Photographs by Lila Barth

On overpasses and by roadsides they gather, holding banners and placards. In the early days, only a few people showed up, congregating at chosen times and scattered locations around Boston. But their cause has grown and their numbers have swelled. For Labor Day 2024, plans were made for “standouts,” as the organizers called them, in more than 70 places—all over Massachusetts, yes, but also in Ohio, Kansas, Florida, California, and elsewhere.

These assemblies are the most visible manifestation of what is usually referred to as the Free Karen Read movement. If in the fullness of time it will seem strange that such unity and passion should have been mustered in defense of a 45-year-old Massachusetts financial analyst and adjunct college professor accused of killing her police-officer boyfriend by backing into him with her car … well, not to these people gathered today. Young and old, and nearly always dressed in something pink, they joyfully express their shared belief to passing motorists through slogan: most often just FREE KAREN READ, though sometimes the signs convey more grandiose sentiments—LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL, STOP THE CORRUPTION, INJUSTICE THRIVES IN SILENCE. And some are impenetrable to anyone not already following the case’s legal intricacies and surrounding hoopla: BUTT-DIALS GALORE, COLIN WAS IN THE HOUSE, WHERE’S CHLOE?

In most assessments, a large part of the credit for how all of this has come to be—or, according to the haters and detractors (and there are plenty), the blame for it—belongs to a man named Aidan Kearney. I met Kearney early one May morning last year outside the Norfolk County Superior Court in Dedham, just southwest of Boston, a month into Read’s trial for, among other things, second-degree murder. It was raining, so we sought shelter on the steps of the Registry of Deeds, across the road. A gaggle of Free Karen Read protesters were already beginning to congregate a block or so away, though they were required to keep themselves outside a judge-ordained 200-foot buffer zone. Because of the pink dress code among FKR supporters, the effect is as if, at a seemingly random point on a Dedham street, a color filter kicks in.

Aidan Kearney poses with Turtleboy fans outside the courthouse. (Jessica Rinaldi / The Boston Globe / Getty)

Kearney isn’t one for small talk, and he was soon in full flow. “It’s so obvious that she’s innocent,” he told me. “The critics will say ‘Oh, he’s like a cult leader—he’s brainwashing these people.’ I assure you, I am not that charming. These are educated people that are getting into this story because they’re not stupid. And they look at all the facts of this case, and they’re like, ‘It’s undeniable that this is a cover-up.’ ” He gestured toward the gradually swelling cohort in the distance. “These people are out here every day. Rain or shine, it doesn’t matter.”

As we spoke, a woman standing nearby interjected.

“Sorry, I’m not eavesdropping, but I’m eavesdropping,” she said, then asked us: “So are you with them?”

“I’m the leader,” Kearney said evenly.

“You’re the leader?” she said.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I’m Turtleboy.”

On the morning of January 29, 2022, not long after 6 a.m., the body of a 46-year-old man was found in the snow outside a house in the Boston suburb of Canton. His name was John O’Keefe, and he was an officer with the Boston Police Department. Three days later, an explanation was offered for how he had come to die there. It was reported that O’Keefe had been drinking early the night before with his girlfriend, Karen Read, and that, not long after midnight, she had driven him to a gathering at the home of another police officer, Brian Albert. Read said she’d dropped O’Keefe off in front of the house and driven away. But prosecutors were now implying that she had backed into him with her car. To Kearney, reading the news reports at the time, the story seemed clear enough. “I remember I was like, That’s sad for her,” he said. “And him. Because it was framed in the media as an accident—this horrible accident.”

Kearney is from Worcester, about an hour’s drive from Canton, and for the first 11 years of his adult life, he was a history teacher; he still rhapsodizes about how much he liked teaching lessons on World War II and the civil-rights movement. Eventually he would marry another teacher, and have two children. But he also became a kind of citizen-blogger, in the beginning mostly concentrating on Boston sports and matters around Worcester, at AidanFromWorcester.com. He wasn’t afraid to rub people the wrong way, specializing in calling out perceived hypocrisies, and gleefully relishing any chance to cut against political correctness.

As his audience and his reputation grew, these two roles, teacher and internet provocateur, proved incompatible. In an attempt to make his blogging anonymous, he adopted the name Turtleboy, but when the secret didn’t hold, his choice was made: He would be a full-time blogger.

As Turtleboy, Kearney made enemies aplenty, but he also gathered a lot of followers who liked what he was saying and doing, and the unfiltered way in which he did it. Before too long, he was making a healthy living via digital advertising and merchandise sales, as well as donations and subscriptions. When he first read about Read and the death of O’Keefe in early 2022, he sized up its possibilities as a story. Kearney is instinctively pro-police—“I’m a ‘Back the blue’ guy”—and the death of a police officer seemed like a subject with Turtleboy potential. “But I didn’t write about it, because I’m like, Well, I don’t really have a strong opinion on this,” he recalls. “It’s like: What a tragedy. This guy gets killed. I couldn’t imagine living with the guilt of accidentally running your boyfriend over and then not knowing it. And then I totally forgot about the story.”

In the summer of 2022, while Kearney wasn’t paying attention, the charges against Read were upgraded from manslaughter to second-degree murder. Evidence had emerged suggesting that the couple’s relationship had been fraught, and that Read and O’Keefe had been arguing; Read was now accused of knowingly hitting O’Keefe, with an intent to kill him. Kearney still didn’t take notice in April 2023, when the defense filing laid out a detailed counternarrative, arguing that Read was being framed, and that O’Keefe had actually been murdered by those in the house he was visiting.

By that point, the story had more or less vanished from public consciousness: I couldn’t find a single mainstream-media mention of Read and O’Keefe in the six months leading up to the April 2023 filing. Even these new defense assertions generated only a smattering of stories in Massachusetts newspapers.

That week, Kearney was preoccupied with what, back then, was fairly typical Turtleboy fare. He’d faced down what he called “An Antifa Child Drag Queen Mob”; he’d interposed himself in a dispute involving parents who had claimed that their child was facing racist abuse at a cheer gym; he’d set up the latest installment of his annual Turtleboy Ratchet Madness competition, in which his followers would vote, round by round, to name the worst of the “ratchets”—hypocrites, spongers, and other miscreants—his blog had identified in the previous year; and he had documented, or intervened in, sundry other disputes, while also describing how he had been swatted twice that week, with the police arriving at his home to follow up on bogus reports from Turtleboy haters that Kearney was suicidal.

That was what Kearney’s life was like. More than two years earlier, after some personal turbulence had prompted him to reassess his approach, he’d announced a wish to change gears. “I still love the ratchet stuff and always will,” he’d said. “But at the end of the day I’m more interested in exposing people who actually matter, rather than going the Jerry Springer route … I don’t want [my kids] to grow up and think their father pays the bills by writing a vulgar, smut-filled blog. I feel like it’s possible to make the same points I’ve always made while avoiding usage of jizz donkeys and spunk guzzlers. Plus, my favorite stories are the ones that expose corrupt systems in power.” He had gone on to write some stories in that genre, but so far the adjustment appeared to have been modest. Now another chance presented itself.

At lunchtime on April 17, 2023, a retired police officer named Brian Johnson sent Kearney the following message on Facebook:

Hi, not sure if you’re following the case of Boston police officer, John O’Keefe death but here is a recent motion. John was a great guy. Started his career in Duxbury. His sister passed away and he adopted his niece and nephew. My sources tell me that Brian Albert, a Boston police K9 officer, is a loose cannon. His dog mysteriously disappeared and he’s since sold his house. It looks to me like the girlfriend was set up. Something’s not right.

Johnson attached a PDF of the defense motion, then followed up with: “Oops, I left out that John was found with bite marks.”

Kearney says that his reaction to reading the defense filing was: “Holy shit, this is story-of-the-century stuff.” Early that evening, as he worked on an article about the Read case for the Turtleboy blog, he posted on social media, as a preview, the first words he would write about it:

I am currently working on perhaps the craziest story I’ve ever written, involving a Boston cop possibly being involved in murdering another cop, followed by an elaborate coverup designed to frame the murdered cop’s girlfriend … My jaw is currently on the floor.

He tweeted that he hoped to have the story out that night.

A follower immediately contacted him. She explained that she’d been in touch with a confidant of Read’s named Natalie Berschneider Wiweke, and she connected them via Facebook. Throughout the evening, as Kearney continued to write, he bombarded Wiweke with questions and requests, and Wiweke, who seemed supremely well informed on the minutiae of the case, provided him with material.

A few hours later, Kearney published his post, several thousand words long: “Canton Cover-Up Part 1: Corrupt State Trooper Helps Boston Cop Coverup Murder of Fellow Officer, Frame Innocent Girlfriend.” (Two of the many ways that Kearney’s work practices deviate from conventional journalism are his speed to certainty, and his full-throated advocacy.) From this first outpouring, he was all in: “Karen Read is a completely innocent woman, wrongly charged by corrupt cops who would see her rot in prison in order to cover up a murder of a fellow officer.”

Top: Karen Read listens to testimony during her murder trial, May 13, 2024. Bottom: A photo of Read and the man she is accused of killing, the Boston police officer John O’Keefe, which the defense presented at trial. (Pat Greenhouse / The Boston Globe / Getty; John Tlumacki / The Boston Globe / Getty)

Going forward, there would now be two completely different and competing versions of Read’s story. The narrative conveyed in the prosecution’s public filings ran along these lines: After an evening of heavy drinking, Read set off in her car with O’Keefe, whom she had been dating for about two years, heading for an after-party. They were texted the address of their destination, 34 Fairview Road, by a woman named Jennifer McCabe, whose brother-in-law Brian Albert, a Boston police officer, lived there. Sometime after midnight, McCabe saw what she believed to be Read’s Lexus pull up outside the house, then, sometime later, pull away. Just before five in the morning, McCabe received a call from Read, distraught and hysterical, saying she was looking for O’Keefe. Read and McCabe soon met up at McCabe’s house, and headed out to search for O’Keefe. Along the way, Read asked McCabe, “Could I have hit him?” and mentioned that her car had a cracked taillight. Approaching 34 Fairview Road, Read spotted a body even though McCabe couldn’t immediately see it in the snow. She screamed and ran over, then began CPR; she also twice yelled at McCabe to Google How long do you have to be left outside to die of hypothermia? (Searches to this effect were found on McCabe’s phone.) One of the firefighters who responded to the emergency call spoke with Read at the scene and reported her saying, “I hit him, I hit him, I hit him.” O’Keefe’s autopsy determined that his death had been caused by a combination of blunt-force trauma to the head and hypothermia. Pieces of broken taillight subsequently found at the scene matched the missing pieces from Read’s Lexus.

O’Keefe’s teenage niece, who lived at O’Keefe’s home, where Read often slept over, reported overhearing O’Keefe tell Read a week earlier that their relationship was unhealthy and had run its course. Text messages between the couple that week further documented this strain. After Read left 34 Fairview Road that night, she had called and texted O’Keefe multiple times. In one voice message, she screamed that she hated him.

The prosecution’s implied narrative was clear: After an argument outside 34 Fairview Road, Read had drunkenly reversed her Lexus into O’Keefe, who had been sufficiently incapacitated that he didn’t move, and subsequently died of hypothermia. Her actions in the hours that followed were a combination of self-incrimination (“I hit him”) and cover-up.

Diving deep into the defense’s recent filing, complemented by his own supplementary research, Kearney laid out a very different narrative. He poured scorn upon the notion that O’Keefe’s stated injuries—“six bloodied lacerations varying in length on O’Keefe’s right arm … from his forearm to his bicep”; “cut to the right eyelid of the victim”; “two swollen black eyes”; “cut to left side of nose”; “approximately two inch laceration to the back of the head”; “multiple skull fractures”—were consistent with the impact from a reversing car. He also focused on what would become a talisman for those convinced of Read’s innocence: According to the defense expert called to do a forensic analysis of McCabe’s phone, McCabe had initially Googled the phrase hos [sic] long to die in cold at 2:27 a.m., several hours before she and Read returned to 34 Fairview and discovered O’Keefe’s body, and then had taken steps to delete this and other incriminating information from her phone. If true, this seemed impossible to square with the prosecution’s version of what had happened.

Presented as similarly complicating for the prosecution’s narrative was O’Keefe’s iPhone data from that night. According to the defense, the Apple Health app showed O’Keefe in the vicinity of 34 Fairview Road between 12:21 and 12:24, taking 80 steps and climbing the equivalent of three floors. (The Albert residence has three floors.) Between 12:31 and 12:32, O’Keefe apparently took 36 more steps. This also fits poorly with the notion that he was hit by Read’s car and never entered the house.

Kearney, drawing on the defense’s assertions, proposed an alternative version of events: Read had dropped O’Keefe off at 34 Fairview Road, then watched him enter the house from her car; when he didn’t answer her calls once inside, she left. By Kearney’s reckoning, there were 11 people already in the house. One of them was Brian Albert’s then-18-year-old nephew, Colin—a “notorious hothead” and “out of control meathead,” according to Kearney; Colin had appeared on social media after O’Keefe’s death with visible abrasions on his knuckles. Kearney suggested that soon after entering the house, O’Keefe got into a physical confrontation with Colin Albert, and that his uncle Brian, a trained mixed-martial-arts fighter, joined in. The altercation riled up the family’s German shepherd, Chloe, who in Kearney’s telling caused the injuries to O’Keefe’s arm. (The implication, which Kearney hadn’t yet spelled out, was that a fatally injured O’Keefe was then dumped outside on the lawn.)

All 11 people in the house, Kearney argued, must have either witnessed or been aware of the murder of John O’Keefe. It was McCabe, Kearney asserted, who suggested to Read that she might have hit O’Keefe, and falsely suggested that Read appeared to spot O’Keefe’s body before she could have realistically seen it. Echoing the defense’s case, Kearney argued that McCabe connivingly repeated the hos long to die in cold search on her phone so that she could pretend that this had been at Read’s request in the moment, all in an attempt to disguise the fact that McCabe herself had made that same search hours earlier, before Read even knew that O’Keefe’s body was lying in the snow.

Kearney also detailed the preexisting relationship between the lead investigator on the case, Michael Proctor, and the McCabe and Albert families; the defense’s evidence that the initial crime report was changed; and the fact that crucial pieces of taillight were recovered from the crime scene not on the morning of O’Keefe’s death but much later, after Read’s car was in police possession. He argued that the taillight was actually broken in an incident captured on O’Keefe’s Ring camera when Read, heading out to search for him in the morning, clipped O’Keefe’s car as she backed out. Kearney also noted that the Alberts had gotten rid of their dog, Chloe, four months after O’Keefe’s death and had then sold the house—“yet additional evidence of consciousness of guilt,” in the words of the defense. At the end of his article, Kearney recommended that “Trooper Proctor, Brian Albert, Colin Albert, and Jennifer McCabe should all spend [a] significant amount of time in jail, and two of them should be charged with murder.”

Those Kearney implicated would later dispute almost everything he suggested. During the trial, both Colin and Brian would deny that O’Keefe had ever entered the house that night or that they fought him. Brian Albert would testify that getting rid of Chloe and selling his home had nothing to do with O’Keefe’s death. Jennifer McCabe would deny deleting any calls or searches on her phone and any involvement in a cover-up, and would tell the court that she “never would have left John O’Keefe out in the cold to die.” For his part, Michael Proctor admitted to having a personal relationship with Brian Albert’s brother and his wife, but he denied that this influenced the investigation in any way.

Still, plenty of people found Kearney’s narrative compelling. “I published it,” Kearney told me, “and it, like, broke the website. I had to upgrade my servers.” His YouTube broadcast the next evening, in which he again went through this material, drew far more viewers than ever before. He had titled the initial article “Part 1” because he realized that this was one of those stories that might require more than a single dive; occasionally in the past, his blog had returned to an interesting story four or five times. But this story just kept going: As of this writing, his series about Read has nearly 500 installments, complemented by hundreds of lengthy YouTube broadcasts. “I rarely have time for anything else now,” he told me when we first met. “Every day, I’d wake up and I wouldn’t know what I was going to write about. Now I do. I’m going to write about Karen Read.”

As Kearney’s audience grew, he relentlessly seeded the idea that a great injustice was taking place, and Read was its victim. Kearney is not shy about taking credit for the effect he’s had. During Read’s trial, he would declare, “You never would have heard of this trial without me.”

Kearney’s detractors—there were many even before he started writing about Read, and they have grown in number and fervor since—point out that he was not the first person to write about the story, suggesting that he is taking credit for causing something when all he did was sail in its slipstream. Maybe. But there’s a solid argument that the whole public discourse around the trial—not just the heightened interest in it but the galvanizing of a small movement of people committed to defending Read against what they believed was an imminent injustice—was catalyzed mainly by his interventions.

Kearney likes to say that he is three things at once—a journalist, an activist, and an entertainer. Here are two particularly vivid examples of his rather unorthodox approach to covering the Read case.

First: On June 5, 2023, he turned up unannounced in the bleachers at a high-school lacrosse game where Jennifer McCabe and her family were watching their daughter play. “Why did you Google How long to die in cold, Jen?” Kearney asked, as he filmed everything. “I’m just curious.” McCabe sat there, a pained smile on her face, head turned toward the game, as Kearney repeated this question seven times. Told that he was bothering people, he retorted: “Well, they killed a cop. She’s a cop killer! These are cop killers! You know they’re cop killers, right?” When I asked Kearney what he was thinking as he filmed this, he replied, “This is great content. And also, I’m glad somebody’s saying something to her.”

Second: On July 22, 2023, he convened a “Rolling Rally,” in which he led a convoy of supporters on a tour of the Canton area, stopping at the crime scene, the police station, the courthouse, and the homes of those he claimed were implicated in John O’Keefe’s death, livestreaming all the while, and reciting the facts as he believed them through a bullhorn outside each property. Several dozen enthusiastic supporters can be seen on the video; Kearney has claimed that as many as 300 participated across the day. From the video footage, this Rolling Rally’s apparent atmosphere was less that of a vengeful mob than of a lively campaigners’ day out, though I imagine that distinction might seem moot to its targets. The first stop was the house Brian Albert had moved into after selling 34 Fairview Road. Standing outside, Kearney proclaimed through the bullhorn, “I do kind of feel bad for the neighbors. But, sorry, murderers moved in, so it’s unfortunate.”

Putting aside questions about the legality of these actions, it’s times like these when Turtleboy’s certainty is most striking. Especially when you consider just how deeply horrible these actions would be if he’s wrong.

The first time I met Kearney, we had the following conversation:

You’d agree that if Karen Read didn’t do this, then this is a horrendous thing that she’s been put through.

“Yeah. Definitely. Yeah, I mean, it goes without saying.”

But conversely, do you agree that if the people you’re pointing your finger at didn’t do it, then they’re being put through a pretty horrendous experience?

“Yeah, but there’s no way they didn’t do it. If there was any way possible that he was not killed inside 34 Fairview Road, I would not be taking the position I am. If I thought there was a 1 percent chance that he was not killed inside that house, I would not be taking the position I am. I’m 100 percent that he was killed inside that house.”

But to say that there’s a zero percent chance of the state’s narrative being true, or some version of it being true, is a pretty hard-core determination.

“I think it’s the most logical determination.”

What if it isn’t?

“I can’t answer that question, because it’s impossible for it not to be true. If I say, ‘Well, then I’d feel bad,’ then it makes the reader believe that I think this is a possibility. I don’t. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my whole life. I would literally bet everything I’ve ever owned on the fact that he was inside that house and beaten up.”

Kearney seems to have a traditional reporter’s dogged obsessiveness in search of evidence, sources, and telling details. But from the start, he has also frequently seemed to have the best information on the Read case, particularly about details that strengthened the defense’s argument.

In the second half of 2023, as the case drew more coverage and as Kearney’s role in both popularizing it and turning public opinion in Read’s favor gained notice, he was sometimes asked whether he was colluding with Read or her defense team. He would deny any direct dealings with Read. That denial was, Kearney now acknowledges, a lie. Not long after he was connected via Facebook to Read’s friend Natalie Berschneider Wiweke, in April 2023, he became aware that his source was more than simply well informed: She was channeling messages from Read—in fact, Kearney said Wiweke was “nothing but a copy-and-paste for Karen.” A few weeks after his first article, Kearney and Read began to communicate directly. Just how often they did so was revealed when Read’s phone was seized by state police in January 2024. Over seven and a half months, from May 7 to December 21, 2023, 189 calls, cumulatively lasting more than 40 hours, were logged between Kearney and Read. Beyond that were all the text messages and some calls they had exchanged on Signal.

“Yeah, I denied it,” Kearney told me. “Because I didn’t have her permission. She was an anonymous source.” He sees nothing to apologize for. “I’m a journalist writing a story,” he argued. “This is the subject of the story. She’s allowed to talk to me.” What this was, he maintained, was just him doing his job well. “I had the best source of information. She could give me information that no other journalist could get ahold of. And none of it was illegal.”

Yet even if everything Kearney has done is legal, many of his critics have suggested that he’s either knowingly or unknowingly being exploited by a murderer to sway public opinion and bolster her defense—that, as Kearney put it, “the dastardly Karen Read was like the grand puppet master of this whole thing.” Or maybe even, in a more nuanced way, that Read had managed to find a patsy smart and motivated enough—but also credulous enough—to carry her water farther than she could have ever dreamed possible. All she’d needed to do was sketch out a plausible framework within which she might be innocent; with his unstoppable drive, Kearney had filled in the gaps.

Kearney dismisses all such possibilities. He is adamant that he has neither accepted anything Read has told him uncritically, nor allowed himself to be steered into writing what she wanted him to write. “If anyone can show any evidence that Karen Read has been dishonest with me or is somehow hiding something, I will blast her,” he told me. “I would just rip Karen to shreds. But she always brings evidence to back up everything she’s saying.” (Read and her attorneys did not respond to requests to comment for this story.)

When I first met him, Kearney brought up, unbidden, a related accusation. “This is the car they think Karen Read’s brother bought for me,” he said as we approached a 2023 Lexus RX 350, parked among the pink FKR battalion outside the courthouse. Read’s brother works for a Lexus dealership. Kearney said that his bank records were pulled to investigate, but that nothing was found, because there was nothing to find. (Kearney also tweeted a copy of his $59,186.56 purchase contract.) The reality, he said, is more prosaic: “I am making more money than I used to. But I’m not being paid by Karen Read. I’m being paid by people like you’re seeing there”—he gestured at the pink-clad crowd—“that buy T-shirts and donate and buy subscriptions and everything like that. I’m doing something and I’m doing it well, and it’s paying off.”

Kearney couldn’t have imagined all the repercussions this story would have for his own life. It is a peculiar irony that while Read has thus far spent only a single night in jail—on the night of her arrest, February 1, 2022, three days after O’Keefe’s death—Kearney, the loudest supporter of the Free Karen Read movement, has served 60 days behind bars during the unfolding of the case.

Exactly how that happened—well, that takes a little explaining.

Toward the end of August 2023, the Norfolk County district attorney, Michael Morrissey, issued a lengthy video statement that appeared to be a direct response to Kearney’s activities. “The harassment of witnesses in the murder prosecution of Karen Read is absolutely baseless,” he said. “It should be an outrage to any decent person—and it needs to stop.”

Kearney, predictably, was far from impressed. He livestreamed a response from his car as he watched Morrissey’s video. “No, it doesn’t need to stop—it needs to accelerate, baby … It’s not gonna stop; it’s gonna go a million times harder than it did before. Wooo!” Before signing off, Kearney added: “You are my enemy, Michael Morrissey—just know that. I will not rest until you are completely destroyed.”

Only later did Kearney come to see Morrissey’s video in a somewhat different light. “That was my one and only warning to cut the shit or else I was going to jail,” he told me. “That video was for me.”

On the morning of Wednesday, October 11, 2023, Kearney had just seen his two children onto the school bus when he was arrested, brought to court in handcuffs, and then released on bail. He would be charged with a list of crimes—most significantly, eight felony counts of witness intimidation, each carrying a potential 10-year sentence. (More charges were subsequently added.) Among the many episodes referred to in the charges were the lacrosse game and the Rolling Rally.

“It sounds very serious on paper,” Kearney told me. “But my attorney is just not the least bit worried.” In legal filings, his primary lawyer characterized Kearney’s work as “peaceful investigative journalism, satire, and political hyperbole.”

Kearney argued that these charges have been deliberately engineered to discredit him, “because my reporting has been so effective in galvanizing public support for Karen Read.” He elaborated: “The reason they charged me with witness intimidation isn’t to convict me. They know everything I’ve done is legal and free speech and protected. The reason is so that they can just point to me and say, ‘You believe that guy? He’s charged with 16 felonies. He’s a bad person.’ ”

The conventional legal advice, if you’ve been charged with something, is not to repeat or compound or talk about the alleged offenses, at least until the matter is resolved. This is not the Turtleboy way. Each time a new prosecution document has spelled out his supposedly criminal words and deeds, Kearney has gone through it on one of his live broadcasts, paragraph by paragraph, justifying everything. Partly this is business pragmatism—“I’m paid to talk, so I have to”—but he says it’s a matter of principle, too. The way Kearney sees it, when he confronts those who were at Brian Albert’s house that night, he is facing down those who abuse their power. “These people are all thugs and bullies and mean girls. And somebody, for once, is standing up to them.”

Kearney’s own case has been moving slowly through the courts; any resolution is not expected until later this year. This might quite reasonably leave one wondering how, then, Kearney has already spent 60 days in jail. The explanation requires a detour into Kearney’s sometimes messy personal life. His current career sat poorly with his wife, Julie. “She married a teacher,” he told me. Turtleboy “is not what she signed up for, and I get it.” Kearney was reluctant to clarify too much, but various stories he’s told about his life in recent years seem to involve relationships with other women. He has referred to “sneaking around, living this double life I shouldn’t have been living.”

Toward the end of 2023, Kearney was in a relationship with a woman named Lindsey Gaetani. Then they split up. The exact details of what took place between them are contested in court filings, and are also poisonously debated on social media to this day. (There is a fecund online ecosystem devoted to poring over Kearney’s perceived evils—the “anti-Turtleboy industrial complex,” he calls it. He says one of his lawyers told him, “I thought Alex Jones was the most hated client I ever had until I had you.”)

What is undisputed is that, some weeks after their relationship had notionally ended, Kearney visited Gaetani’s home. Each would offer a very different account of who initiated this meeting, and of what took place during it. Kearney says that she asked him over to discuss a summons she had received relating to the Read case, and believes he has evidence that suggests she was deliberately colluding with the police to entrap him; Gaetani alleges that he assaulted her. Kearney strongly denies this. Problem is, if you are already on bail when you face an accusation like this, your bail may be revoked, and that’s what happened.

On December 26, his 42nd birthday, Kearney was taken to Norfolk County Jail. Against his wishes, he was placed in isolation—“because of my high profile,” he told me. Kearney has been on Adderall for nearing 20 years, and now he had to do without; that adjustment was difficult: “I couldn’t stay awake during the day. And because of that, I couldn’t sleep at night.” He missed his son’s first basketball game. He missed his daughter’s cheer competitions. (He told his kids that he was away for work. “In a way, I was.”)

But Kearney says prison was not so bad. He ran five or more miles a day, and he read: To Kill a Mockingbird, which he hadn’t liked in high school but did now; The Happiest Man on Earth, about a centenarian Holocaust survivor; then 1984. He also began to build a relationship with a Read supporter named Meredith O’Neil, who’d sent him supportive messages. By the time he was released, they were a couple. Soon afterward, the assault-and-battery charge that had triggered his bail revocation was dropped. (It could still be refiled, but has not been as of this writing.)

“You put me in jail for 60 fucking days—big deal,” he declared on one of his broadcasts after he was released. “I lost 10 pounds … I got close to my parents. I built new relationships. I met a much better girl. Like, life is so much better now. It’s, like, one of the best things that ever happened to me. All I do is win. I hope they know that. Putting me in jail turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to me. So thank you, motherfucker.” And he raised two middle fingers.

That’s the face Kearney seems most comfortable presenting to the world. Still, his first night out of jail, when he went to bed on his wife’s couch for probably the final time (they have since divorced), and he couldn’t sleep, and he kept looking at his kids’ photos on the wall, and thinking about how he would never leave them again, he reconsidered everything. For the first time, he found himself wondering: Should he stop writing about Read? “Because look at what’s at risk right there,” he told me. “Like, I could lose them. Nothing’s worth that, you know? Should I just stop?”

He didn’t stop. The incessant episodes about the Canton “cover-up” and YouTube live broadcasts soon resumed. On Thursday evenings, Kearney does a private broadcast for members of his Turtle Club. (Cheapest membership level: $15 a month.)

Being Turtleboy has been very profitable for Kearney. Boston magazine recently estimated that he earns $45,000 to $50,000 a month. He doesn’t explicitly dispute this, but notes that he has operating expenses, as well as a quarter-million dollars in legal fees. To explain how Boston came up with those numbers, he told me the writer simply estimated a figure based on his roughly 2,000 paying subscribers. When I pointed out that he had other revenue streams too—his website advertising and a wide range of merchandise (you can get a Free Karen Read pet hoodie in a range of sizes and colors, and a pink Free Karen Read baby onesie), as well as potential movie and book deals—he said that he had no clear sense of what he was earning. “I’m not a money guy,” he said. “I’m a content guy.”

One evening last June, I joined Kearney as he prepared to deliver his Turtle Club broadcast from his girlfriend’s Boston apartment. Seconds before going live, he took his seat, slipped a Turtleboy cap on his head, and started streaming.

After more than an hour of monologuing, he started reading out what he calls Turtlechats: People send him money—typically $5 to $20, though sometimes more—and in return, Kearney reads out their questions or comments. There’s apparently an understood etiquette here, one best not to fall afoul of. Seeing one message, he said sternly to the camera: “You can’t send a dollar. If you send a dollar, I ain’t reading your shit. It’s insulting.”

In response, a message soon came through from someone named Ben taking exception to this, informing Kearney, “You lost me bro.” What happened next reflects something fundamental about Kearney. Instead of brushing off Ben’s message, Kearney escalated dramatically.

“Let me be very clear, Ben. I couldn’t be happier to lose you. I hope you never come back and watch any of my shows again. I actually fucking hate you with every ounce of my being, and I’d be proud to have you unsubscribe to the channel.”

Kearney has brought the same hyper-incendiary instincts to his coverage of the trial. When I visited him last May, he had just been banned from YouTube for a week because of an online poll he’d posted asking his followers a question about the trial’s most recent two witnesses: “Who is the bigger piece of shit?” He told me he is just using his platform to say out loud what regular people watching the trial stream are thinking. “It’s guy-on-the-street talk,” he said, adding: “I’m rough around the edges, certainly. I have a potty mouth. My mother is always telling me to tone it down, and I’d like to. It’s something I’m working on.” Perhaps not that hard, though. Here’s a brief excerpt—not even the worst part—from his livestreamed commentary about the testimony of a witness named Julie Nagel:

This is a goddamn murder trial. There’s an innocent woman whose life is on the line. And all these townie fucking whores can do is get up on the stand and lie their fucking asses off. I hope you burn in eternal hell because that’s where you fucking belong, you stupid fat cow. You deserve to be fat and disgusting, because you disgust me.

But even as he’s delivering crude, derogatory commentary like this, he’s also providing cogent, detailed, and deeply knowledgeable analysis of the trial. This is a man who, on and off camera, can pivot in an instant from saying things like “townie fucking whores” to offering a deconstruction of subtle contradictions in testimony, or explaining how the last famous and controversial trial at the Norfolk courthouse was of Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti, the Italian anarchists convicted of murder and executed in the 1920s. “Sacco and Vanzetti didn’t have Karen Read’s lawyers,” he says.

As the prosecution presented its case at trial, Kearney appeared to grow even more confident that Read would be found not guilty. It was not hard to see things his way. Day after day, witnesses for the prosecution seemed to be brought to the stand less for purposes of showing how and why Read was responsible for O’Keefe’s death than to undermine the defense’s alternative theory that O’Keefe was killed inside 34 Fairview Road. I told Kearney that I assumed there must be some careful but as-yet-unveiled prosecutory plan at work, but Kearney was skeptical, never wavering from what he told me the day we met: “This is going to be the quickest acquittal you’ve ever seen.”

Kearney’s nom de blog comes from an infamous statue in the center of his hometown, one with its own messy history. The Burnside Fountain, now found on the southeast corner of Worcester Common, was built in the early 20th century, and features a bronze statue that the sculptor who was commissioned to construct it, Charles Harvey, named Boy With a Turtle. His design depicted a naked boy holding a hawksbill sea turtle. As he undertook the work in his New York studio, Harvey apparently heard voices, sometimes said to have come from the unfinished statue itself, telling him to kill himself. Heeding them, he went to the bank of the Bronx River and slit his throat. Another artist completed the statue.

Left: Free Turtleboy hats are among the abundant trial-related merchandise for sale. Right: The statue that inspired Kearney’s pseudonym, on Worcester Common, in Massachusetts. (Lila Barth for The Atlantic)

But that is not why Harvey’s final work became famous. It’s not entirely clear whether Harvey’s intention was to depict a boy riding a turtle upon the seas or to capture the moment of releasing a turtle into the wild. But one scenario easily comes to mind for many observers. As Kearney succinctly put it: “The statue obviously looks like a boy having sex with a turtle.”

The idea to use the name Turtleboy was not Kearney’s own. Inviting suggestions for what to call a new iteration of his blog in 2013, which at the time he intended to be anonymous, he considered “Word From the Woo” (Woo being a local term for “Worcester”) and “Jogger Blogger.” Then a follower proposed “Turtleboy Sports.” Kearney knew immediately that it was right—“What better name for a Worcester guy? Turtleboy!”

His followers soon became known by the name they have to this day: Turtle Riders. When I asked Kearney why, he said, “Well, it’s better than Turtle Fuckers.”

One day in the first week of June, a trial half day, Kearney and I arranged to talk at lunchtime while he drove back to Worcester to see his kids after school. But when he emerged from the courtroom, he asked whether I minded if we made a detour. Some Turtle Riders were gathering for lunch.

At first I couldn’t understand why they’d chosen a restaurant nearly half an hour’s drive from the courthouse. Then it became clear: The Turtle Riders’ chosen meeting place was the Waterfall Bar and Grille in Canton, the final place where Karen Read and John O’Keefe drank together on January 28, 2022. It’s where they mingled with Brian Albert and several others who would soon head to Albert’s home.

But that’s not all I would see on our drive.

“By the way,” Kearney said as we neared Canton, “do you want to see 34 Fairview Road?”

He took a left turn, and soon we arrived. “They say she was parked right here,” he said, “and that John just stood back there by the flagpole, and that she gunned it in reverse and hit him.”

Kearney is fond of experiments and reenactments, both for his own edification and to create content for his viewers. In September 2023, he had come here in his Lexus and tried to duplicate what the prosecution said Read did based on its interpretation of data from her fancier 2021 Lexus LX 570: abruptly reverse 62 feet and reach a speed of 24 miles an hour. Kearney said that despite multiple tries, his best “pedal to the metal” attempt couldn’t get him above 19 miles an hour. He pointed to a spot some distance from the curb. “That’s where John’s body was found.”

As we talked through various scenarios, a car pulled up in the middle of the street, right next to us.

“Oh my God!” screamed one of the two women in the car.

“Shut up!” screamed the other. “We were just fucking talking about you!”

They couldn’t believe what they’d chanced upon: Turtleboy, in the flesh, at the geographic epicenter of their obsession.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, in a way that seemed both friendly and designed to chill the temperature a little. When they asked for a photo, he got out of the car and posed with them.

At the Waterfall, he knew most of the people joining for lunch—maybe a couple dozen Turtle Riders who seemed to be part of some informal inner circle—and he didn’t grandstand at all. Instead, Kearney sat at the edge of the room, talking quietly with whoever came by but making no pronouncements. This wasn’t bullhorn Turtleboy.

On the next morning’s “bus-stop live,” he told the Turtle Riders about me and what I’d gotten to see while hanging out with him and his crowd: “He got a taste of Turtle World.” He said I’d seen “how cool these people are. And, the lies that have been spread about who we are and what we do—and that we’re dangerous and bloodthirsty, and, you know, intimidating witnesses. We’re not about that, man. We’ve never been about that.”

June 10, 2024—day 22 of testimony in the Read trial—began with Kearney tweeting photos of the gathered FKR protesters at dawn, with this message: “Sometimes I can’t believe I created this movement, but I’m really glad I did.” Early in the day’s proceedings, taking exception to the latest ruling by Judge Beverly Cannone—who, in Turtleboy world, is only ever referred to as “Auntie Bev”—he tweeted, “Auntie Bev is being extra cunty today.” One darkly comic measure of how much influence Kearney has had on this trial is that this affection for giving offensive nicknames to people he doesn’t like leached out of the sideshow and into the official trial record. One of the police investigators, Yuri Bukhenik, had been mischievously rechristened by Kearney as “Bukkake,” the term for a very specific multiperson sexual act; on the stand, a witness named Julie Albert, Brian Albert’s sister-in-law, referred to Bukhenik from the witness box as “Trooper Bukkake.” “Everybody in the courthouse looked at me,” Kearney said afterward. “It was so satisfying, because I’m like, ‘Oh, she listens to my show.’ ”

Kearney’s intemperate Auntie Bev comment was soon forgotten, because the time had come for the lead police investigator in the case, Michael Proctor, to take the stand. Another complexity in this case was that, unbeknownst to the jury, there had been a federal grand-jury investigation into the Read investigation—a step toward justice, if you’re a Read supporter, or a misguided fishing expedition that the Read side somehow manipulated into existence, if you’re not. And although no charges have been filed as a result of this grand jury, it unearthed material that consequently became available in Read’s trial—including some deeply problematic private text messages sent by the lead investigator.

After inviting Proctor to share the details of the police investigation, the state’s attorney led him through much of this problematic material. It was a remarkable spectacle—the prosecution guiding its own witness toward such unhelpful testimony—but presumably the attorney had calculated that all of this would have been even more devastating if first presented by the defense. Still, the effect of this material was incendiary: In a volley of texts to friends, family, and colleagues, Proctor had referred to Read as, among other things, “a whack job cunt,” “a nutbag,” and “retarded”; he’d also joked about looking for nudes of her on her phone, and mocked her medical history. “She’s got a leaky balloon knot,” he texted, presumably in reference to her Crohn’s disease. “Leaks poo.” Most of the crudest texts didn’t speak directly to Read’s guilt or innocence, but when combined with other unprofessional asides—“Nope, home owner is a Boston cop,” he’d texted to a friend, in a way that could be read as implying that Brian Albert was consequently beyond investigation—they appeared corrosive to the prosecution’s case.

Kearney certainly thought so. “You can’t truly appreciate how OVER this trial is,” he tweeted from the courtroom, “unless you see the faces of the jurors while Proctor reads these text messages.”

Media coverage of the trial grew and grew, in tandem with a teeming online scrum in which Read’s innocence or guilt was incessantly debated. It was apparently easy to survey the same morass of evidence and then with fierce assurance come to completely different conclusions. Almost everyone seemed to be sure of the truth, and to think that anyone who didn’t agree with them was a fool.

As the trial neared its end, Kearney retained complete confidence that Read would be fully acquitted. But he was also clearly exhausted. “I’m kind of looking forward to it being over,” he had told me earlier. “I’m Karen Read–ed out. I enjoy the professional success I’ve had from it, but I don’t enjoy the stress that I’ve gotten from all these charges.”

Aidan Kearney at home outside Worcester, Massachusetts, where he blogs and livestreams on his various Turtleboy platforms about the Karen Read murder trial, October 2, 2024. (Lila Barth for The Atlantic)

Arguably the most significant testimony came in the trial’s final days. The prosecution’s vehicular-crash expert argued that O’Keefe’s injuries were consistent with impact from a reversing car (though his explanation of exactly how O’Keefe had been hit, and how his body had ended up where it was found, seemed murky), and its digital-forensics experts argued that the 2:27 time stamp associated with the words hos long to die in cold on Jennifer McCabe’s phone was actually tied to when the tab was first opened (to search for basketball scores), not when the potentially incriminating phrase was typed; they also testified that there was no evidence of deliberate data deletion. The defense pushed back hard.

On June 21, day 29 of testimony, just before 11 a.m., the defense began to present its case. Read’s attorneys called a snowplow driver who said that when he drove by 34 Fairview at about 2:45 in the morning, he saw nothing on the lawn where O’Keefe’s body was later found, suggesting that the body had been placed there afterward; a doctor who argued that the marks on O’Keefe’s arm were dog bites; a digital-forensics expert who maintained that the hos long … search did indeed occur around 2:27 a.m.; a forensic pathologist who testified that O’Keefe’s injuries were not consistent with being hit by a car at 24 miles an hour; and two accident-reconstruction experts who testified that the damage both to the car and to O’Keefe didn’t tally with the kind of collision proposed by the prosecution. Scarcely a day after it started, the defense rested.

Kearney, who had been studying the jury members’ reactions over the past few weeks, told me he thought there was a 70 percent chance that they would issue the inevitable not-guilty verdict after less than a day’s deliberation. There was just a 30 percent chance that they would need a second day, he said. No other outcome seemed conceivable to him.

But the first day passed, and then the second, and then the third. Now it was the weekend. And before the jury reconvened, two things happened. First, on Saturday, Kearney’s mother, who had pancreatic cancer, died. The second event, Kearney learned about only as jury deliberations resumed on Monday morning. A person contacted Kearney via Facebook to say that the police were at Kearney’s parents’ house in Worcester. Kearney called his father, who told him why: At 8:30 that morning, one of Kearney’s brothers had stepped out of the house and found a large turtle hanging by its neck on a rope from the porch railing. Dead. The turtle had “what appeared to be a gun shot wound on the back of the shell,” according to the police report, “and an exit wound … near its belly.” Kearney’s father, the police report went on to say, “explained that his son, Aidan Kearney, is Turtle Boy; a popular article writer. Mr. Kearney also mentioned that he and his family have been the victims of harassment for some time now due to his son’s occupation, but nothing to the extent of today’s incident.”

Kearney’s father sent him a photo. He immediately began speculating about who was responsible, throwing out different public accusations. “There’s no shortage of people who I think would do this,” Kearney told me. As of this writing, the dead-turtle investigation remains unsolved.

On Monday, after the jury had sent several notes suggesting that it was at an impasse, the judge declared a mistrial. Kearney was deflated. Though one can make a strong argument that, absent Kearney’s involvement, Karen Read would have been much more likely to have been found guilty, he took little succor in that.

A new trial was scheduled for this past January, then deferred until April. But in the weeks following the trial, an extraordinary thing happened. Read had been facing three separate charges. A number of jurors came forward to say that they had unanimously agreed to acquit Read on the most serious charge—second-degree murder—as well as the charge of leaving the scene of a crime; they had reached an impasse only on the lesser manslaughter charge (where a majority of them favored a guilty verdict). But during the court proceedings, no one had asked them if they’d reached unanimity on any of the individual charges. Read’s legal team argued that she could not be fairly tried again on these charges, as this would be double jeopardy; the prosecution argued that as no such verdicts had been officially recorded, double jeopardy did not apply. The issue is working its way through the courts.

After recovering from his initial dismay at the mistrial, Kearney carried on undeterred. He conducted new field experiments, explored new angles, and covered every new development. He got a juror to speak on the record about the deliberations. According to this juror, those who believed Read guilty of manslaughter focused on how drunk she’d been, and on the acceleration data from the car; those who believed her not guilty did not buy that O’Keefe’s injuries could have been caused by a collision with a reversing car. Many of the issues Kearney considered most important—the alleged 2:27 a.m. Google search, the Apple Health data suggesting that O’Keefe had gone into the house, Officer Proctor’s prior relationship with the Albert family—were apparently not central to their deliberations. “I’m in this world where I consume Karen Read content every day, and we all know it like the back of our hand,” he told me. “But the people deciding the case didn’t really seem to know it that well, if that makes sense.”

On a livestream shortly after speaking with the juror, Kearney let rip. Yes, the jury had unanimously taken murder off the table, but how could any sentient juror have believed what he now knew some of them did? If you were to question any of the jurors who voted guilty on the manslaughter charge about whether they would have staked their children’s lives on that verdict being correct, he asked rhetorically, what would they say? “Would you bet your children’s lives on that fact, that Karen Read’s guilty? Would you? Would you? Because I would bet anyone’s—like, literally anyone’s—life that Karen Read is not guilty and not think twice about it … I’m that fucking positive.” He couldn’t understand how the jurors who’d considered Read guilty of anything could think otherwise. “I hope they burn in hell, to be perfectly honest with you, those people. I really do. They’re fucking terrible people.”

Kearney and Read had stopped talking just before he was imprisoned, in December 2023, and some trial commentators had speculated that she was done with him. But on June 6 of last year, when I met him after court, he told me, “I actually talked to Karen for the first time in six months today,” and explained how he’d asked her a question outside court about footage of her car’s taillight, and she’d answered him with a big smile.

Kearney told me that he and Read resumed private contact a few days after that conversation in the street. The ice broke on June 10, the day of Michael Proctor’s catastrophic testimony. “I sent her a message on Signal, and I just said, ‘Good day. Now the whole world knows what an asshole he is.’ ” Read replied, concurring. “That reinvigorated conversation between the two of us,” he said. Now they’re back in more regular communication. “We just discuss various things about the trial and our thoughts on it,” he said. “My thoughts on it, basically.”

When Kearney sometimes talks about the cause of defending Read’s innocence as a kind of calling, he can sound jarringly grandiose. If he were to allow his arrest on “trumped-up, ridiculous charges” to cause him to back off, he told me one day, “I feel like I would be almost disrespecting everything our Founding Fathers believed in and risked their lives for. Our Founding Fathers were rich, all of them. And so they had the most to lose. People like Benjamin Franklin, John Adams. They could have just gotten along under British rule. They would have been fine. But … principles mattered with these people. And when they signed the Declaration of Independence, they knew that it was probably a 90 percent chance they had just signed their own death warrant. But it was worth it. It was worth it to abolitionists. To people like Martin Luther King. The great people in American history are the people who risked their own well-being for something bigger than themselves. I’m not comparing myself to them …”

People listening to that are going to say, “So you’re saying there’s a lineage: Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, Martin Luther King … Turtleboy?”

“Yeah, well, I think what’s happening with Karen Read is along those lines … Obviously this is a smaller scale. I’m not George Washington. But I just feel like you have to speak up about this.”

And so on he goes—fighting his own witness-intimidation charges while chronicling, with renewed intensity, each twist in the Karen Read saga. “I’m going to ride this out as long as I can,” he told me, “because it’s my thing.”

This article appears in the April 2025 print edition with the headline “Turtleboy Will Not Be Stopped.”

On Saturday, Elon Musk, the billionaire charged by President Donald Trump with cutting government waste, alerted the public to a massive inefficiency in the federal bureaucracy: Government employees would soon be distracted from their actual work by a request from on high. In aggregate, hundreds of thousands of man-hours would be squandered. But Musk wasn’t putting a stop to this wasteful time suck of a requirement. He was the one imposing it.

“All federal employees will shortly receive an email requesting to understand what they got done last week,” Musk posted around noon on his social-media platform, X. “Failure to respond will be taken as a resignation.” Soon afterward, the Office of Personnel Management sent such an email to all federal agencies. The subject line: “What did you do last week?” Workers were told to respond by tonight with five bullet points “of what you accomplished.”

As someone who hates government waste, I sympathize with any Americans who are cheering this initiative because they believe it will expose workers who accomplish nothing. But those Americans are cheering, albeit unwittingly, for massive inefficiency—just the latest example of the chaos DOGE has created across the federal government, undercutting its own aims.

[Jonathan Rauch: One word describes Trump]

Consider America’s roughly 14,000 Federal Aviation Administration air-traffic controllers. If each of them spends just 10 minutes opening their work email, finding this request, drafting a response, proofreading it, and sending it off, that adds up to 2,333 hours of work. Can you think of a more cartoonish example of government waste than using 292 workdays’ worth of man-hours to clarify that, last week, air-traffic controllers monitored airplanes?

I actually can think of a more cartoonish example, in that it is even bigger in scale: Some 74,000 U.S. Postal Service letter carriers deliver mail on foot, making roughly $29 an hour on average. If they spend 10 minutes each, or 740,000 total minutes, drafting emails, that works out to nearly $360,000 in labor costs. For what? And how long will it take other workers to read “I was delivering letters” 74,000 times?

Any American can identify many more categories of federal employees whose job duties are known to all. We know what TSA agents do. We know what nurses do. An efficient process would obviously exempt all such categories.

Other federal employees of course have less legible job duties, and I do not doubt that some of them accomplished next to nothing of value last week and ought to be fired. But there is no reason to believe that any of those employees will be truthful about their own uselessness, or that untruthful emails will be detected as such. This gambit is more likely to reward bullshitting persuasively via email than actual service to taxpayers.

The effect of Musk’s order on other Trump-administration leaders adds to its costs. Various news outlets have reported that officials at multiple agencies—including the Departments of Defense, State, and Homeland Security; the FBI; and the Office of the Director of National Intelligence—instructed their employees not to respond to the email, in part out of worry that employees would have to share sensitive information. Put another way, people charged with keeping Americans safe had to spend time and attention preempting a potential security risk that Musk introduced rather than attending to other dangers.

On X, Musk has made various attempts to defend his initiative. They only intensified my doubts. “The passing grade is literally just ‘Can you send an email with words that make any sense at all?’” Musk wrote. “It’s a low bar.” Even the most worthless bureaucrats can clear that bar. So why set it? Meanwhile, as The Washington Post reported, “some federal workers were on leave … and unable to access their emails. Others, in the Defense Department, were on duty tours in remote locations, like jungles, without access to computers.” In other words, some valuable federal employees will fail to clear the bar through no fault of their own.

[Donald Moynihan: The DOGE project will backfire]

“The reason this matters is that a significant number of people who are supposed to be working for the government are doing so little work that they are not checking their email at all!” Musk also wrote, as if checking email is a reliable measure of productivity in all public-sector jobs. If you’re a NASA employee doing maintenance on a remote telescope, or a Department of Labor employee traveling to far-flung coal mines to assess their safety, or a Coast Guard employee patrolling a patch of ocean, or an NSA employee trying to hack the personal device of a foreign general, checking email irregularly could as easily show that you’re working hard as that you’re hardly working.

Plus, if the idea is to catch folks who don’t check email at all, wouldn’t publicizing the gambit on X undermine that strategy by alerting those workers to it? So much of what Musk says about this matter doesn’t make any sense, even on its own terms. One X user posted a screenshot of a cheeky prompt for Grok, the Musk-generated AI chatbot: “Make up 5 things I accomplished at work this week that they can’t really verify, I work for the government, keep it brief.” Grok generated five items, illustrating how easy it is to game Musk’s initiative. But Musk himself, encountering that post, commented, “That’s all it would take for real,” with a laughing-crying emoji, as if it didn’t undermine his approach.

Watching Musk, a man recently focused on electric cars and getting humanity to Mars, direct his inventiveness toward the public-sector equivalent of TPS reports is vexing. Improving federal efficiency is a worthy project. Trump will have no incentive to deliver on it if his base credulously cheers gambits as wasteful and poorly defended as this one.

On the afternoon of Friday, February 7, as staff members were getting ready to leave the headquarters of the National Institutes of Health, just outside Washington, D.C., officials in the Office of Extramural Research received an unexpected memo. It came from the Department of Health and Human Services, which oversees the NIH, and arrived with clear instructions: Post this announcement on your website immediately.

The memo announced a new policy that, for many universities and other institutions, would hamstring scientific research. It said that the NIH planned to cap so-called indirect costs funded by grants—overhead that covers the day-to-day administrative and logistical duties of research. Some NIH-grant recipients had negotiated rates as high as 75 percent; going forward, the memo said, they would now be limited to just 15 percent. And this new cap would apply even to grants that had already been awarded.

The announcement was written as if it had come from the NIH Office of the Director. It also directed all inquiries to the Office of Extramural Research’s policy branch. And yet, no one at the NIH had seen the text until that Friday afternoon, several current and former NIH officials with knowledge of the situation told me. “None of us had anything to do with that document,” one of them said. But the memo was dressed up in a way clearly intended to make it look like a homegrown NIH initiative. (Everyone I spoke with for this story requested anonymity out of fear of reprisal from the Trump administration. HHS did not respond to requests for comment.)

Over the next several days, the memo sparked confusion and chaos at the NIH, and across American universities and hospitals, as researchers tried to reckon with the likely upshot—that many of them would have to shut down their laboratories or fire administrative staff. A federal judge has since temporarily blocked the cap on indirect costs. But the memo’s abrupt arrival at the NIH, and the way it bulldozed through the agency, underscores how aggressively the Trump administration is exercising its authority and demanding compliance. “Their approach seems to be We go in; we bully; we say, ‘Do this; you have no choice,’” and shows little regard for the people or research affected, one former official told me.

Typically, a memo communicating a major decision related to grants would take months or years to put together, sometimes with public input, and released six months to a year before being implemented, one current NIH official told me—earlier, even, “if the impact will be more substantial.” In this case, though, Stefanie Spear, the HHS principal deputy chief of staff, told officials in the Office of Extramural Research, which oversees the awarding of grants, that this new memo needed to be posted to the NIH website no later than 5 p.m. that afternoon—within about an hour of the agency receiving it. Soon, the timeline tightened: The memo had to be published within 15 minutes. “It was designed to minimize the chance that anyone within an agency could even have time to respond,” another former NIH official told me.

Substantial changes are generally vetted through HHS leadership, and NIH officials have always “very much abided by the directives of the department,” the former official said. But in the past, drafting those sorts of directives has been collaborative, a former NIH official told me. If NIH officials disagreed with a policy that HHS proposed, a respectful discussion would ensue. Indirect-cost rates are controversial: The proportion of NIH funding that has gone to them has grown over time, and proponents of trimming overhead argue that doing so would make research more efficient. A cut this deep and sudden, though, would upend research nationwide. And to grant recipients and NIH officials, it seemed less an attempt to reform or improve the current system, and more an effort to blow it up entirely. Either way, a unilateral demand to publish unfamiliar content under the NIH’s byline was unprecedented in the experience of the NIH officials I spoke with. “It was completely inappropriate,” the former official told me.

But Spear and Heather Flick Melanson, the HHS chief of staff, insisted that the memo was to go live that evening. Officials immediately began to scramble to post the notice on the agency’s grants website, but they quickly hit some technical snares. Fifteen minutes passed, then 15 more. The two HHS officials began to badger NIH staff, contacting them as often as every five minutes, demanding an explanation for why the memo was still offline. The notice went live just before 5:45 p.m., and finally, the phone calls from HHS stopped.

Almost immediately, the academic world erupted in panic and rage. At the same time, the news was blazing through the NIH; staff members felt blindsided by the memo, which appeared to have come from within the agency but which they’d known nothing about. The notice’s formatting, tone, and abruptness also led many within the agency to suspect that it had not originated there or been vetted by NIH officials. “I’ve never seen anything so sloppy,” the current NIH official, who has written several NIH notices, told me. “We also don’t publish announcements after 5 p.m. on Friday, ever … I checked multiple times to be sure it was real.”

The NIH had already been caught in the Trump administration’s first salvo of initiatives. On January 27, a memo from the Office of Management and Budget froze the agency’s ability to fund grants. (In the following week, multiple federal judges issued orders that should have unpaused the funding halt, but many grants remained in limbo.) And in 2017, during Donald Trump’s first term, his administration went after indirect costs, proposing to cap them at 10 percent. That prompted the House and Senate Appropriations Committees to introduce a new provision that blocked the administration from altering those rates; Congress has since included language in its annual spending bills that prevents changes to indirect costs without legislative approval. On February 10 of this year—the Monday after the memo restricting those rates went up—yet another federal judge issued yet another temporary restraining order that again instructed the NIH to thaw its funding freeze.

Last week, the NIH told its staff to resume awarding grants, with prior indirect-cost rates intact. But “the damage is done,” the former NIH official said. Scientists across the nation have had their funding disrupted; many have had to halt studies. And at the NIH—where roughly 1,000 staff members recently received termination notices, amid a mass layoff of federal workers that stretched across HHS—those who remain fear for their job and the future of the agency. The nation’s leaders, NIH officials told me, seem entirely unwilling to consult the NIH about its own business. If the administration remains uninterested in maintaining the agency’s basic functions, the NIH’s purpose—supporting medical research in the United States—will crumble, or at least deteriorate past the point at which it resembles anything that the people who make up the agency can still recognize.

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Elon Musk and his Department of Government Efficiency appear to have wide-reaching plans to remake the government with AI. Thomas Shedd, a former Tesla engineer who is now the head of the Technology Transformation Services, a federal IT division, invoked an “AI-first strategy” at a recent staff meeting.

There’s nothing wrong with using AI to streamline and improve federal services per se. The technology could be implemented democratically, with transparent guardrails and in service of constituents. But using AI to sweep away and replace swaths of civil servants, Bruce Schneier and Nathan Sanders argued in a story for The Atlantic this week, is a very different matter. “If human workers are widely replaced with AI,” they wrote, “executives will have unilateral authority to instantaneously alter the behavior of the government, profoundly raising the stakes for transitions of power in democracy.”

The civil service, which translates federal policies into actions, consists of an enormous number of public servants and thus can be slow to change. That might be frustrating, but it also prevents executives from rapidly, unilaterally transforming the workings of the government. Unlike an army of human bureaucrats, an army of AI agents could, almost on a whim, be redirected to upend social-welfare programs, alter law-enforcement directives, and sidestep Congress. Donald Trump’s “unprecedented purge of the civil service might be the last time a president needs to replace the human beings in government in order to dictate its new functions,” Schneier and Sanders wrote. “Future leaders may do so at the press of a button.”

Illustration by The Atlantic: Sources: Getty.

It’s Time to Worry About DOGE’s AI Plans

By Bruce Schneier and Nathan E. Sanders

Donald Trump and Elon Musk’s chaotic approach to reform is upending government operations. Critical functions have been halted, tens of thousands of federal staffers are being encouraged to resign, and congressional mandates are being disregarded. The next phase: The Department of Government Efficiency reportedly wants to use AI to cut costs. According to The Washington Post, Musk’s group has started to run sensitive data from government systems through AI programs to analyze spending and determine what could be pruned. This may lead to the elimination of human jobs in favor of automation. As one government official who has been tracking Musk’s DOGE team told the Post, the ultimate aim is to use AI to replace “the human workforce with machines.” (Spokespeople for the White House and DOGE did not respond to requests for comment.)

Using AI to make government more efficient is a worthy pursuit, and this is not a new idea. The Biden administration disclosed more than 2,000 AI applications in development across the federal government. For example, FEMA has started using AI to help perform damage assessment in disaster areas. The Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services has started using AI to look for fraudulent billing. The idea of replacing dedicated and principled civil servants with AI agents, however, is new—and complicated.

Read the full article.

What to Read Next

The Trump administration’s other major plan for AI is far less futuristic. The president and the oil-and-gas industry—which donated tens of millions to his reelection campaign—say fossil fuels may power the way to America’s AI dominance.

The chatbot boom, to hear tech executives tell it, will require unprecedented amounts of power, of which there currently isn’t enough. Soon, America just won’t have enough electricity, pushing the country further into the “energy emergency” Trump declared on his first day in office—and presenting an opportunity to build out natural-gas plants to power the data centers that AI relies on. Already, several major utilities are planning major fossil-fuel build-outs to meet growing demand from the technology. “The problem, though, is that the U.S. is not actually in an energy crunch,” I wrote in an article earlier this week. Rather than requiring more fossil fuels, AI seems to offer a pretense for expanding their production.

P.S.

Elon Musk appears on top of the world, or at least the U.S., at the moment. But his influence rests largely on the success of Tesla—and the car company is in an ever more precarious position, with Musk himself to blame, Patrick George writes.

— Matteo

For a moment, the threat of guac-ocalypse loomed over America. Had President Donald Trump’s proposed tariffs on Mexico and Canada gone into effect, the prices of avocados and tomatoes would have skyrocketed in the approach to Super Bowl Sunday. Trump may be bluffing about his willingness to start a trade war, but the grace period he negotiated with those nations lasts just 30 days. Yesterday he said that he would announce tariffs on even more countries—he didn’t specify which—in the coming week. Soon, Americans could again be clutching our guacamole.

If the tariffs Trump has threatened do go into effect, they would quickly raise the prices not just of avocados but of strawberries, cucumbers, bell peppers, oranges, countless processed foods, and other grocery staples that are already becoming less affordable for many people. Any pain that tariffs cause American consumers would—in Trump’s view, which he boomed on Truth Social—be only a temporary bump on the road to “THE GOLDEN AGE OF AMERICA.” Implicit in that idea—and the reality of an actual trade war—is the assumption that the U.S. can make up for any lost imports on its own. Trump’s stance on agriculture is the same as his stance on everything else: “America First.”

The notion that the country could produce all of its food domestically is nice—even admirable. An America First food system would promote eating seasonally and locally, supporting more small farmers in the process. But that is not how most people eat now. Eating America First would restrict the variety that shoppers have come to expect; eating fresh blueberries year-round would be impossible. Barring the overhaul of all U.S. agriculture, it would mean a less healthy diet, too. The guac-ocalypse near miss was a reminder of the precarious state of our food system: Much of the food we want is not produced at home.

Trump’s tariffs may amount to nothing but political posturing. During his first term, he threatened Mexico with a 5 percent tariff, then backed off two weeks later. The current grace period could extend indefinitely. But an actual trade war would have a dramatic impact on the food supply. Avocados are a perfect case study. The national obsession is staggering: In 2023, the average person ate more than nine pounds of them—roughly equivalent to 27 average-size fruit. More than 90 percent of the avocados Americans buy come from Mexico; they are the nation’s top import in terms of value, Luis Ribera, an agricultural-economics professor at Texas A&M University, told me. Because they are much more expensive than, say, bananas, the effect of a 25 percent tariff (plus its associated costs) would be more significant: A small Hass avocado worth 50 cents might go to $1.50, Ribera said. Avocado-dependent businesses would feel it, too. A Chipotle representative told me that tariffs would certainly raise prices.

The America First perspective frames tariffs as an opportunity to boost domestic production. Roughly 10 percent of avocados available in America are grown here; the majority come from California, and Florida and Hawaii make up the remainder. Zach Conrad, a food-systems expert at the College of William & Mary, ticked off a multitude of reasons domestic production could not re-create our current avocado bounty. Avocados grow in too few areas of the U.S., and on top of that, they largely produce fruit only from spring to early fall. Trump’s immigration policies threaten the already dwindling farm-labor workforce.

Avocados aside, the U.S. does already produce enough food to feed itself, and then some. About 4,000 calories’ worth of food a day were available for each person in 2010, according to the USDA’s most recent estimate; that year, the average person consumed 2,500 calories a day. But food is more than just calories. The U.S. produces plenty of grains, oils, sweeteners, and meat, but far less fresh produce and legumes; in recent years, the country has become a net importer of food. “The food group that we produce the least of to meet our dietary needs is fruits and vegetables,” Conrad said. In 2022, 69 percent of the fresh vegetables and 51 percent of the fresh fruits imported by the U.S. came from Mexico. Meat, canola oil, and, uh, biscuits and wafers account for most of the U.S. imports from Canada, but 20 percent of this country’s fresh-vegetable imports come from there, too.

Theoretically, America could grow all of its own produce. But that would require a complete remaking of the food system. More land would have to be dedicated to growing fruits, vegetables, and nuts, and less of it to grains and sweeteners. It would also mean addressing labor shortages, increasing the number of farmers, finding suitable land, and building new infrastructure to process and ship each new crop.

Every one of these issues is incredibly complex. Many fruits and vegetables are so delicate that they must be harvested by hand, so machines can’t supplement human labor. A wheat farmer can’t just switch to growing tomatoes; specialty crops—a category that includes any fruit, vegetable, or tree nut—require specialty knowledge as well as specialty equipment, which can cost millions. Solving all of these problems—which would likely be impossible—would take many years, Conrad said.

Cutting off Canada would have subtler but no less extensive effects than abstaining from Mexican produce. Grains, beef, and pork are produced domestically, but sourcing them abroad can be less expensive, Chris Barrett, a professor who specializes in agricultural economics at Cornell University, told me. Demand for beef on the West Coast of the U.S., for instance, can be cheaper to fulfill from the Canadian prairies than from an East Coast packinghouse. Canada’s other big contribution to the American diet is canola oil, which is produced stateside in relatively small amounts. The ongoing campaign against seed oils, led by Robert F. Kennedy Jr., may claim that Americans would be better off without canola oil, but for now, America runs on processed food. Without cheap canola oil from Canada, many frozen foods and packaged goods will cost more. “That excellent ratatouille you get in a can, even if you think it’s healthy, probably contains a bit of imported oil. It’s going to get priced up, ” Barrett said.

The problems with an America First food system wouldn’t just be about cost. It would lack diversity: There would be no tropical fruits such as mangoes and coconuts, and far fewer specialty varieties, such as Sumo Citrus and Meyer lemons, because domestic growers would have to focus on the basics. Given the current emphasis on meat, grains, and sweeteners,  it would encourage a less healthy diet, too. Striving toward the “Make America healthy again” ideal pushed by RFK Jr. would be made more difficult with fewer choices and higher prices. As my colleague Nicholas Florko wrote recently, people buy food on the basis of taste, convenience, and cost. America could supply its entire population with a healthy diet, as Conrad’s research has shown, but not without totally blowing up its agricultural priorities.

The notion of an America First food supply—harvesting homegrown produce, eating seasonally, supporting farmers—does align with the idea of returning to a pastoral era, which has been embraced by RFK Jr.’s supporters, raw-milk drinkers, and farmers’-market devotees across the political spectrum. “It’s a nice way of thinking about food,” Conrad said. But it just doesn’t align with the reality of how Americans currently eat. Every time we go to the grocery store, we choose from a marvelous variety of foods from around the world. A McDonald’s hamburger with fries, that most American of meals, is made with sesame seeds from Mexico and canola oil from Canada. That eating vatfuls of guacamole every year in the middle of February is a pillar of American culture is a testament to our interdependence with our neighbors.

The Dream

A fine suit made just for me. From the best fabrics. By the best tailor. Paired with the best bespoke shoes.

A suit that would make me feel at ease, while declaring to others, “Here is a man who feels at ease.” A suit that would be appreciated by the world’s most heartless maître d’. A suit that would see me through the immigration checkpoints of difficult countries. A suit that would convince readers that the man in the author photo has a sense of taste beyond the Brooklyn consensus of plaid shirt and pouf of graying hair.

The suit would serve as the perfect carapace for a personality overly dependent on anxious humor and jaundiced wit, a personality that I have been trying to develop since I saw my lightly mustached punim in the mirror as a pubescent boy and thought, How will I ever find love? The suit would transcend my physicality and bond with my personality directly. It would accompany me through the world’s great salons, the occasional MSNBC appearance, and, most important, the well-compensated talks at far-flung universities. The suit would be nothing less than an extension of myself; it would be a valet preceding me into the room, announcing with a light continental accent, “Mr. Gary and his suit are here now.” Finding this perfect suit, made by the most advanced tailor out of superlative fabric, would do nothing less than transform me.

The Body

Before there is a suit, there is a body, and the body is terrible.

First there is my shortness (5 foot 5 and a half, with that “half” doing a lot of work). Being short is fine, but those missing inches are wedded to a narrow-shouldered body of zero distinction. Although I am of Russian and Jewish extraction, the continent whose clothing stores make me feel most at ease is Asia. (I once bought an off-the-rack jacket in Bangkok after the clerk examined me for all of three seconds.) However, this is not exactly an Asian body either, especially when I contrast myself with the natural slimness of most of my Asian friends. Just before my bar mitzvah, I got a set of perfect B-cup knockers and had to squeeze into a “husky” suit to perform the ritual yodeling at the synagogue. But that’s not all. Some hideously mismanaged childhood vaccination in Leningrad created a thick keloid scar running the length of my right shoulder. The shame of having this strange pink welt define one side of me led to a slumped posture favoring my left shoulder. When I finally found people to have sex with me—I had to attend Oberlin to complete the task—my expression upon disrobing resembled that of a dog looking up at his mistress after a bowel movement of hazmat proportions.

Before the Suit

The clothes before the suit were as bad as the body.

I was born in the Soviet Union in 1972 and was quickly dressed in a sailor’s outfit with white tights and sexy little shorts, then given a balalaika to play with for the camera. The fact that Russia now fields one of the world’s most homicidal armies can partially be explained by photos such as this. On other occasions I was forced to wear very tight jogging pants with a cartoon bunny on them, or a thick-striped shirt dripping with medals from battles I had never seen. These outfits did make me feel like I belonged to something—in this case, a failing dictatorship. I left the U.S.S.R. before I could join the Young Pioneers, which would have entailed wearing a red tie at a tender age, while prancing about and shouting exuberant slogans such as “I am always ready!”

Top: The author, about 6 years old, in Leningrad, dressed as a sailor and forced to play balalaika under a hanging carpet. Bottom: About a year later, in Rome, his parents buy him a normal Western sweater. (Courtesy of Gary Shteyngart)

What I wasn’t ready for, however, was immigration to Queens. I arrived in New York in 1979 with the immigrant’s proverbial single shirt, although my parents had managed to snag a cute Italian V-neck sweater during the few months we spent in Rome on our way to America, a sweater that would serve me for the next half decade (as mentioned, I did not grow much). The Hebrew day school to which I was sentenced for eight years began a clothing drive for me, and I was rewarded with pounds of old Batman and Robin T-shirts, which made me look like a Soviet-refugee poster child. It’s worth noting that, growing up, I never thought, They hate me for my clothes or my poverty or my lack of English skills. This realization would come later, in hindsight. For the longest time, I thought that I was hated for the essential state of being myself; the clothes were more a symptom than a cause. My school may have been Jewish, but I somehow found myself in the throes of Calvinist predestination. For as long as I was myself, I deserved these clothes. Around this time, the idea of becoming an entirely different person took root—How will I ever find love? This is how—an idea that would be expanded for four decades, until it finally led me to The Suit.

Growing Up Tasteless

High school found me trying to blend in with a suburban outlay of clothes that my now middle-class family could finally afford. These were surfer T-shirts from Ocean Pacific and other brands that suburbanites who survived the 1980s might remember: Generra, Aéropostale, Unionbay. Unfortunately, I did not go to high school in Benetton Bay, Long Island, but in Manhattan, where these shirts were immediately a joke. (This would become a pattern. By the time I figure something out fashion-wise, I’m already two steps behind.) At a high-school job, my boss bought me a set of colorful Miami Vice–style shirts and jackets. These proved ridiculous at Oberlin, where dressing in janitor uniforms from thrift shops was considered the height of style. (Ironically, I had worked as a janitor during the summer, at the same nuclear laboratory that employed my father.)

After college, I fell in with a crowd of artsy, ketamine-addicted hipsters, and together we managed to gentrify several Brooklyn neighborhoods during the late ’90s. One of my friends, who was especially fashion-conscious, began to dress me at the high-priced secondhand emporium Screaming Mimis. The clothes she told me to buy were very itchy, mostly Orlon and Dacron items from ’70s brands such as Triumph of California, but these tight uniforms, like their Soviet predecessors, made me feel like I was playing a part in a grander opera, while also serving as a form of punishment. On nervous dates, I would sometimes have to run to the bathroom to try to angle my acrylic armpits under the dryer.

Because I was a writer who worked in bed, I mostly did not need a suit, although when I got married, in 2012, I went down to Paul Smith to get a herringbone number that I thought was just fine, if not terribly exciting. I bought a J.Crew tuxedo for black-tie benefits. Once, I did a reading sponsored by Prada and was given a nice gray jacket, pants, and a pair of blue suede shoes as compensation. Come to think of it, there was also a scarf. As a final note, I will say that I am incredibly cheap and that shopping for clothes has always raised my blood pressure. Leaving Screaming Mimis after spending more than $500 would always end in me getting terribly drunk to punish myself for the money I had blown on such a frivolous pursuit.

The Dream Begins

When I reached the age of 50, mildly prosperous and with a small family, I met a man named Mark Cho. We discovered each other because of a mutual love of wristwatches (a costly middle-aged hobby I had recently acquired), and because I knew about his classic-menswear store, the Armoury, with locations in New York and Hong Kong. The Armoury has been called “a clubhouse for menswear nerds”; if you’re looking for, say, a cashmere waistcoat in “brown sugar,” you have found your home. I had even given one of the characters in my latest novel, a dandy from a prominent Korean chaebol family, an article of clothing from that store to wear.

[Read: The future of marketing is bespoke everything]

We met for dinner at Union Square Cafe, and I liked him (and his clothes) immediately. Mark was almost always dressed in a jacket and tie, and would often sport a vest along with spectacles made of some improbable metal. What I loved about him was how comfortable he appeared in his medley of classical attire, and how, despite the fact that all of his garments had been chosen with precision, he gave the impression that he had spent very little time and thought on which breathable fabrics to settle over his trim body. He looked like he was, to use my initial formulation, at ease.

Later, I would learn that this whole look could be summarized by the Italian word sprezzatura, or “studied carelessness,” and later still I learned of something that the Japanese had discovered and refined: “Ivy style,” which is basically studied carelessness goes to Dartmouth. For the time being, I knew that I liked what I saw, that my inner lonely immigrant—the one who is always trying to find a uniform that will help me fit in—was intrigued. Mark once gave me an Armoury safari jacket, the very same one worn by the character in my novel, and its light, unflappable linen proved perfect for my summer readings around Germany and Switzerland that year. Everywhere from starchy Zurich to drunken Cologne to cool-as-fuck Berlin, the jacket would pop out of a suitcase and unwrinkle itself in seconds, yet it was also stylish and seemingly impervious to the odors of my non-Teutonic body. It was, to use Hemingway-esque prose, damn well perfect, and I immediately knew I wanted more.

I had lived in Italy in my 30s and met many aristocrats there. Those bastards had sprezzatura to burn, but when I asked them the make of their suits and jackets, they would smile and tell me it was the work of a single tailor down in Naples or up in Milan. Ah, I would say to myself, so that’s how it is. Given my outlook on life, owning a bespoke suit was not an outcome I was predestined for. The Prada jacket I had been given, which fit me well enough, was the most that my Calvinist God would ever grant me.

But over more martinis and onglets au poivre with Mark, I began to understand the parameters of a fine bespoke suit and its accessories: bespoke shirts and bespoke shoes. I also began to timidly ask questions of a financial nature and learned that the price of owning such a wardrobe approached and then exceeded $10,000. I did not want to pay this kind of entry fee. Given my own family’s experience in fleeing a declining superpower, I try to have money saved with which to escape across the border. Unlike watches, a suit could not be resold in Montreal or Melbourne.

A brief but generative conversation with my editors at this magazine soon paved the way for my dream to become possible. At a particularly unsober dinner with a visiting Japanese watchmaker, I whispered to Mark the extent of my desires. Yes, it would take a lot of work, a lot of research, and possibly travel to two other continents. But it could be done. At the right expense, with the most elegant and sturdy of Italian-milled fabrics, and with the greatest of Japanese tailors, a superior suit could be made for anyone, even for me.

Some Thoughts on Male Fashion

In religious school, I studied the Torah and the Talmud, which were okay but failed to leave a deep impression. At Oberlin, I read Gramsci’s notebooks from prison; those were fine, but a little too carceral for my airy disposition. Mark sat me down with the foundational texts more relevant to my lived experience, as they say. Or at least the experience I hoped to live. The canonical texts of male fashion, and I urge them upon any aspiring dandy, are Dressing the Man, by Alan Flusser, and True Style, by G. Bruce Boyer (that name alone deserves a cummerbund). I would also slip in an interesting national study, Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style, by the well-dressed intellectual W. David Marx, whom I would meet in Tokyo soon enough. Like the diligent student I had rarely been before, I took copious notes: American look, dart, London shrunk, natural shoulder, weft, warp. I have worn clothes all my life but never known a single thing about them. It was like not knowing the difference between freshly caught tilefish and farm-bred tilapia; each fills your stomach, but only one tastes good.

Formal male fashion traces back to two personalities: Beau Brummell, the sharp-witted proto-dandy of the early 19th century without whom the modern suit would be unthinkable (and who reportedly spent five hours a day getting dressed), and Edward VIII, the Nazi admirer and short-term king better known as the Duke of Windsor. These two insufferable assholes are mostly responsible for how men dress today. “With Brummell,” Flusser notes, “male style became a matter of impeccable fit and cut, exquisite detail, and immaculate cleanliness.” Before Brummell, the aristocracy dressed in rich, smelly materials; after, styles were adapted from military uniforms—think of the broad shoulders of a British pinstripe suit, for example. The duke took Brummell’s simplicity and “ran to Baroque elaboration,” Boyer wrote. “District checks, windowpane plaids, bold stripes, and tartans were his true métier.”

In the battle between the 19th-century dandy’s stark simplicity and the duke’s playful elaborations, I find myself choosing the former. My personality is colorful enough without tartans; let the suit merely contain it. Whatever the duke’s “district check” is, I will leave it uncashed.

Yamamoto-San Arrives

On May 24 of the fateful year 2024, a plane from Tokyo landed in New York City, carrying one of the most meticulously attired men in existence. His name is Yuhei Yamamoto, and he is the preeminent representative of Ivy style, that mode of dress that Americans appreciate yet only the Japanese fully understand.

The British suit, in all its City of London severity, morphed into different shapes around the world. The Italians made particularly interesting work of it. The Milanese suit was the most British-like, but as you traveled farther down the boot to Florence, Rome, and Naples, the tailors became more freehanded; the colors and fit became jauntier and more Mediterranean, more appreciative of bodies defined by crooked lines and curves and exploded by carbohydrates. Meanwhile, in America, as always, we went to work. The suit became a uniform that stressed the commonality and goodness of Protestant labor and church attendance without any further embellishments. It came to be known as the “sack suit.” In the 1950s, Brooks Brothers furthered this concept with an almost subversively casual look: a jacket with natural-width shoulders that hung straight from the body, and plain-front trousers. This, along with other American touches, such as denim, became the basis for Ivy-style clothes that the Japanese of the ’60s made into a national obsession, and that culminated in a wholly different approach to workwear, office wear, and leisure wear. Today, you can’t go into a Uniqlo without seeing the aftereffects of Japanese experimentation with and perfection of our “Work hard, pray hard” wardrobe ethos.

I met Yamamoto-san at the Upper East Side branch of Mark Cho’s Armoury empire. The moment I first saw him, I was scared. No one could be this well-dressed. No one could be so secure in a tan three-piece seersucker suit that didn’t so much hang from his broad shoulders as hover around them in expectation. No one’s brown silk tie could so well match his brown polka-dot pocket square and the thick wedge of only slightly graying hair floating above his perfectly chiseled face. This man was going to make a suit for me? I was not worthy.

Yamamoto-san examined me briefly and said, “Sack suit.”

The author’s chest is expertly measured by the master tailor Yuhei Yamamoto at the Upper East Side location of the Armoury. (Peter Fisher for The Atlantic)

The diagnosis stung at first. I was already aware of the provenance of the sack suit, which had clothed men up and down the very avenue (Madison) right outside Mark’s store for almost a century. Was I not more than an Excel jockey or a finance bro whose oppressive job had him ready to be put into a sack? Were my curves, at least the double trouble posed by my tatas (true, they had shrunk and mellowed with age), not worthy of something with a little bit more Florentine flair, if not full-on Neapolitan decadence?

“Sack suit,” Yamamoto-san repeated. He then explained through a translator that I was, in his eyes, “full of character.” I had heard this sentiment before, and not always in the form of a compliment, but wanted elaboration. “You’re a character,” he said. “You’re an authentic New Yorker. You transcend fashionable suits. As an authentic New Yorker, you need a sack suit.”

He and Mark began to talk about the master plan for my body. Yamamoto-san would make a drape-cut suit that would emphasize my slimness, and “flatter” my chest. The pants would accentuate my legs while making me look taller than 5 foot 5 (and a half).

“You can hide a multitude of sins with a good suit,” Mark said. The Calvinist inside me blanched.

For the first time in my life, I felt nonphysician, nonlover hands all over me—measuring, prodding, taking stock. The thousands of dollars being spent on this project were not just creating a garment; they were affording me a new level of care and involvement. It was the sartorial version of having a concierge doctor. “At the fitting stage,” Mark said, “you’ll feel like a woman getting haute couture. Why should women have all the fun?”

Yes, I thought. Why should they? We retired to the Armoury’s garden to smoke half a dozen short Davidoff cigars and discuss matters some more. “Clothing is a visual language,” Mark said. “What we have to divine is: What is a Gary Shteyngart suit?”

I puffed on my cigar, feeling seen. “Your head has to sit in a certain way on your frame,” Mark said. I pictured my head above the suit, like the dot at the top of an inverted exclamation point. The suit, according to Mark, would focus attention on my head, which was definitely where I wanted the attention to fall. After mastering English in Hebrew day school and social democracy at Oberlin, I had always made the right sounds with my head. (“I want to make a suit that accentuates my client’s character,” Yamamoto-san had told me. “I don’t want a suit that speaks more than the character.”)

“The best body type for a suit,” Mark went on, “is one that is slightly unathletic and also stoops slightly so that it hangs better.” That’s me! I thought, shocked that what I’d considered a debility had turned out to be a strength. “Yamamoto-san will make a softer, rounder, more natural shoulder,” Mark continued. “He will cut closer to the hips. You don’t want a pumpkin shape.”

“Most certainly not,” I said.

Back inside, Yamamoto-san had set the music system to his beloved Chuck Berry and had spread out ancient Esquire and GQ magazines. “I will make you a suit from the golden age of American style,” the tailor was saying. “I will make your legs even more beautiful.” We were looking at intimidating books of fabric swatches. I had signaled that I wanted the suit to be ready for nights of leisure as well as labor; drunken dinners at Frenchette as well as university readings and television appearances. This led us to the darker side of the color spectrum, until we settled on midnight blue. “Six-ply is more durable, and it travels well,” Mark was saying. “There’s more return. See how it bounces back more quickly? Fewer wrinkles.”

That all sounded great, but I was both intrigued and confused. What the hell is “six-ply”? How is yarn even made? Mark invited me to attend a fabric fair in Milan in July, then to journey to the nearby fabric mill, where the materials for my suit would be prepared. Next, we would fly to Hong Kong to have the appropriate shirts made by the fine shirtmaker Ascot Chang, and on to Tokyo for a second fitting with Yamamoto-san, as well as a fitting for a pair of shoes at the atelier of the master shoemaker Yohei Fukuda.

“Sure,” I said.

Somewhere in the heavens, my Calvinist God was preparing his lightning bolts.

The Anticipation Grows

There are many days between May and July. How many exactly I cannot tell you, as I am not a mathematician, but definitely too many when you’re waiting for a series of garments to change your life.

In the meantime, Mark threw a black-tie party to celebrate 10 years of the Armoury in New York, and I put on my J.Crew tuxedo, hoping no one would sneer at its humble pedigree. The party was sponsored by Campari, and I was soon coasting on boulevardiers and chatting with a gaggle of short menswear nerds and the attractive women who loved them. As with most Midtown parties, the mix had its share of financiers, but also included war-crimes prosecutors and museum executives. “Are you in fashion?” I overheard one attendee asking another. “No, I’m a Marxist.” (And, I later found out, an architect.)

[From the June 2009 issue: Fashion in dark times]

Alex Seo, a Korean American man dressed stunningly in a white double-breasted, peak-lapel tuxedo jacket, told me that when his grandfather, an academic, had landed in the Midwest from Korea many years ago without a proper outfit, the man who’d sponsored him had said, “Every professor should have a tweed jacket,” and then handed him his own. The story reminded me of the clothing drive that was started for me at my yeshiva, although this tale had a kinder, more midwestern ending (Alex’s father and his Armoury suit were also at the party). Looking around the room and talking to people, I realized just how many of us were either immigrants or the children of immigrants. The need for a fine suit became obvious. It was the final certificate of naturalization.

Milan and Beyond

I tried to take my mind off my desperate need for bespoke clothing. A conference brought me to Tbilisi, Georgia, and then I tooled around Istanbul, Rome, and Lucca for a bit. Finally, the fabric fair arrived, and, accompanied by my old friend, the stylish Tuscan resident, art historian, and translator Shilpa Prasad, I traveled to Milan, where Mark was waiting for us.

“We’re starting way upstream,” Mark told me, meaning that we were going deep into the nitty-gritty of how a suit is made. Amid the city’s heartless July humidity, he took us to a neoclassical palazzo, where Dormeuil, a family-run French maker of high-end fabrics, presented us with endless espresso and samples. I wasn’t here to shop, just to learn what was possible.

Testing crease-resistant fabric at Vitale Barberis Canonico, the oldest fabric mill in Italy (Bea De Giacomo for The Atlantic)

What followed was an impressive display of discernment. Mark and his colleague Jan would feel the square of a fabric swatch, then scrunch it up and watch as it regained its composure. “Fabric drives our collection,” Mark said. “For Hong Kong, this is good winter fabric,” he said of one sample. Because Hong Kong represents a large portion of his business, he is very attuned to that part of his clientele. “This one’s too hairy,” he said of another. “Hong Kong people don’t like things that are hairy.” Most people don’t, I thought, sadly.

Shilpa was amazed by how Mark and Jan knew which samples they would buy from just a cursory feel. “It’s like muscle memory,” Jan told her.

“We’ll take four meters,” Mark told the fabric salesman, and the barcode adjoining one swatch was zapped. The price for this particular fabric, which would become a three-piece suit for another client, was about 68 euros a meter. Shilpa lovingly stroked cloth flecked with gold that clocked in at 380 euros a meter, and visualized the shawl that could be made from it.

Mark explained that some fabrics are better for business suits, others for leisure suits. As an example of the former, he showed me the kind of slightly shiny wool-and-mohair blend that could have been worn by members of the Rat Pack. The fabric for my suit should bridge the gap, Mark said. It should be both beautiful and travel-resistant. “More texture, less sheen.”

The Milano Unica fair took place in a typical soulless convention center on the city’s edge. The booths where the vendors had set up shop were grouped by the type of goods they were hawking: Shirt Avenue, for example. The sellers we visited each gave us a fine cup of espresso and sometimes even a little chocolate, so that by the time I left the fair, I was orbiting Neptune.

We stopped by the esteemed Somerset cloth maker Fox Brothers, which produced the fabric that once draped Winston Churchill and Cary Grant. They favor undyed sheep’s wool and are known for their wool flannel, the kind that was used to make Fred Astaire’s trousers. The clothes made from their fabrics, one trench coat in particular, were gorgeous, but I would have needed to buy a Land Rover to complete the look.

Next we headed down the “street” to the booth for Vitale Barberis Canonico, the mill tasked with producing the fabric for my suit. After we had another coffee, the attractive representatives of the brand presented us with bolts of cloth to feel. “This reminds me of going to sari shops in Bombay,” Shilpa said as we felt our way through the sensuous wares, gasping in delight. I was reminded of Mark’s quip: “Why should women have all the fun?”

A sample of the fabric that would be used for my suit was finally presented to me—the 21 Micron. I was told that the mill’s 21 Micron is made from the wool of Argentinian and Uruguayan sheep that live high in the mountains. Regular, less important sheep are subjected to the cruelty of mulesing, where strips of wool-bearing skin are removed from around their ass, to prevent the parasitic infection of fly larvae. My sheep were not subjected to such horrors. “They are happy sheep,” one dapper representative told me with a wolfish smile.

Despite its South American origins, the fabric had a heavy British solidity. I crumpled it up in my fist as I had seen Mark and Jan do, and when I let go, the fabric opened like a flower. “21 Micron is the more exclusive fabric,” the mill’s representative told me. “It is breathable, high-twisted yarn; it will not wrinkle.” Unlike most suits, mine would be made of six-ply yarn. The fabric’s weight, exclusivity, sturdiness, and expense came from the fact that there was simply more of it.

“Six-ply is for the brave,” the dapper man assured me, a sentence I did not understand, but cherished nonetheless.

“Your suit will be business luxury,” Mark told me. “You can wear it into the ground.”

I stared into the fabric, which looked as inky blue as the eternity I hope to fall into after I expire, many fathoms deeper than the Baltic Sea by which I was born. Soon, I thought, this magical fabric will cover me from my ankles to my neck. And then, maybe, I will be another person.

The author is confronted with endless amounts of wool at Vitale Barberis Canonico. (Bea De Giacomo for The Atlantic)

The next day, Mark and I traveled west of Milan, past rice fields and solar-power farms and shirtless men yawning on balconies, to a village in the Biella region of Piedmont, where Vitale Barberis Canonico is based. The mill’s waiting room was filled with volumes that had titles such as I Am Dandy, and the magazines Monsieur and The One: Yacht & Design. Yachtless and without a French appellation, I wondered what the hell I was doing there. The executive offices surrounded a lovely Japanese garden, and as we began our tour, the members of a visiting group of fabric buyers from Taiwan, China, and Japan shyly snuck photos of Mark.

First mentioned in documents in 1663, Vitale Barberis Canonico is truly canonical, the oldest fabric mill in Italy. Our tour guides explained that the water in the Biella region has a very low concentration of minerals, making it soft, unlike the harsh water in other parts of Europe. This adds an extra softness to the fabric, much as pizza crust in Naples would be unimaginable without the city’s acqua. I touched a clump of Australian wool, and noted how superior my South American sheep was to its antipodean cousin. The seven steps for making wool fabric were explained: washing, gilling (aligning the wool fibers and removing short strands), spinning, dyeing, warping, weaving, and finishing. Giant machines are dedicated to these tasks, and they run all day, mostly without human intervention. The weaving, in which the weft, the horizontal structure, is inserted into the fabric’s vertical structure, the warp, is conducted in the world’s quietest weaving room. Touching the yarn as it was being spun by a machine was like strumming a gently weeping guitar. I was told that my six-ply yarn was the strongest that Vitale Barberis Canonico produced, and that it had been worsted to eliminate some of its hairiness (Hong Kong readers, rejoice). Finally, this exemplary fabric had been put into a massive machine called the Dolphin 1200, which finishes the fabric and prevents it from shrinking.

The author snuggling with some alarmingly soft wool at the Vitale Barberis Canonico mill (Bea De Giacomo for The Atlantic)

In the mill’s archives, we examined order books dating back to 1846, as well as a photo of King Charles III and his fun-loving wife, the Queen Consort, who both appear to be fans of the brand. I saw an advertisement for my fabric, which featured a drawing of sheep standing on a road, next to a man leaning against a sports car. A sign behind him pointed to the ruta del fin del mundo, “the route to the end of the world.” The tagline read: “21 Micron is the final destination of a long journey in search of a family of cloths of the highest quality that guarantee unparalleled strength and crease resistance.”

Is this it? I thought. Has my long sartorial journey finally come to an end?

Mom Posture

But my journey had only begun.

On the way to Asia, I watched one of Wim Wenders’s latest films, Perfect Days, and was struck with the teariness that often hits at 30,000 feet. The film follows an older toilet cleaner in Tokyo, exulting in the care with which he performs his task, the way he makes his work anything but menial. The toilet cleaner’s devotion reminded me of something Mark had said about how a true craftsman focuses on just one item, asking himself constantly, Is this as good as it can be?

In Hong Kong, Mark brought his obsession with individual crafts to a 100-year-old building off Queen’s Road Central, known as the Pedder Building. On the fifth floor, a 6,000-square-foot space called the Pedder Arcade has a distinctly Wong Kar-wai feel, punctuated by broad arches and spinning overhead fans. The Armoury may be the Pedder Arcade’s flagship store, but it is just one part of a lifestyle hub for the intelligent moneyed class, where you can buy a signed first-edition set of John le Carré’s Karla Trilogy for about $7,000. Mark himself works out of a space called “The Study,” where people feel free to drop in and smoke a cigar—some of the world’s best cigars are sold out of an anteroom, with the more intense aged Cuban variants smelling, according to Mark, “as good as God’s armpit.”

Mark is Malaysian Chinese by heritage, but grew up in London, Hong Kong, and Los Angeles and speaks perfect American English, though he will occasionally break a word like forgotten into two, adding to his charm. He got his bachelor’s degree in economics from Brown and started out in finance. We are similar in that neither of our fathers was perfectly happy with the career we ultimately chose: wordsmithing and clothes selling. In Milan, I had asked Mark how he’d resolved things with his father. “He died,” Mark said.

At the Ascot Chang factory, in Hong Kong, sewers and cutters produce about 45 meticulously made shirts a day. (Leung Man Hei for The Atlantic)

In the island’s oppressive heat, Mark and I strolled over to a neighboring mall, where Ascot Chang, the renowned maker of shirts and suits, has one of its stores. Justin Chang, the grandson of the founder—the family has been making shirts in Hong Kong since 1953—greeted us and pulled out rolls of fabric (the store has more than 7,000 variations).

I was to have four shirts made to complement my suit. Justin and Mark talked over each other as I pawed at the crisp fabrics.

We chose four fabrics for the different shirts: a spread-collar dress shirt made in a fine cotton piqué, a traditional white oxford button-down, a vintage-1970s cotton shirt with blue stripes, and my favorite, a chambray shirt with a button-down collar whose uneven yarn gave it a cool and casual look. I reveled in the by-now familiar, almost therapeutic feel of several men pressing measuring tape against my shoulders, chest, and arms. Because I am a watch aficionado, Mark requested that the diameter of the left cuff be slightly larger to expose my timepieces. The formal shirt must not have a pocket, he said, but the easygoing chambray could have a pocket with a button on it. “What does this button convey?” I asked Mark, trying to master all the rules.

“It conveys, I have a button on my shirt.”

The author visiting Ascot Chang in Hong Kong to select fabric and be fitted for four bespoke shirts (Leung Man Hei for The Atlantic)

One of the shirts had to be rushed for my second fitting with Yamamoto-san in Tokyo in a mere two days. Back at the Pedder Arcade, as I tried on a pair of artisanal-denim jeans, Mark told me that this was a particularly difficult task for Ascot Chang, because of my body’s many quirks. “There’s a large drop to your right shoulder,” Mark said. “It makes it difficult to dial in.”

I also apparently have something called “rounded shoulders,” which results from a forward head position and a forward pelvic tilt. When I looked up my diagnosis online, I discovered that it is also called “mom posture,” a malady that usually afflicts mothers, who have to bend down to take care of their children. I wanted to congratulate myself on my devotion as a parent, but realized that my mom posture must result from a lifetime of slouching my shoulders to hide my breasts and, possibly, from constantly nursing my other child, my phone, while walking.

As I modeled the artisanal denim, Mark and I discovered something else: I have no ass. This is why all my pants fall off me.

“No,” I said, immediately predicting what Mark would prescribe. “I can’t. It’s too Wall Street, the movie.”

“Suspenders,” he said.

The next day, we left the fancy Central district and crossed the bay for the industrial hum of Kowloon East, to see the shirt that was being rushed for our Tokyo departure. In the warm, bright light of the factory, a host of workers was making my chambray shirt. I smiled sheepishly at the men and women toiling overtime to create the special differing armholes that would compensate for my dropped shoulder. Thirty-eight workers at the Ascot Chang factory produce about 45 shirts a day. The cloth cutters are mostly men; the sewers, who do the more complex engineering, such as the cuffs and collars, are mostly women.

The author touring the Ascot Chang factory. The Chang family has been making shirts in Hong Kong since 1953. (Leung Man Hei for The Atlantic)

The next morning, the chambray shirt was ready. I tried on my first-ever bespoke garment with trepidation. In the wooden glow of the Ascot Chang shop, I witnessed my first transformation. This was not the suit, but it was the pre-suit, an exquisite blue thing with gleaming charcoal mother-of-pearl buttons and, as I was told by Mark, “quite a strong collar for someone your size.”

But for the first time in my life, the fit was right. The fit was good. The fit was perfect. Through the industry of a thoughtful team of cutters and sewers on the edge of Asia, I had finally reached a détente with my body. I looked at myself in the mirror and there I was: a well-dressed middle-aged man.

Yamamoto-San Returns

Armed with one Ascot Chang shirt, with three more on the way, we left Hong Kong for Tokyo for the final steps of the bespoke journey—the second fitting with Yamamoto-san and a shoe fitting with Yohei Fukuda, “arguably the best shoe money can buy,” according to Mark.

Tokyo is the city for craftspeople, and I was happy to watch Mark buzz around like a hummingbird, searching for perfect accoutrements for his clients. We visited the Ginza branch of Atelier Jean Rousseau, where men in white lab coats perfected a watch strap for a customer’s Patek Philippe Ellipse. “Do you have a real rose-gold stitch?” Mark asked. “I know they cost a lot of money.”

We cabbed across Ginza to Ortus, a maker of elite bags from materials including hippo, elephant, and seal, where Mark had commissioned a briefcase for an underemployed man of means that contained nothing but a Monopoly set (the Hong Kong–tram edition, naturally, the pieces made in silver). “Does he go around Hong Kong playing Monopoly with his friends?” I asked.

“Well, he’s hoping this will make him some friends,” Mark said.

That evening I had dinner with W. David Marx, the author of the aforementioned Ametora. David is a 6-foot-4 southern WASP-Catholic-Jew hybrid, who also counts Yamamoto-san as a tailor. “It makes you look like an adult,” he told me of the suit I would soon wear. “Which is not what people want to look like anymore.”

The next morning, I climbed the steps to the second floor of Yamamoto-san’s atelier, Tailor Caid, in the hip Shibuya section of Tokyo. Welcome to Caid modern tailoring proclaimed a sign next to a silhouette of a man in a fedora toting a briefcase down an imaginary Madison Avenue. We are not fashion snobs, the sign continued, but we know a few simple rules.

Inside, Yamamoto-san was resplendent in another seersucker suit, this one light blue, a dark-blue pocket square providing contrast. A record player was spinning not just Ella Fitzgerald, but a rare Japanese edition of her work titled Ella and Nice Guys. A Harvard pennant hung in the bathroom. There were old, yellowing copies of the Japanese magazines that had made Ivy style synonymous with Japan, with titles such as Popeye and Hot-Dog Press and headlines including “We Are Real IVY Leaguers.” And, finally, I was confronted with the work in progress, draped over a wooden hanger: my midnight-blue suit held together with white basting thread.

I relieved myself beneath the Harvard pennant and, with shaking hands, put on the suit. At this stage in the bespoke process, the basting thread disfigured the jacket, dividing it into quadrants, and the buttons were nothing but stickers. But I could begin to imagine the wonder that the suit would become. The heavy six-ply fabric felt primordially satisfying, like a light suit of armor, but one that managed to cling to my body with near perfection. This second fitting would remove the near.

“There is an extended shoulder, but no pad,” Yamamoto-san explained through a translator, negating the horrors of the shoulder-pad-stricken ’80s, but also managing to support my dropped right shoulder. “There is an empty space in the chest,” Yamamoto-san pointed out. Because I stoop so profoundly, he had used the draping technique to, in Mark’s words, “give your chest a little more volume.” The jacket cleverly made my chimichangas all but invisible, while ironically providing them with new space to roam.

“Damn, this is dramatic,” the usually unflappable Mark said.

“The way you wear this,” Yamamoto-san said, “it looks like ’50s France, or Alain Delon in the ’60s.”

We talked about areas that needed improvement. I lifted my arms and turned around. “What do we do with Gary’s behind?” Mark asked as the two men searched for my ass. “Apparently you lost some butt since the first fitting.”

“He should wear his pants as snug as possible,” Yamamoto-san said. The dreaded word suspenders came up again. “When the pants are above the belly button, everything is in line.”

“He could do some squats,” Mark said, an opinion I would not dignify with a response.

We chose a beautiful turquoise lining to contrast with the outer sobriety of the suit, and also navy buttons made out of nuts. “Into each life, some rain must fall,” Ella crooned on the record player, but I was hardly listening to her.

The author with Mark Cho, the owner of the Armoury ( left), and Yamamoto-san (middle), enjoying a drink at Martiny’s bar, in New York City (Dina Litovsky for The Atlantic)

To celebrate the suit, we retired to the tailor’s favorite bar, Le Zinc, a few minutes’ walk from his atelier. Yamamoto-san is the type of Japanese man who surrounds himself with so much perfection that it would be interesting to take him someplace awful, like Hudson Yards or Westfield Garden State Plaza. Le Zinc felt like it had floated in from a former America, too spare and beautiful to provoke nostalgia, only awe. My martini was so excellent, I struggled not to cry. “There’s a sentiment in Japan,” my tailor said. “We don’t want to come to a bar without being well-dressed. There is a sentimentalization of Western culture.”

“A Western culture that barely exists,” I said.

A few martinis and highballs into our celebration, Yamamoto-san began to talk at length. He’d idolized America since he was a child. He listened to jazz in elementary school and saw the men wearing suits, and he couldn’t wait to wear a suit as well. He fell in love with the show Bewitched, in which an ad executive named Darrin (originally played by Dick York) was married to a witch named Samantha (Elizabeth Montgomery)—but more important for Yamamoto-san, Darrin worked on Madison Avenue and wore fabulous suits.

I have to pause this story for a minute. Back in Queens, when I was wearing my Robin the Boy Wonder T-shirts and watching television on my grandmother’s failing 1960s Zenith set, Bewitched had managed to bewitch me as well. My nearly pubescent eyes lightly male-gazed Samantha, but I was equally in love with Darrin and his stark but perfect suits and ties. Though separated by a continent and an ocean, the young Yamamoto-san and I had entertained the same ideas of male fashion.

“A lot of young people today are anti-aging,” he continued. “They want their clothes to show their youth. I like the idea of aging, the kind of aging you see in vintage furniture or a vintage watch. Aging is beautiful. When I see a 70-year-old man in Manhattan picking up after a dog while wearing a suit, I applaud.”

We continued our discussion over bottles of Barolo at his favorite restaurant, which featured Lucchese cuisine. I had been to the actual Lucca just a month earlier, but the Japanese version of the food, like my Ivy-style suit in progress, seemed to both canonize and elevate its inspiration. If this part reads like a love letter to Japan and its pasta makers and toilet cleaners, I assure you it is.

According to ancient Japanese custom, a night of karaoke followed, about which I recall only singing Suzanne Vega’s child-abuse classic “Luka,” to which my audience nodded politely. In the middle of the night, I tripped over the complicated stairs of my hotel suite and almost broke my nose. But I felt fine.

The Final Touch

The next day would see the last piece of my wardrobe fall into place. The back-order list for Yohei Fukuda’s shoes is so long, the atelier has stopped accepting bespoke-shoe orders from new clients. For the time being, it is near-impossible to get his shoes, so please allow me to enjoy mine by myself. Fukuda-san and his assistants make only eight pairs a month, and each takes 130 to 140 hours of work. The soles are stitched by hand, which makes them a lot more flexible. Much like Yamamoto-san, who interned with a Boston tailor, Fukuda-san attended two years of “shoe college” in Northamptonshire, England, and then worked his way up from repairing soles to creating leather masterpieces in his atelier, by Tokyo’s Olympic stadium.

Fukuda-san is perfectly bald, with a luxuriant mustache. His work has been described as “kind of British,” which means he references and perfects traditional British shoes with the same brio as my tailor’s approach to Ivy style. The British did fine; Yohei Fukuda does better.

The atelier of the shoemaker Yohei Fukuda, in Tokyo (An Rong Xu for The Atlantic)

Mark has this theory that bespoke oxfords are not really worth the money, because many fine examples can be found off the rack. But he believes in bespoke loafers. So now is the time to confess another of my body’s deficiencies: One of my legs happens to be longer than the other. Since I was a child, I’ve had to wear inserts in my shoes to account for this discrepancy, and so an easygoing loafer, the pride of America’s aristocratic New England class, is sadly not for me.

We surveyed the gleaming shoes arrayed along the length of Fukuda-san’s atelier, like icons in a church. “Derby shoes,” Mark suggested. I looked over a couple. They were not quite as formal as oxfords, nor as floppy as loafers. Unlike oxfords, they had an open-laced construction that would comfort my calloused piggies during my daily six-mile walks around the countryside.

My final row of samples to examine was rolled out, a collection of hides that would allow us to choose a color. “For derbies, the best place to start is the darkest brown,” Mark suggested. I remembered Boyer writing in True Style about how the Italians had taught the world not to be afraid of mixing brown shoes with blue suits.

“Coffee,” Fukuda-san suggested, as we flipped through the hides.

“Maroon,” Mark offered.

“Brown pepper!” I said, as I ran my hands across a suede that seemed spicier, more intense, more brown than the others. Fukuda-san measured and traced every part of my foot, as we discussed adding a big rubber heel for better traction, and a steel toe. As with Yamamoto-san’s suit, my comfort and pleasure would be the biggest factors here; there would be no room for ostentation. No one must know that these shoes cost $3,000, I thought. No one.

My derbies would be lined with forest green to remind me of the forests behind my dacha. “Would you like your shoes monogrammed?” Fukuda-san asked. I was tempted to allow this to happen, but my Oberlin education still had some sway. My shoes remain anonymous.

Yamamoto-San 3: The Transformation

Just over two months later, Yamamoto-san arrived back in New York with my suit. My shoes had emigrated through different channels.

It was November 7, two days after an important American election. I was trying to practice self-care. I couldn’t make my adopted country fall out of love with fascism, but at least I could enjoy my new shoes. Also, I suspected that our new leader would cut my taxes as he had in the past, shuffling money from his supporters into my piggy bank. As an immigrant who had moved from one failed superpower to another, I had learned to take my pleasures wherever I could.

Mark educates the author on how to tie an Old Bertie knot during his final fitting at the Armoury. (Dina Litovsky for The Atlantic)

On the night of my suit’s unveiling, Mark threw yet another party at the Armoury’s Upper East Side location. The evening was warm, almost summery. Before I was ready to put on my suit, Yamamoto-san showed me how to steam-iron it with his beloved Panasonic travel iron. The Yohei Fukuda shoes were presented to me in a beautiful blond-wood box. “There’s no nail in that box,” one of the Armoury’s salesmen said. “Like a Jewish coffin.”

But as I put on the suit, I felt less Jewish than distinctly Christian, Episcopalian if not Calvinist; in any case, born again. I walked out of the changing room and looked into a mirror. I was contained by midnight blue, my shoulders weighed down with six-ply pleasure, each of my feet covered by what felt like the product of a heavily personalized cow.

“Yokatta! ” Yamamoto-san cried—roughly, “Thank goodness!”

“Yokatta,” Mark said, smiling.

The author stroking the iridescent lining of his suit during his final fitting (Dina Litovsky for The Atlantic)

While I stood there yammering my gratitude, I noticed that despite the tailor’s best efforts, my pants were still sliding off the ghost of my ass. “I also have no tuchus,” the Armoury salesman who’d likened my shoebox to a Jewish coffin explained. “There’s no shelf on our bodies.”

To compensate, I was strapped into a pair of suspenders, and Mark lovingly tied a polka-dot tie around my neck in an Old Bertie knot. Even though I was at least a decade older than he was, I had started to think of Mark as my parent. He demonstrated how using a Bertie knot instead of the usual four-in-hand would benefit a shorter man like me by ending my tie at the waist, not the groin, where our returning president likes his. He thrust his index finger below the knot of my tie and explained that he was making a dimple.

“Braces and polka dots, matching, wow!” Yamamoto-san said in English. He motioned to my nearly transparent Selima Optique frames. “And with glasses color, very nice!”

We’d had many discussions about whether my pants would come with buttons instead of a zipper, to avoid the dreaded “pants tent.” But after I had demonstrated to him my love of martinis and the many bathroom visits they inspire, Yamamoto-san had relented with a zipper.

I left the fitting room and walked out into the crucible of menswear society. Although my suit felt Episcopalian, men gathered around me as if I were a bar mitzvah at the bimah. They touched the fabric; they touched my shoulders; they touched my arms and my collar. They followed me out into the Armoury’s well-lit backyard.

“It looks like it was painted on you,” one man said.

“The back is so clean.”

“Your shoulders slope, and this just hugs them.”

“The neck hugs the collar with no wrinkle.”

“The stitching adds texture and visual interest.”

“The weight helps it hang, the drape.”

“That’s a good lapel length.”

“You’re shaming us all tonight.”

The author strolling through New York with his newfound self-esteem (Dina Litovsky for The Atlantic)

I opened up my suit, shyly and then proudly, to let folks touch the iridescent lining within. Is this what it was like to be loved in this country? Yamamoto-san took me aside and told me that I must wear my suit all the time, and wear it casually, not just for special occasions. The suit was a part of me now. “What we have to divine is: What is a Gary Shteyngart suit?” Mark had once asked. Well, now we had divined it.

“If this becomes just for special occasions, I haven’t done my job,” Yamamoto-san said.

I promised him that I would never abandon the suit. Every week, I would find a use for it.

And I have kept my promise. I wear my suit regularly and with joy. I can do the Bertie knot in my sleep now. The different Ascot Chang shirts combine with either the polka-dot tie or its less formal counterpart, a silk foulard tie, to create different personalities. “You look like a crooner from the ’50s,” my wife, Esther, said of one combination. “You look like an English deacon,” she said of another.

“Bitch! You’re ready for anything now!” Shilpa wrote from Tuscany.

“I feel like you’re walking differently than you usually do,” my friend Sarah remarked. “You’re strutting a little.”

Only my 11-year-old son, Johnny, was unimpressed. “I wear a less comfortable version of that every single day,” he told me, pulling at the collar of his school uniform.

I began to wear my suit to all my meals and to take it into consideration when I ordered. What would my suit like to eat? I would ask. The suit wanted shrimp cocktail. Even after the noon hour, the suit wanted steak and eggs with Tabasco sauce and a Bloody Mary. I traveled with my suit to give a reading at the University of Pennsylvania. The suit was a perfect companion. It sprang out of my suitcase like a golden retriever, with not even the afterthought of a crease on it.

My head floating above the perfect triangle effectuated by my lapels, I gave one of the best readings of my life. Why shouldn’t I? I had always been content with my mind, but now I loved my body. It was no longer an object of discomfort and derision. I loved the small flickering muscles beneath my chest. I loved the roundness of my posture, my settled state. Like a character out of a James Salter novel, I loved my physique, my physicality. And I loved myself.

We did a photo shoot at Martiny’s, a Japanese-style cocktail bar on 17th Street. Yamamoto-san insisted that he would help supervise. He parted the tie for me as I lay on a couch to make me look more at ease, more Ivy style. He made sure that only half of the watch I had chosen for the shoot, a gilt-dial 1963 Rolex Explorer, would flash from beneath my cuff.

Dina Litovsky for The Atlantic

Afterward, Mark and I were walking through Tribeca past an immensely popular French bistro. It was the weekend, a prime dining hour; the place looked packed.

“Let’s get a table,” Mark said.

“Are you kidding?” I said. I mentioned several other restaurants down the street that might prove a better bet.

“Just go in and try,” Mark said. “I have to make a phone call.”

I approached the beautiful maître d’ alone, but instead of the usual sniveling noises I make in these situations, the excuses for not making a reservation, my understanding that I might have to wait for an hour or more for a table to open up, I stated forthrightly that my friend and I were in need of immediate sustenance.

A microsecond passed among myself, the maître d’, and my suit. A brief nod was issued. “Would you like the dining room or the bar?” she asked.

This article appears in the March 2025 print edition with the headline “Behold My Suit!” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

Should you find yourself invited to a sex party, it might be helpful to know that you are not obliged to have sex. You can listen to music or watch performances, observe your fellow guests, and, with permission, touch them. But no one will consider it rude should you leave without having sex. If you’re invited to an orgy, however, that’s a whole different ball of wax, and people will most certainly be offended if you don’t participate. Especially if you are the sixth person in the room, in which case your presence is technically crucial. An orgy requires six to 20 people. Fewer than six, and the encounter is simply categorized by the number of participants: threesomes, foursomes, and so on. More than 20, and we’re back in the terrain of the sex party.

This isn’t information that I, personally, ever felt I needed to know. Among other things, I have an aversion to crowds, especially in the bedroom. The performative aspects of sex parties that participants seem to enjoy most are, to me, a turnoff, another way that social media—and the image-driven FOMO culture it spawned—has made life into content.

But I decided to do my journalistic due diligence on sex parties because I kept reading about them in the news. For instance, New York’s former COVID czar acknowledged participating in what the New York Post called “drug-fueled sex parties”—during the first year of the pandemic, no less. (It’s probably not worth a letter to the editor, but given that he said his parties were limited to 10 people, we now know that technically the proper terminology for such a gathering is not sex party but orgy. Each participant, he says, took a COVID test before having sex. Turnoff doesn’t even begin to describe nasal-swab foreplay.)

In the course of my research, I did not—I would like to be clear here—participate in any sex parties. I think it’s wise not to get that close to your sources. I learned that “play parties” can take place in people’s homes, but many happen under the auspices of private clubs. I reached out to a number of prominent ones, wondering if the sex-club boom was real, and what actually goes on at them. One of my major findings: People, especially rich people, come up with extremely elaborate justifications for getting laid.

To be clear, these clubs are not brothels—guests have sex with one another, not with the club’s employees. Some say that they are putting on performances of “high erotic art”; others want to promote “equitable pleasure.” They all try to sell erotic experimentation less as a means of gratification than as a moral virtue. They are creating, they insist, not so much a venue for sex as a gathering space of “like-minded individuals.” People who are “liberated” from social mores. People who think differently. People for whom the normal rules don’t apply.

Snctm, a members-only sex club in Beverly Hills inspired by the movie Eyes Wide Shut, opened about a decade ago, and growth “was slow and steady” at first, Robert Artés, the club’s managing director, told me. “But the last three to four years, there’s been tremendous growth in this space.”

Snctm members pay $12,500 or more a year for access to masquerade parties that can cost upwards of $2,000 a ticket. KNKY Rabbit, a sex club in L.A., offers annual memberships that range from $10,000 for the “Fluffy Tail” level to $250,000 for the “Burrow Elite Membership.” NSFW, an exclusive sex club in New York, also has a tiered membership. The most basic, a reasonable $300, gets you access to a members’ chat group and invitations to parties. The “Tribute” and “Status” tiers can range from $750 to $2,500. Members, referred to as “lovers,” can purchase VIP-party upgrades for $1,000 a piece, or hire NSFW to create custom play experiences for themselves and their friends, starting at $5,000. Memberships are for life.

NSFW stands for New Society for Wellness, its owners say. The club claims more than 10,000 members around the world, and considers itself as much a movement as a club, dedicated, according to its mission statement, to helping members “Live Adventurously”: “We believe sex is a gift that should be explored, honored and mastered through experience and education. Knowledge gained from expanding your sexual wisdom is one path to real happiness.” Among the people seeking real happiness through such ends are CEOs, politicians, and celebrities, Daniel Saynt, the club’s founder and “chief conspirator,” told me. “We’re looking for the most creative, most interesting people. We’re trying to collect individuals who see sex as something that needs to be prioritized.” A 14-point questionnaire evaluates people on categories such as hygiene, goals for their “sexual journey,” wealth, career accolades, and travel history. An applicant must hit nine or more points of “attraction.”

This is not a key party with your schlubby neighbors. Members are not just rich and influential; they’re beautiful. Particularly the women, who at many parties are eligible for reduced-price or free admission. At clubs like KNKY Rabbit, applicants submit photos in addition to describing their sexual desires. Artés confirmed that Snctm screens “based on appearance”: “While we are inclusive of race, religion, gender identity, and everything like that, we do want a party of beautiful people.”

Snctm’s big selling point is anonymity. Artés said that its members are “affluent and prominent leaders in their field or in business, entertainment, or arts.” Some of the guests “keep their masks on all night long.” (Does a little mask over the eyes actually make a celebrity unrecognizable? Perhaps the illusion of anonymity is part of the fantasy.)

Putting on a show is essential. Guests arrive, mingle, and then take in performances—elaborate burlesque, shibari demos, flogging. NSFW exhibits highly produced erotic performances that make you feel “like you’re in a gallery,” Saynt told me. Snctm’s black-tie masquerades incorporate “erotic theater.” KNKY Rabbit combines “artistic innovation and exclusive experiences.”

Club owners say it’s just like interactive theater—except instead of giving a standing ovation at the end of the show, you can lie down and have sex with your fellow patrons of the arts. “What we do, you can’t do onstage at Lincoln Center,” Artés said.

It’s easy to draw a line from the libertines attracted to high-end sex clubs to the “move fast and break things” ethos of Silicon Valley technocrats. And the kink industry is thriving in the valley. In a Medium post, the product designer Chris Messina, famous in some circles for “inventing” the hashtag, described nonmonogamy as nothing more or less than a design solution: “Out here, we’re data-positive and solution-oriented and if your product (i.e. marriage) is failing for 50% of your customers, then you need to fix it or offer something better.”

In Brotopia, Emily Chang’s 2018 book on Silicon Valley, she writes about tech bros who speak frankly and “proudly” of their frequent industry orgies—“about how they’re overturning traditions and paradigms in their private lives, just as they do in the technology world they rule.”

A 2007 survey of individuals worth $30 million or more found that 70 percent felt like their wealth gave them a “better sex” life, and that the majority felt their sex life was more “adventurous and exotic” than other people’s. Threesomes are the most common sexual fantasy among Americans. For most people, they remain just that, but among the rich and famous, abundance is the word.

One of the things that draws people like these to sex parties is the fact that the standard rules don’t apply, that they’re places where the answer to every desire seems to be yes. These are people who are “chasing the rainbow,” as Jan Gerber, who runs Paracelsus Recovery, one of the most expensive rehab centers in the world, put it to me. Gerber has a front-row seat to the sex lives of the ultrarich because his clinic, which is based in Zurich, provides rehabilitation and psychiatric services to billionaires and the globally famous. It’s possible, he suggested, to become desensitized even to pleasure. You can do “something very exciting the first time,” he told me—whether it’s skydiving, shopping, or sex—but the brain’s “tolerance” builds. Soon “plain vanilla sex” just isn’t so “exciting anymore.” He said he sees a “higher incidence of narcissism” among “people of wealth, especially self-made ones.” They feel they deserve to be indulged.

Clay Cockrell, a therapist who specializes in working with the very wealthy, says he sees a lot of patients who feel like, “I’m bored. I’m numb.” Eventually, “you’ve flown on the private planes, eaten at the best restaurants … What else is there? Some of this then gets transferred into high-risk behavior, kink sexual behavior, because they’re bored and they want more.”

To each his own, I guess. But I can’t help but see these people’s dismissal of the simple joys of life—their insistence that monogamy is dull and middle-class—as a tragically snobby form of cynicism. In the course of my reporting, I often found the marketing of the clubs comic and absurd, but I came to see the people joining them as deeply sad.

Club managers stressed to me that even the rich and entitled have to follow the rules—that rules are in fact central to their business.

Touching other attendees requires affirmative consent. Touching paid performers is strictly forbidden. Some clubs, such as Snctm, don’t allow drugs and have strict rules for alcohol. “Whenever you have sex involved, you have consent issues,” Artés told me, “so we can’t have anybody on drugs or intoxicated.” This is not just about protecting guests; it’s also about staying in business. Performers have to sign contracts, and the club has a 38-page policy manual laying out the rules: “They cannot touch any of the guests. They cannot touch other performers because, otherwise, you could be in violation of prostitution laws.” The businesses already struggle against the biases of the financial industry, club runners told me. “We’ve had difficulty with banking, with credit-card processing,” Artés told me. “There are tax companies that have turned us down.”

Everyone I spoke with mentioned the importance of consent. Saynt told me he wanted to “create a space that feels safer than a bar … where you can walk around naked and you don’t feel like anyone’s going to harm you.” In this context, consent is not meant to be restrictive, but liberating. You can feel free because you’re told that nothing will happen to you that you don’t want to happen.

But no one stressed consent as much as Luis Cortes, at Sucia NYC. He and his wife, Morgana, started throwing their own parties after finding themselves uncomfortable in much of New York’s play-party scene, which he described as “very white,” not just in terms of demographics, but in terms of relationships to privilege and standards of beauty. They founded Sucia NYC in 2020 after the sex parties they were hosting in their own apartment got too big for the space. (“It was a lot,” he told me. “Like, we live here, right? I use the couch during the week.”) They now run the club out of a 2,200-square-foot space in Bushwick, Brooklyn, and charge a relatively affordable rate—$100 to $150 per event, with a sliding scale for teachers, artists, and activists. Their Instagram account emphasizes “community” and “decolonizing your pleasure.”

Sucia, Cortes told me, aims to center “the joy and pleasure of Black and Indigenous women and Black and Indigenous LGBTQI-plus populations.” It eschews traditional beauty standards and welcomes bodies of all shapes and sizes. It doesn’t charge men more than women, a practice Cortes objects to: “If you have women coming in for free and men are paying X amount of dollars,” he said, those men are “coming expecting something.” He sees consent as especially paramount because Sucia caters to a population that has historically “had less connection with bodily autonomy”—people who haven’t always been taught that they can say no.

Cortes said he’s seen people have breakthroughs and breakdowns at parties as they process shame, religious guilt, or past sexual trauma. The club offers aftercare workshops, and brings in experts for talks about sexuality and religion and combatting heteronormativity.

Cortes was also one of the only people I spoke with who never used the word fantasy. When I brought it up myself, he seemed offended. “That is lazy,” he told me. “That is dangerous. That is some fucking, like, knight-in-white-armor bullshit. It’s like, no—this isn’t fantasy; this is real things.” Then he said it even more emphatically: “We don’t, we don’t, we don’t, we don’t sell fantasies.”

[Read: At group sex parties, strict rules make for safe spaces]

But all club runners sell something. Everyone, including Cortes, is in the “sexpitality” industry. At a Sucia party, after a talk about consent, you can listen to Afrobeat and take in a performance. Cortes shared with me a list of some of his favorite acts: “Eli the naked trumpeter. They do flogging. They do impact play”; “You know Sir Marvelous. His thing is he does forced orgasms”; “Clavel Marchito, she is a sex-workers’-rights advocate out of Chile … and she’ll come in and do fire play and some flogging and stuff”; “Selena Surreal … She walks on glass. She does a knee dive into Lego bricks.”

Yes, these acts are real. Personally, I can’t imagine enjoying watching someone walk on glass, and playing with fire sounds less erotic than a Tony Robbins retreat. But these acts seem to offer another version of what Gerber and Cockrell were talking about—a way to break through all the boredom and numbness. Rich people might go to a sex club because they’re deadened by excess and privilege. Working-class people might go because they’re tired of being ground into dust. Either way, they all want to feel something again. Whether the club is promoted as a “path to real happiness,” art appreciation, or social justice, these are all businesses finding an ideological or class-appropriate way to market the pursuit of pleasure.

For some patrons, the party may not be an excuse for the sex at all; the sex may be the excuse for the party. Saynt told me that he’s noticed that younger patrons, especially Gen Z, are mostly interested in the “performance of eroticism.” “They’re not having sex at these parties as much,” he said. “They’re just coming for the costumes.”

All of this is in contrast to many of the sex-party stories I’d been reading in the news, about events such as Sean Combs’s “freak-offs,” at which he allegedly coerced drugged women into having sex with male prostitutes. That’s not a sex party: That’s a crime. (Combs “denies as false and defamatory” claims that he drugged and sexually abused people.) Recently, The New York Times reported on a document prepared by federal investigators showing “a web of payments” among former Representative Matt Gaetz and associates “who are said to have taken part with him in drug-fueled sex parties.” Court filings also accuse Gaetz—who was briefly Donald Trump’s pick for attorney general—of having sex at one of the parties with a 17-year-old girl. Also a crime. (Gaetz denied any wrongdoing and called the allegation that he’d slept with a teenager “a false smear”; the DOJ investigation was closed without any charges.)

And yet it’s not hard to imagine someone enjoying a sex party at Snctm or KNKY Rabbit, chafing against their limits, and then going off to do their own, independent thing. Saynt described to me a benign-sounding version of this: Members might meet for the first time at a play party, hit it off, and start “going on trips and going on yachts and boats and having little sex parties everywhere.” But presumably no one’s monitoring those sex parties in the middle of the sea to make sure the sex is safe and respectful.

We’re talking, as Cockrell put it, about rich people who are in “control of every aspect of their life. Nobody’s going to tell them no. And if somebody does, they’re just going to go build a castle where no doesn’t exist.”

People do bad things in castles like that.

Sex clubs promise people that they can push the limits of sexual freedom without going too far. They sell rule-breaking sex in a rule-bound environment. They say they’re breaking barriers—not repackaging the world’s oldest profession. As in any business, their promoters are hunting for an audience and building a brand.

Speaking of branding. I learned something at the end of my reporting that seemed to highlight the thin line between the sexual freedom promised by these parties and the darker impulses that the rules of our society exist to contain. When Robert Artés shared with me Snctm’s policy manual, full of rules to ensure the safety of its employees and guests, I saw another name listed on the front: Robert Testagrossa. After going down a few rabbit holes, I learned that Artés was a pseudonym, and for good reason. In 2007, Testagrossa pleaded guilty to assault and served five years in prison for what he acknowledged to me “were serious events, for which I accepted serious consequences.” He expressed regret for choices that were “driven by misguided passion and a lapse in judgment.”

His girlfriend at the time had lured a man who had ghosted her after sex to a hotel room. There, Testagrossa and another man Tasered the victim and held him down, while the woman heated up a piece of metal that had been twisted into a four-inch letter R. She then seared it into her former lover’s skin.

You can’t do that at Lincoln Center, either.

Day to day, most people can safely ignore that New Zealand rests along the boundary between the Indo-Australian and Pacific tectonic plates. But nature has a way of asserting itself. At 12:51 p.m. on February 22, 2011, the city of Christchurch was rocked by the aftershock of an earthquake that had struck more than five months earlier. Nearly 200 people died in this tragedy; some 70,000 were displaced.

According to the Insurance Council of New Zealand, at more than $31 billion, this was the “biggest insured event” in the nation’s history. Ten thousand homes needed to be rebuilt and another 3,500 demolished. As a result of this sharp decrease in housing supply, the cost of shelter spiked. In the aftermath of the Christchurch earthquake, New Zealand activated emergency authority to require local governments in the metro area to rezone land for housing, and the city proper was forced to allow denser townhouses as well. According to a 2021 report to the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, the rezoning was described as “releasing decades of land in one go.”

The Christchurch City Council estimated that 41 percent of the housing growth from 2010 to 2018 was a result of legalizing denser housing in the city. More ambitious changes followed elsewhere, most notably in the nation’s largest city, Auckland, which was pressured to allow—and fast-track—lots of new housing. A number of economic studies have subsequently shown that these reforms increased the supply of new houses while moderating prices: According to one study, rents would have been 28 percent higher without such reforms. The policy was a success, yet New Zealand still struggles to provide sufficient housing, and residents spend 30 percent more of their income on housing than the OECD average. Even with smart policies, it can take years, if not decades, to fully address a shortage.

New Zealand shares many similarities to the United States. It’s a car-dependent, heavily suburbanized country; more than 80 percent of the nation’s homes are detached, single-family homes—20 percentage points more than in America. And today, America’s second-largest city is facing its own natural disaster, and a set of choices for how to rebuild.

There are few places in the U.S. with a tougher housing market than Los Angeles, meaning there are few places where the destruction of several thousand homes would be harder to bear. By one estimate, Los Angeles County is 500,000 affordable homes short of having sufficient housing for its residents; an appalling homelessness crisis has resulted. Now, on top of this, one estimate predicts that the Los Angeles fires have consumed up to $275 billion in total damages and economic losses. According to Redfin, 6,354 homes have been destroyed or damaged, resulting in significant downstream consequences. “A rental listed for $16,000 per month got bid up to $30,000,” one agent recounted.

[Read: How well-intentioned policies fueled L.A.’s fires]

In the coming months and years, the Los Angeles housing market, already extremely tight, will feel the strain of displaced homeowners and renters looking for a way to stay in the region as their neighborhoods undergo the long process of rebuilding. And it is a long process—just look at the state of Hawaii, where just three of the 2,000 homes destroyed by the 2023 wildfires have been rebuilt, Reason reported last week. The interminable pace is due in large part to the local and state governments’ failure to shape the regulatory environment to encourage housing production.

At least in California, policy makers are showing some signs of life: California Governor Gavin Newsom signed an executive order waiving some of the red tape that holds up housing production, such as the California Environmental Quality Act (CEQA). But Newsom’s order applies only to properties that burned down or were substantially damaged, and it prevents new housing from exceeding 10 percent of the original structure’s footprint and height. This means, in most cases, that only a single-family house like the one that existed previously can be built.

“I’m glad the governor and the mayor have issued executive orders to try to make it easier for people to get quick permits,” California State Senator Scott Wiener, a leading housing advocate, told me. “But I think it’s really important not to force homeowners to automatically rebuild the same way as before.”

Wiener and others, such as newly minted Representative Laura Friedman, whose district covers parts of Los Angeles, have argued that exempting infill housing from CEQA—not just rebuilding what was there before—is a crucial part of the solution. In a phone call last week, Friedman told me of a friend who’d lost her Pacific Palisades home of 50 years to the ongoing fires. But, Friedman went on, the family doesn’t necessarily need to replicate their old home. “She and her family are devastated,” Friedman told me, “but she told me that at her age, she prefers to now move into a condo in a place where she’s not going to be worried every night about another fire.”

The persistent threat of future wildfires means that California’s challenge is not just to rebuild what was lost, but also to build much more housing in areas less prone to wildfires to begin with. It sounds remarkably elementary: If you don’t want people to live in places that are likely to burn down, you have to build in places that aren’t likely to burn down.

[Read: How Los Angeles must rebuild]

Los Angeles has tried this. Days after being sworn into office in December 2022, Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass signed a directive to ensure that housing developments where all the units are affordable would get their permits within 60 days rather than languishing for months or even years, bypassing some of the onerous requirements and regulations that usually accompany multifamily housing. This change spurred production of apartments affordable to people making less than $100,000. After a little more than a year, developers submitted plans for more than 13,770 affordable units—nearly as many as the city approved in 2020, 2021, and 2022 combined, CalMatters reported last year. Some studio units are expected to go for as little as $1,800, a remarkable coup for unsubsidized new construction in expensive Los Angeles.

It’s exactly the type of policy that would weaken incentives to build farther out into wildfire-prone territory. In fact, the program was so successful that Bass has been backpedaling on it ever since. As the story often goes, the triumph of the program meant that a lot of new buildings were allowed, sometimes in neighborhoods where at least a few residents opposed new development and complained to their local officials. Soon enough, the policy reversals began. Bass exempted areas with single-family homes from accessing the streamlined affordable-housing permits (which make up 74 percent of the city’s residential land) and then layered on a series of requirements that turned the policy from “remarkable” to “status quo,” one economist remarked.

Andrew Slocum, a developer who has affordable-housing projects approved under this program, told me he is frustrated by the rollbacks and his sense that political leadership isn’t taking the housing crisis seriously enough. Slocum recently sent an email to the Los Angeles Department of Building and Safety as well as to Bass’s office arguing that the city is illegally holding up housing projects contra state law. This is not an isolated complaint. Last fall, a county judge ruled that L.A. had violated state and local law when it blocked 360 affordable apartments near single-family homes. Los Angeles is not the first California city to be accused of flouting state requirements to permit housing more quickly: Malibu, Berkeley, Huntington Beach, and other localities have all come under scrutiny.

I reached out to Bass’s office and the L.A. Department of Building for comment, and the mayor’s spokesperson Zach Seidl replied in an email, “Since taking office Mayor Bass has executed a comprehensive strategy to confront housing unaffordability in Los Angeles.”

Seidl also told me that L.A. permits more Accessory Dwelling Units “than anywhere else in California.” This is unsurprising. Los Angeles is the second-biggest city in the nation and is almost three times as large as the next-biggest city in California. Last year, the Los Angeles Times looked at ADUs permitted per 1,000 housing units and found that L.A. barely cracked the top 10 of cities in Los Angeles County.

[Read: The truth about NIMBYs]

This is the trap California has set for itself. In order to prevent costly damages from wildfires and further residential incursions into fire-prone areas, you have to provide more housing in dense urban corridors. But in order to satisfy NIMBY gadflies and antidevelopment members of the Democratic coalition, you have to make it difficult to build new housing basically everywhere.

Los Angeles and even California are not alone in trying to balance these concerns. And in most contexts, it’s easier to fold to short-term political pressure that prevents new construction. But the math is quickly changing. In acceding to critics, policy makers might think they are satisfying their residents’ desire for stability and maintaining the neighborhood character of these communities. But by hell or high water—quite literally—change is coming anyway.

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I’ve been on trial half my life. Yesterday, my 18-year legal drama finally came to an end when the Court of Cassation, Italy’s highest court, definitively convicted me of criminal slander. Many people are familiar with my wrongful conviction for Meredith Kercher’s murder, but this lesser charge, arising from statements I signed during my interrogation, is the one that has continued to haunt me. The charge resulted from a lie invented by the police: that I was present when my roommate Meredith was sexually assaulted and murdered at our apartment in Perugia in 2007. Everything that subsequently went wrong in the investigation and prosecution—the tunnel vision, junk science, biased witnesses—flowed from that lie.

The interrogation I was subjected to remains the most terrifying experience of my life—more terrifying than that first crushing guilty verdict and 26-year sentence; more terrifying than prison itself. I was 20 years old, and was questioned for more than 53 hours over a five-day period in a language I was only just learning to speak. The night of Meredith’s murder, I had stayed with Raffaele Sollecito, a young man I’d just started dating. But no matter how many times I said that, the police refused to believe me. I was berated, threatened, lied to, and slapped, and eventually my sanity broke—I began to believe the lies the police were telling me, and I agreed to sign statements placing myself and another innocent man in the house when the crime had occurred. I recanted only a few hours later, but it didn’t matter. I was coerced into signing the statements and then charged with criminal slander for doing so. (The police, who did not record the interrogation as they were supposed to, deny that I was hit or pressured into making these statements.)

This conviction branded me a malicious liar, and cast suspicion over me even after I was acquitted of murder and freed from prison. And it allowed the Italian authorities to scapegoat me for leading the investigation astray, instead of owning up to their failures. Now I have to live with this wrongful conviction for the rest of my life.

In the first few days of the investigation, the police found what appeared to be black hairs on Meredith’s body that they seem to have believed belonged to someone of African descent. A young man who lived in the flat below ours told the police that a Black man known as “the baron” had visited his apartment in the past. With fingerprints and DNA yet to return from the lab, these were their big leads.

But the police were also suspicious of me. Giuliano Mignini, the prosecutor who led the investigation, was convinced that the perpetrator had not broken into our home, as it appeared—a window was shattered, a rock was found inside. On a hunch, Mignini decided that the break-in had been staged, and therefore, that someone with access to our flat was involved in the murder and covering it up. Of Meredith’s three roommates, I stood out as the youngest and most immature. I was also the lone foreigner—the others were Italians working in law offices. One had been out of town, and the other had screamed and wept after seeing the grisly scene in Meredith’s bedroom. I never saw inside the room, nor did I understand much of the rapid-fire Italian being shouted back and forth. It took me longer to comprehend what had actually happened, and I came off as cold and unmoved in comparison.

One of my roommates also asked me to lie—to deny to the police that we smoked marijuana. She said that they would lose their jobs if anyone found out. So I covered for them. But the police found marijuana plants in the apartment below ours—something I was unaware of—and began to wonder if I was keeping more from them.

When the police interrogate you, the first thing they do is isolate you. Isolation is not just about the room you’re in (one with no windows and no clocks). It’s about making you feel that the police themselves are your only support system. This was easy for the Perugia police; I was in a foreign country thousands of miles from my family, and I often didn’t understand what was being asked of me. I assumed that the police’s unwillingness to believe me was the fault of my own inadequate Italian. The police had also tapped my phone, and knew that my mother was flying to Italy to help me, and that soon I’d no longer be alone. And so, hours before her arrival, they broke me in that final interrogation.

They had discovered a text message on my phone that I’d written to my friend Patrick Lumumba the day of Meredith’s murder. I had been working for Patrick part-time as a hostess at his pub, Le Chic. He’d given me the night off, and I’d replied: “Certo. Ci vediamo più tardi, buona serata.” This was my attempt at translating the English idiom see you later, but to the Italian police, it read as if I’d made a literal appointment to meet Patrick later that night. Bingo.

Patrick was a Congolese immigrant. Here was their African—the source, they assumed, of those hairs. The police were convinced that I’d invited Patrick over, that he had assaulted and murdered Meredith, and that I’d staged a break-in to cover for him.

The interrogation became a relentless pursuit of a confession. I now know that the tactics the police used on me were a version of the Reid Technique, the most widely used interrogation tactic in the world. Police-reform advocates argue that the approach increases the stress associated with denial, while reducing the stress associated with confession. The problem is that it works against the guilty and innocent alike, and studies have shown that police are no better than a coin flip at predicting whether a suspect is lying—though they are, unfortunately, confident in their judgments. (The Reid company denies that the technique increases the risk of false confessions, which they say happen when investigators don’t follow its guidelines.)

They began by contradicting me relentlessly. Countless times, I denied meeting Patrick or knowing anything about the murder. But they would not hear it. They nitpicked every detail of my testimony about my night at Raffaele’s—Did you have dinner at 9:30 or at 10? Did you have sex before or after, and how long did it last? With a guilty suspect, this technique is effective at poking holes in their lies. But with me, an innocent suspect, it degraded my trust in my memories.

Then they lied to me: We have hard evidence placing you at the scene of the crime that night. We know you were there. Like many people, I had assumed that the police were bound by some code of ethics to tell the truth. I could not fathom that they would, or even could, lie to me.

All of this—compounded by the bullying, exhaustion, promises, and threats—reshaped my sense of reality, and made it hard to know what was true and what wasn’t. It was here that my interrogators suggested a reason I couldn’t remember being present when the crime had occurred: I must have witnessed something so traumatic that I’d blocked it out.

This was a minimizing tactic to position me as a witness, not a suspect. And after hours of being accused of lying, it was almost a relief to think that I really was suffering from trauma-induced amnesia. But I still couldn’t remember anything other than spending the night at Raffaele’s. So the police led me to add more details: We know you met with Patrick that night. Where did you meet him? Was Meredith home when you let him inside? I tried my best to imagine what they demanded I remember. I strung together fragments of real memories—Patrick’s brown jacket, a basketball court on the way to my house, our kitchen. But even as I was threatened with 30 years in prison if I didn’t give them the answers they wanted, I still couldn’t imagine anything to do with the murder itself.

This culminated with an officer named Rita Ficarra slapping me on the back of the head, shouting, “Remember! Remember!” until my sanity gave way completely, and I blurted out, “It was Patrick!”—surprising even myself. I was so traumatized, I truly believed that I was on the cusp of recovering some lost memory.

The police high-fived and cheered, then typed up my ramblings. At 1:45 a.m., I signed the statement. Then they rushed off to arrest Patrick. My mom had arrived in Italy and she was calling my phone, but the police wouldn’t let me answer it. They said it was evidence now. A few hours later, Mignini, the prosecutor, arrived to take another statement to try to fill the gaping holes in the first one. I made inferences based on his suggestions.

Did you hear her scream?

I don’t know.

We know you were there. How could you not have heard her scream?

I guess I must have heard her scream.

The police typed it up. Compliant and disoriented, I signed that statement, too, at 5:45 a.m. Only then was I allowed to rest. I curled up on two plastic chairs and fell asleep.

When I woke a few hours later, the “memories” I’d been pressured into imagining didn’t feel real. I told the police that I couldn’t bear witness against Patrick. They ignored me. One reassured me, Your memories will return in time. I demanded a pen and paper and wrote a recantation, explaining that I had been confused and pressured into implicating Patrick. I wrote, “Is the evidence proving my pressance [sic] at the time and place of the crime reliable? If so, what does this say about my memory? Is it reliable?” and “Who is the REAL murder [sic]?”

I handed this recantation—what would become known as my memoriale—to the police. They handcuffed me and led me to Capanne prison. Even then, I still believed them when they said I was merely a witness. It wasn’t until days later, when I was officially charged with murder, that I understood I was a suspect.

Knox in 2007. Courtesy of Amanda Knox

Patrick, thank God, had a rock-solid alibi. But despite his alibi and my recantation, the police still refused to release him. They kept him in custody even after the forensic evidence came back showing that the hairs they’d recovered weren’t human; they were likely coarse wool fibers. Among the many samples and evidentiary items collected from Meredith’s room, there was not a single trace of Patrick—or of me.

Instead, the evidence started to point to a local burglar named Rudy Guede, whose nickname was “the baron.” The murderer had left behind, traced in Meredith’s blood, fingerprints, a bare footprint, and multiple shoeprints. Just a week before the murder, Guede had been arrested in Milan after breaking into a nursery school, where he was found with a large knife. After the murder, he fled to Germany. Soon, the police released Guede’s name and photo to the media and issued an arrest warrant. In a Skype call with a friend, secretly observed by the police, he said that he’d been with Meredith at the house that night, and that I was not there, as the media were reporting. He made no mention of Patrick.     

Once Guede was apprehended, Patrick was released. The media paid little attention as one Black man was traded for another. (The police kept Le Chic closed for months, and Patrick ended up losing the business.) Instead, the media focused on me—“Foxy Knoxy,” the allegedly drug-addled girl next door gone wild who’d orchestrated what they were now describing as a death orgy with Guede and Raffaele. Guede was charged and convicted of sexual assault and murder “with others” in a fast-track trial; Raffaele and I were charged and convicted of the sexual assault and murder a year later. (Guede has maintained that he is innocent, and continues to insist that Raffaele and I carried out his crime.)

The lie that I was at the house when the crime occurred led to repeated instances of what is called forensic confirmation bias. The lie colored the collection and analysis of all the other evidence. It led police to ignore exonerating evidence, such as my lack of a motive or any history of violence or mental illness, my alibi, and the virtual impossibility of participating in such a brutal murder without leaving a single trace of DNA in the room. And it led them to distort and magnify the significance of trivial evidence, such as the fact that my DNA had been found in the bathroom where Guede attempted to clean off Meredith’s blood. Of course my DNA was found there—that was my bathroom too.

This phenomenon has been demonstrated by the cognitive neuroscientist Itiel Dror. In a 2006 study, he gave six fingerprint experts pairs of prints that, unbeknownst to them, they had previously judged in their own casework as matching or not. The experts were given some made-up context for each pair of prints. For the nonmatches, they were told that the suspect had confessed to the crime; for the matches, they were told that the suspect had an ironclad alibi. This fictional information resulted in two-thirds of the experts changing some of their original judgments. Believing that a suspect confessed alters the supposed objectivity of scientific experts. Dror went on to show a similar effect in other forensic domains, including DNA analysis and forensic pathology.

The jury, too, was swayed by the lie, though I truly believe that if they could have observed my interrogation, they would have known better. But my interrogation was not recorded, so no one saw the yelling, the slapping, and how I was psychologically manipulated. The irony is that at the time, Italy was more progressive on this issue than the United States: Recording interrogations was mandatory. But the police and prosecution claimed that my interrogation had been merely an “interview”—that I was not a suspect but merely a witness, and thus I was not entitled to a lawyer or a recording.

Italy’s own courts ruled that my interrogation was illegal and that the statements I’d signed were inadmissible as evidence for the murder charge. But while being tried for murder, I was simultaneously being tried by the same jury for criminal slander, and the judge allowed the statements as evidence for the slander charge. So the jurors were instructed to ignore the statements for the first charge, but scrutinize them closely for the second. It’s absurd to think that one didn’t affect the other. Had I not been charged with slander, I may never have been wrongly convicted of murder.

After four years in prison, Raffaele and I were acquitted of murder in 2011, when the court-appointed DNA experts found that the minuscule traces supposedly linking us to the crime were unreliable, and possibly the result of lab contamination. But our acquittal was appealed by the prosecution, and we were reconvicted of the same crime in 2014, based largely on spurious character evidence. Finally, in 2015, we were definitively acquitted by the Court of Cassation. In all of those trials, my slander conviction was upheld, with a sentence of three years—time served. And in that 2015 ruling, the high court also affirmed the police’s initial lie. Many who still believed in my guilt pointed to this “judicial fact” to support their theories: Amanda Knox is a liar, and she was there that night. Even if she is innocent, she knows more than she’s telling.

This left me free, but wrongly convicted; it let Guede avoid taking full responsibility for his crimes; and it left the Kercher family with a needless cloud of uncertainty.     

I have been trying to appeal the slander conviction ever since. In 2019, the European Court of Human Rights ruled in my favor, sanctioning Italy for failing to provide me with a lawyer during the interrogation. Then, with the help of the Italy Innocence Project, I appealed to the Court of Cassation to reopen the case, and in 2023, it overturned my slander conviction and sent the case back to the appellate level for retrial. The high court limited this new trial to examining a single piece of evidence. The statements I’d been pressured into signing were no longer admissible. All that the judges and jury could consider was the handwritten recantation, my memoriale, in which I’d written things like “I’m unsure about the truth,” and “I don’t feel I can be used as condemming [sic] testimone [sic].”  

I traveled back to Italy for the hearing in June 2024, and testified once more. The judges and jury deliberated for two hours, then came back and found me guilty. I was dumbfounded, and deeply depressed. The conviction legally required two things to be true: that I’d made a false accusation, and that I’d done so knowingly. As for the false accusation, the presiding judge pointed to this line in my memoriale: “I stand by my statements that I made last night about events that could have taken place in my home with Patrik [sic].” I wrote this to affirm to the police, after being repeatedly accused of lying, that I was genuinely confused. I finished that sentence with “but I want to make very clear that these events seem more unreal to me than what I said before, that I stayed at Raffaele’s house.”

As for the second requirement, the court cited my memoriale when I wrote, “I saw myself cowering in the kitchen with my hands over my ears because in my head I could hear Meredith screaming. But I’ve said this many times so as to make myself clear: these things seem unreal to me, like a dream.” Despite the obvious confusion of my statements, the court argued that this mention of a scream was irrefutable evidence of my presence at the house, and proved that I knew who was and wasn’t there. In short, the court ruled that my memoriale was both false and slanderous and accurate and reliable.

I appealed this ruling to the Court of Cassation in one last bid to clear my name. And here we are.

In Italy, there is a notion of bella figura—of putting on a good face. An old-world sanctity persists around reputations, defamation and slander are taken very seriously, and officials are terrified of looking bad—everyone’s egos are at stake. An Italian lawyer once explained my slander conviction to me as a contentina, a “small contentment” handed down by the Court of Cassation to the lower courts and prosecutors. It was incredibly embarrassing for all involved when the high court absolved me of murder and cited “sensational failures” in the investigation and “culpable omissions” in the prosecution. So the high court upheld the slander conviction as a consolation prize for the officials they were rebuking. This absolved them of responsibility for justice going awry, because they could blame me, the liar, for derailing the investigation.

I’m crushed that Italy has cemented this lie into the legal record, and that I have no further recourse to clear my name in that country.

I am not a liar or a slanderer. But in the midst of all this, there is someone who committed slander, though he has never been charged with it. Rudy Guede falsely accused me and Raffaele of his crime after his arrest; in one interview from prison, he said that he was “101 percent” certain I was there the night of the murder. He is free again, after serving just 13 years in prison, and is being charged and investigated for sexual and physical abuse of another young woman. (He denies the allegations.) He continues to smear Raffaele and me. After his release, he said in an interview, “The documents say others were there and that I did not inflict the fatal wounds.”

Guede’s lies—and his relatively short sentence and release—are derivative of the lie invented by the police that evidence placed me at the scene of the crime. For a long time, I blamed myself for succumbing to the pressure to believe that lie. But what happened to me is not unusual.

My first glimmer of understanding came in prison, when I received a letter from Saul Kassin, a psychologist and an expert in false confessions. What had happened to me fit a playbook that had been used against hundreds—perhaps thousands—of other innocent people. The isolation, the bullying, the nitpicking of my memories, the excessive hours under interrogation, the refusal of food and bathroom breaks (I was even on my period and bleeding through my pants), the minimization, and the deception—they were all by the book. A tremendous sense of relief washed over me in realizing that what had happened was not my fault, and I came to find fellowship with others who had been put through coercive interrogations.

“Can you imagine,” Kassin told me recently, when I interviewed him for a podcast series I produced called False Confessions, “in the Central Park Five case, if each one of the five was charged with slander for implicating the others?” They, too, were lied to about the evidence against them. And like me, they all believed that they were merely witnesses, and that they would be released after signing their confessions.

But the case I see as most parallel to my own is that of Marty Tankleff, who was accused of killing his parents in Long Island in 1988. He was told that his father had awoken from a coma to say that his son was responsible. Tankleff could not comprehend how his father would lie about something like that, and after the police offered him the suggestion of a traumatic blackout, he came to believe that he’d been involved—just long enough for the police to obtain his confession. It sent him to prison for 17 years, until he was exonerated.

The problem with police deception is not that it breaks your will—isolation, bullying, and exhaustion do that—it’s that it loosens your grip on reality. This is why advocates in the U.S. are now pushing to ban deception by police during interrogations, something that has long been illegal in the United Kingdom, Germany, France, Australia, and elsewhere.

In the past few years, laws have been passed in various states in the U.S. to prohibit the police from lying to suspects during custodial interrogations, but they are all limited to minors. Adults, too, are vulnerable to these same pressures. At 20, I was in so many ways still a naive child. When I testified before the Washington State legislature last year in support of a bill that would ban the use of any testimony gathered through police deception, regardless of the suspect’s age, I was shocked to hear a law-enforcement representative frankly admit that police need to lie to do their job. The bill ended up being gutted; next week, I will testify in support of a new version of it.

When police tell the truth, they’re not only being more ethical—they’re also being more effective. A rapport-based interview method called PEACE has been embraced by the U.K., Canada, and several other countries. It eschews deception in favor of open-ended questions, and has been found to yield better information than guilt-presumptive techniques. And it has the added benefit of not destroying the trust between the police and the communities they are supposed to protect and serve.

Today, I’m going to allow myself to grieve this final ruling in my own case. But tomorrow I’m going to pick myself up and continue advocating for changing the law going forward. I’ve emerged from this legal saga with a deep understanding of how lies can derail the course of justice. When the police lie about evidence to suspects, they usually do so with noble intentions. They aren’t trying to elicit false confessions, but those lies can send the innocent to prison, let the guilty go free, and deprive victims of the closure they deserve.   

No drug is quite like nicotine. When it hits your bloodstream, you’re sent on a ride of double euphoria: an immediate jolt of adrenaline, like a strong cup of coffee injected directly into your brain, along with the calming effect of a beer. Nicotine is what gets people hooked on cigarettes, despite their health risks and putrid smell. It is, in essence, what cigarette companies are selling, and what they’ve always been selling. Without nicotine, a cigarette is just smoldering leaves wrapped in some fancy paper.

But if the Biden administration gets its way, that’s essentially all cigarettes will be. Today, regulators at the FDA announced that they are pushing forward with a rule that would dramatically limit how much nicotine can go in a cigarette. The average cigarette nowadays is estimated to have roughly 17 milligrams of the drug. Under the new regulation, that would fall to less than one milligram. If enacted—still a big if—it would decimate the demand for cigarettes more effectively than any public-service announcement ever could.

The idea behind the proposal is to make cigarettes nonaddictive. One study found that some young people begin feeling the symptoms of nicotine addiction within a matter of days after starting to smoke. In 2022, roughly half of adult smokers tried to quit, but fewer than 10 percent were ultimately successful.

For that reason, the rule could permanently change smoking in America. The FDA insists that the proposal isn’t a ban per se. But in the rule’s intended effect, ban may indeed be an apt term. The FDA estimates that nearly 13 million people—more than 40 percent of current adult smokers—would quit smoking within one year of the rule taking effect. After all, why inhale cancerous fumes without even the promise of a buzz? By the end of the century, the FDA predicts, 4.3 million fewer people would die because of cigarettes. The agency’s move, therefore, should be wonderful news for just about everyone except tobacco executives. (Luis Pinto, a vice president at Reynolds American, which makes Camel and Newport cigarettes, told me in an email that the policy “would effectively eliminate legal cigarettes and fuel an already massive illicit nicotine market.”)

Still, there’s no telling whether the FDA’s idea will actually come to fruition. The regulation released today is just a proposal. For the next eight months, the public—including tobacco companies—will have the opportunity to comment on the proposal. Then the Trump administration can decide whether to finalize the regulation as is, make changes, or scrap it entirely. Donald Trump has not signaled what he will do, and his relationship to cigarettes is complicated. In 2017, his FDA commissioner put the idea of cutting the nicotine in cigarettes to nonaddictive levels on the agency’s agenda. But the tobacco industry has recently attempted to cozy up to the president-elect. A subsidiary of Reynolds donated $10 million to a super PAC backing Trump. Even if the Trump administration finalizes the rule, the FDA plans to give tobacco companies two years to comply, meaning that the earliest cigarettes would actually change would be fall 2027.

If Trump goes through with the rule, it may be the end of cigarettes. But although cigarettes might be inseparable from nicotine, nicotine is not inseparable from cigarettes. These days, people looking to consume the drug can pop a coffee-flavored Zyn in their upper lip or puff on a banana-ice-flavored e-cigarette. These products are generally safer than cigarettes because they do not burn tobacco, and it is tobacco smoke, not nicotine, that causes most of the harmful effects of cigarettes. FDA estimates that should cigarettes lose their nicotine, roughly half of current smokers would transition to other, safer products to get their fix, Brian King, the head of the FDA’s tobacco center, told me.

Whether nicotine’s staying power is a good thing is still unclear. Few people—even in the tobacco industry—will argue with a straight face that cigarettes are safe. Nicotine defenders, however, are far more common. In my time covering nicotine, I have spoken with plenty of people who emphatically believe that the drug helps them get through their day, and that their habit is no more shameful or harmful than an addiction to caffeine. There is clearly a market for these products. Just ask Philip Morris International, which earlier this year invested $600 million to build a new factory to meet surging demand for Zyn. But it’s true, too, that nicotine is addictive, regardless of how it’s consumed. There isn’t much data looking at long-term impacts of these new nicotine-delivery devices, but the effects of nicotine, such as increased heart rate and blood pressure, are enough to give cardiologists pause.

I promised my parents—both smokers during my childhood—that I’d never pick up a cigarette. I kept that promise. But about a year ago, I started to wonder just how bad safer forms of nicotine could actually be. (Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry.) I found myself experimenting with Zyn. Doing so gave me a window into why my parents craved cigarettes, but it also quickly gave me a firsthand look at why it was always so hard for them to quit. My one-Zyn-a-day habit quickly became two, and two became four. And yet, each time the pouch hit my lip, that burst of dopamine seemed to get more and more lackluster. Soon enough, I was reaching for nicotine without even thinking about it. The FDA’s new proposal, if finalized, will mean that misguided teens (or, in my case, 33-year-olds) prone to experimentation won’t do so with deadly cigarettes. But that will be far from the end of America’s relationship with nicotine.