Countdown with Keith Olderman is a production of iHeartRadio. Donald Trump has been indicted on seven charges, and the foremost of them is clearly a violation of the Espionage Act, specifically one designed to send to prison for up to ten years someone who was legally allowed to possess unclassified national defense information, but who refused to return that information in whatever form it took to the proper government authorities. It is eighteen US Code seven nine to three D, and it fits the allegations against Trump better than any of his suits. It erases all his stated defenses and excuses, like Trump's belief he owned a magic wand of declassification and defense posited in just the last few days that he was the president, so of course he had the right to possess and keep all defense information. Eighteen US Code seven nine to three D describes a crime involving information that is not classified, which the defendant at some point did have the right to possess, and it's still illegal. Eighteen US Codes seven nine three D would seemingly box Trump in without the possibility of escape. Trump's lawyer, James Trusty told CNN last night he has not even seen the actual indictment, but only had broad strokes painted to him, and he mentioned the wilful retention part of the Espionage Act, thus essentially confirming eighteen US Code seven nine three D. He mentioned multiple charges about false statements about conspiracy, and quote several obstruction based charges, including witness tampering to go back to the beginning. At approximately seven pm Eastern daylight time on Thursday, June eighth, twenty twenty three, his attorneys were informed by the Department of Justice by phone, and he was then informed by those attorneys that Trump had been indicted in Miami on seven separate sealed counts of criminal conduct, none of them yet formally revealed to the public, but clearly pertaining to the classified and defense documents he stole and kept in his home and his office at marri Lago, and reportedly including charges of illegal retention of national defense information, conspiracy to obstruct justice, false statements to government investigators seven counts. For context, the usual number of indictments for former presidents or current presidential candidates is approximately zero. CBS News is reporting that for all of his bravado, when that happened, Trump reacted to the indictments with anger because Trump had quote people in his inner circle who reassured him for months that it was very unlikely to happen. The entire Miami grand jury process was apparently news to him, and he really believed there was a chance that the meeting between his attorneys Trustee and Rowley and Halligan with Jack Smith, the special counsel on Monday might have turned into some form of negotiation. CBS also reports Trump's team now will move to dismiss and to try to question Jack Smith or j Bratt of the Justice Department, the latter over a casual remark he made to one witnesses lawyers about the lawyer's application to become a judge, which Trump's lawyers will now try to blow up into a reason that Trump should walk on all of these charges and all other charges, forever and ever and ever. Trump is also reported shocked by the reported cooperation of his former chief of staff, Mark Meadows, and CBS's Robert Costa quotes a Trump ally as fuming, quote, why the f has he been so quiet? Well? I can answer that the specifics of what is the first federal indictment of a former president only because Richard Nixon was preemptively pardoned by the president who succeeded him, Gerald Ford are as of recording time entirely unofficial and just sourced. But the centerpiece of all reporting is as it was phraised by ABC News, quote willful retention of national defense information. If that is the correct characterization, it would seem to be exactly what the UK paper The Independent had reported on Wednesday that Special Counsel Smith had made the deliberate decision to prosecute Trump not for stealing or possessing classified information, but to proceed instead under eighteen US Code seventy nine three. As that newspapers Andrew Feinberg wrote, the use of section seven nine three, which does not make reference to classified information, is understood to be a strategic decision by prosecutors that has been made to short circuit mister Trump's ability to claim that he used his authority as president to declassified documents he removed from a White House on quote. Conviction for violation of that Code seven nine to three gathering, transmitting, or losing defense information carries a penalty of a fine or of up to ten years in prison, or both, since Paragraph D lists fourteen different kinds of defense information, fourteen different forms of defense information. Let me abridge the code somewhat as I read it to you. Quote. Whoever, lawfully having possession of access, to, control, over, or being entrusted with any document, et cetera relating to the national defense willfully retains the same and fails to deliver it on demand to the officer or employee of the United States entitled to receive it on quote is guilty of violating that statute. That not only reads as if it were written to describe exactly what Trump did with all the documents, but as suggested previously, it denies Trump any claim that he had declassified those materials, because the crime does not depend on their being any classified materials. It circumvents the entirety of Trump's declassification defense, and were he now to try to defend himself by modifying it to claim that he had the right to possess the defense information, that is also irrelevant the first clause of this magic wand eighteen US Code seventy nine to three D. Whoever lawfully having possession of defense information. Moreover, we may have previously been given a preview of exactly what that defense information is, or at least what one piece of that defense information could be even if there are multiple allegations, even if there is just one indictment for ten thousand pieces of paper. On May thirty first, CNN reported that Trump had been recorded by the ghostwriters for Mark Meadows referring to seemingly holding in his hands, seemingly paraphrasing what Trump said was a four page document from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Mark Millie, which outlined United States military plans for an attack on Iran. Trump refers to the fact on the recording that he cannot just show it to the writers because he can't unilaterally declassify material. There was also subsequent reporting that the National Archives asked for the return of a document matching Trump's own description of the four page Milli Iran plan, but Trump's lawyers could not find it, and by all accounts did not and have not returned it. I referred to this four page document on this podcast on that date as the smoking gun. I think I'll stick with that reference. Of course, any charge under eighteen US Code seventy nine three D would be so broad, could be so broad that it could contain almost any document Trump kept, or all of them, or just the classified ones, or just the unclassified ones, or just the ones he claimed had been declassified. It doesn't matter if Trump actually had some kind of magic wand it matters only that Jack Smith has won. Now, we do not and probably will not, have any kind of understanding of the math. Where do seven counts come from when virtually all reporting creates three column headings? Or the crimes of Donald Trump? Again to quote ABC's reporting willful retention of national defense information? Well we got that one clear, I hope, conspiracy scheme to conceal and false statements and representations for the impeccable Ryan Goodman of Just Security. Scheme to conceal could easily be eighteen US Code one zero zero one quote. Whoever, in any matter within the jurisdiction of the executive, legislative, or judicial branch of the government, falsifies, conceals, or covers up by any trick, scheme, or device, a material fact unquote relevant to a prosecution that carries fines or prison up to five years for doing that false statements. That's a little less obvious, since there is no evidence that Trump himself has made any statements to any official in this investigation, that, after all, is the art of being Trump. You don't go on the record that guy does. But the New York Times observes Trump could still be guilty of violating eighteen US Code two quote. Whoever commits an offense against the United States or aids of bets, councils, commands, induces, or procures its commission is punishable as a principle. Slight translation here, if you caused it to happen, it's the same as you actually doing it yourself. To resume eighteen US Code two, whoever willfully causes an act to be done, which, if directly performed by him or another, would be an offense against the United States is punishable as a principle. Well, what on earth could that be that could easily be making his own attorney, Evan Corcoran draw up that document saying that a thorough search of Mari Lago had been conducted and these thirty eight classified documents were all we found, and here's Christina Bob's signature on it at the bottom, When in fact, Trump himself had made sure that it could not have been a thorough search because he moved all the boxes back and forth, and he kept Corcoran from searching anywhere but in the storage room. Or it could be what I mentioned to you yesterday, this newly reported fascination that prosecutors have with the original draft of a January twenty twenty two statement that included a claim that everything had been returned to the archives, then a claim that was removed from the final statement on the matter in January twenty twenty two. Again, this is all just reading tea leaves, and we are reading tea leaves because by Department of Justice Code of honor or God knows what the indictment is sealed. That secrecy by the Special Council has left the entire publicity playing field clear for Trump and every Republican under the sun to get out their version of this write down to Trump, in fact being the first to reveal his own indictment in a social media post at seven twenty one pm Eastern quote, the corrupt Biden administration has informed my attorneys that I have been indicted seemingly over the boxes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, followed by I have been summoned to appear at the Federal Courthouse in Miami on Tuesday at three pm. He did not add be there aloha. There followed an avalanche of Banana Republic references and a blitz of fundraising emails, and a promise from the unintentional parody presidential candidate Vivek Ramaswami to pardon Trump on January twentieth, twenty twenty five, which, given Trump's intention to be president again and his insistence that he is innocent, may not be the flex that Ramaswami thinks. It is a couple of brief scenes off stage worth noting The New York Times Glenn Thrush may have seen the indictment in real time shortly before three point thirty yesterday in the courtyard of the Justice Department, writes Thrush, quote Marshall Miller, a top Department official who acted as an intermediary with the Special Council, raced out of the building with a wad of papers in his hand and an aid in tow. Also, the reputation of the Secret Service continues to disintegrate. The Washington Post Rights Secret Service officials in Washington and members of Trump's security detail companying him in New Jersey were caught off guard by his announcement Thursday night that he had been indicted. Within moments of his post untruth, social Secret Service officials began emailing one another and setting in motion a series of planning meetings in Washington and Miami. Really, they were surprised. How what happened here? Did the Secret Service transfer those agents who had been guarding the home of the National Security Advisor Jake Sullivan back in April when an intoxicated man sash aid, passed every last one of them at three o'clock in the morning and broke into Sullivan's house, And they never noticed because they were too busy looking at their cell phones, and they didn't know about it until Sullivan came out and told them himself. Same guys surprised. Other notes, Newt Gingrich testified yesterday presumably about Trump builking his own roubs for funds to fight as stolen election that he knew was not stolen, or about the fake elector's scheme, or both, and that serves as a reminder that Jack Smith's investigations and possible charges against Trump continue on all other fronts. Also, Steve Mannon has been subpoened, and the Biden White House insists that it learned of the indictments last night only when they sought in media. You know, I did get out one of the first t wheats on the Trump announcement. I'm hoping they saw that. Lastly, since man's most distant ancestor climbed the primordial ooze, every momentous event in our history has always been accompanied by an equally momentous stupid event. There was the twenty one gun salute in which the honoree got shot. There was the new state of the art baseball stadium that opened without a press box for the reporters to sit in. And now there is Trump's indictment announcement and the worst home video ever recorded. It is a masterpiece of missteps. It is on the rushmore of rushed work. It is a new high in low. Trump posted it at seven point fifty seven from his golf club in Bedminster, New Jersey. He is standing in front of a large painting seemingly depicting a white house office scene from the late nineteenth century. Trump has been positioned directly under an overhead spotlight of some kind, so his flock of seagulls comb over that he has honed to exactly his preferred shade of spray on gold rustolium has instead been bleached white, and it looks like a white yamica that has slid forward towards his bright white eyebrows. He is also perfectly placed in front of that painting in such a way that a man in the painting who is standing. I think it could be President Chester A. Arthur, or even President Grover Cleveland, although the body language suggests it's mister Peanut. The man in the painting is perfectly positioned and seems to be about a foot tall and seems to be standing on top of Trump's right shoulder. If this great gazoo effect were not already hilarious enough, the man standing on Trump's shoulder, the foot tall man on Trump's shoulder, is twirling his mustache like he is snidely whiplash who has just tied No Fenwick to the railroad tracks, and he is standing on Trump's shoulder as Trump announces he has been indicted for crimes against the United States of America. Want a fitting way to end the coverage of the first time in our hist Oh wait, I forgot something I forgot there's new lyrics to my favorite song. I God indicted in Miami, ding Don Counts Argona claw t book me and bail me, try me and jail me, but get me to the trial on time. Thank you, Nancy Fast. Also of interest here as if we could possibly possibly top the indictment of Donald Trump on seven different charges. Also of interest here a name you thought you had been done with hearing me say ever again? Ah, but CNN's year to year advertising information has come out. I will go over all of it because it doesn't take as long as it should, because it's down forty percent from last year. Last year before they ever heard the name that's next. This is countdown. You know. This is countdown with you know Keith Alberman. Postscripts to news some headlines, some updates, some snarks, some predictions, dateline the Supreme Court, somebody got scared. Chief Justice Roberts and Brett party down. Cavanaugh lined up with the three liberals to strike down Alabama's racist congressional map, upholding a key part of the Voting Rights Act, with such alacrity that within hours, the Cook Political Report changed five of its congressional predictions for next year, Alabama's first and second districts, and the Louisiana fifth and sixth go from solid Republican to toss up, and the North Carolina first goes from toss up to lean Democratic. As some political observers observed, the court may have just given the Democrats the House back, if that weren't shocking enough. A bid to hobble medicaid and keep citizens from suing states for violating their rights was rejected by the worked by seven to two. The only dissenters were Alito and Thomas. Obviously, Thomas's check has cleared. Dateline CNN Hudson Yards, New York, Chris Lickt is gone, but the memory and the stench lingers on the advertising Research from Media Radar reports that for the first four months of twenty twenty three, CNN's on air and digital ad revenue had dropped forty percent compared to the first four months of twenty twenty two before Lickt got there and started hunting for the middle that does not exist in real terms. That's two hundred million dollars CNN did not make for context. MSNBC lost six point one percent of its ad revenue, Fox six point eight, CNN forty. But I'm sure they'll figure it out, just because their old audience is gone, and there's no stars in primetime or in the morning or any other time of the day. Thank you, Nancy Faust. Dateline Fox Quote News unquote. It has announced that Monday, Sean Hannity's guest will be Governor Gavin Newsom of California, who admits he watches Fox all the time, whose ex wife, Kimberly Gilfoyle used to be on Fox before she turned out to be even too gross for them. Here's a question, Governor, why why would you go on Fox? Now? Their own viewers have their foot on Fox's neck and you go on there. It's like Stephen A. Smith going on with Hannity. You can only damage yourself, and even if you don't actually damage yourself during the show, they have all that tape of you that they can distort out of context and use against you next time. Democrats do not go on Fox. They are mortally wounded. Let them bleed. Dateline Alderman Broadcasting Empire World Headquarters, Sports Capsule Building, New York. Sometime very late Tuesday, it looks like this podcast crossed another threshold. Ten million downloads in a little over ten months, a million, five hundred thousand of them last month alone. As ever, I thank you for your support and your loyalty. And with that uncharacteristic niceness out of the way, it's not enough, it's not nearly enough. Tell the others stop passers by, seriously, thank you. Coming up Fridays with thurber and many of his stories are clever, and many are funny. And then there are some whose plots are worthy of Arthur Conan Doyle or Shakespeare. The cat seat next first the day he round up with the missigrants, morons and dunning Kruger effect specimens who constitute today's bus pussons in the world lebrons, a bunch of people bashing Gene Simmons of kiss because he showed up to the British Parliament and attended Prime Minister's question time, and he visited the Irish mp ian Paisley. Simmons also called for the restoration of the Stormont House Agreement, in which power in Northern Ireland would be shared by Irish and pro British politicians for the benefit of citizens. And a lot of reaction here and there was he's a rock and roll guy in face paint. Gene Simmons also used to be a sixth grade teacher, and I ask you this, which makes more sense Gene Simmons in his kiss attire talking about Irish politics, or Marjorie Taylor Green being allowed into Congress without a tour pass and adult supervision. The runners up, Jesse Waters and Laura Ingram, who work at the rotting carcass of what used to be Fox quote News unquote, don't go on there, Governor. They continue to mock the last two days of the air in New York and Washington and all the Atlantic seaboard being tasteable, being so orange that, as the satirical site Have I Got News for You pointed out, New Yorker is urged to remain vigilant after Donald Trump is rendered completely invisible. Waters mocked warnings to stay inside by saying, paboly saints, stay inside, but I didn't listen, which checks out because he's a moron. A lot of stupid people on Fox kill Meat is stupid. Harris Faulkner is so stupid. She used to have a cell phone case with her own picture on it, apparently in case she forgot what she looked like. But Waters is next level. Ingram meanwhile hosted a climate change denier named Steve Molloy and Steve Malloy said, we have this kind of air in India and China all the time. No public health emergency. This doesn't kill anybody, that doesn't make anybody cough. This is not a health event, no, of course, not other than the extra million premature deaths a year from air pollution in China and India. Doesn't mean a thing. Ah, I'm surprised they didn't note that. With the atmospheric patterns suggesting that we're in for a summer of this, New Yorkers and Washingtonians who have always wanted their own fireplace but could not afford one, can now just open a window and make a crackling sound with some cellophane and pretend they have one. But our winner, good old George Santos, once again, we can do two things at once. We can deplore his extraordinary dishonesty, that his amazing conviction that he will continue to get away with it because so far he has, while at the same time we can only look at the stamina with envy, his stamina in finding ways that none of the rest of us would have ever dreamed of to break laws, violate ethics, and surround ourselves with the worst possible people. That Mother Jones Magazine, David Corn and Jacqueline Sweet report that Santos is so corrupt that his lawyer was in the mob that attacked the Capitol on January sixth. Now we knowed Santos was in the VIP section that day for Trump's stochastic terrorism speech at the Ellipse. But now Mother Jones reports quote, newly uncovered photos and video footage of January sixth show that his attorney, Joseph Murray, was in the angry mob that trespassed on Capitol grounds. It appears the attorney Murray got to the steps of the Capitol and stopped and watched. No evidence he went in, No evidence he broke the law. But Mother Jones says former Queen's Republican District leader Philip Grillow, who went into the Congress through a broken window, says he himself saw Murray on the way from the Ellipse. Quote, he was leading the charge up the hill. He was urging us on waiving this to follow him. And now he's George Santos's lawyer. George, Yeah, but he didn't go in the Capitol.

Countdown with Keith Olderman is a production of iHeartRadio. Donald Trump has been indicted on seven charges, and the foremost of them is clearly a violation of the Espionage Act, specifically one designed to send to prison for up to ten years someone who was legally allowed to possess unclassified national defense information, but who refused to return that information in whatever form it took to the proper government authorities. It is eighteen US Code seven nine to three D, and it fits the allegations against Trump better than any of his suits. It erases all his stated defenses and excuses, like Trump's belief he owned a magic wand of declassification and defense posited in just the last few days that he was the president, so of course he had the right to possess and keep all defense information. Eighteen US Code seven nine to three D describes a crime involving information that is not classified, which the defendant at some point did have the right to possess, and it's still illegal. Eighteen US Codes seven nine three D would seemingly box Trump in without the possibility of escape. Trump's lawyer, James Trusty told CNN last night he has not even seen the actual indictment, but only had broad strokes painted to him, and he mentioned the wilful retention part of the Espionage Act, thus essentially confirming eighteen US Code seven nine three D. He mentioned multiple charges about false statements about conspiracy, and quote several obstruction based charges, including witness tampering to go back to the beginning. At approximately seven pm Eastern daylight time on Thursday, June eighth, twenty twenty three, his attorneys were informed by the Department of Justice by phone, and he was then informed by those attorneys that Trump had been indicted in Miami on seven separate sealed counts of criminal conduct, none of them yet formally revealed to the public, but clearly pertaining to the classified and defense documents he stole and kept in his home and his office at marri Lago, and reportedly including charges of illegal retention of national defense information, conspiracy to obstruct justice, false statements to government investigators seven counts. For context, the usual number of indictments for former presidents or current presidential candidates is approximately zero. CBS News is reporting that for all of his bravado, when that happened, Trump reacted to the indictments with anger because Trump had quote people in his inner circle who reassured him for months that it was very unlikely to happen. The entire Miami grand jury process was apparently news to him, and he really believed there was a chance that the meeting between his attorneys Trustee and Rowley and Halligan with Jack Smith, the special counsel on Monday might have turned into some form of negotiation. CBS also reports Trump's team now will move to dismiss and to try to question Jack Smith or j Bratt of the Justice Department, the latter over a casual remark he made to one witnesses lawyers about the lawyer's application to become a judge, which Trump's lawyers will now try to blow up into a reason that Trump should walk on all of these charges and all other charges, forever and ever and ever. Trump is also reported shocked by the reported cooperation of his former chief of staff, Mark Meadows, and CBS's Robert Costa quotes a Trump ally as fuming, quote, why the f has he been so quiet? Well? I can answer that the specifics of what is the first federal indictment of a former president only because Richard Nixon was preemptively pardoned by the president who succeeded him, Gerald Ford are as of recording time entirely unofficial and just sourced. But the centerpiece of all reporting is as it was phraised by ABC News, quote willful retention of national defense information. If that is the correct characterization, it would seem to be exactly what the UK paper The Independent had reported on Wednesday that Special Counsel Smith had made the deliberate decision to prosecute Trump not for stealing or possessing classified information, but to proceed instead under eighteen US Code seventy nine three. As that newspapers Andrew Feinberg wrote, the use of section seven nine three, which does not make reference to classified information, is understood to be a strategic decision by prosecutors that has been made to short circuit mister Trump's ability to claim that he used his authority as president to declassified documents he removed from a White House on quote. Conviction for violation of that Code seven nine to three gathering, transmitting, or losing defense information carries a penalty of a fine or of up to ten years in prison, or both, since Paragraph D lists fourteen different kinds of defense information, fourteen different forms of defense information. Let me abridge the code somewhat as I read it to you. Quote. Whoever, lawfully having possession of access, to, control, over, or being entrusted with any document, et cetera relating to the national defense willfully retains the same and fails to deliver it on demand to the officer or employee of the United States entitled to receive it on quote is guilty of violating that statute. That not only reads as if it were written to describe exactly what Trump did with all the documents, but as suggested previously, it denies Trump any claim that he had declassified those materials, because the crime does not depend on their being any classified materials. It circumvents the entirety of Trump's declassification defense, and were he now to try to defend himself by modifying it to claim that he had the right to possess the defense information, that is also irrelevant the first clause of this magic wand eighteen US Code seventy nine to three D. Whoever lawfully having possession of defense information. Moreover, we may have previously been given a preview of exactly what that defense information is, or at least what one piece of that defense information could be even if there are multiple allegations, even if there is just one indictment for ten thousand pieces of paper. On May thirty first, CNN reported that Trump had been recorded by the ghostwriters for Mark Meadows referring to seemingly holding in his hands, seemingly paraphrasing what Trump said was a four page document from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Mark Millie, which outlined United States military plans for an attack on Iran. Trump refers to the fact on the recording that he cannot just show it to the writers because he can't unilaterally declassify material. There was also subsequent reporting that the National Archives asked for the return of a document matching Trump's own description of the four page Milli Iran plan, but Trump's lawyers could not find it, and by all accounts did not and have not returned it. I referred to this four page document on this podcast on that date as the smoking gun. I think I'll stick with that reference. Of course, any charge under eighteen US Code seventy nine three D would be so broad, could be so broad that it could contain almost any document Trump kept, or all of them, or just the classified ones, or just the unclassified ones, or just the ones he claimed had been declassified. It doesn't matter if Trump actually had some kind of magic wand it matters only that Jack Smith has won. Now, we do not and probably will not, have any kind of understanding of the math. Where do seven counts come from when virtually all reporting creates three column headings? Or the crimes of Donald Trump? Again to quote ABC's reporting willful retention of national defense information? Well we got that one clear, I hope, conspiracy scheme to conceal and false statements and representations for the impeccable Ryan Goodman of Just Security. Scheme to conceal could easily be eighteen US Code one zero zero one quote. Whoever, in any matter within the jurisdiction of the executive, legislative, or judicial branch of the government, falsifies, conceals, or covers up by any trick, scheme, or device, a material fact unquote relevant to a prosecution that carries fines or prison up to five years for doing that false statements. That's a little less obvious, since there is no evidence that Trump himself has made any statements to any official in this investigation, that, after all, is the art of being Trump. You don't go on the record that guy does. But the New York Times observes Trump could still be guilty of violating eighteen US Code two quote. Whoever commits an offense against the United States or aids of bets, councils, commands, induces, or procures its commission is punishable as a principle. Slight translation here, if you caused it to happen, it's the same as you actually doing it yourself. To resume eighteen US Code two, whoever willfully causes an act to be done, which, if directly performed by him or another, would be an offense against the United States is punishable as a principle. Well, what on earth could that be that could easily be making his own attorney, Evan Corcoran draw up that document saying that a thorough search of Mari Lago had been conducted and these thirty eight classified documents were all we found, and here's Christina Bob's signature on it at the bottom, When in fact, Trump himself had made sure that it could not have been a thorough search because he moved all the boxes back and forth, and he kept Corcoran from searching anywhere but in the storage room. Or it could be what I mentioned to you yesterday, this newly reported fascination that prosecutors have with the original draft of a January twenty twenty two statement that included a claim that everything had been returned to the archives, then a claim that was removed from the final statement on the matter in January twenty twenty two. Again, this is all just reading tea leaves, and we are reading tea leaves because by Department of Justice Code of honor or God knows what the indictment is sealed. That secrecy by the Special Council has left the entire publicity playing field clear for Trump and every Republican under the sun to get out their version of this write down to Trump, in fact being the first to reveal his own indictment in a social media post at seven twenty one pm Eastern quote, the corrupt Biden administration has informed my attorneys that I have been indicted seemingly over the boxes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, followed by I have been summoned to appear at the Federal Courthouse in Miami on Tuesday at three pm. He did not add be there aloha. There followed an avalanche of Banana Republic references and a blitz of fundraising emails, and a promise from the unintentional parody presidential candidate Vivek Ramaswami to pardon Trump on January twentieth, twenty twenty five, which, given Trump's intention to be president again and his insistence that he is innocent, may not be the flex that Ramaswami thinks. It is a couple of brief scenes off stage worth noting The New York Times Glenn Thrush may have seen the indictment in real time shortly before three point thirty yesterday in the courtyard of the Justice Department, writes Thrush, quote Marshall Miller, a top Department official who acted as an intermediary with the Special Council, raced out of the building with a wad of papers in his hand and an aid in tow. Also, the reputation of the Secret Service continues to disintegrate. The Washington Post Rights Secret Service officials in Washington and members of Trump's security detail companying him in New Jersey were caught off guard by his announcement Thursday night that he had been indicted. Within moments of his post untruth, social Secret Service officials began emailing one another and setting in motion a series of planning meetings in Washington and Miami. Really, they were surprised. How what happened here? Did the Secret Service transfer those agents who had been guarding the home of the National Security Advisor Jake Sullivan back in April when an intoxicated man sash aid, passed every last one of them at three o'clock in the morning and broke into Sullivan's house, And they never noticed because they were too busy looking at their cell phones, and they didn't know about it until Sullivan came out and told them himself. Same guys surprised. Other notes, Newt Gingrich testified yesterday presumably about Trump builking his own roubs for funds to fight as stolen election that he knew was not stolen, or about the fake elector's scheme, or both, and that serves as a reminder that Jack Smith's investigations and possible charges against Trump continue on all other fronts. Also, Steve Mannon has been subpoened, and the Biden White House insists that it learned of the indictments last night only when they sought in media. You know, I did get out one of the first t wheats on the Trump announcement. I'm hoping they saw that. Lastly, since man's most distant ancestor climbed the primordial ooze, every momentous event in our history has always been accompanied by an equally momentous stupid event. There was the twenty one gun salute in which the honoree got shot. There was the new state of the art baseball stadium that opened without a press box for the reporters to sit in. And now there is Trump's indictment announcement and the worst home video ever recorded. It is a masterpiece of missteps. It is on the rushmore of rushed work. It is a new high in low. Trump posted it at seven point fifty seven from his golf club in Bedminster, New Jersey. He is standing in front of a large painting seemingly depicting a white house office scene from the late nineteenth century. Trump has been positioned directly under an overhead spotlight of some kind, so his flock of seagulls comb over that he has honed to exactly his preferred shade of spray on gold rustolium has instead been bleached white, and it looks like a white yamica that has slid forward towards his bright white eyebrows. He is also perfectly placed in front of that painting in such a way that a man in the painting who is standing. I think it could be President Chester A. Arthur, or even President Grover Cleveland, although the body language suggests it's mister Peanut. The man in the painting is perfectly positioned and seems to be about a foot tall and seems to be standing on top of Trump's right shoulder. If this great gazoo effect were not already hilarious enough, the man standing on Trump's shoulder, the foot tall man on Trump's shoulder, is twirling his mustache like he is snidely whiplash who has just tied No Fenwick to the railroad tracks, and he is standing on Trump's shoulder as Trump announces he has been indicted for crimes against the United States of America. Want a fitting way to end the coverage of the first time in our hist Oh wait, I forgot something I forgot there's new lyrics to my favorite song. I God indicted in Miami, ding Don Counts Argona claw t book me and bail me, try me and jail me, but get me to the trial on time. Thank you, Nancy Fast. Also of interest here as if we could possibly possibly top the indictment of Donald Trump on seven different charges. Also of interest here a name you thought you had been done with hearing me say ever again? Ah, but CNN's year to year advertising information has come out. I will go over all of it because it doesn't take as long as it should, because it's down forty percent from last year. Last year before they ever heard the name that's next. This is countdown. You know. This is countdown with you know Keith Alberman. Postscripts to news some headlines, some updates, some snarks, some predictions, dateline the Supreme Court, somebody got scared. Chief Justice Roberts and Brett party down. Cavanaugh lined up with the three liberals to strike down Alabama's racist congressional map, upholding a key part of the Voting Rights Act, with such alacrity that within hours, the Cook Political Report changed five of its congressional predictions for next year, Alabama's first and second districts, and the Louisiana fifth and sixth go from solid Republican to toss up, and the North Carolina first goes from toss up to lean Democratic. As some political observers observed, the court may have just given the Democrats the House back, if that weren't shocking enough. A bid to hobble medicaid and keep citizens from suing states for violating their rights was rejected by the worked by seven to two. The only dissenters were Alito and Thomas. Obviously, Thomas's check has cleared. Dateline CNN Hudson Yards, New York, Chris Lickt is gone, but the memory and the stench lingers on the advertising Research from Media Radar reports that for the first four months of twenty twenty three, CNN's on air and digital ad revenue had dropped forty percent compared to the first four months of twenty twenty two before Lickt got there and started hunting for the middle that does not exist in real terms. That's two hundred million dollars CNN did not make for context. MSNBC lost six point one percent of its ad revenue, Fox six point eight, CNN forty. But I'm sure they'll figure it out, just because their old audience is gone, and there's no stars in primetime or in the morning or any other time of the day. Thank you, Nancy Faust. Dateline Fox Quote News unquote. It has announced that Monday, Sean Hannity's guest will be Governor Gavin Newsom of California, who admits he watches Fox all the time, whose ex wife, Kimberly Gilfoyle used to be on Fox before she turned out to be even too gross for them. Here's a question, Governor, why why would you go on Fox? Now? Their own viewers have their foot on Fox's neck and you go on there. It's like Stephen A. Smith going on with Hannity. You can only damage yourself, and even if you don't actually damage yourself during the show, they have all that tape of you that they can distort out of context and use against you next time. Democrats do not go on Fox. They are mortally wounded. Let them bleed. Dateline Alderman Broadcasting Empire World Headquarters, Sports Capsule Building, New York. Sometime very late Tuesday, it looks like this podcast crossed another threshold. Ten million downloads in a little over ten months, a million, five hundred thousand of them last month alone. As ever, I thank you for your support and your loyalty. And with that uncharacteristic niceness out of the way, it's not enough, it's not nearly enough. Tell the others stop passers by, seriously, thank you. Coming up Fridays with thurber and many of his stories are clever, and many are funny. And then there are some whose plots are worthy of Arthur Conan Doyle or Shakespeare. The cat seat next first the day he round up with the missigrants, morons and dunning Kruger effect specimens who constitute today's bus pussons in the world lebrons, a bunch of people bashing Gene Simmons of kiss because he showed up to the British Parliament and attended Prime Minister's question time, and he visited the Irish mp ian Paisley. Simmons also called for the restoration of the Stormont House Agreement, in which power in Northern Ireland would be shared by Irish and pro British politicians for the benefit of citizens. And a lot of reaction here and there was he's a rock and roll guy in face paint. Gene Simmons also used to be a sixth grade teacher, and I ask you this, which makes more sense Gene Simmons in his kiss attire talking about Irish politics, or Marjorie Taylor Green being allowed into Congress without a tour pass and adult supervision. The runners up, Jesse Waters and Laura Ingram, who work at the rotting carcass of what used to be Fox quote News unquote, don't go on there, Governor. They continue to mock the last two days of the air in New York and Washington and all the Atlantic seaboard being tasteable, being so orange that, as the satirical site Have I Got News for You pointed out, New Yorker is urged to remain vigilant after Donald Trump is rendered completely invisible. Waters mocked warnings to stay inside by saying, paboly saints, stay inside, but I didn't listen, which checks out because he's a moron. A lot of stupid people on Fox kill Meat is stupid. Harris Faulkner is so stupid. She used to have a cell phone case with her own picture on it, apparently in case she forgot what she looked like. But Waters is next level. Ingram meanwhile hosted a climate change denier named Steve Molloy and Steve Malloy said, we have this kind of air in India and China all the time. No public health emergency. This doesn't kill anybody, that doesn't make anybody cough. This is not a health event, no, of course, not other than the extra million premature deaths a year from air pollution in China and India. Doesn't mean a thing. Ah, I'm surprised they didn't note that. With the atmospheric patterns suggesting that we're in for a summer of this, New Yorkers and Washingtonians who have always wanted their own fireplace but could not afford one, can now just open a window and make a crackling sound with some cellophane and pretend they have one. But our winner, good old George Santos, once again, we can do two things at once. We can deplore his extraordinary dishonesty, that his amazing conviction that he will continue to get away with it because so far he has, while at the same time we can only look at the stamina with envy, his stamina in finding ways that none of the rest of us would have ever dreamed of to break laws, violate ethics, and surround ourselves with the worst possible people. That Mother Jones Magazine, David Corn and Jacqueline Sweet report that Santos is so corrupt that his lawyer was in the mob that attacked the Capitol on January sixth. Now we knowed Santos was in the VIP section that day for Trump's stochastic terrorism speech at the Ellipse. But now Mother Jones reports quote, newly uncovered photos and video footage of January sixth show that his attorney, Joseph Murray, was in the angry mob that trespassed on Capitol grounds. It appears the attorney Murray got to the steps of the Capitol and stopped and watched. No evidence he went in, No evidence he broke the law. But Mother Jones says former Queen's Republican District leader Philip Grillow, who went into the Congress through a broken window, says he himself saw Murray on the way from the Ellipse. Quote, he was leading the charge up the hill. He was urging us on waiving this to follow him. And now he's George Santos's lawyer. George, Yeah, but he didn't go in the Capitol.

Santos Today's worst parson in the world. Here's the number one story on the Countdown, and since it is the weekend edition, it's time for some James Thurber. The catbirds Seat combines two of my all time favorite things, Thurber and baseball broadcasting. As Thurber will reveal in the story, the title comes from a catchphrase used by the Brooklyn Dodgers legendary announcer Red Barber, the man who trained Vince Scully and is my late friend Vin's only true competition for greatest baseball play by playing man of all time. I met Red Barber once I interviewed him for CNN. He called me Keith throughout the interview. I was so starstruck. It's pretty much all I remember from the interview.

Santos Today's worst parson in the world. Here's the number one story on the Countdown, and since it is the weekend edition, it's time for some James Thurber. The catbirds Seat combines two of my all time favorite things, Thurber and baseball broadcasting. As Thurber will reveal in the story, the title comes from a catchphrase used by the Brooklyn Dodgers legendary announcer Red Barber, the man who trained Vince Scully and is my late friend Vin's only true competition for greatest baseball play by playing man of all time. I met Red Barber once I interviewed him for CNN. He called me Keith throughout the interview. I was so starstruck. It's pretty much all I remember from the interview.

Anyway. Bert Lancaster bought the movie rights to this story and he got Billy Wilder to commit to direct it. Well, how come you've never heard of this perfect sounding film, The Catbird Seat, directed by Billy Wilder. They sold the rights and in nineteen sixty the film was made, but they relocated it from Manhattan to Scotland, starring Peter Sellars dressed up as an old man as mister Martin. It's okay, unless you've read the story or had it read to you from the Thurber Carnival nineteen forty five, The Catbird Seat by James Thurber. Mister Martin bought the pack of camels on Monday night in the most crowded cigar store on Broadway. It was theater time, and seven or eight men were buying cigarettes. The clerk didn't even glance at mister Martin, who put the pack in his overcoat pocket and went out. If any of the staff at F and S had seen him by the cigarettes, they would have been astonished, for it was generally known that mister Martin did not smoke, and never had. No one saw him. It was just a week to the day since mister Martin had decided to rub out missus Old Jean Barrows. The term rub out pleased him because it suggested nothing more than the correction of an error, in this case, an error of mister Fitweiler. Mister Martin had spent each night of the past week working out his plan and examining it as he walked home. Now he went over it again for the hundredth time. He resented the element of imprecision, the margin of guesswork that entered into the business. The project, as he had worked it out, was casual and bold. The risks were considerable. Something might go wrong anywhere along the line, and therein lay the cunning of his scheme. No one would ever see in the cautious, painstaking hand of Irwin Martin, head of the filing department at f and S, of whom mister Fitweiler had once said, man is fallible, but Martin isn't. No one would see his hand, that is, unless he were caught in the act. Sitting in his apartment drinking a glass of milk, mister Martin reviewed his case against missus Old Jean Barrows, as he had every night for seven nights. He began at the beginning. Her quacking voice and braying laugh at first profaned the halls of FNS. On March seventh, nineteen forty one, mister Martin had a head for dates. Old Roberts, the personnel chief, had introduced her as the newly appointed special advisor to the present of the firm, mister Fitweiler. The woman had appalled mister Martin instantly, but he had not shown it. He had given her his dry hand a look of studious concentration in a faint smile. Well, she said, looking at the papers on his desk, are you lifting the ox cart out of the ditch. As mister Martin recalled that moment over his milk, he squirmed slightly. He must keep his mind on her crimes as a special advisor, not on her peccadillos as a personality. This he found difficult to do. In spite of entering an objection and sustaining it. The faults of the woman as a woman kept chattering on in his mind like an unruly witness. She had for almost two years now baited him in the halls, in the elevator, even in his own office, into which she romped now and then like a circus horse. She was constantly shouting these silly questions at him. Are you lefting the ox cart out of the ditch? Are you tearing up the pea patch? Are you hollering down the rain barrel? Are you scraping around the bottom of the pickle barrel? Are you sitting in the catmarried seat. It was Joey Hart, one of mister Martin's two assistants, who had explained what the gibberish meant she must be a Dodger fan, he had said. Red Bob announces the Dodger games over the radio, and he uses these expressions, picked them up down south. Joey had gone on to explain one or two, Tearing up the pea patch meant going on a rampage. Sitting in the catbirds seat meant sitting pretty like a batter with three balls and no strikes on him. Mister Martin dismissed all this with an effort. It had been annoying, it had driven him nearer to distraction, but he was too solid a man to be moved, moved to murder by anything so childish. It was unfortunate, he reflected, as he passed on to the important charges against Missus Barrows, that he had stood up under it so well. He had maintained always an outward appearance of polite tolerance. Why I even believe you like the woman mispaired, His other assistant had once said to him, he had simply smiled a gavel wrapped in mister Martin's mind, and the case proper was resumed. Missus Aul Jean Barrows stood charged with wilful, flatant and persistent attempts to destroy the efficiency and system of fn S. It was confident material and relevant to review her advent and rise to power. Mister Martin had got the story from Miss Paired, who seemed always able to find things out. According to her, Missus Barrows had met mister Fitweller at a party where she had rescued him from the embraces of a powerfully built, drunken man who had mistaken the president of F and S for a famous retired middle Western football coach. She had led him to a sofa and somehow worked upon him a monstrous magic. The aging gentleman had jumped to the conclusion there and then that this was a woman of singular attainments, equipped to bring out the best in him and in the firm. A week later he had introduced her into F and S as his special adviser. On that day, Confusion got its foot in the door. After Miss Tyson, mister Brundage, and mister Bartlett had been fired and mister Munson had taken his hat and stalked out mailing. In his resignation letter, Old Roberts had been emboldened to speak to mister Fitweiler. He mentioned that mister Munson's department had become a little disrupted, and hadn't a perhaps better resume the old system there? Mister Fitwaller had said, certainly not. He had the greatest faith in missus Barrow's ideas. They require a little seasoning. Little seasoning is all, he had added. Mister Roberts had given it up. Mister Martin reviewed in detail all the changes wrought by missus Barrows. She had begun chipping at the cornices of the firm's edifice, and now she was swinging at the foundation stones with a pickaxe. Mister Martin came now in his summing up to the afternoon of Monday, November two, nineteen forty two, just one week ago. On that day, at three pm, Missus Barrows had bounced into his office. Boo, she had yelled, Are you scraping around the bottom of the pickle barrel? Mister Martin had looked at her from under his green eye shade, saying nothing. She had begun to wander about the office, taking it in with her great popping eyes. Do you really need all these filing cabinets, she had demanded. Suddenly, mister Martin's heart had jumped each of these files. He had said, keeping his voice even plays an indispensable part in the system of f and s. She had brayed at him while don't tear up the pea patch, and gone to the door. From there she had bawled, but you sure have got a lot of fines scrap in here. Mister Martin could no longer doubt that the finger was on his beloved department. Her pickaxe was on the upswing, poised for the first blow. It had not come yet. He had received no blue memo from the enchanted mister Fitweller bearing nonsensical instructions deriving from this obscene woman, But there was no doubt in mister Martin's mind that one would be forthcoming. He must act quickly. Already a precious week had gone by. Mister Martin stood up in his living room, still holding his milk glass. Gentlemen of the jury, he said to himself, I demand the death penalty for this horrible person. The next day, mister Martin followed his routine as usual. He polished his glasses more often and once sharpened an already sharp pencil. But not even mispaired noticed. Only once did he catch sight of his victim. She swept past him in the hall with the patronizing Hi. At five point thirty, he walked home as usual and had a glass of milk as usual. He had never drunk anything stronger in his life, unless you could count ginger Ale. The late Sam Schlosser, the s of F and S had praised mister Martin at a staff meeting several years before for his temperate habits. One of our most efficient workers. Neither drinks nor smoke, he had said, the results speak for themselves. Mister Fitwiler had sat by, nodding approval. Mister Martin was still thinking about that red letter day as he walked over to the Shaft's restaurant on Fifth Avenue near forty sixth Street. He got there as he always did, at eight o'clock. He finished his dinner and the financial page of the New York Sun quartered at to nine. As he always did, It was his custom after dinner to take a walk. This time he walked down Fifth Avenue at a casual place. His gloved hands felt moist and warm, his forehead cold. He transferred the camels from his overcoat to a jacket pocket. He wondered as he did so, if they did not represent an unnecessary note of strain. Missus Sparrows smoked only luckies. It was his idea to puff a few puffs on a camel after the rubbing out, stub it out in the ashtray, holding her lipstick, saying luckies, and thus drag a small red hairing across the trail. Perhaps it was not a good idea. It would take time. He might even choke too loudly. Mister Martin had never seen the house on West twelfth Street where Missus Barrows lived, but he had a clear enough picture of it. Fortunately, she had bragged to everybody about her decky first floor apartment in the perfectly darling three story red brick. There would be no doorman or other attendants, just the tenants of the second and third floors. As he walked along, mister Martin realized that he would get there before nine thirty. He had considered walking north on Fifth Avenue from Shrafts to a point from which it would take him until ten o'clock to reach the house. At that hour people were less likely to be coming in or going out, But the procedure would have made an awkward loop in the straight thread of his casualness, and he had abandoned it. It was impossible to figure when people would be entering or leaving the house. Anyway, there was a great risk at any hour if he ran into anybody, he would simply have to place the rubbing out of Old Jean Barrows in the inactive file forever. The same thing would hold true if there was someone in her apartment. In that case, he would just say that he had been passing by, recognized her charming house, and thought to drop in. It was eighteen minutes after nine when mister Martin turned into twelfth Street. A man passed him, and a man and a woman talking. There was no one within fifty paces. When he came to the house halfway down the block. He was up the steps and in the small vestibule, and no time pressing the bell under the card that said missus Old Jean Barrows. When the clicking in the locks started, he jumped forward against the door. He got inside fast, closing the door behind him. A bulb in a lantern hung from the hall ceiling on a chain seemed to give a monstrously bright light. There was nobody on the stair which went up ahead of him. Along the left wall. A door opened down the hall on the wall on the right. He went toward it swiftly on tiptoe. Well, for God's sakes, look who's here? Bawled Missus Barrows, and her brain laugh rang out like the report of a shotgun. He rushed past her like a football attacker, bumping her. Hey, quit shoving, she said, closing the door behind them. They were in her living room, which seemed to mister Martin to be lighted by a hundred lamps. What's after you? She said, here's jumpy as a goat. He found he was unable to speak. His heart was wheezing in his throat. I yes, he finally brought out. She was jabbering and laughing as she started to help him off with his coat. No, no, he said, I'll put it here. He took it off and put it on a chair near the door. Your hat and gloves too, She said, you're in a lady's house. He put his hat on top of the coat. Missus Barrows seemed larger than he had thought. He kept his gloves on. I was passing by, he said, I recognized. Is there anyone here? She laughed louder than ever. No, she said, we're all alone. You're white. Is a sheet? You funny man? Whatever has come over you, I'll mix you a toddy. She started toward a door across the room. Scotch and so to be all right, But say you don't drink, do you? She turned and gave him her amused look. Mister Martin pulled himself together. Scotch and soda will be all right, he heard himself say. He could hear her laughing in the kitchen. Mister Martin looked quickly around the living room for the weapon he had counted on finding one. There there were and irons, and a poker, and something in a corner that looked like an Indian club. None of them would do it. Couldn't be that way. He began to pace around. He came to a desk. On it lay a metal paper knife with an ornate handle. Would it be sharp enough? He reached for it and knocked over a small brass jar. Stamps spilled out of it and fell onto the floor with a clatter. Hey, missus, Barrows yelled from the kitchen. Are you tearing up the pea patch? Mister Martin gave a strange laugh. Picking up the knife, he tried its point against his left wrist. It was blunt. It wouldn't do. When Missus Barrows reappeared carrying two high balls, mister Martin, standing there with his gloves on, became acutely conscious of the fantasy. He had wrought cigarettes in his pocket, a drink prepared for him. It was all too grossly improbable. It was more than that, it was impossible. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a vague idea stirred sprouted. For heaven's sake, take off those gloves, said Missus Barrows. I always wear them in the house, said mister Martin. The idea began to bloom, strange and wonderful. She put the glasses on a coffee table in front of a sofa and sat on the sofa. Come over here, you odd little man, she said. Mister Martin went over and sat beside her. It was difficult getting a cigarette out of the pack of camels, but he managed it. She held a match for him, laughing, she said, handing him his drink. This is perfectly marvelous, you with a drink and a cigarette. Mister Martin puffed, not too awkwardly, and took a gulp of the highball. I drink and smoke all the time, he said. He clinked his glass against hers. Here's nuts to that old wind bag fit whiler, he said, and gulped again. The stuff tasted awful, but he made no grimace. Really, mister Martin, she said, her voice and posture changing, you are insulting our employer. Missus Barrows was now all special advisor to the President. I am preparing a bomb, said mister Martin, which will blow the old goat higher than hell. He had only had a little of the drink, which was not strong. It couldn't be that. Do you take dope or something, Missus Barrows asked coldly. Heroine said, mister Martin, I'll be coked to the gills when I bumped that old buzzard off. Mister Martin, she shouted, getting to her feet, that will be all of that. You must go at once. Mister Martin took another swallow of the drink. He tapped his cigarette out in the ash tray and put the pack of camels on the coffee table. Then he got up. She stood glaring at him. He walked over and put on his hat and coat. Not a word about this, he said, and laid an index finger against his lips. All missus Barrows could bring out was a really Mister Martin put his hand on the doorknob, sitting in the catbird's seat, he said, he stuck his tongue out at her and left. Nobody saw him go. Mister Martin got to his apartment walking well before eleven. No one saw him go in. He had two glasses of milk after brushing his teeth, and he felt elated. It wasn't tipsy in is because he hadn't been tipsy anyway. The walk had worn off all effects of the whiskey. He got in bed and read a magazine for a while. He was asleep before midnight. Mister Martin got to the office at eight thirty the next morning as usual. At a quarter to nine, old Jean Barrows, who had never before arrived at work before ten, swept into his office. I'm the party to mister Fitwaler now, she shouted. If he turns you over to the police, it's no more than you deserve. Mister Martin gave her a look of shocked surprise. I beg your pardon, he said. Missus Barrow snorted and bounced out of the room, leaving miss paird and Joey Hart staring after her. What's the matter with that old devil, now, asked Miss Paired. I have no idea, said mister Martin, resuming his work. The other two looked at him, and then at each other. Miss Paired got up and went out. She walked slowly past the closed door of mister Fitwiler's office. Missus Barrows was yelling inside, but she was not braying. Miss Paired could not hear what the woman was saying. She went back to her desk. Forty five minutes later, Missus Barrows left the President's office and went into her own, shutting the door. It wasn't until half an hour later that mister Fitwiler sent for mister Martin, the head of the filing department. Neat quiet, attentive, stood in front of the old man's desk. Mister Fitweiler was pale and nervous. He took his glasses off and twiddled them. He made a small ruffing sound in his throat. Martin, he said, you have been with us more than twenty years. Twenty two, sir, said mister Martin, in that time pursued the President. Your work and your manner have been exemplary. I trust so, sir, said mister Martin. I have understood, Martin, said mister Fitwaller, that you have never taken a drink or smoked. That is correct, sir, said mister Martin. Ah yes, mister Fitwiler polished his glasses. You may describe what you did after leaving the office yesterday, Martin, he said, certainly, sir, he said, I walked home. Then I went to Shafts for dinner. Afterward, I walked home again. I went to bed early, sir, and read a magaze for a while. I was asleep before eleven. Ah. Yes, said mister Fitwiler. Again. He was silent for a moment, searching for the proper words to say to the head of the filing department, Missus Barrows. He said, finally, Missus Barrows has worked hard, Martin, very hard. It brings me to report that she has suffered a severe breakdown. It has taken the form of a persecution complex accompanied by distressing hallucinations. I'm very sorry, sir, said mister Martin. Missus Barrows is under the delusion, continued mister Fitwiler, that you visited her last evening and behaved yourself in an unseemly manner. He raised his hand to silence mister Martin's little, pained outcry. It is the nature of these psychological diseases, mister Fitwiler said, to fix upon the least likely and most innocent party is the source of persecution. These matters are not for the lay mind to grasp, Martin. I've just had my psychiatrist, doctor Fitch, on the phone. He would not, of course commit himself, but he made enough generalizations to substantiate my suspicions. I suggested to missus Barrows, when she had completed her story to me this morning, that she visited doctor Fitch for I suspected a condition. At once sentence, she flew, I regret to say, into a rage and demanded requested that I call you on the carpet. You may not know, Martin, but Missus Barrows had planned a reorganization of your department, subject to my approval. Of course, subject to my approval. This brought you, rather than anyone else, to her mind. But again, that is a phenomenon for doctor Fitch and not for us. So Martin, I'm afraid Missus Barrow's usefulness here is at an end. I'm dreadfully sorry, sir, said mister Martin. It was at this point that the door to the office blew open with the suddenness of a gas main explosion, and Missus Barrows catapulted through. It is the little rad denying it, she screamed. He can't get away with that. Mister Martin got up and moved discreetly to a point beside mister Fitwailer's chair. You drank and smoked at my apartment, she bawled at mister Martin, and you know it. You called mister Fitweer an old wind bag and said you were gonna blow him up when you got coked to your gills on your heroine. She stopped yelling to catch her breath, and a new glint came into her popping eyes. If you weren't set to drab, ordinary little man, she said, I'd think you'd planned it all, sticking your tongue out, saying you were sitting in the cat burried seat because you thought no one would believe me when I told it. My god, it's really too perfect, she brayed loudly and hysterically, and the fury was on her again. She glared at mister Fitweiler.

Anyway. Bert Lancaster bought the movie rights to this story and he got Billy Wilder to commit to direct it. Well, how come you've never heard of this perfect sounding film, The Catbird Seat, directed by Billy Wilder. They sold the rights and in nineteen sixty the film was made, but they relocated it from Manhattan to Scotland, starring Peter Sellars dressed up as an old man as mister Martin. It's okay, unless you've read the story or had it read to you from the Thurber Carnival nineteen forty five, The Catbird Seat by James Thurber. Mister Martin bought the pack of camels on Monday night in the most crowded cigar store on Broadway. It was theater time, and seven or eight men were buying cigarettes. The clerk didn't even glance at mister Martin, who put the pack in his overcoat pocket and went out. If any of the staff at F and S had seen him by the cigarettes, they would have been astonished, for it was generally known that mister Martin did not smoke, and never had. No one saw him. It was just a week to the day since mister Martin had decided to rub out missus Old Jean Barrows. The term rub out pleased him because it suggested nothing more than the correction of an error, in this case, an error of mister Fitweiler. Mister Martin had spent each night of the past week working out his plan and examining it as he walked home. Now he went over it again for the hundredth time. He resented the element of imprecision, the margin of guesswork that entered into the business. The project, as he had worked it out, was casual and bold. The risks were considerable. Something might go wrong anywhere along the line, and therein lay the cunning of his scheme. No one would ever see in the cautious, painstaking hand of Irwin Martin, head of the filing department at f and S, of whom mister Fitweiler had once said, man is fallible, but Martin isn't. No one would see his hand, that is, unless he were caught in the act. Sitting in his apartment drinking a glass of milk, mister Martin reviewed his case against missus Old Jean Barrows, as he had every night for seven nights. He began at the beginning. Her quacking voice and braying laugh at first profaned the halls of FNS. On March seventh, nineteen forty one, mister Martin had a head for dates. Old Roberts, the personnel chief, had introduced her as the newly appointed special advisor to the present of the firm, mister Fitweiler. The woman had appalled mister Martin instantly, but he had not shown it. He had given her his dry hand a look of studious concentration in a faint smile. Well, she said, looking at the papers on his desk, are you lifting the ox cart out of the ditch. As mister Martin recalled that moment over his milk, he squirmed slightly. He must keep his mind on her crimes as a special advisor, not on her peccadillos as a personality. This he found difficult to do. In spite of entering an objection and sustaining it. The faults of the woman as a woman kept chattering on in his mind like an unruly witness. She had for almost two years now baited him in the halls, in the elevator, even in his own office, into which she romped now and then like a circus horse. She was constantly shouting these silly questions at him. Are you lefting the ox cart out of the ditch? Are you tearing up the pea patch? Are you hollering down the rain barrel? Are you scraping around the bottom of the pickle barrel? Are you sitting in the catmarried seat. It was Joey Hart, one of mister Martin's two assistants, who had explained what the gibberish meant she must be a Dodger fan, he had said. Red Bob announces the Dodger games over the radio, and he uses these expressions, picked them up down south. Joey had gone on to explain one or two, Tearing up the pea patch meant going on a rampage. Sitting in the catbirds seat meant sitting pretty like a batter with three balls and no strikes on him. Mister Martin dismissed all this with an effort. It had been annoying, it had driven him nearer to distraction, but he was too solid a man to be moved, moved to murder by anything so childish. It was unfortunate, he reflected, as he passed on to the important charges against Missus Barrows, that he had stood up under it so well. He had maintained always an outward appearance of polite tolerance. Why I even believe you like the woman mispaired, His other assistant had once said to him, he had simply smiled a gavel wrapped in mister Martin's mind, and the case proper was resumed. Missus Aul Jean Barrows stood charged with wilful, flatant and persistent attempts to destroy the efficiency and system of fn S. It was confident material and relevant to review her advent and rise to power. Mister Martin had got the story from Miss Paired, who seemed always able to find things out. According to her, Missus Barrows had met mister Fitweller at a party where she had rescued him from the embraces of a powerfully built, drunken man who had mistaken the president of F and S for a famous retired middle Western football coach. She had led him to a sofa and somehow worked upon him a monstrous magic. The aging gentleman had jumped to the conclusion there and then that this was a woman of singular attainments, equipped to bring out the best in him and in the firm. A week later he had introduced her into F and S as his special adviser. On that day, Confusion got its foot in the door. After Miss Tyson, mister Brundage, and mister Bartlett had been fired and mister Munson had taken his hat and stalked out mailing. In his resignation letter, Old Roberts had been emboldened to speak to mister Fitweiler. He mentioned that mister Munson's department had become a little disrupted, and hadn't a perhaps better resume the old system there? Mister Fitwaller had said, certainly not. He had the greatest faith in missus Barrow's ideas. They require a little seasoning. Little seasoning is all, he had added. Mister Roberts had given it up. Mister Martin reviewed in detail all the changes wrought by missus Barrows. She had begun chipping at the cornices of the firm's edifice, and now she was swinging at the foundation stones with a pickaxe. Mister Martin came now in his summing up to the afternoon of Monday, November two, nineteen forty two, just one week ago. On that day, at three pm, Missus Barrows had bounced into his office. Boo, she had yelled, Are you scraping around the bottom of the pickle barrel? Mister Martin had looked at her from under his green eye shade, saying nothing. She had begun to wander about the office, taking it in with her great popping eyes. Do you really need all these filing cabinets, she had demanded. Suddenly, mister Martin's heart had jumped each of these files. He had said, keeping his voice even plays an indispensable part in the system of f and s. She had brayed at him while don't tear up the pea patch, and gone to the door. From there she had bawled, but you sure have got a lot of fines scrap in here. Mister Martin could no longer doubt that the finger was on his beloved department. Her pickaxe was on the upswing, poised for the first blow. It had not come yet. He had received no blue memo from the enchanted mister Fitweller bearing nonsensical instructions deriving from this obscene woman, But there was no doubt in mister Martin's mind that one would be forthcoming. He must act quickly. Already a precious week had gone by. Mister Martin stood up in his living room, still holding his milk glass. Gentlemen of the jury, he said to himself, I demand the death penalty for this horrible person. The next day, mister Martin followed his routine as usual. He polished his glasses more often and once sharpened an already sharp pencil. But not even mispaired noticed. Only once did he catch sight of his victim. She swept past him in the hall with the patronizing Hi. At five point thirty, he walked home as usual and had a glass of milk as usual. He had never drunk anything stronger in his life, unless you could count ginger Ale. The late Sam Schlosser, the s of F and S had praised mister Martin at a staff meeting several years before for his temperate habits. One of our most efficient workers. Neither drinks nor smoke, he had said, the results speak for themselves. Mister Fitwiler had sat by, nodding approval. Mister Martin was still thinking about that red letter day as he walked over to the Shaft's restaurant on Fifth Avenue near forty sixth Street. He got there as he always did, at eight o'clock. He finished his dinner and the financial page of the New York Sun quartered at to nine. As he always did, It was his custom after dinner to take a walk. This time he walked down Fifth Avenue at a casual place. His gloved hands felt moist and warm, his forehead cold. He transferred the camels from his overcoat to a jacket pocket. He wondered as he did so, if they did not represent an unnecessary note of strain. Missus Sparrows smoked only luckies. It was his idea to puff a few puffs on a camel after the rubbing out, stub it out in the ashtray, holding her lipstick, saying luckies, and thus drag a small red hairing across the trail. Perhaps it was not a good idea. It would take time. He might even choke too loudly. Mister Martin had never seen the house on West twelfth Street where Missus Barrows lived, but he had a clear enough picture of it. Fortunately, she had bragged to everybody about her decky first floor apartment in the perfectly darling three story red brick. There would be no doorman or other attendants, just the tenants of the second and third floors. As he walked along, mister Martin realized that he would get there before nine thirty. He had considered walking north on Fifth Avenue from Shrafts to a point from which it would take him until ten o'clock to reach the house. At that hour people were less likely to be coming in or going out, But the procedure would have made an awkward loop in the straight thread of his casualness, and he had abandoned it. It was impossible to figure when people would be entering or leaving the house. Anyway, there was a great risk at any hour if he ran into anybody, he would simply have to place the rubbing out of Old Jean Barrows in the inactive file forever. The same thing would hold true if there was someone in her apartment. In that case, he would just say that he had been passing by, recognized her charming house, and thought to drop in. It was eighteen minutes after nine when mister Martin turned into twelfth Street. A man passed him, and a man and a woman talking. There was no one within fifty paces. When he came to the house halfway down the block. He was up the steps and in the small vestibule, and no time pressing the bell under the card that said missus Old Jean Barrows. When the clicking in the locks started, he jumped forward against the door. He got inside fast, closing the door behind him. A bulb in a lantern hung from the hall ceiling on a chain seemed to give a monstrously bright light. There was nobody on the stair which went up ahead of him. Along the left wall. A door opened down the hall on the wall on the right. He went toward it swiftly on tiptoe. Well, for God's sakes, look who's here? Bawled Missus Barrows, and her brain laugh rang out like the report of a shotgun. He rushed past her like a football attacker, bumping her. Hey, quit shoving, she said, closing the door behind them. They were in her living room, which seemed to mister Martin to be lighted by a hundred lamps. What's after you? She said, here's jumpy as a goat. He found he was unable to speak. His heart was wheezing in his throat. I yes, he finally brought out. She was jabbering and laughing as she started to help him off with his coat. No, no, he said, I'll put it here. He took it off and put it on a chair near the door. Your hat and gloves too, She said, you're in a lady's house. He put his hat on top of the coat. Missus Barrows seemed larger than he had thought. He kept his gloves on. I was passing by, he said, I recognized. Is there anyone here? She laughed louder than ever. No, she said, we're all alone. You're white. Is a sheet? You funny man? Whatever has come over you, I'll mix you a toddy. She started toward a door across the room. Scotch and so to be all right, But say you don't drink, do you? She turned and gave him her amused look. Mister Martin pulled himself together. Scotch and soda will be all right, he heard himself say. He could hear her laughing in the kitchen. Mister Martin looked quickly around the living room for the weapon he had counted on finding one. There there were and irons, and a poker, and something in a corner that looked like an Indian club. None of them would do it. Couldn't be that way. He began to pace around. He came to a desk. On it lay a metal paper knife with an ornate handle. Would it be sharp enough? He reached for it and knocked over a small brass jar. Stamps spilled out of it and fell onto the floor with a clatter. Hey, missus, Barrows yelled from the kitchen. Are you tearing up the pea patch? Mister Martin gave a strange laugh. Picking up the knife, he tried its point against his left wrist. It was blunt. It wouldn't do. When Missus Barrows reappeared carrying two high balls, mister Martin, standing there with his gloves on, became acutely conscious of the fantasy. He had wrought cigarettes in his pocket, a drink prepared for him. It was all too grossly improbable. It was more than that, it was impossible. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a vague idea stirred sprouted. For heaven's sake, take off those gloves, said Missus Barrows. I always wear them in the house, said mister Martin. The idea began to bloom, strange and wonderful. She put the glasses on a coffee table in front of a sofa and sat on the sofa. Come over here, you odd little man, she said. Mister Martin went over and sat beside her. It was difficult getting a cigarette out of the pack of camels, but he managed it. She held a match for him, laughing, she said, handing him his drink. This is perfectly marvelous, you with a drink and a cigarette. Mister Martin puffed, not too awkwardly, and took a gulp of the highball. I drink and smoke all the time, he said. He clinked his glass against hers. Here's nuts to that old wind bag fit whiler, he said, and gulped again. The stuff tasted awful, but he made no grimace. Really, mister Martin, she said, her voice and posture changing, you are insulting our employer. Missus Barrows was now all special advisor to the President. I am preparing a bomb, said mister Martin, which will blow the old goat higher than hell. He had only had a little of the drink, which was not strong. It couldn't be that. Do you take dope or something, Missus Barrows asked coldly. Heroine said, mister Martin, I'll be coked to the gills when I bumped that old buzzard off. Mister Martin, she shouted, getting to her feet, that will be all of that. You must go at once. Mister Martin took another swallow of the drink. He tapped his cigarette out in the ash tray and put the pack of camels on the coffee table. Then he got up. She stood glaring at him. He walked over and put on his hat and coat. Not a word about this, he said, and laid an index finger against his lips. All missus Barrows could bring out was a really Mister Martin put his hand on the doorknob, sitting in the catbird's seat, he said, he stuck his tongue out at her and left. Nobody saw him go. Mister Martin got to his apartment walking well before eleven. No one saw him go in. He had two glasses of milk after brushing his teeth, and he felt elated. It wasn't tipsy in is because he hadn't been tipsy anyway. The walk had worn off all effects of the whiskey. He got in bed and read a magazine for a while. He was asleep before midnight. Mister Martin got to the office at eight thirty the next morning as usual. At a quarter to nine, old Jean Barrows, who had never before arrived at work before ten, swept into his office. I'm the party to mister Fitwaler now, she shouted. If he turns you over to the police, it's no more than you deserve. Mister Martin gave her a look of shocked surprise. I beg your pardon, he said. Missus Barrow snorted and bounced out of the room, leaving miss paird and Joey Hart staring after her. What's the matter with that old devil, now, asked Miss Paired. I have no idea, said mister Martin, resuming his work. The other two looked at him, and then at each other. Miss Paired got up and went out. She walked slowly past the closed door of mister Fitwiler's office. Missus Barrows was yelling inside, but she was not braying. Miss Paired could not hear what the woman was saying. She went back to her desk. Forty five minutes later, Missus Barrows left the President's office and went into her own, shutting the door. It wasn't until half an hour later that mister Fitwiler sent for mister Martin, the head of the filing department. Neat quiet, attentive, stood in front of the old man's desk. Mister Fitweiler was pale and nervous. He took his glasses off and twiddled them. He made a small ruffing sound in his throat. Martin, he said, you have been with us more than twenty years. Twenty two, sir, said mister Martin, in that time pursued the President. Your work and your manner have been exemplary. I trust so, sir, said mister Martin. I have understood, Martin, said mister Fitwaller, that you have never taken a drink or smoked. That is correct, sir, said mister Martin. Ah yes, mister Fitwiler polished his glasses. You may describe what you did after leaving the office yesterday, Martin, he said, certainly, sir, he said, I walked home. Then I went to Shafts for dinner. Afterward, I walked home again. I went to bed early, sir, and read a magaze for a while. I was asleep before eleven. Ah. Yes, said mister Fitwiler. Again. He was silent for a moment, searching for the proper words to say to the head of the filing department, Missus Barrows. He said, finally, Missus Barrows has worked hard, Martin, very hard. It brings me to report that she has suffered a severe breakdown. It has taken the form of a persecution complex accompanied by distressing hallucinations. I'm very sorry, sir, said mister Martin. Missus Barrows is under the delusion, continued mister Fitwiler, that you visited her last evening and behaved yourself in an unseemly manner. He raised his hand to silence mister Martin's little, pained outcry. It is the nature of these psychological diseases, mister Fitwiler said, to fix upon the least likely and most innocent party is the source of persecution. These matters are not for the lay mind to grasp, Martin. I've just had my psychiatrist, doctor Fitch, on the phone. He would not, of course commit himself, but he made enough generalizations to substantiate my suspicions. I suggested to missus Barrows, when she had completed her story to me this morning, that she visited doctor Fitch for I suspected a condition. At once sentence, she flew, I regret to say, into a rage and demanded requested that I call you on the carpet. You may not know, Martin, but Missus Barrows had planned a reorganization of your department, subject to my approval. Of course, subject to my approval. This brought you, rather than anyone else, to her mind. But again, that is a phenomenon for doctor Fitch and not for us. So Martin, I'm afraid Missus Barrow's usefulness here is at an end. I'm dreadfully sorry, sir, said mister Martin. It was at this point that the door to the office blew open with the suddenness of a gas main explosion, and Missus Barrows catapulted through. It is the little rad denying it, she screamed. He can't get away with that. Mister Martin got up and moved discreetly to a point beside mister Fitwailer's chair. You drank and smoked at my apartment, she bawled at mister Martin, and you know it. You called mister Fitweer an old wind bag and said you were gonna blow him up when you got coked to your gills on your heroine. She stopped yelling to catch her breath, and a new glint came into her popping eyes. If you weren't set to drab, ordinary little man, she said, I'd think you'd planned it all, sticking your tongue out, saying you were sitting in the cat burried seat because you thought no one would believe me when I told it. My god, it's really too perfect, she brayed loudly and hysterically, and the fury was on her again. She glared at mister Fitweiler.

Can't you see how he has checked us, You old fool, can't you see his little game?

Can't you see how he has checked us, You old fool, can't you see his little game?

But mister Fitwiler had been surreptitiously pressing all the buttons under the top of his desk, and employees of F and S began pouring into the room. Stockton said, Missus Fitchwiler, you and Fishbine will take missus Barrows to her home. Missus Powell, you will go with them. Stockton, who had played a little football in high school, blocked Missus Barrows as she made for mister Martin. It took him and fish Mine together to force her out of the door into the hall crowded with stenographers and office boys. She was still screaming imprecations at mister Martin. Tangled and contradictory imprecations. The hubbub finally died out on the corridor. I regret that this has happened, said mister Fitwiler. I shall ask you to dismiss it from your mind. Martin. Yes, sir, said mister Martin, anticipating his chiefs. That will be all. By moving to the door, I will dismiss it. He went out and shut the door, and his step was light and quick in the hall. When he entered his department, he had slowed down to his customary gate, and he walked quietly across the room to the double twenty file, wearing a look of studious concentration. From the Thurber connival The Catbird Seat by James Thurber, I've done all the damage I can do here. Countdown has come to you from the Vin Scully Studio at the world headquarters of the Olderman Broadcasting Empire in New York. Here are the credits. Most of the music was arranged, produced and performed by Brian Ray and John Phillip Shaneale, who are O the Countdown musical directors. All orchestration and keyboards by John Phillip Shaneale. Guitars based on drums by Brian Ray, produced by Tko Brothers. Other Beethoven selections have been arranged and performed by the group No Horns Allowed. The sports music is the Olderman theme from ESPN two and it was written by Mitch Warren Davis courtesy of ESPN, Inc. The musical comments by Nancy Fauss, the best baseball stadium organist ever. Our announcer was my friend Richard Lewis, and everything else was pretty much my fault. So that's countdown for this, the eight hundred and eighty fifth day since Donald Trump's first attempted coup against the democratically elected government of the United States. Don't forget to keep arresting him while we still can. The next scheduled countdown is Monday. Till then, I'm Keith olber In. Good morning, good afternoon, goodnight, and good luck. I god indicted in Miami Ding Dong accounts are gonna club book me and bail me, try me and jail me, but get me to the trial on time. Thank you, Nancy Faust. Countdown with Keith Olreman is a production of iHeartRadio. For more podcasts from iHeartRadio, visit the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.