m sure now he can enjoy his new unit adjacent to his giant apartment at Trump Tower in peace. Another guy I know from OTV, Jonathan Braun, also received a pardon and immediately went back to his day job as a predatory lender. Eventually, New York state barred him from working in the industry, and a federal judge stepped in and imposed a nationwide ban on him. In a telephone interview with reporters from the New York Times, Braun said the only way he could explain his pardon was, “God made it happen for me because I’m a good person and I was treated unfairly.” Braun is considered an undeserving thug by many—you can Google videos of him threatening his borrowers and assaulting his wife and father-in-law—but in the short time we overlapped, he was nice to me. (Editor, please don’t omit the latter pandering sentence. I need all the friends I can get.)

Speaking of pardons, through my ex-wife, I happen to know President Joe Biden’s son-in-law. He’s a truly great guy, and after Biden was elected, I asked my ex whether she could float the idea with him. She adamantly refused. (We liberals do not approve of special treatment.) I was out of luck.

I am no longer rich enough to buy influence, alas, much less a pardon. All I can do is make my political voice heard through my vote. But my former business partner’s offer does raise a question I had never thought to ask:

Who should I vote for?

I never paid much attention to America’s criminal justice system until I, unexpectedly, got into serious trouble. Being labeled a criminal felt to me as unlikely as someone finding Kool-Aid on Jupiter. I was the rarest of things, an honest dealer among the myriad elegant sharks and scumbags in the very prestigious realm of high-end art sales. Or so I thought. But desperate to keep my gallery afloat, I had to juggle some money and payments. I began lying about my receivables, paying Paul while putting off Peter—until I couldn’t pay him either. This was unsustainable and, it turned out, illegal. My assistant and my business partner lawyered up, distanced themselves from me, and ratted me out. I was arrested, charged, convicted of wire fraud, and sentenced to 18 months in a minimum-security federal prison.

As another convicted felon, former President Donald Trump, has pointed out, America has a two-tiered justice system. Trump just refuses to publicly acknowledge what that really means and the fact that he’s in the top bunk, so to speak. But should he lose and end up serving time, there’s a good chance that my experience might shed light on what he would be likely to face. You see, as scary as it is to be prosecuted, my experience was a dream compared to the plight of some others I knew.

I wrote this story to dispel certain myths, but also to give you an idea of what a white-collar prosecution and incarceration is like and how much of one’s experience hinges on wealth and connections, both of which Trump has in spades. As a billionaire ex-president, the strings he could pull would be far more influential than those of a merely well-connected art dealer from New York. But whatever strings exist, they matter—a lot.

Having the cash to hire a good lawyer, and not having to rely on an overburdened public defender, is the first step toward a better outcome. As you know, it often seems as though a lawyer has a professional obligation to fight harder for a client who is paying a ton of money. But what you may not know is that the conditions of your incarceration also depend, often quite a bit, on your position in the financial and social hierarchy. And the horrific Hollywood depictions of prison life for people who are not wealthy and connected can be pretty close to the mark. Consider this snippet from a Marshall Project report on conditions at an Illinois penitentiary:

In stories that echoed with the same visceral details, dozens of men said they lived under the pressing threat of violence from cellmates as well as brutality at the hands of staff. Specifically, many men reported being shackled in cuffs so tight they left scars, or being “four-pointed” and chained by each limb to a bed for hours, far beyond what happens at other prisons and in violation of [Bureau of Prisons] policy and federal regulations.

Let’s just say that nothing like that ever happened to me. Yet just because I had it easier—easy even—doesn’t mean that incarceration isn’t life altering. Being a member of the elite (more or less) and enjoying some privilege (more or less) won’t save you from the consequences of a not-so-bad incarceration. Notably, your family, career, and social standing are generally ruined forever. Your relationships that survive may end up stronger, but many will wither and die. And if you think you will ever reach the pinnacle of whatever it was you did before you went away, well, you won’t.

I know what I’m talking about.

“Do you want good news or bad news?” my no-nonsense criminal attorney, Danny Parker, asked me one bleak morning in December 2017. The weather may have been beautiful, but all days felt bleak then. At least Danny gave me an option. His news was normally just bad.

“Bad news first,” I replied. “Always.”

“There’s a warrant out for your arrest,” he said.

I struggled to breathe. I hadn’t thought this would happen so soon, even though I’d known I was in serious trouble for about a month and a half. But the justice system works in secrecy, and as I quickly learned, you never know what’s coming.

“The good news: It’s federal.”

Until that moment, I was ignorant as to the vagaries of the criminal justice system. As it turns out, the state system is more chaotic, a bit cruder, and uneven. There are 50 disparate jurisdictions, each with its own rules, characters, and, let’s call it, charm. The Bureau of Prisons tends to be better funded than state prison systems. It also has clearer standards and is a bit more humane. And the federal system prosecutes far fewer criminals than the states do overall—about 10 percent of the total. So in a perverse way, it’s a more exclusive social group.

The prisons themselves, though still awful, are generally less so than state and private prisons. At the state level, prisoners tend to have more options for getting sentences reduced, but the federal facilities are safer and their inmates less violent. Also, the food is better.

If I were to be found guilty—and I was guilty—I would likely serve my time in a minimum-security camp. Federal security classifications range from minimum (think Trump lieutenant Peter Navarro) to supermax (El Chapo). Only about 15 percent of federal prisoners end up in minimum security. But landing in one of the nicer facilities, like Otisville or Pensacola, is exceedingly difficult. As with exclusive Ivy League schools, it usually requires hiring a consultant who can lobby public officials to improve your odds of admission.

Shocked? I sure was. I learned from my lawyers that these consultants, much like college counselors, also advise prospective, uh, freshmen on which campus would suit them best. (This applies only to nonviolent criminals. If you’re a murderer or serial rapist, all bets are off.) Once you narrow down your list of prospective prison camps, like Tom Wambsgans in Succession, your consultants pull strings to try to get you your preferred choice. And once you’re accepted, they’ll advise you on what to expect.

When it became clear I would be doing time, I called prison consultant Joel Sickler, who boasts an 80 percent success rate in landing people the facility of their choice. Given my level and type of offense (felony, wire fraud), he was confident he could get me into Otisville—which we, the cognoscenti, call OTV. Roughly half of its clientele consists of white-collar criminals: disgraced executives, unscrupulous lawyers, careless politicians, and wayward rabbis. Most of the rest are in for more serious offenses, like nonviolent drug crimes, or because good behavior at a higher-security facility earned them an upgrade. Otisville is the clubbiest of Club Feds, the Harvard of the Catskills, the yeshiva of misconduct. The best possible option for the worst part of your life.

Otisville is the clubbiest of Club Feds, the Harvard of the Catskills, the yeshiva of misconduct. The best possible option for the worst part of your life.

It likely helped that I’m Jewish because OTV is viewed as the Jewish prison. For years, advocacy groups had lobbied federal officials to develop a lockup with accommodations for religiously conservative Jews. As such, Otisville has a real Torah, a kosher kitchen, and a huge Hebrew library. It makes accommodations for the High Holidays. (I’m basically an atheist, but I would take all the help I could get.) You’d have to be a fool, Sickler told me, to cause trouble and get yourself transferred out of this promised land. “Keep your head down and don’t mess around,” he advised.

But before you book a stay, let me dispel your preconceived notions about Club Fed’s reputation for being cushy and how white-collar felons get undue perks. Much of that is exaggerated. Maybe it sounds better than that cruise you took with your in-laws, but minimum-security prison is still prison. I figured that much out pretty quickly.

Danny called me into his office one day for a horrible conversation. The US attorney was offering a deal, he informed me. If I admitted to my crimes, which are not uncommon, as I once wrote, in my profession, I could expect a lenient sentence: 51 to 63 months—4¼ to 5¼ years! He then gave me the best legal advice I’ve ever received: Take the deal without counteroffers or complaints.

This is the dirty little secret of the federal system: Once indicted, you will almost certainly lose. Plead guilty should you ever find yourself in such a mess. I know many people who tried to fight, and they all got longer sentences. Guilty or innocent, you’re fucked at that point, so you might as well accept your fate. My only consolation was that I knew I was guilty and had no desire to pretend otherwise.

After carefully researching the various bridges in downtown Manhattan—they’re all about the same height, turns out—I drew up a list of “mitigating factors” to convince the court I was still basically a good guy despite my monumental fuckup. I stressed my remorse and said I would take my punishment like a man. For this, the judge rewarded me.

Sentencing took place in 2018, on a Thursday in September, and the judge put me away for 18 months. Two weeks later, I received my assignment in the mail: I was to self-surrender at Otisville on the last day of November. (I got in! I got in!) This gave me ample time to put my affairs in order.

I couldn’t believe my luck.

To enter Otisville, you first pass through the adjacent medium-security prison. Here, the guards questioned me about every aspect of my life and then led me into a small room with shelves containing uniforms, either green or tan. “What’s your waist?” a guard asked. He then instructed me to take off my clothes and put them in a bin nearby. I had heard about this part: the strip search. I would get used to it eventually.

Front. Back. Squat. Cough. Lift your right foot. Now your left. Turn back around.

“Up,” he said, and, when I looked puzzled, he motioned to my groin. I lifted my scrotum.

“Okay,” he tossed me a green uniform. When I pointed out the pants were loose, he assured me: “You’ll get a new uniform. Don’t worry.”

After my fingerprinting and a mug shot, the officer was joined by another guard. Rosado was loud and funny and perhaps a bit scary. He locked me up in an actual cell for several hours before giving me a bedroll, taking me out to the quiet parking lot, and pointing to the top of a winding road, where I would meet my new friends.

“This is weird,” I thought as I walked, unaccompanied, up the hill.

The camp at Otisville is very different from the prison it surrounds—a spartan enclave in the mountains of upstate New York. There are only two buildings. One is a dormitory that houses 100 men in a maze of 50 cubicles with 6-foot-tall cinderblock walls. No doors. Each two-man cubicle contains a metal bunk bed, two metal cabinets, and two plastic stools. The smaller administration building has offices for the “counselor,” who oversees the camp, and the case manager, who advises and advocates for inmates. It also has classrooms, a chapel, a dorm for 20 more men, and a visiting room with all the charm of a Greyhound terminal. One of the former inmates I’d spoken with in advance captured the vibe perfectly: “It’s like going to a shitty summer camp in the ’70s—in Alabama.”

“It’s like going to a shitty summer camp in the ’70s—in Alabama.”

Walking into the dormitory for the first time, I was full of trepidation. In the movies, the new guy is always a target. But when I entered my 8-by-9-foot cube—home for the next several months—I was immediately welcomed by several mild-mannered, middle-aged guys. They gave me a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and even new shoes. I arrived with nothing, and they gave me everything I needed. It was a Friday evening. Within an hour, I found myself at a full-fledged Shabbat service and dinner, replete with prayer books, brisket, and babka. Mickey, the de facto head of Otisville’s Jewish community, gave the following speech:

“As we know, this is the Sabbath of Unity. We are all reminded that in here, we are brothers, united in our shared experience. No matter how religious anyone is or from what background, we are all Jews. The Jews of Otisville…welcome to the Sabbath of Unity.”

Where the fuck am I?

Waking up at OTV for the first time was weirdly serene. There was barely any schedule and little to do, but also little to fear. I witnessed no violence during my time there. The camp is small, and with everyone in our green uniforms, it felt like being in the Army, only without drills and commanding officers. There’s neither reveille in the morning nor a specified bedtime. You can watch TV all night, play cards, or hang out and talk. I realized I’d be having plenty of interesting conversations, as I had in the dorms back in college.

I was genuinely shocked by how accomplished, educated, intelligent, and, dare I say, normal nearly everybody was—a far cry from the cartoon villains I’d imagined. Most of the prisoners were simply average (or above-average) men who’d screwed up, misjudged, gotten too ambitious or desperate, and were turned in by someone they trusted. Just like me!

The only major drama was the occasional abrupt shakedown, during which staffers would kick us out of the buildings and rifle through our belongings, looking for drugs, booze, cellphones, and other contraband. These raids usually followed a tip that someone had brought something in, like Billy McFarland of Fyre Festival infamy, who smuggled in a phone and a recording device—stupid transgressions that led to me and some others getting strip-searched again. Spoiler alert: None of us had an iPhone up his butt.

But mostly, we just wiled away our days doing the mindless “jobs” we were assigned; working out; and playing chess, poker, Scrabble, or tennis. There was lots of free time to talk, laugh, and bond. If Trump loses the election and eventually lands at Otisville or a comparable place, I can predict how his bluster might be received. Prison, even pampered prison, is a great equalizer. The uniforms, the demeaning jobs like cleaning toilets, the standing up to be counted several times a day, the inane “programming”—one class was called “Doing Time With the Right Mind”—strip away one’s individuality and dignity. Whatever fame or fortune you had in real life means little here. As your fellow inmates will tell you, “In here, you’re no better than me.”

That sentiment was expressed to the likes of former Trump fixer Michael Cohen (in for tax evasion, making false statements, campaign finance violations), Jersey Shore’s The Situation (tax evasion), and former New York state Sen. Dean Skelos (bribery, extortion, corruption). All of them managed to check their egos at the gate. Could Trump? A prisoner who acts as though he deserves special treatment tests the patience of his peers. And running afoul of their expectations can make for an isolating experience.

Thriving at a place like Otisville also requires a very non-Trumpian trait: selflessness. Inmates, despite their meager possessions, are usually quick to share their coffee hoard or shaving cream with peers who have run out. Commissary comes but once a week, and strict spending limits guarantee that everyone will be short of something at some point. There are also small indulgences from the outside that get shared on the inside—books and magazines are traded frequently; Cohen would give me his “cryptic” crossword from the Financial Times. Then there’s the shared intellectual property, knowledge, and expertise, and the legal, financial, or personal advice, whether good or not. Nobody expects anything in return. In fact, the long stretches of idleness and the need to coexist peacefully means that most of the guys look forward to helping a fellow inmate. Could Trump manage that?

He’d have to learn.

An age-old question about penal systems is whether they are designed to rehabilitate or simply to punish. America focuses on the latter. Formal punishment at Otisville ranges from relatively benign (cleaning the latrines) to harsh (a stint in the “Special Housing Unit,” or SHU, a.k.a. solitary confinement). But a big part of the punishment at any prison, even OTV, is the crushing boredom. Every inmate faces an immediate and severe demotion of self-worth and confidence. By the time you enter, you’ve lost everything you most value. Minimum-security prison may be a respite from the ferocity of prosecution, but once you’re in, boredom becomes your enemy.

The most insidious epidemic in prison—though I got out before Covid hit—is mental illness. Most of the inmates I knew seemed to experience almost constant depression and despair. In many cases, their pre-prosecution lives were filled with substance abuse, anxiety, paranoia, OCD, ADHD, and other mental issues that contributed to their extreme behavior. I don’t know, for instance, what might cause a successful financial adviser to gamble away tens of millions of dollars of his clients’ money, but it can’t be psychologically healthy. According to the New York State Bar Association, an estimated 70 percent of incarcerated people show symptoms of mental illness, and up to 1 in 3 have serious diagnoses such as bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. The comparable figure for the free world is about 1 in 10.

I reached out to Lauren Brinkley-Rubinstein, an associate professor of population health sciences at Duke University who focuses on incarceration, to ask about this. Given our insufficient public investment, “who ends up treating mental health? Well, jails and then prisons, primarily,” she told me. “Because there are no community alternatives. It’s a sort of perfect storm of people who are under-resourced and then traumatizing them further.”

“Who ends up treating mental health? Well, jails and then prisons, primarily. Because there are no community alternatives. It’s a sort of perfect storm of people who are under-resourced and then traumatizing them further.”

Even OTV’s most noteworthy inmates—formerly hotshot lawyers, esteemed doctors, and titans of industry—struggled with their alienation from society. If you thought Club Fed would offer adequate psychological support, think again. There were no therapists on hand beyond the one who managed care for the broader facility, including the medium-security prison, and she was rarely at the camp. Even accessing our prescriptions was a challenge. I had to lobby hard for my Wellbutrin after the medical team initially refused to give me my prescribed dose. When the doctor asked what I thought would happen if I switched meds, I replied, “suicide,” which apparently was enough of a magic word to change their stance.

One antidote to the boredom, however, was the revolving door of new enrollees. Before Trump pardoned him, his disgraced former campaign manager Paul Manafort did some time in a Otisville-esque facility in Pennsylvania. Trump adviser Steve Bannon, ineligible for minimum-security status on account of a superseding state fraud indictment, was just released from Danbury, a decidedly harsher low-security federal institution in Connecticut. Trump’s loyal accountant Allen Weisselberg was in the unenviable position of doing state time at Rikers Island, but with two sentences that didn’t even add up to a year, he survived. Trump himself could wind up in Otisville one day if convicted of federal crimes, but I hope not.

We have our standards.

I hereby interrupt this story to offer a quick cheat sheet of my own selected wisdom for indicted Trump officials and others who end up serving time—even at Club Fed:

• Time flies: Your days will seem to drag on forever, but the months and years move fast. And both for the same reason: Nothing much happens in prison. After a while, time becomes irrelevant. One new year blends into the next, and though you don’t feel it, you can sense the time zooming by and leaving you and your fellow inmates behind.
• Everyone hates a rat. Yes, just like on TV.
• Don’t expect any privacy: With more than 100 guys under one roof, there’s a good chance someone is watching you all the time.
• Remorse either: The idea that contrition will miraculously appear for those who sit and think deeply about the crimes they committed is just not a thing. When prisoners ponder their actions, it is usually to justify them. Admitting one’s faults is not only difficult but unnatural. People can’t walk around all day believing they are assholes. Denial, minimization, pride, and forgetfulness are essential to moving on. The rare person, like me, who is remorseful in prison probably came in that way.
• Enablers are everywhere: “It’s not like you killed anyone,” is a reassuring sentiment I heard a million times at Otisville. But I brushed it off. Because it was guilt and remorse that liberated me from the bitter feeling that I got screwed by the system. Blaming myself actually made me feel better.
• America needs to make its prisons less hellish. The relatively humane conditions at OTV should be much closer to the norm. We were all appalled when Vladimir Putin treated Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny so harshly in prison. Are we so far behind? People who commit crimes are still human, and they need a modicum of dignity. Some of them offered no mercy to their victims, so they don’t deserve any, the logic goes. But do we really want to be as bad as the bad guys at their worst?

Now back to the story.

Perhaps the most surprising thing I learned at OTV was that prison can catalyze a positive change in a person’s life. After a period of adjustment, including plenty of self-flagellation and disbelief at my stupidity, something began to shift. Nothing spiritual, but rather, I felt unexpectedly motivated by the trauma of confinement. I began writing, dreaming, making friends, and having deep conversations. I read all the books I’d previously only pretended to have read, got myself fit, and laughed my ass off. I later found out I was experiencing a phenomenon called post-traumatic growth (PTG) that was identified in the 1990s by psychologists Richard Tedeschi and Lawrence Calhoun and which psychologists and behavioral scientists have analyzed in depth.

PTG is experienced by a small percentage of people who endure something awful and unforeseen. Just as an actor might repurpose stage fright into the energy needed to perform, a person with PTG uses trauma to become a better and more productive person.

Lucky, right?

You bet. Now that I’m out, I am as happy as I was as a child. I’m less interested in money or success and more interested in just reducing stress and being with my girlfriend, kids, and friends—the real ones, not the jerks who populated my life before. I found that most of the guys I met at OTV were top-grade individuals and are some of the very few people from whom I experience no judgment. I’m happy I have them in my life. In prison, my entire world fit into a cubby. By comparison, a small apartment in Manhattan feels like a gift. Simply walking to the Hudson River as I write this article on my phone is a luxury.

Everything in life is.

Not that being a former felon is easy. Society cares little about the former part. We retain some rights, like voting (in most states) and paying taxes, but anyone ever convicted of a serious crime will face great difficulty keeping bank accounts or credit cards, getting loans, landing jobs, and having a normal online presence. Like substance abusers risking relapse, most former felons can never shake their odious tag. Thus, their incarceration reverberates throughout their families and communities for years.

I have charmed many a person with my intellect, my irrepressible modesty, and winning personality, only to be ghosted after what I assume was a little Googling. But that’s nothing compared to the plight of underprivileged former inmates who aren’t even eligible for public housing. Where are they supposed to live? Do we have enough underpasses to house all the formerly incarcerated in this country?

People who have served long stints have difficulty fitting back into society and are further stigmatized as they struggle to adapt. “When you are stripped of your agency for so long, you often feel unable to traverse these kinds of labels that have been put on you,” the Duke scholar Brinkley-Rubinstein told me. “Your power is gone, and you have to figure out how to get that power back. Often, people do get stuck in these systems, stuck in these stigmatizing categories, in part because the dehumanization continues after people get out.”

My criminal friends and I can at least take heart, I suppose, that a former—and perhaps future—president is one of us. Many of our fellow citizens are even treating him with respect and adulation! Is this our turning point? Will we finally be accepted again as equals?

I met recently with my wealthy and connected former business partner—the one who turned me in—in the hope of settling a lawsuit between us. Yes, it wasn’t enough that I paid for our company’s sins and served time, he then sued me for the last of my assets. But during our lunch, face to face after all these years, it was clear he felt bad for doing his best to ruin my life. He even apologized. Not only that, he extended a generous peace offering.

“If Trump gets elected,” he said, “I’ll ask him to pardon you.”

He actually knows Trump, who granted clemency to some pretty unsavory characters at the end of his first term. My billionaire cousin, who had already completed his sentence, received a pardon. I’m sure now he can enjoy his new unit adjacent to his giant apartment at Trump Tower in peace. Another guy I know from OTV, Jonathan Braun, also received a pardon and immediately went back to his day job as a predatory lender. Eventually, New York state barred him from working in the industry, and a federal judge stepped in and imposed a nationwide ban on him. In a telephone interview with reporters from the New York Times, Braun said the only way he could explain his pardon was, “God made it happen for me because I’m a good person and I was treated unfairly.” Braun is considered an undeserving thug by many—you can Google videos of him threatening his borrowers and assaulting his wife and father-in-law—but in the short time we overlapped, he was nice to me. (Editor, please don’t omit the latter pandering sentence. I need all the friends I can get.)

Speaking of pardons, through my ex-wife, I happen to know President Joe Biden’s son-in-law. He’s a truly great guy, and after Biden was elected, I asked my ex whether she could float the idea with him. She adamantly refused. (We liberals do not approve of special treatment.) I was out of luck.

I am no longer rich enough to buy influence, alas, much less a pardon. All I can do is make my political voice heard through my vote. But my former business partner’s offer does raise a question I had never thought to ask:

Who should I vote for?

Two years after the US Supreme Court ended the federal right to abortion, tens of millions of Americans will go to the polls this November hoping to protect access to the procedure—whether their lawmakers like it or not. Ten states— some already with robust protections, others with near-total bans—have measures on their ballots to enshrine abortion rights in their constitutions. The expected outpouring of voters, including in key swing states, could help determine control of the White House, Congress, state legislatures, and state supreme courts.

Reproductive freedom has proved to be one of the strongest currents shaping the outcome of American elections since 2022. So far, voters in seven states have reacted to the end of Roe v. Wade by passing ballot measures aimed at restoring, and even expanding, Roe’s protections. In a few of those states, the voter-initiative process empowered the public to bypass GOP-dominated legislatures and supersede decades-old restrictions. Reproductive rights organizers are hoping to continue that winning streak on November 5. 

But faced with the broad appeal of abortion initiatives in GOP-led states such as Ohio, Republican officials have gone to sometimes extreme lengths to undermine the latest measures. In Florida, for example, Gov. Ron DeSantis has waged a multifront war on Amendment 4, threatening television stations that air ads favoring the measure and issuing a 348-page report accusing the Floridians Protecting Freedom campaign of “widespread petition fraud.” 

While most of this year’s measures have a common objective—protecting reproductive access—they take very different approaches to reaching that goal. Here is a rundown of what’s on the November ballot, which we will update as election results become available. 

Arizona

In anticipation of the end of Roe, Arizona Republicans passed a 15-week abortion ban in early 2022. But they also left in place an 1864 statute that outlawed nearly all abortions and threatened providers with jail time—a “zombie” law that was moot as long as Roe was in effect. This past April, the Arizona Supreme Court revived that Civil-War era ban by a 4–2 vote. The GOP-controlled legislature quickly repealed the old law, but many Arizonans were outraged at what the court had done, and the campaign to put Proposition 139 on the November ballot exploded. Prop 139 would enshrine a fundamental right to abortion in the Arizona Constitution and prohibit the state from restricting or banning abortion until the point of fetal viability—about 24 weeks. Abortions would be allowed later in pregnancy to save the mother’s life or to protect her physical or mental health. The amendment would also protect anyone who helps another person obtain an abortion.

A coalition of reproductive rights groups certified more than 575,000 signatures this past summer—the most ever validated for a citizens initiative in the state’s history, supporters said. In a New York Times/Siena College poll in late September, Prop 139 was ahead among likely voters by a resounding 58 percent. If it passes, Prop 139 could be used to challenge almost 40 abortion laws on Arizona’s books, including the existing 15-week ban, a prohibition on telehealth abortions, and a parental consent requirement for teenagers.

Colorado

Long before the Dobbs decision, Colorado legislators passed numerous laws safeguarding access to abortion. But after Dobbs, reproductive health advocates in the state concluded that even the strongest statutes weren’t strong enough—Colorado needed to enshrine those protections in its constitution. The measure they put on the November ballot, Amendment 79, wouldn’t just establish a right to abortion; it would repeal a 40-year-old constitutional provision that prohibited the use of state dollars to fund abortion. Sponsored by a coalition called Coloradans for Protecting Reproductive Freedom, the measure needs 55 percent of votes to pass. 

Surrounded by states with bans or heavily restrictive laws, Colorado is a crucial abortion access point for the West. With no gestational limits, the state is also a haven for anyone seeking an abortion later in pregnancy, as it is home to one of four clinics in the US that offer third-trimester procedures. Repealing the ban on state funding would allow Colorado to use its state Medicaid dollars to pay for abortions, making the procedure more accessible for low-income patients.

Florida

Florida’s Amendment 4 would enshrine in the state’s constitution the freedom to seek an abortion before fetal viability, and after viability if a medical provider determines that the procedure is necessary to preserve a patient’s health.

Gov. DeSantis and his GOP administration have done everything they can to sabotage the amendment—including sending “election police” to the homes of people who signed the petitions.

If the measure passes, it would dramatically improve access to reproductive care in Florida, which since May has banned abortions after six weeks of pregnancy. Before that, the state permitted abortions up to 15 weeks, and before Dobbs, until 24 weeks. The impact of the Florida vote will be felt throughout the Southeast: Tennessee, Alabama, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Kentucky all have near-total abortion bans; Georgia and South Carolina have six-week bans, and North Carolina’s 12-week ban is made more burdensome by a 72-hour waiting period. 

The stakes for passage are high, and so are the barriers. Over the last several election cycles, Florida has turned out more conservative voters than liberal ones. While reproductive rights are popular across the political spectrum, the state has a 60 percent threshold to approve constitutional amendments; the other red states that have passed abortion-protective measures since Dobbs—Kansas, Kentucky, Ohio—only required simple majorities. Meanwhile, Gov. DeSantis and his GOP administration have done everything they can to sabotage the amendment—including sending “election police” to the homes of people who signed the petitions, ostensibly to root out fraud. If the measure passes, DeSantis and his allies are widely expected to fight just as hard to overturn the results.

Maryland

Maryland’s Question 1, which was placed on the November ballot by the state legislature, does not mention “abortion”—much to the chagrin of supporters and opponents alike. Instead, the amendment broadly establishes the constitutional right to “reproductive freedom,” including the freedom to decide whether to continue or end a pregnancy. It needs a simple majority to pass.

Maryland already has some of the least restrictive abortion laws in the country: There is no gestational limit, state Medicaid covers the procedure, and a shield law protects patients who travel from states with abortion bans. This has made the state a critical access point for abortion seekers further along in pregnancy, as well as people traveling from the South. Abortion protections are widely popular in the state; in a recent poll by the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, 69 percent of respondents said they plan to vote for Question 1.

Missouri

Missouri’s near-total abortion ban took effect mere minutes after the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in 2022—making it the first state in the nation to broadly prohibit abortion. Abortion-rights advocates soon set about crafting a ballot initiative to end the ban, inspired by wins in other states. Now, with Amendment 3, voters will decide whether they want the right to “reproductive freedom”—defined as the ability to make and carry out one’s own decisions about contraception, abortion, and healthcare during pregnancy. If approved by a simple majority, the amendment would set up a legal battle to overturn the current ban and challenge the many other Missouri laws that regulated abortion providers nearly out of existence even when Roe was still in effect.

Amendment 3’s proponents, a coalition known as Missourians for Constitutional Freedom, have traveled a rocky road just to get the measure before voters. They’ve overcome blatant obstruction by top state GOP officials, multiple legal challenges, and deep internal divisions over whether the initiative should allow the state to ban abortions after fetal viability. The final text protects abortion rights until viability, and permits later abortions if needed to protect the life or health of the pregnant person.

Montana

Constitutional Initiative 128 establishes the right to make and carry out decisions about one’s own pregnancy, including abortion. If passed, it would allow the state to regulate abortion after fetal viability, so long as those restrictions don’t prevent abortions that health care providers deem medically necessary. The amendment, which requires more than 50 percent of the vote, would also prevent the government from criminalizing patients and anyone who helps a person exercise her abortion rights.

If top Republican state officials had it their way, the measure would not even be on the ballot. State courts intervened at multiple points; the Montana Supreme Court overruled Attorney General Austin Knudsen’s initial rejection of the proposed amendment, nixed Knudsen’s drafted ballot language saying the amendment “may increase the number of taxpayer-funded abortions,” and threatened Secretary of State Christi Jacobsen with a contempt charge because she refused to hand over the sample ballot petition to the campaign behind the amendment, Montanans Securing Reproductive Rights. After abortion rights supporters submitted nearly double the required 60,000 signatures, Jacobsen even tried changing the rules to throw out the signatures of inactive registered voters, until a district court ordered her to stop.

Thanks to the state supreme court, abortion is currently legal in Montana until fetal viability, despite the best efforts of Republican state legislators to restrict access. Montanans have already brushed off one GOP attempt to stigmatize abortion; in November 2022, 52 percent of voters rejected a legislature-initiated statute that would have made it a felony for doctors to not provide care to infants born alive after induced labor, a cesarean section or an “attempted abortion.” (The law wasn’t necessary since Montana, like every other state, already makes infanticide a crime.)

Nebraska

Nebraska voters will see dueling abortion amendments on their November ballots. Initiative 434 restricts abortion rights, banning the procedure after 12 weeks of pregnancy with limited exceptions. That’s essentially the same law already on the state’s books—but the measure would enshrine it as a constitutional amendment, making it much harder to repeal. And because the amendment doesn’t protect abortion before the 12-week mark, state politicians could always go further and pass a complete ban, as Republican Gov. Jim Pillen has pledged to do.

By contrast, Initiative 439 expands abortion rights, creating a “fundamental right to abortion until fetal viability, or when needed to protect the life or health of the pregnant patient.” In practice, the amendment would roughly double the length of time for pregnant people in Nebraska to get an abortion. Crucially, it would block lawmakers from passing a total ban.

If the double initiatives sound confusing, well, that’s the point. Anti-abortion activists have repeatedly tried to muddy the waters about which ballot initiative is which, as Rachel Cohen at Vox has reported. They’ve also tried to get the pro-abortion initiative thrown off the ballot on a technicality, but the Nebraska Supreme Court shot them down.

Given the confusion, it is possible that both measures could pass. In that case, the one with the most votes wins.

Nevada

Nevada, one of the swingiest states in the 2024 election, has its own version of the Equal Rights Amendment, passed by voters in 2022. But it didn’t explicitly mention protections for abortion. Question 6 constitutionally enshrines the right to abortion until fetal viability or for the health or life of the mother, as determined on a case-by-case basis by health care providers. Any pre-viability restrictions must be directly related to promoting the health of the pregnant person and “consistent with accepted clinical standards of practice.” This year’s vote is just the first step in a multiyear process; assuming a simple majority of voters approve it, the measure must be passed again in 2026 to become part of the constitution.

Thanks to a law passed in 1973, abortion has been legal in Nevada until 24 weeks. Because voters passed a referendum on that law in 1990, it can only be changed by a direct ballot measure. Protections for abortion are very popular in Nevada; a University of Maryland poll conducted over the summer found that about 70 percent of state voters oppose criminalizing abortion at any stage of pregnancy. The campaign behind the amendment, Nevadans for Reproductive Freedom, has raised nearly $10 million since January, according to campaign finance reports; the Coalition for Parents and Children PAC, which successfully sued to block an initial version of the amendment that covered reproductive healthcare more broadly, hasn’t raised or spent any money.

New York

New York’s Proposal 1 may not include the word “abortion,” but it would create first-in-the-nation protections for the rights of pregnant people.

The proposal is a broad version of the Equal Rights Amendment, the long-running feminist effort to guarantee women’s rights in state and federal constitutions. Right now, New York’s constitution only forbids government discrimination on the basis of race and religion. Prop 1 adds more protected categories to that list: disability, age, ethnicity, national origin, and sex, including sexual orientation, gender identity, and gender expression. Those types of discrimination are already banned under state law, but by enshrining protections in the constitution, Prop 1 would make them harder for legislators to attack in the future—for example, if New York politics keep trending rightward.

Here’s where abortion comes in: The amendment also bans discrimination based on “pregnancy status, pregnancy outcomes, and reproductive health care and autonomy.” Not only does that definition go farther than any other state, it leaves little room for judges to interpret in ways that might limit abortion access, according to Katharine Bodde, of the New York Civil Liberties Union.

Yet while New York Democrats initially viewed Prop 1 as a surefire way to boost voter turnout, their right-wing opponents have seized on transphobic messaging to great effect—making this blue-state fight unexpectedly close.

South Dakota

South Dakota’s current abortion ban is one of the most extreme in the country, with all abortions banned except when needed to save a pregnant person’s life. Amendment G, backed by a group called Dakotans for Health, would replace that law with a trimester-based system allowing increasing restrictions on abortion as a pregnancy progresses.  

In the first trimester, the state would be banned from interfering with “a woman’s abortion decision and its effectuation.” In the second trimester, the state could restrict abortion in ways “reasonably related to the physical health of the pregnant woman.” Third-trimester abortions could be banned, except when necessary to preserve a pregnant person’s life or health. The amendment needs a simple majority to pass.

Planned Parenthood and other abortion-rights groups aren’t supporting Amendment G, which they’ve said doesn’t go far enough. But the conservative Republicans who dominate state politics are still so terrified of the measure that they passed an emergency law to let voters revoke their petition signatures—then opponents of the measure led a phone banking effort to dupe signers into pulling their support. Why are state Republicans spooked? “If you can do it in South Dakota, it will strike fear into the hearts of every red-state legislature in the country,” Dakotans for Health co-founder Adam Weiland told the American Prospect.

Madison Pauly, Abby Vesoulis, Julianne McShane, and Nina Martin contributed reporting. This is a developing story. Check back for updates.

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Top image photo credits: Octavio Jones/AFP/Getty; RJ Sangosti/The Denver Post/Getty; William Campbell/Getty; Rachel Aston/Las Vegas Review-Journal/Getty; Getty(3)

With a little more than a week to go before Election Day, the presidential race is expected to come down to just seven states—Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, Michigan, Nevada, Arizona, Georgia, and North Carolina. But the two biggest campaign events this weekend weren’t scheduled for any of them. On Friday, Vice President Kamala Harris rallied with Willie Nelson and Beyonce in Houston, where early voting is already underway. And on Sunday, former president Donald Trump is set to appear at Madison Square Garden with his disbarred attorney and a long list of the weirdest people you know.

Trump is on a bit of a blue-state swing. He appeared at the Nassau Coliseum on Long Island in September promising to win New York. Earlier this month, he went to Coachella, in Southern California, where he introduced supporters to the vital concert-festival experience of “waiting for shuttle buses that never show up.” Last week he went to a barber shop in the Bronx.

None of these visits lack immediate value. Both New York and Texas have big races that matter a lot to the national parties—six races in New York could determine control of the House; Texas’ Senate race could determine control of the Senate, and the state is close enough on paper that it may well be a part of Democrats’ presidential strategy sooner rather than later. Meanwhile, Trump’s visit to reliably blue California could affect the down-ballot races that could swing the House. Getting control of Congress is half the battle; the candidates for president want to actually be able to do things as president, after all.

And to both Trump and Harris, these dips into enemy territory serve their larger messages: Texas, on the one hand, and New York and California, on the other, represent the sort of outcomes they’re promising to steer the nation away from. The Houston event was organized around the theme of protecting reproductive rights, using as its backdrop a state that has—thanks to Trump’s Supreme Court justices—now criminalized abortion with no exceptions for victims of rape or incest. If you want to see what Trump’s policies get you, just take a look at a state where, according to a study released in January, 26,000 women who have been impregnated by a rapist since the Dobbs decision have been left without access to care that was once their right. For his part, Trump uses his blue-state hosts to paint a picture of American Carnage 2.0—buildings taken over by Venezuelan gangs; rampant homelessness; crime crime crime.

But in doing so, Trump in particular has made clear something that should be obvious but which a lot of observers on both sides often don’t acknowledge: He has a ton of supporters in these places, albeit almost certainly not enough to win either state. Still, he received more votes in NYC alone than he did in 16 states in 2020—eight of which he won—and his popularity has, according to the polls, ticked upwards over the last few years. A New York Times poll this week showed a 14-point shift in the city since the last presidential election. He got more votes in the five boroughs than he did in the entire swing state of Nevada, while more California voters supported him than in any other state. One of the reasons the national popular vote appears to be so close this year is that Trump is more popular in the places that aren’t nominally competitive.

Of course, we don’t have a national popular vote, as much as Tim Walz might wish otherwise. But Trump’s tactic exposes the absurdity of the Electoral College, and it does so in so flagrant a manner that perhaps even the people who have benefited from that system might start to notice. It was one thing when candidates only focused on the key Electoral College states, where every vote counts. But he is spending the last days of the campaign, speaking to people whose votes mean very little to the Electoral College, in the hopes that it might redound to his benefit somewhere else. Once you accept that the people in these states matter—or at least some of the people in these states—and that you’re going to be campaigning there anyway, it’s harder to argue that their votes shouldn’t.

The news that New York Mayor Eric Adams has been indicted came as a surprise to precisely no one. For one thing, federal authorities first began raiding the homes of people connected to his campaign in November of 2023, amid many, many, many reports about the mayor’s suspiciously frequent luxury travel to Turkey, not to mention rumors of donations from foreign nationals.

For another, the mayor is just a profoundly weird guy, and it really seemed like anything might be possible with him. But now that Adams has officially been federally charged with bribery, wire fraud, conspiracy and soliciting campaign contributions from foreign nationals, one thing does come as a bit of a shock: how deeply, grimly, unfortunately funny some of this is.

Look past the serious allegations, and Mayor Adams and his allies are accused of behavior that rises to a comedic plane.

The indictment alleges Adams has been accepting “improper value benefits,” from wealthy Turkish nationals and officials connected to the Turkish government for at least a decade, going back to his time as Brooklyn Borough President. Those benefits included luxury hotel stays, upgraded plane tickets, free meals at high-end restaurants, and “luxury entertainment” during his frequent trips to Turkey. It also alleges that he and his mayoral campaign baldly and happily took what a reasonable person would construe as bribes from Turkish nationals, accepting large sums of illegal contributions through straw donors and giving favorable treatment in return, including pressuring the fire department to approve a luxury high-rise which houses the Turkish consulate, ceasing his association with a Turkish community center in Brooklyn that Turkey claimed was hostile to the government, and declining to make a statement on Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day simply because a “Turkish official” asked him not to.

All of that is arguably less funny; perhaps, when you consider the breadth and length of the alleged corruption, not funny at all. But if you can look past the serious allegations, Mayor Adams and his campaign staffers are accused of behaving in ways so breathtakingly buffoonish, so truly, deeply ill-advised, that the whole thing transcends ordinary crime and makes its way to a comedic plane.

For instance: their commitment to putting everything—far more than any competent lawyer would advise—in writing. After Adams began traveling to Turkey in 2015 and getting extremely sweet deals on Turkish Airlines, prosecutors say he went out of his way to instruct his partner to only buy tickets on Turkish Air. Adams, the indictment alleges, “flew the Turkish Airline even when doing so was otherwise inconvenient. For example, during the July and August 2017 trip, Adams’ “Partner was surprised to learn that ADAMS was in Turkey when she had understood him to be flying from New York to France. ADAMS responded, in a text message, ‘Transferring here. You know first stop is always instanbul [sic].’ ” Furthermore, it adds, when Adams’ partner wanted to plan a trip to Easter Island, Adams “repeatedly asked her whether the Turkish Airline could be used for their flights, requiring her to call the Turkish Airline to confirm that they did not have routes between New York and Chile.”

A text message saying the “first stop is always Istanbul,” will surely go down in the lexicon of phrases denoting rank political corruption. But the incredible commitment to putting everything in written words goes much further. Adams and his staffers, the indictment alleges, even typed out discussions about deleting evidence. “To be o[n the] safe side Please Delete all messages you send me,” a staffer texted Adams, who is said to have responded with a chipper, “Always do.”

At the same time they tried to delete their paper trail, Adams and his staffers allegedly created a far dumber one. In 2017, for instance, Adams emailed his scheduler to pay for some free flights he’d already taken on Turkish air. But, the indictment reads, “the emails provided inconsistent explanations: in some, ADAMS suggested that the Adams Scheduler should pay by using ADAMS’s credit card, while in others, ADAMS claimed to have left cash in an envelope for the Adams Scheduler to send to the Turkish Airline.” The indictment also dryly notes that given the value of the tickets, Adams would have put at least $10,000 cash in a desk drawer to send to Turkish airlines for flights he’d already taken months before. “He did not do that,” the indictment helpfully adds, “as records from the Turkish Airline confirm that ADAMS did not pay the airline, in cash or otherwise, because the tickets were complimentary.”

Another grimly hilarious aspect of the indictment is Adams’ surprising willingness to immediately take piles of money, even cash—a fact that was, again, laid out in writing, in perfect clarity. In June of 2018, an Adams staffer and a Turkish entrepreneur—referred to in the document as “the Promoter”—talked about Adams taking another trip. Per the indictment, the Promoter wrote, “Fund Raising in Turkey is not legal, but I think I can raise money for your campaign off the record.” The Adams staffer is said to have responded, “How will [Adams] declare that money here?” The Promoter responded, “He won’t declare it… Or… We’ll make the donation through an American citizen in the U.S….A Turk… I’ll give cash to him in Turkey . .. Or I’ll send it to an American . . . He will make a donation to you.”

Any reasonable person might identify this as, let’s say, a problem. And indeed, the Adams staffer seemed to recognize the red flags, responding, “I think he wouldn’t get involved in such games. They might cause a big stink later on,” but added, “I’ll ask anyways.” The promoter said he could contribut “Max $100k,” to which the staffer replied, “100K? Do you have a chance to transfer that here? … We can’t do it while Eric is in Turkey,” to which the promoter replied, “Let’s think.”

“After this conversation,” the indictment reads, “the Adams Staffer asked ADAMS whether the Adams Staffer should pursue the unlawful foreign contributions offered by the Promoter, and contrary to the Adams Staffer’s expectations, ADAMS directed that the Adams Staffer pursue the Promoter’s illegal scheme.” Later, instructing his staff about another Turkish businessman who was offering to provide illegal contributions, Adams wrote, that the businessman “is ready to help. I don’t want his willing to help be waisted [sic].”

Adams’ mordantly funny business continued right up until the feds closed in.

The indictment goes on—and on, and on—like this. At one point, when Turkish university officials were pledging $20,000 in “donations” to Adams’ 2021 mayoral campaign, in return for his attendance at an event, an Adams staffer responded, “if the donation is not more than $25K, then Mr. President does not participate in person.” In another instance, Adams is alleged to have placed Turkish Airlines’ general manager on his transition team, after telling an Adams staffer, “It would suit me well to be lead Or Senior Advisor.” Two days later, he reiterated, writing, “Lead Plz :) Otherwise seat number 52 is empty … On the way back.” As the indictment helpfully explains, that meant “if the Airline Manager was not given a position on a transition committee, it would affect ADAMS’s travel benefits from the Turkish Airline.”

The mordantly funny business continued right up until the feds closed in, when, on November 6, 2023, the FBI executed a search warrant on Adams and seized some of his electronics, including an iPad and a cellphone.

“Although ADAMS was carrying several electronic devices, including two cellphones, he was not carrying his personal cellphone,” the indictment adds, “which is the device he used to communicate about the conduct described in this indictment. When Adams produced the phone the following day, in response to a subpoena, it was locked and password protected.”

“ADAMS claimed that after he learned about the investigation into his conduct, he changed the password…and increased the complexity of his password from four digits to six,” the indictment continues, with a straight face. “ADAMS had done this, he claimed, to prevent members of his staff from inadvertently or intentionally deleting the contents of his phone because, according to ADAMS, he wished to preserve the contents of his phone due to the investigation. But, ADAMS further claimed, he had forgotten the password he had just set, and thus was unable to provide the FBI with a password that would unlock the phone.”

As of Thursday afternoon, Adams was defiant, having released a statement he pre-recorded before the indictment was even unsealed, pledging to fight the charges “with every ounce of my strength and spirit.” As he keeps that promise, unbelievable, almost surreal levels of morbid comedy will likely continue.

The news that New York Mayor Eric Adams has been indicted came as a surprise to precisely no one. For one thing, federal authorities first began raiding the homes of people connected to his campaign in November of 2023, amid many, many, many reports about the mayor’s suspiciously frequent luxury travel to Turkey, not to mention rumors of donations from foreign nationals.

For another, the mayor is just a profoundly weird guy, and it really seemed like anything might be possible with him. But now that Adams has officially been federally charged with bribery, wire fraud, conspiracy and soliciting campaign contributions from foreign nationals, one thing does come as a bit of a shock: how deeply, grimly, unfortunately funny some of this is.

Look past the serious allegations, and Mayor Adams and his allies are accused of behavior that rises to a comedic plane.

The indictment alleges Adams has been accepting “improper value benefits,” from wealthy Turkish nationals and officials connected to the Turkish government for at least a decade, going back to his time as Brooklyn Borough President. Those benefits included luxury hotel stays, upgraded plane tickets, free meals at high-end restaurants, and “luxury entertainment” during his frequent trips to Turkey. It also alleges that he and his mayoral campaign baldly and happily took what a reasonable person would construe as bribes from Turkish nationals, accepting large sums of illegal contributions through straw donors and giving favorable treatment in return, including pressuring the fire department to approve a luxury high-rise which houses the Turkish consulate, ceasing his association with a Turkish community center in Brooklyn that Turkey claimed was hostile to the government, and declining to make a statement on Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day simply because a “Turkish official” asked him not to.

All of that is arguably less funny; perhaps, when you consider the breadth and length of the alleged corruption, not funny at all. But if you can look past the serious allegations, Mayor Adams and his campaign staffers are accused of behaving in ways so breathtakingly buffoonish, so truly, deeply ill-advised, that the whole thing transcends ordinary crime and makes its way to a comedic plane.

For instance: their commitment to putting everything—far more than any competent lawyer would advise—in writing. After Adams began traveling to Turkey in 2015 and getting extremely sweet deals on Turkish Airlines, prosecutors say he went out of his way to instruct his partner to only buy tickets on Turkish Air. Adams, the indictment alleges, “flew the Turkish Airline even when doing so was otherwise inconvenient. For example, during the July and August 2017 trip, Adams’ “Partner was surprised to learn that ADAMS was in Turkey when she had understood him to be flying from New York to France. ADAMS responded, in a text message, ‘Transferring here. You know first stop is always instanbul [sic].’ ” Furthermore, it adds, when Adams’ partner wanted to plan a trip to Easter Island, Adams “repeatedly asked her whether the Turkish Airline could be used for their flights, requiring her to call the Turkish Airline to confirm that they did not have routes between New York and Chile.”

A text message saying the “first stop is always Istanbul,” will surely go down in the lexicon of phrases denoting rank political corruption. But the incredible commitment to putting everything in written words goes much further. Adams and his staffers, the indictment alleges, even typed out discussions about deleting evidence. “To be o[n the] safe side Please Delete all messages you send me,” a staffer texted Adams, who is said to have responded with a chipper, “Always do.”

At the same time they tried to delete their paper trail, Adams and his staffers allegedly created a far dumber one. In 2017, for instance, Adams emailed his scheduler to pay for some free flights he’d already taken on Turkish air. But, the indictment reads, “the emails provided inconsistent explanations: in some, ADAMS suggested that the Adams Scheduler should pay by using ADAMS’s credit card, while in others, ADAMS claimed to have left cash in an envelope for the Adams Scheduler to send to the Turkish Airline.” The indictment also dryly notes that given the value of the tickets, Adams would have put at least $10,000 cash in a desk drawer to send to Turkish airlines for flights he’d already taken months before. “He did not do that,” the indictment helpfully adds, “as records from the Turkish Airline confirm that ADAMS did not pay the airline, in cash or otherwise, because the tickets were complimentary.”

Another grimly hilarious aspect of the indictment is Adams’ surprising willingness to immediately take piles of money, even cash—a fact that was, again, laid out in writing, in perfect clarity. In June of 2018, an Adams staffer and a Turkish entrepreneur—referred to in the document as “the Promoter”—talked about Adams taking another trip. Per the indictment, the Promoter wrote, “Fund Raising in Turkey is not legal, but I think I can raise money for your campaign off the record.” The Adams staffer is said to have responded, “How will [Adams] declare that money here?” The Promoter responded, “He won’t declare it… Or… We’ll make the donation through an American citizen in the U.S….A Turk… I’ll give cash to him in Turkey . .. Or I’ll send it to an American . . . He will make a donation to you.”

Any reasonable person might identify this as, let’s say, a problem. And indeed, the Adams staffer seemed to recognize the red flags, responding, “I think he wouldn’t get involved in such games. They might cause a big stink later on,” but added, “I’ll ask anyways.” The promoter said he could contribut “Max $100k,” to which the staffer replied, “100K? Do you have a chance to transfer that here? … We can’t do it while Eric is in Turkey,” to which the promoter replied, “Let’s think.”

“After this conversation,” the indictment reads, “the Adams Staffer asked ADAMS whether the Adams Staffer should pursue the unlawful foreign contributions offered by the Promoter, and contrary to the Adams Staffer’s expectations, ADAMS directed that the Adams Staffer pursue the Promoter’s illegal scheme.” Later, instructing his staff about another Turkish businessman who was offering to provide illegal contributions, Adams wrote, that the businessman “is ready to help. I don’t want his willing to help be waisted [sic].”

Adams’ mordantly funny business continued right up until the feds closed in.

The indictment goes on—and on, and on—like this. At one point, when Turkish university officials were pledging $20,000 in “donations” to Adams’ 2021 mayoral campaign, in return for his attendance at an event, an Adams staffer responded, “if the donation is not more than $25K, then Mr. President does not participate in person.” In another instance, Adams is alleged to have placed Turkish Airlines’ general manager on his transition team, after telling an Adams staffer, “It would suit me well to be lead Or Senior Advisor.” Two days later, he reiterated, writing, “Lead Plz :) Otherwise seat number 52 is empty … On the way back.” As the indictment helpfully explains, that meant “if the Airline Manager was not given a position on a transition committee, it would affect ADAMS’s travel benefits from the Turkish Airline.”

The mordantly funny business continued right up until the feds closed in, when, on November 6, 2023, the FBI executed a search warrant on Adams and seized some of his electronics, including an iPad and a cellphone.

“Although ADAMS was carrying several electronic devices, including two cellphones, he was not carrying his personal cellphone,” the indictment adds, “which is the device he used to communicate about the conduct described in this indictment. When Adams produced the phone the following day, in response to a subpoena, it was locked and password protected.”

“ADAMS claimed that after he learned about the investigation into his conduct, he changed the password…and increased the complexity of his password from four digits to six,” the indictment continues, with a straight face. “ADAMS had done this, he claimed, to prevent members of his staff from inadvertently or intentionally deleting the contents of his phone because, according to ADAMS, he wished to preserve the contents of his phone due to the investigation. But, ADAMS further claimed, he had forgotten the password he had just set, and thus was unable to provide the FBI with a password that would unlock the phone.”

As of Thursday afternoon, Adams was defiant, having released a statement he pre-recorded before the indictment was even unsealed, pledging to fight the charges “with every ounce of my strength and spirit.” As he keeps that promise, unbelievable, almost surreal levels of morbid comedy will likely continue.

The judge in Donald Trump’s New York criminal trial ruled on Friday that he won’t sentence the former president until November 26. Juan Merchan, who Trump has relentlessly accused of bias against him, wrote in his decision that the delay was “to avoid any appearance—however unwarranted—that the proceeding has been affected by or seeks to affect the approaching Presidential election in which the Defendant is a candidate.”

Merchan went on to add that he hopes the decision ends any concern about the impartiality of the court—Trump has repeatedly insisted that the entire prosecution, judge, and jury were rigged by the Biden administration, despite the case being heard in a New York court, not under federal jurisdiction.

“The Court is a fair, impartial and apolitical institution,” Merchan wrote.

The sentencing is for 34 felony convictions of falsifying business records for Trump’s hush money scandal involving adult film star Stormy Daniels, and was led by Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg. Each charge carries up to a four-year prison sentence, but it was highly unlikely that Trump would receive a significant sentence—as a first time non-violent offender, probation was far likelier. However, any chance of a major presidential candidate—or president-elect—being required to serve jail time is completely unprecedented.

Trump has yet to respond to Merchan’s ruling, but the delay was at his own request. He has also submitted filings asking for the conviction to be tossed based on July’s Supreme Court decision on presidential immunity—according to Trump’s attorneys, testimony that was used against him that referred to events that occurred while he was president shouldn’t have been used. Merchan has yet to rule on that.

Prosecutors did not oppose Trump’s request to delay the sentencing, but throughout the trial—and the years-long legal process running up to it—Bragg’s attorneys argued that Trump was improperly trying to delay legal consequences against him.

Correction, September 6: This post has been updated to accurately reflect the number of Donald Trump’s felony convictions. There are 34.

The judge in Donald Trump’s New York criminal trial ruled on Friday that he won’t sentence the former president until November 26. Juan Merchan, who Trump has relentlessly accused of bias against him, wrote in his decision that the delay was “to avoid any appearance—however unwarranted—that the proceeding has been affected by or seeks to affect the approaching Presidential election in which the Defendant is a candidate.”

Merchan went on to add that he hopes the decision ends any concern about the impartiality of the court—Trump has repeatedly insisted that the entire prosecution, judge, and jury were rigged by the Biden administration, despite the case being heard in a New York court, not under federal jurisdiction.

“The Court is a fair, impartial and apolitical institution,” Merchan wrote.

The sentencing is for 34 felony convictions of falsifying business records for Trump’s hush money scandal involving adult film star Stormy Daniels, and was led by Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg. Each charge carries up to a four-year prison sentence, but it was highly unlikely that Trump would receive a significant sentence—as a first time non-violent offender, probation was far likelier. However, any chance of a major presidential candidate—or president-elect—being required to serve jail time is completely unprecedented.

Trump has yet to respond to Merchan’s ruling, but the delay was at his own request. He has also submitted filings asking for the conviction to be tossed based on July’s Supreme Court decision on presidential immunity—according to Trump’s attorneys, testimony that was used against him that referred to events that occurred while he was president shouldn’t have been used. Merchan has yet to rule on that.

Prosecutors did not oppose Trump’s request to delay the sentencing, but throughout the trial—and the years-long legal process running up to it—Bragg’s attorneys argued that Trump was improperly trying to delay legal consequences against him.

Correction, September 6: This post has been updated to accurately reflect the number of Donald Trump’s felony convictions. There are 34.

Last week, Nassau County, on New York’s Long Island, became the first county in the US to ban the public wearing of masks—with very vague health exemptions—since the start of the Covid-19 pandemic. The Nassau ban follows a similarly controversial statewide mask ban in North Carolina that took effect in June.

Several concerns have been raised about Nassau’s mask ban, including that police officers—not experts in public health or medicine—are tasked with determining whether an individual is wearing a mask for valid health reasons. But another is that the pandemic is not over, and wearing medical masks while grocery shopping or even at a protest is meant to limit exposure to the disease—and some residents expect a ban to lead to harassment by local anti-maskers.

The county’s move has prompted the first class-action lawsuit against a mask ban, filed Thursday in federal district court by Disability Rights New York against Nassau County and county executive Bruce Blakeman on behalf of two anonymous residents.

“This mask ban poses a direct threat to public health and discriminates against people with disabilities,” said Timothy A. Clune, the group’s executive director, in a press release.

One of the residents, who lives with cerebral palsy and asthma, said they were stopped and questioned by other residents after the ban was passed—even before it was enacted—and, according to the complaint, now “fears that they will be arrested…because there is no standard for the police to follow to decide if they meet the health exception.”

The other resident represented in the complaint, who masks due to various immune conditions, the complaint says, is now “terrified to go into public wearing a mask.”

Both complainants say that masking has enabled them to participate in public life as disabled people during the ongoing pandemic. Disability Rights NY argues in the suit that the ban as written is unconstitutional, and violates both the Americans with Disabilities Act and Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act, both key items of federal civil rights legislation, by denying disabled people access to their own communities.

“Local laws that abrogate or curtail rights conferred by federal law are…rendered invalid,” the complaint reads.

Given that Covid can itself disable people, Jason Cohen, a neurologist who lives in Nassau, has major concerns about how the mask ban will play out.

“I care for many patients who have brain fog from Covid and many more who are at higher risk of brain damage from Covid,” Cohen said. “Anything that discourages masking among those who want to mask is a travesty and public health disaster.”

Cohen also says that governments “should not force people to disclose their personal medical information to police in order to negotiate their way out of being accused of a crime.”

Some disabled people nevertheless have concerns about the suit itself. Ngozi, a Black disabled person who lives just over the county border in Queens, is concerned that it will end in “some type of negotiation with the state that results in keeping the law intact,” which would maintain the risk of racial profiling.

“I do not have faith in the state,” Ngozi said. “A lawsuit will not resolve the threat of mask bans anytime soon.”

Disability Rights New York is requesting a declaratory judgment that Nassau County’s mask ban violates federal law, as well as a restraining order. The complaint in its entirety can be read below.

In late April, New York Democratic Gov. Kathy Hochul and state lawmakers finalized a $233 billion budget for the next fiscal year. One item in its 144-page official summary has sparked fear among disability advocates: dramatic changes to a vital home health aid program that may push more people into nursing homes.

A quarter of a million New Yorkers currently use CDPAP, a widely popular program launched in 1995, which facilitates Medicaid funding for home carers chosen by patients themselves at hours they arrange. Participants spoke to Mother Jones about how the program allows them to remain in their communities, rather than being institutionalized—a cause central to disability rights activism. Without access to workers who understand their needs, like assisting people with spinal cord injuries with toileting, those participants risk hospitalization, placement in restrictive long-term care, or both.

The program is run through “fiscal intermediaries,” which provide financial and administrative oversight; some specialize in helping certain groups, such as the Bengali immigrant community. Hochul’s plan would make the program an administrative monopoly: by October, one middleman—potentially an out-of-state, for-profit firm—will hold a $40 billion contract covering all 250,000 participants in the state. Currently, those intermediaries are subject to oversight by New York’s chief fiscal officer; under Hochul’s system, the new middleman wouldn’t be. In late July, some current intermediaries sued New York’s Department of Health over the changes.

Hochul has been incredibly critical of CDPAP, calling it a “racket.”

“This was a backroom deal that happened days before the budget was finalized,” said Kendra Scalia, a disabled public policy analyst and board president of the Consumer Directed Personal Assistance Association of New York State, which supports both CDPAP providers and recipients. “It was never discussed with disabled communities.”

Hochul has been incredibly critical of CDPAP, calling it a “racket” and “one of the most abused programs in the entire history of the state of New York.” But 2022 audits by the state’s Medicaid Inspector General reviewed $37 million in claims—and found that 99 percent were accurate. Of $46,000 in documented overpayments, $41,000 was recollected. Hochul’s office did not respond to a request for evidence that the program has been abused.

It can already be difficult to get care through CDPAP. For Laura Mauldin, a graduate student when she applied in 2010, it took nine months—and an initial rejection—to get her partner, who had been sick with cancer for four years, approved for support.

“There was not an option to check for CDPAP” in home care applications at the time, said Mauldin. The request for around-the-clock care was eventually approved—allowing Mauldin to leave her apartment, with her partner in a worker’s care—but so late that Mauldin’s partner was only able to use it for three months before passing away.

Critics like Hochul see the potential for corruption in the fact that disabled people can hire family members—something Kendra Scalia first did by hiring her sister when she was in college.

“I felt really vulnerable to hiring strangers or welcoming strangers into my dorm room where there’s no oversight,” Scalia said. Her brother now has worked as her assistant for the past decade.

Some care workers feel they’ve been left in limbo on how Hochul’s changes will impact them. For the past 25 years, Tara Murphy has worked as a home care provider through CDPAP, after working as a certified nursing assistant in a nursing home. As a home carer, Murphy felt she’d be able to serve people better.

“I saw all the horrendous things and lack of care and neglect that were happening,” said Murphy, who is based in Troy, New York. “I knew I couldn’t change it, and I didn’t want to be part of the medical mafia.”

Now, Murphy is panicked over the impending changes to the program that helps employ her. She doesn’t know whether she’d be hired under the new monopoly, or whether her pay will be cut. “I’m sitting here every day,” Murphy said, “like, ‘Am I going to have a place to live? Am I going to be able to eat?’ 

1199SEIU, New York’s main health care workers’ union, has been critical of for-profits’ growing role in the program. Helen Schaub, the union’s interim political director, said that administrative costs have ballooned since a 2012 jump in the number of for-profit intermediaries. One of New York’s largest home care intermediaries, Schaub points out, is being run by embattled insurance giant Anthem.

Some users of the program who spoke with Mother Jones also expressed concerns that pay cuts could force their aides to look elsewhere for work, leaving both patients and workers in a difficult position. 

Lacey Tompkins, who works in advertising in New York City, says that CDPAP makes it possible for her to maintain a partly remote job as a disabled worker, with help getting to work despite hours that can change from week to week. “I can make my decisions and not [have] a standard set of hours,” Tompkins said.

Advocates with differing views agree on one thing: Hochul’s six-month timeline to transform the program is unreasonable and impractical. “Any serious company who is bidding on the work also believes that, because it’s a very daunting task,” said Schaub, of SEIU. “Privately, people in the [Hochul] administration have said, ‘We know that it can’t happen on that scale.’”

Update, August 13: This article has been updated to detail the current and proposed roles of the New York State Comptroller in reviewing the state’s CDPAP program.