It’s nighttime in New York. JARED and IVANKA have schlepped to Riverside Park to hide in Grant’s Tomb the documents that prove JARED colluded with a foreign adversary. IVANKA is not being as nasty as she could be considering her husband bought a snow shovel when she sent him to the hardware store to get something to dig with. There is a park bench nearby and out of the corner of her eye IVANKA can see an insane person pecking away on a keyboard. The light from his laptop reveals it is STEVE BANNON, and he is playing Mahjong. There’s also someone lurking in the darkness. He’s taking notes with a number 2 pencil, wise enough to know any screen would emit enough ambient light to give him away. It’s ROBERT MUELLER.
JARED [exhaustedly]: Couldn’t we have found, like, a kid from the neighborhood to do this?
IVANKA [powerfully]: A Columbia student?
JARED [wiping sweat from his face]: From a neighborhood?
STEVE BANNON [back cracking as he stands up]: That’s a fucking snow shovel, Jamie. We changed the climate so we wouldn’t need those anymore.
[JARED looks at the shovel and decides it would’ve pierced the soil more readily if the blade were not so broad. IVANKA abandons the plan altogether. The documents will go inside the empty tomb, not be buried beneath it.]
JARED [assertively, for him]: Like you’ve ever dug a hole before.
STEVE BANNON [correctly]: You don’t even want to know how many holes I’ve dug. [STEVE BANNON pulls out a photo of a K9 dog of a slain officer from his very thick wallet, and shoves it in IVANKA’s face.] I’m running this bitch against Al Franken. She’s thirty-five in dog years. She can become President if this thing with your dad doesn’t work out.
IVANKA [sternly]: Steve, what are you doing here?
STEVE BANNON [knees cracking as he walks]: I have a meeting with Bob and Rebekah Mercer tomorrow. We have to finalize the K9 adoption. Plus, she’s pregnant and we’re keeping two of the puppies at the Breitbart townhouse and training them to fight each other. [STEVE BANNON follows JARED and IVANKA into Grant’s Tomb. He notices the boxes of documents labeled “Jared – Wikileaks” and claps his hands happily.] I thought they were emails?
IVANKA [nonchalantly]: They also sent Jared actual, snail mail letters. [IVANKA lowers a box into a sarcophagus.] Chain letters.
[IVANKA hears rustling outside. ROBERT MUELLER jots “Chain letter??” onto his legal pad. He runs down the steps of the Tomb and into the bushes. IVANKA looks around furtively.]
IVANKA [loudly and routinely, in case it’s the media rustling]: I take the child tax credit very seriously. It’s not a pet project.
JARED [to himself]: I didn’t know if you responded that meant you received exponentially more.
[Outside, ROBERT MUELLER writes down, “Did Jared read what the chain letter said before he responded??”]
STEVE BANNON [nosily]: Did you read what the chain letter said before you responded?
[JARED shakes his head “No,” and ROBERT MUELLER writes “DAMN IT” on his pad, in all caps. He breaks his pencil tip, and immediately pulls another from his breast pocket. He writes many notes and drafts a letter to JIM COMEY. He has been squatting for like a half an hour now, but his knees don’t bother him because he drinks so much water and never eats foods that cause inflammation.]
STEVE BANNON [sniffing the air]: Someone else is here. [Inhaling through his nostrils activates his taste buds. He pulls out one of those pretzel and hummus snack containers from his cargo shorts pocket, scoops out the hummus with his bare hands, flicks it inside Grant’s Tomb, and refills the cup with chip dip from another pocket. They exit the building.]
IVANKA [calmly]: No shit. We’re always being watched, dumbass.
STEVE BANNON [dipping pretzels into chip dip]: No. I don’t mean in the general ‘surveillance state’ sense. I mean, literally. Right now. Someone else is here.
[There’s more rustling. It’s GARY COHN and PREET BHARARA. They’re jogging in expensive athleisure wear like a couple of finance bros who’ve never moved on, and discussing an idea PREET BHARARA has for his podcast. It’d be a list of all assholes, like every single one, ranked from best to worst. It’d be a very, very, very long list, they both agree. PREET BHARARA says JEFF FLAKE is probably the best asshole. But GARY COHN wonders if it’s not, in fact, him?]
GARY COHN [breathing hard]: I mean, I couldn’t record the episode with you until after all this.
[PREET BHARARA stops jogging to evaluate what’s going on: JARED and IVANKA obstructing justice, STEVE BANNON subverting the American experiment. And there’s ROBERT MUELLER behind a bush, looking like a Great Dane if Danes were actually jowly Republican prosecutors and not the happiest people on the planet.]
GARY COHN [mistaking why PREET BHARARA has stopped running]: Cramping is weakness staying in the body.
PREET BHARARA [stretching on a park bench and acting casual]: Hey guys.
JARED [not recognizing PREET BHARARA]: Hi?
GARY COHN [obliviously]: We were just arguing about whether corporations are people or people are corporations.
JARED [simultaneously pandering to his wife and to GARY COHN]: People are brands and brands are corporate identities.
PREET BHARARA [whispering to himself]: You guys are all going to jail. [ROBERT MUELLER, from the bushes, gestures to PREET BHARARA to slow the fuck down.
GARY COHN [as mad as he’s ever going to get at JARED]: Why the hell are you in New York, Jared? We needed you in D.C. shepherding the private jet exemption.
IVANKA [blocking the entryway to Grant’s Tomb]: Preet. Hello. Have you decided which action of my father’s to call a Reichstag Fire this week?
PREET BHARARA [taking the bait]: Your tax plan. Goldman Sachs says this tax bill has an eighty percent chance of passing.
GARY COHN [happily]: We’re going for this night jog to discuss nudging that percentage up a bit.
PREET BHARARA [for ROBERT MUELLER’s record]: You’re discussing how to nudge that up. I’m only your listening post. [PREET BHARARA makes eye contact with ROBERT MUELLER. They wink at each other.] I was at Columbia anyhow, recording a podcast with Jeffrey Sachs. I have to say, guys. He hates this thing. I should’ve arrested you all when I had the chance.
[There’s crosstalk and nervous laughter. ROBERT MUELLER shakes his head at PREET BHARARA. He mouths, “Keep them talking,” but PREET BHARARA can’t really see because it’s after midnight and ROBERT MUELLER has no artificial light projected onto his person. ROBERT MUELLER scribbles, “KEEP THEM TALKING” onto his legal pad. PREET BHARARA squints to read and IVANKA senses that STEVE BANNON may have been right. They are being watched. She quietly closes the door to Grant’s Tomb and gestures to JARED that they need to get the hell out. STEVE BANNON moves into the light and orders takeout.]
GARY COHN [aghast]: Steve, I don’t care how many puff pieces are read to me that say so, but you haven’t lost one bit of weight. Jesus fucking Christ.
[ROBERT MUELLER pantomimes to PREET BHARARA that GARY COHN is correct. STEVE BANNON hasn’t lost any weight. He also impatiently flicks his wrist, which PREET BHARARA understands to mean that he must immediately request a warrant to search Grant’s Tomb. He finishes his run with GARY COHN and then heads to the nearest federal court. Meanwhile, STEVE BANNON accepts his two pizzas from the delivery guy. One is for eating and one he will pull over his body and use as a blanket during the night’s coldest point.]
STEVE BANNON [happy to be alone again]: What happened to the Globalists?
[IVANKA and JARED are now heading down Broadway, towards Times Square. JARED is still carrying his broken snow shovel. He skips but doesn’t mean to. He can’t help it. He is so happy to be home. Back at Grant’s Tomb, ROBERT MUELLER is still holding his squat. It’s a leg day for twenty-two more hours.]