At the Dello Russo home, a question was put to the president.
“We haven’t gotten the housing money, Mr. President. Our people cannot rebuild if they have nowhere to live,” said Cody Khan, an immigrant hotelier revered in Panama City, where Hurricane Michael had carved a path of devastation. “Can you help us get what Congress appropriated?”
“Does your fine congressman know about this?” The president asked Cody the question, but looked directly at me for a response.
“Yes, sir, we need to get HUD to publish the rules sooner for Florida to program the money. Governor DeSantis is ready. We could use some help,” I said.
“We will fix this on the plane. I will not tolerate delay. Construction delays hurt everything else. Matt, we will fix this. We will call whoever we need.”
“Mr. President, I wasn’t planning on joining…”
President Trump has a way of tilting his head down while he is seated and looking up at you. It’s all in the steeliness of the eyes. He stopped me mid-sentence without uttering a word.
“Yes, sir. We will fix it on the plane.” I had planned to drive to Tallahassee for other meetings. Those would have to wait.
I will forever be grateful that Rebekah returned my rental car and, in doing so, played a critical role in getting millions of dollars delivered to hurricane-ravaged communities in Northwest Florida.
The small Air Force One office where Johnny later led me during takeoff was close to the press cabin. Earlier, Peter Baker of the New York Times had tried to coax me back to his area for an interview. I doubt he would want one from a COVID-uncertain surrogate, though! For his was the last text I got before my chief of staff gave me the startling news during takeoff: someone who was positive for coronavirus and hospitalized had checked his phone for recent contacts. There I was in his photos, holding it, taking a selfie with the sweating, coughing admirer. People shed all their germs onto their phones. I’d later tell Amber Athey of the American Spectator that I might as well have licked his toilet seat!
Quarantine is no excuse for not working, though—especially when President Trump is giving the assignments. Throughout the flight, the president had Johnny pass notes back and forth to me regarding Florida’s needs and our plan to meet them.
I ultimately tested negative. Tiger blood, maybe. No matter the reason, everyone I had hugged was relieved. And Florida got the money. Still, it wasn’t the biggest cash haul that plane has delivered for my people.
May 8, 2019
Air Force One. Departing Joint Base Andrews for Panama City.
“So, your dad is a real big shot, huh?”
The president strutted into the conference room and tossed a Politico story from earlier that day onto the slick, polished table. It slid across into my lap. I knew what it said. My father, a highly respected former Florida State Senate President, had been quoted saying President Trump “owed the people of Northwest Florida an explanation” as to why he hadn’t approved the maximum federal reimbursement to local communities for post-Hurricane debris removal. Sheesh. Thanks, Dad.
Hurricane Michael had slammed the state back in October 2018, not long before the gubernatorial election. In May 2019, Trump was flying to Florida for a political rally. Former OMB director Mick Mulvaney, now his acting chief of staff, had only arranged for 75 percent of the hurricane cleanup to be handled by the feds, but my state would save big bucks if the feds agreed to pick up 90 percent.
My father is my political hero and our service together in the Florida Legislature is among the most cherished times in my life. But on this, the day after my thirty-seventh birthday, he hadn’t made my job easier. To be fair, I didn’t always make his job easier with my aggressive views and style during our overlapping public service.
Fortunately, I had backup. Sen. Marco Rubio and Rep. Neal Dunn joined me in begging the president for a max federal cost share for Florida. Sen. Rick Scott (R-Puerto Rico) was also present.
After half an hour of debate and discussion, Trump had heard enough. He wanted to see the words and render a verdict. “Write down what you want me to say.” He hadn’t yet said he’d approve. He seemed to want to mull how it looked on paper and might sound if announced at the rally upon landing.
I raised the pen, acutely aware that what I wrote down could end up in a presidential speech and in federal policy—or doom Floridians hoping for that chunk of federal aid. This kind of magic moment only happens in Trump World. He understood this mattered a great deal—but he also wanted a quick, efficient decision. I knew he’d like big language, indicating that the additional federal funds would be an important boost to an important state with a lot of electoral votes.
He delivered my hastily prepared lines word for word. The crowd loved it. Florida needed it. Trump nailed it. Stagecraft is statecraft.
“That plane ride cost the taxpayers almost half a billion dollars!” Mick Mulvaney is a fiscal stickler and wasn’t thrilled with my tactics. (It was $448 million, to be exact.) Mick’s fiscal discipline is one of the reasons I admire him so much. But my people were legitimately in need. Mick knew the power of the crowd is, at times, stronger than the power of the purse strings.
Trump makes decisions by maximizing his inputs of information in nontraditional settings. A promise of different thinking was an organizing principle of his campaign. The contrast with the way his predecessor, President Obama, made decisions, is striking. David Plouffe’s book about
