Tomorrow, in Cape Canaveral, Florida, a Boeing-built spacecraft is set to blast off toward the International Space Station, carrying a human crew for the first time. The astronauts have been in preflight quarantine, getting some extra practice for the historic ride through flight simulations. The rocket stands tall on the launchpad, with the spacecraft, Starliner, perched on top. The weather forecast looks nearly perfect.

This might be more exciting if we hadn’t seen it all before. Boeing’s first crewed launch was originally supposed to happen three weeks ago. The astronauts donned new Boeing-blue spacesuits, said goodbye to their loved ones, and strapped into a capsule perched on a rocket humming with fuel. Then a valve on the rocket malfunctioned, and the launch was called off and rescheduled. Then engineers discovered a small helium leak within Starliner itself. While analyzing the leak, engineers stumbled upon a “design vulnerability” in the spacecraft’s propulsion system, further delaying the test flight. It’s surreal to imagine that this spacecraft might actually get off the ground tomorrow—not only because of the recent trouble, but because these problems are just the latest in a string of issues.

Even if Starliner flies tomorrow, Boeing’s track record with this kind of spaceflight has so far proved spotty at best. That’s concerning because actual people are getting into Starliner tomorrow to jet off to the ISS. But the company’s record also matters because every Boeing misstep leaves the United States ever more reliant on its rival company, SpaceX, and its CEO, Elon Musk, to transport its astronaut to space. Boeing doesn’t need to be the most groundbreaking or exciting American aerospace company to fulfill its duty to NASA. It merely needs to be a reliable transportation provider for America’s astronaut corps. And with this flight, it must prove that Starliner can simply work.

In 2011, after three decades of service, 135 missions, and two deadly disasters, America’s venerated fleet of space shuttles went into permanent retirement. But the country still needed a way to send its astronauts to the International Space Station, which demands constant staffing. So NASA turned to the private sector for help. It hired two companies—one young and inventive, the other established and staid—to develop new rides for its commuting spacefarers. SpaceX brought its first duo of astronauts to the ISS in the spring of 2020, in the thick of the pandemic. Since then, SpaceX has been consistently transporting four-person crews to the station, inside the company’s Dragon spacecraft and on its Falcon 9 rocket.

[Read: SpaceX’s riskiest business]

And Boeing … Well, last year, NASA’s second-in-command, Pam Melroy, told The Washington Post that Boeing’s inability to cross over into operational Starliner flights was "existential." In addition to the most recent round of software glitches and faulty hardware, Starliner has suffered repeated complications that have set it several years behind schedule. Boeing and SpaceX started out at roughly the same pace, both launching their respective new astronaut capsule to the ISS for the first time in 2019. But whereas SpaceX’s test went off without a hitch, Boeing’s was cut short. I still remember the eerie silence that settled over the press site at Kennedy Space Center, in Florida, when officials realized that Starliner’s flight software had malfunctioned, and the spacecraft couldn’t reach the space station. Then, as Starliner made its way home, engineers discovered and fixed a software error that, if left uncorrected, could have resulted in a catastrophic failure.

Boeing didn’t complete a successful uncrewed mission until 2022, and has spent the past two years fixing still more issues. Every new space vehicle turns up problems for manufacturers to troubleshoot and iron out, and delays are common in the industry. But Boeing’s struggles have only compounded in recent weeks, when engineers made concerning discoveries about Starliner after NASA and Boeing officials had determined that the spacecraft was finally ready to fly.

Technicians have since replaced the wonky valve on the rocket, a frequently used vehicle from the manufacturer United Launch Alliance. Officials have decided not to plug the helium leak, determining that it doesn’t pose a safety hazard. An analysis of the propulsion system’s design vulnerability on Starliner determined that it could prevent the spacecraft from carrying out the maneuvers necessary to return to Earth, but only under rare circumstances. Engineers have also brainstormed several temporary solutions to the latter. Boeing officials said they’ll apply a permanent fix to later Starliner flights, but for now, the teams have decided the spacecraft is fine to launch as is.

At a press conference last week, Mark Nappi, the manager of Boeing’s commercial-spaceflight program, said that although his team had missed the design weakness, he wasn’t concerned about Boeing’s process for determining flight readiness. "Hardware issues or hardware failures are just part of our business," Nappi said. "They are going to occur as we do launch preps; they’re going to occur in flight." Uncovering anomalies is indeed a natural part of the spaceflight industry. But such reasoning might not sound reassuring to the public. (Earlier today, a Boeing spokesperson told me that the company has no additional comment on the latest issues and pointed to Nappi’s recent remarks.)

All of this drama is unfolding while Boeing is under intense scrutiny for other recent events: this year’s infamous panel-blowing-off-the-plane-mid-flight incident and two fatal crashes several years before that. The company’s air and space divisions are two separate entities, and air travel and spaceflight are, of course, enormously different experiences. Starliner staff has NASA personnel watching over their shoulders, especially after the space agency admitted in 2020 that its oversight had previously been "insufficient." But the departments are part of the same embattled company, which faces multiple government investigations and the loss of its CEO amid the ongoing safety crisis. With every delay and bad surprise, the space part of Boeing will have a harder time convincing the government and the public that it’s the more capable, responsible sibling.

[Jerry Useem: Boeing and the dark age of American manufacturing]

Boeing is supposed to make six regular-service flights for NASA in the coming years. In so doing, it would help fulfill the agency’s desire to have more than one form of astronaut transportation in operation. NASA leaders have touted competition among contractors as a way to make spaceflight cheaper, but they also have more pressing motivators than cost. If SpaceX, the agency’s current sole provider, has to suddenly ground its spaceships, NASA would have to consider turning to Russia for rides again. This arrangement brought NASA through the post-shuttle years from 2011 to 2020, but some members of Congress have always resented the arrangement.

Now NASA has once again deemed Boeing ready to attempt a crewed Starliner flight, and is projecting a fairly calm attitude about Starliner’s latest round of problems. When asked whether NASA was concerned that the issues hadn’t been found sooner, leaders emphasized that the inaugural crewed mission is a test flight. In fact, all of the 135 flights the space shuttles made could be considered test flights, "because we learned something on every single one of those flights," Jim Free, NASA’s associate administrator, said at the press conference last week. More than half a century in, spaceflight remains a dangerous production. By informally labeling every mission a test flight, NASA risks diminishing the importance of accountability for problems that arise, especially in the aftermath of a harrowing or even deadly event.

Tomorrow’s launch, if it happens, will mark only the beginning of Boeing’s high-stakes demonstration. Starliner must deliver the astronauts assigned to it—the former military pilots Barry Wilmore and Sunita Williams—to the space station, protect them during a fiery atmospheric reentry, and land them in the New Mexico desert. In a recent post about Wilmore and Williams on X, Chris Hadfield, a retired Canadian astronaut who flew on two shuttle missions, wrote, “We’ve never been totally ready for launch—just need to convince ourselves we’re ready enough.” Perhaps only someone who has flown to space can say the quiet part out loud.

In 2018, Omarosa Manigault Newman turned a long-standing rumor into a piece of news: Donald Trump, she alleged, had used racist epithets on the set of The Apprentice. And the slurs, she claimed, had been caught on tape. Her claim led to a frenzy of speculation: Would the Apprentice recordings do what the Access Hollywood tapes had not? Would the show that had bolstered Trump’s rise in politics be, in the end, his undoing? What becomes of a public figure who has been caught, in such a literal way, saying the quiet part out loud?

The promised recordings never materialized, though, and so neither did the promised consequences. Without the evidence to back them up, Manigault Newman’s accusations languished in the space that divides the things that are known from the things that merely might be. Her claims took on the ironic distance of the genre that had bound her to Trump in the first place: Their dramas now came with asterisks. “Reality,” in their rendering, required scare quotes.

But lordy, many still hoped there’d be tapes. And this week—on the same day, as it happened, that a Manhattan jury turned Donald Trump, the alleged felon, into Donald Trump, the convicted one—the specter of recordings was raised again, this time as part of a Slate essay written by the former Apprentice producer Bill Pruitt. “The Donald Trump I Saw on The Apprentice” is long, thoughtful, and detailed. It offers new stories to support the old idea that Trump’s most powerful enablers, as he launched his bid for the presidency, were not politicians but entertainers: the behind-the-scenes workers who took a failing businessman and edited him, frame by soft-lit frame, into competence. Pruitt is sharing those stories now, he writes, because he can: The nondisclosure agreement he signed to join the show—-a document whose restrictions lasted for 20 years—recently expired. The essay reflects his catharsis. But it is sober too—akin, in that way, to the many other essays written by former Trump aides who indulged his truthful hyperbole before realizing the depth of the lie. Pruitt’s essay is openly confessional. It is implicitly apologetic. Its revelations read, in moments, as pleas for forgiveness: journalism as an act of atonement.

[Adam Serwer: Did the media learn nothing from 2016?]

The tapes—or more specifically, the spectral versions of them—come several paragraphs into Pruitt’s story, as he relates a discussion Trump had with Apprentice producers about whether a high-performing Black contestant, Kwame Jackson, should be named the season’s victor: “‘Yeah,’ [Trump] says to no one in particular, ‘but, I mean, would America buy a n— winning?’”

Pruitt’s allegation echoes the one that Manigault Newman made in 2018. And it is similarly difficult to verify. (“Those tapes, I’ve come to believe, will never be found,” Pruitt writes.) Pruitt has effectively given readers Schrödinger’s slur: a word at once uttered and not, a piece of proof and a defiance of it—news that is, at this point, no news at all. Trump might have said it. Or Pruitt’s allegation might be, as a Trump-campaign spokesperson put it yesterday, “fabricated and bullshit.”

But all of the things that the claim is not, at the moment, also highlight what it could be: an opportunity. The tapes, failing to give helpful answers, might instead offer helpful questions. Among them: What would such tapes, if they’re ever found, actually reveal? What could they, really? (Why would Trump be exempt from the truism that actions speak louder than words?) Trump has treated racism as a campaign message and a marketing ploy. He keeps finding new ways to insist that some Americans are more American than others. Epithets, for him, are a way of life. What could words convey that his actions haven’t? What, precisely, remains to be proved?

[David A. Graham: Trump goes all in on racism]

In 2018, in response to Manigault Newman’s claim, the Atlantic writer Matt Thompson considered what would happen—and what wouldn’t—if the rumored tapes materialized. The answer, he suggested, would have very little to do with Trump, and very much to do with everyone else. Six years later, that insight looks ever more prescient—and ever more urgent. Trump himself is a smoking gun. He has been there all along, strutting on stages and slumping in courtrooms and making his plans to restore the country to his particular version of greatness. He has shown us who he is. Why is it so hard to believe him?

The T20 World Cup is more than cricket's attempt to crack America, it is also the game finally opening its doors to the whole planet, says Stephan Shemilt.

A long-rumored deal to form a strategic partnership between the United States and Saudi Arabia looks doomed to fail because of Israel’s inability to accept a path toward Palestinian statehood in exchange for normalized ties with Saudi Arabia.

As the deal collapses, though, it is worth asking: What kind of relationship should the United States and Saudi Arabia aspire to? What is reasonable for each side to ask of the other?

On a recent trip to the kingdom, I spent a week speaking with Saudis from various backgrounds: wealthy businessmen from the eastern province, young Saudi women starting out in careers unimaginable to their mothers, senior government officials responsible for topics including privatization and foreign policy, and young Saudi men doing everything from starting their own law firm to driving for Uber after their government job had ended for the day.

Beyond their usual warm hospitality, and their patience with my rusty Arabic, I was struck by two things in conversations with Saudis: First, it is hard not get caught up in the infectious confidence they have about the direction their country is headed in. They feel like they are building something new—and judging by the innumerable construction cranes on Riyadh’s skyline, they are.

[Andrew Exum: A peace deal that seems designed to fail]

Second, there is deep frustration and even disillusionment with the United States. As a former government official, I am used to the regular complaints, such as the tiresome allegations that the United States is “abandoning” the region (despite the tens of thousands of troops that continue to garrison the Persian Gulf). But I heard newer, more disturbing concerns. At dinner with a dozen or so older Saudi men one night—almost all of whom had a degree from a U.S. university—I heard real reservations about sending their children and grandchildren to the United States to study: Gun violence, societal divisions, and populist politics in America were all cited as reasons to send their children to the United Kingdom or Europe instead. One Saudi who had gotten his Ph.D. in the United States worried that “the America I love is tearing itself apart at the seams.” And for what it’s worth, I heard something very similar from a group of businessmen in Singapore two weeks later.  

Yet I also found Saudis eager for a closer partnership with the United States. No country on Earth can match the United States when it comes to our technology, military power, and dynamic economy. (Joe Biden’s campaign would love for American voters to see our economy the way the rest of the world does.)    

But is it in America’s interest to forge a closer relationship with Saudi Arabia? As unpopular as the idea may be with many progressives, I think it is. Exciting changes are taking place in Saudi Arabia, and we should want to help advance them. Besides, in the Middle East, you tend to have either countries with a lot of people but not broad wealth, such as Egypt, or countries with a lot of wealth but few people, such as Qatar and the United Arab Emirates. Saudi Arabia is the only country in the region that has both, which is what makes it such an attractive market for American firms. And it’s also what makes Saudi Arabia so tantalizing as a strategic partner: If Saudi Arabia could ever get its act together militarily, for example, it could be a valuable partner for the United States in the region and abroad.

The Saudis have a long list of things they want from the United States. They want investing here to be easier, for example. They complain about the Committee on Foreign Investment in the United States, which scrutinizes foreign investment in sensitive technologies or crucial infrastructure. The process is necessary, but it could arrive at decisions faster, something Democratic administrations in particular have trouble making it do. And the Saudis also rightly complain that investments with no obvious national-security angle are heavily scrutinized. I spoke with many Saudis, from the most senior princes to ordinary businessmen, who took offense that the Saudi investment in golf of all things had become the subject of a Senate investigation. And really, who can blame them? Calm down, senators, it’s golf.

The Saudis also want access to more sensitive U.S. technologies, and there is a deal to be done here. The U.S. government paved the way for a substantial Microsoft investment in the UAE’s G42, a large AI firm, on the condition that the UAE would divest from problematic technological partnerships and investments in China. You “have to make a choice” between the United States and China, G42’s CEO, Peng Xiao, lamented. The United States and Saudi Arabia can and should strike a similar deal.

Security is a trickier matter, and here the United States should demand as much as it offers. The Saudis want a Japan-like security guarantee from the United States, but the United States should not offer this until the Saudis can meaningfully contribute to a military coalition.

The good news for both the United States and Saudi Arabia is that some of the reforms initiated by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman—and not ones aimed at the military, interestingly—could allow the Saudis to develop military capabilities that have heretofore escaped them.

There is no reason, for example, that Saudi Arabia—a nation whose entire economy depends on the ability to move oil and gas over sea lanes—has no real navy to speak of. But training a navy is hard when sailors cannot be away from their families for more than a day or so at a time. Successful navies live at sea, and that’s not an option when the wives men leave at home cannot drive themselves to the grocery store or their children to school. That’s now changing, and it could be that we someday trace the development of Saudi Arabia’s independent naval capabilities back to its decision to grant greater independence to its women.

Saudi Arabia’s ground forces are likewise woeful. Developing competent ground forces involves deeply unsexy work—as far from a bright, shiny fighter jet sitting on a runway as possible. Infantry units must be physically fit and well drilled. I have yet to see a Saudi unit that is either. But it’s clear to me that young Saudi men and women are up for a challenge, and the Saudis should do as some of their neighbors have done: Build best-in-class special-operations forces from recruits who genuinely want to be part of such units and are willing to put in the hard work and pain required. Competent Saudi special-operations units that could function as true peers alongside U.S. units would do a lot to change the perception of Saudis among their counterparts in the U.S. military.      

Once Saudis have proved their ability to work alongside the U.S. military—and their ability to share the burden of clearing and defending the Straits of Hormuz and the Bab el-Mandeb waterways—the United States should consider extending security guarantees. But not before.

[Read: The Israeli-Saudi deal had better be a good one]

Even if the United States and Saudi Arabia fail to conclude an agreement during the Biden administration, however, I am still bullish about the future of relations between the two countries. I speak to U.S. companies on an almost-weekly basis that are interested in investing in Saudi Arabia or partnering with Saudi companies. And despite reservations about the direction in which America is headed—many of which I share, as an American—the Saudis can’t take their eyes off us. I noted on my trip that many Saudis excitedly asked me about the pro-Palestinian protests taking place on our college campuses. They devour our films and media and political news, all of which are much more accessible than the same from, say, China.

The United States and Saudi Arabia seem fated to deepen their partnership. We should make that partnership as functional as possible.    

The nation’s tiniest state legislative chamber has been unusually prolific lately. In its most recent session, Alaska’s Senate overcame years of acrimony and deadlock to pass major bills to increase spending on public schools, combat climate change and a state energy shortage, and strengthen penalties for drug dealers. “The universal feeling,” Cathy Giessel, the senate’s majority leader, told me, “was that this was the most productive two years that we have experienced.”

Giessel, a Republican who first took office in 2010, attributes this success not to her colleagues, exactly, but to how they were chosen. In 2022, Alaska became the first state to experiment with a new kind of election. All candidates—regardless of party—competed against one another in the primary, and the top four vote-getters advanced. In November, the winner was determined by ranked-choice voting, in which people list candidates by order of preference. The system—called Final Four Voting—gave a substantial boost to moderates from both parties. Republican Senator Lisa Murkowski won a fourth term, and a centrist Democrat defeated Sarah Palin, the former Alaska governor and 2008 GOP vice-presidential nominee, capturing a House seat that Republicans had held for a half century.

But Final Four had an even bigger impact in the state Senate, where Democrats narrowed the GOP’s long-standing majority. Giessel, who had lost in a traditional primary two years earlier, won her seat back. She and seven of her colleagues ditched three far-right GOP lawmakers to form a governing coalition with Democrats. The group decided to set aside divisive social issues such as abortion and gender identity and focus exclusively on areas where they could find common ground.

[Read: The political-reform movement scores its biggest win yet]

The legislative dealmaking that ensued was exactly what the designers of Final Four Voting had hoped for when Alaskans approved the system in a 2020 statewide referendum. In essence, Final Four is a radical reform designed to de-radicalize politics. Its purpose is to make general elections more competitive and to encourage compromise among lawmakers who had previously held on to power simply by catering to a small, polarized primary electorate that determines the winners of most modern campaigns. This year could be an inflection point for the reform: Four more states—ranging from blue to deep red—could adopt versions of Final Four, and Alaskans will vote on whether to repeal it. In November, voters frustrated with both parties will have a chance to transform the way they pick their leaders—or quash what reformers hope will be the future of American elections.

Final Four isn’t inherently ideological, but it appeals most to voters frustrated with polarization—“normal people who want normal things done,” as Scott Kendall, a former Murkowski aide who led the 2020 campaign to adopt Final Four in Alaska, put it to me.

The ideas that make up Alaska’s system aren’t new. California and Washington State have had nonpartisan primaries for years, and South Dakota voters could approve them in November. Maine has ranked-choice voting for federal elections; Oregon could adopt ranked voting this fall. But Alaska is the first state to combine the two reforms. Final Four backers hope that many more will follow, and they are pouring millions of dollars into ballot initiatives this year to expand it to Nevada, Colorado, Idaho, and Montana.

A sweep for Final Four would reshape not only state capitols but also Washington, D.C., where the system would, in the coming years, elect up to 10 of the U.S. Senate’s 100 members. Representing a combination of red and blue states, they could “form a problem-solving fulcrum” to address challenges that typically resist compromise, Katherine Gehl, who devised Final Four Voting and has spent millions of dollars campaigning for it, told me. “You really can see in Congress a difference with as few as 10 senators,” she said, citing comprehensive immigration reform as an example.

To gain a firmer foothold, advocates of Final Four must clear a number of obstacles. Critics say the system is too confusing for voters to grasp and too complicated for election officials to administer. They also question whether the reform enjoys the broad public support that its wealthy backers claim it does. The proposal faces bipartisan opposition in Nevada. In Alaska, critics on the right hope to scrap the system in its infancy.

And don’t get Colorado started.

The state’s Democratic and Republican parties disagree on virtually everything—except, that is, their shared loathing of Final Four Voting and the businessman, Kent Thiry, who’s trying to bring it to their state. The former CEO of the Denver-based dialysis company DaVita, Thiry has funded successful ballot drives to overhaul political primaries and enable nonpartisan redistricting in Colorado. He’s also a co-chair of the reform group Unite America, which is funding efforts to expand Final Four in other states. Thiry believes that in a year in which most voters don’t like their choices for president, the Final Four movement can “surf that wave of discontent” and offer people in Colorado and elsewhere an opportunity to vote for something new.

[From the December 2019 issue: Too much democracy is bad for democracy]

To Shad Murib, the Democratic Party chair in Colorado, Thiry is simply tossing “a hand grenade” into an election system that voters in the state already like. “It’s a way to rig elections for the highest bidder,” he told me, arguing that doing away with party primaries makes it easier for wealthier candidates to buy their way onto the ballot.

David Williams, the chair of the state’s Republican Party, sees the proposal the same way. The highest bidder, he told me, would be Thiry himself. “This is the one thing me and my counterpart agree on,” Williams told me. “This guy wants to destroy both political parties so that he can get elected.”

Thiry considered a run for governor in 2018, but he told me he was ruling out a bid in 2026. Critics of Final Four, he said, are using his past flirtations with a campaign “as an excuse to not discuss the actual substance of the issue.”

What he doesn’t deny, however, is that reforms such as Final Four are designed to reduce the power of the two major parties. He compares American democracy, rather floridly, to a highway. “The parties control all the on-ramps and the off-ramps, and the toll that they charge in order to get on a democracy highway is kowtowing to the far left or the far right and relatively ignoring the majority in the middle,” Thiry said. “We intend to blow through the toll gates and take back possession of that highway.”

How much voters want this kind of change remains to be seen. Final Four owes its support less to a grassroots movement than to a series of expensive persuasion campaigns funded by a group of wealthy philanthropists. In most cases, they are going around state legislatures, where party leaders aren’t interested in reforms that could threaten their rule.

In Colorado, Democrats say the voting system doesn’t need fixing. Participation in its all-mail elections is already among the highest in the nation, and its Democratic governor and senators are relatively moderate dealmakers. “It’s a solution in search of a problem,” Representative Diana DeGette, a Democrat and the longest-serving member of Colorado’s congressional delegation, told me. To head off Final Four, the state legislature passed a bill that could block voter-approved election reforms from taking effect for years, or possibly forever. Final Four backers are urging the governor, Jared Polis, to veto it.

On top of being unnecessary, critics see the system as a tool of wealthy centrists looking to carve a path to high office for themselves and their allies. But reformers point out that campaigns now aren’t exactly the province of the poor or even of the middle class. Rich people already have a leg up, including in Colorado. Polis, for example, is a tech entrepreneur who spent more than $20 million of his own money to win the post in 2018 after self-funding his first bid for Congress a decade earlier. “They’re just wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong,” Gehl told me about Final Four’s critics. The system guarantees that four candidates make the November ballot instead of two, she pointed out. “If you double the number of people who can get into Disney World, how does that decrease access?” she said.

In Alaska so far, Final Four hasn’t shown much preference for wealthy office-seekers; indeed, it has seemed to attract candidates from underrepresented backgrounds. In 2022, an Alaska Native won a seat in Congress for the first time, and more women ran for office than in the five previous cycles combined. “The open primary blows the doors open not just for women but for minorities,” Giessel said. “It changes the game completely.”

The debut of Final Four in Alaska had its challenges. The sudden death of 88-year-old Representative Don Young on a plane flight in March 2022 opened up Alaska’s lone House seat for the first time since he took office, in 1973, and forced the state to roll out its new system in a special election months earlier than planned.

“It felt like chaos,” Kendall, the Final Four campaigner, told me. Mary Peltola, a centrist and a Murkowski ally, ran as a Democrat and defeated both Palin and another Republican, Nick Begich, through ranked-choice voting. Although the two Republicans collectively earned more votes than Peltola in the initial tally, more than one-quarter of Begich’s voters ranked the Democrat above Palin.

Republicans responded to the defeat by bashing ranked-choice voting, echoing the GOP’s opposition to the system in Maine, where voters approved it after two victories by the Trumpian Governor Paul LePage. Critics of Alaska’s system have succeeded in gathering enough signatures to place a repeal measure on the ballot in November, which Kendall is fighting in court.

Phillip Izon, who is running the repeal drive, told me that the system in Alaska is “fundamentally flawed” and would require “generations” of voter education before people could adequately understand it. He cited the high number of voters who refused to rank their candidates during the special election, and a subsequent drop in turnout in the November midterms. “They say it’s cheaper. They say it’s faster. They say it helps third parties,” he said. “And none of this is true.”

[Read: A radical idea for fixing polarization]

Central to Izon’s critique is the sense that Alaskans didn’t really want Final Four to begin with. In 2020, the transformation of the state’s election system was packaged into a single ballot question with other proposed changes, most notably a popular push to ban “dark money” in state campaigns. Voters, Izon argued, had been “brainwashed” into approving Final Four. Izon told me that he is not registered with either party and doesn’t want his effort to be labeled as partisan. But a video on his campaign’s website leads with quotes from Donald Trump, who has denounced “ranked choice crap voting” as “a total rigged deal.”

Backers of the system say Izon is misstating or exaggerating his claims. “There was no hiding the ball,” Kendall told me, referring to the 2020 referendum. Nor did Republicans get wiped out under Final Four in 2022. Although they lost the House seat to Peltola and a few seats in the legislature, conservative Governor Mike Dunleavy easily won reelection. “We had a lot more opponents the last time around than we do now,” Kendall said.

Yet the champions of Final Four are clearly unnerved by the repeal effort, worrying that it could stunt the idea’s momentum not only in Alaska but elsewhere. The fact that Alaskans could ditch the system so quickly offers opponents in other states a handy talking point. In Nevada, for example, voters approved a version of the system (with five final-round candidates instead of four) in 2022, but under the state’s constitution, they must do so again this fall for it to take effect. “Change is hard. New is hard, and making the case in a crowded year is hard,” Gehl said.

When I spoke with Thiry, he also seemed prepared for some defeats. “Voters are appropriately going to not just run off to the first fancy and new idea that they hear or see,” he said. “If you look at the history of movements in America, every one that we looked at took some heavy hits early on, but they persevered. And we have every intention of doing the same.”

The wrong case for the wrong offense just reached the right verdict.

Donald Trump will not be held accountable before the 2024 presidential election for his violent attempt to overturn the previous election. He will not be held accountable before the election for absconding with classified government documents and showing them off at his pay-for-access vacation club. He will not be held accountable before the election for his elaborate conspiracy to manipulate state governments to install fake electors. But he is now a convicted felon all the same.

It says something dark about the American legal system that it cannot deal promptly and effectively with a coup d’état. But it says something bright and hopeful that even an ex-president must face justice for ordinary crimes under the laws of the state in which he chose to live and operate his business.

Over his long career as the most disreputable name in New York real estate, Trump committed many wrongs and frauds. Those wrongs and frauds are beginning to catch up with him, including his sexual assault upon the writer E. Jean Carroll, and then his defamation of her for reporting the assault. Today, the catch-up leaped the barrier from the civil justice system to the criminal justice system.

The verdict should come as a surprise to precisely nobody. Those who protest the verdict most fiercely know better than anyone how justified it is. The would-be Trump running mate Marco Rubio this afternoon shared a video on X, comparing American justice to a Castro show trial. The slur is all the more shameful because Rubio has himself forcefully condemned Trump. “He is a con artist,” Rubio said during the 2016 nomination contest. “He runs on this idea he is fighting for the little guy, but he has spent his entire career sticking it to the little guy—his entire career.” Rubio specifically cited the Trump University scheme as one of Trump’s cons. In 2018, Trump reached a $25 million settlement with people who had enrolled in the courses it offered.

Eight years later, Rubio has attacked a court, a jury, and the whole U.S. system of justice for proving the truth of his own words.

We’re seeing here the latest operation of a foundational rule of the Trump era: If you’re a Trump supporter, you will sooner or later be called to jettison any and every principle you ever purported to hold. Republicans in Donald Trump’s adopted state of Florida oppose voting by felons. They used their legislative power to gut a state referendum restoring the voting rights of persons convicted of a crime. But as fiercely as Florida Republicans oppose voting by felons, they feel entirely differently about voting for felons. That’s now apparently fine, provided the felon is Donald Trump.

What has been served here is not the justice that America required after Trump’s plot to overturn the 2020 election first by fraud, then by violence. It’s justice instead of an especially ironic sort, driving home to the voting public that before Trump was a constitutional criminal, he got his start as a squalid hush-money-paying, document-tampering, tabloid sleazeball.

If Trump does somehow return to the presidency, his highest priority will be smashing up the American legal system to punish it for holding him to some kind of account—and to prevent it from holding him to higher account for the yet-more-terrible charges pending before state and federal courts. The United States can have a second Trump presidency, or it can retain the rule of law, but not both. No matter how much spluttering and spin-doctoring and outright deception you may hear from the desperate co-partisans of the first Felon American to stand as the presumptive presidential nominee of a major U.S. political party—there is no denying that now.