Introduction: A Fateful Meeting in Manhattan
In the early 1970s, at an exclusive Manhattan nightclub called Le Club, a brash young real-estate developer approached a well-known lawyer with a problem. The developer, Donald Trump, was facing a federal lawsuit accusing his family’s company of discriminatory housing practices. The lawyer, Roy Cohn, already had a fearsome reputation in legal and political circles. Trump asked Cohn what he should do. Cohn’s advice was characteristically combative: “Tell them to go to hell.” Instead of settling the case, Cohn urged Trump to fight back—even to counter-sue the government for defamation. Soon afterward, Trump hired Roy Cohn as his personal attorney and fixer, forging a relationship that would profoundly shape Trump’s approach to business and later politics.
That night in 1973 was more than just the start of a lawyer-client relationship; it was a meeting of two worlds. Roy Cohn was not just any lawyer. Two decades earlier, he had been at the right hand of Senator Joseph McCarthy, the infamous instigator of America’s Red Scare. As McCarthy’s chief counsel and chief prosecutor during the McCarthyism era, Cohn helped orchestrate ruthless inquisitions in the name of anti-communism. Now, in the 1970s, he was mentoring a rising mogul in New York.
Roy Cohn’s Rise in the McCarthy Era
Roy Cohn entered the national spotlight as a young, aggressive federal prosecutor. Barely out of Columbia Law School, he made his name in 1951 by helping prosecute Ethel and Julius Rosenberg for espionage. The Rosenberg trial’s notoriety brought Cohn to the attention of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover and Senator Joseph McCarthy, both eager anti-Communist crusaders. In 1953, McCarthy hired the 26-year-old Cohn as chief counsel to the Senate Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations, making him the Wisconsin senator’s right-hand man in the escalating hunt for communists in government.
As McCarthy’s counsel, Cohn became a chief architect of “McCarthyism” – the fervid campaign of interrogation and purge based on McCarthy’s unsupported claims that communists had infiltrated the U.S. government. Day after day, Cohn sat beside McCarthy in congressional hearings that took on the atmosphere of a witch trial. He was often photographed leaning in to whisper into McCarthy’s ear, a “boy-wonder” adviser with sharp features and a relentless drive. Cohn had a special talent for character assassination – under his and McCarthy’s questioning, witnesses were browbeaten about their past associations and beliefs. “Scores of witnesses were being bullied by Cohn or McCarthy or both,” one account noted of the period, describing the hearings as a “malicious circus.”
Two parallel crusades unfolded under McCarthy’s leadership, and Cohn played an eager role in both. The first was the very public Red Scare against alleged communists; the second, more secretive, was the “Lavender Scare” – a purge of gay men and women from government service, driven by a prejudiced belief that their sexual orientation made them security risks. Ironically, Cohn himself was a closeted gay man, yet he joined McCarthy in zealously targeting homosexual government employees alongside communists. As journalist Marie Brenner later observed, “In lavender Washington, Cohn was known as both a closeted homosexual and homophobic,” spearheading the ouster of others for the very secrets he guarded in himself. This hypocrisy did not temper Cohn’s ruthlessness; it only seemed to add another layer of menace to his persona.
By 1954, Senator McCarthy’s reckless charges had begun to backfire, leading to one of America’s most dramatic political confrontations: the Army–McCarthy hearings. McCarthy, egged on by Cohn, had accused even the U.S. Army of harboring communists after the Army pushed back against Cohn’s attempts to secure special favors for a friend. The televised hearings transfixed the nation for 36 days, drawing 20 million viewers as McCarthy and Cohn’s tactics were exposed on live TV. The proceedings reached a famous climax when Army attorney Joseph Welch, exasperated by McCarthy’s personal attacks on a young colleague, lashed out at the senator: “Have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last? Have you left no sense of decency?” In that moment, the spell of McCarthy’s fear-mongering was broken. The packed hearing room fell silent, and the senator visibly faltered. Within weeks, McCarthy was censured by the Senate, his reputation in shambles, and Roy Cohn was forced to resign. The era of McCarthyism came to an ignominious end.
Cohn, however, proved remarkably unscathed by the downfall of his mentor. He had been publicly embarrassed – branded in the press as McCarthy’s aggressive “henchman” – but he was young, clever, and well-connected, and he quickly shifted his arena of battle. As one observer noted, “Despite McCarthy’s very public demise when the hearings proved to be trumped-up witch hunts, Cohn would emerge largely unscathed, going on to become one of the last great power brokers of New York.” In the late 1950s, while McCarthy drank himself into obscurity (the senator died in 1957), Roy Cohn returned to his native New York City and set about re-inventing himself with the same ruthless energy he’d shown in Washington.
From McCarthy’s Henchman to New York Power Broker
Relieved of the scrutiny of Washington, Roy Cohn established a private law practice in New York that soon became legendary for its audacity and clientele. He mingled with politicians, celebrities, and mobsters with equal ease, cultivating an image as a “fixer” who could solve problems by any means necessary. Cohn’s address book included figures at the pinnacle of society and the underworld alike. Cardinal Francis Spellman, the powerful Archbishop of New York, was a close friend and client. So was George Steinbrenner, the owner of the New York Yankees. In the shadows, Cohn also represented organized crime bosses – among them the bosses of two of New York’s dominant Mafia families, Carmine Galante of the Bonanno family and Anthony “Fat Tony” Salerno of the Genovese family. At one point, Cohn even defended reputed mob boss John Gotti, earning such trust that Gotti made Cohn the godfather of his child. This mix of high society and underworld clients made Cohn both famous and infamous. “He was the man to see if you wanted to beat the system,” wrote one former prosecutor, noting that Cohn’s unscrupulous tactics and web of connections gave him a “Teflon” quality. Scandal and accusations slid off Roy Cohn, even as his notoriety grew.
Indeed, through the 1960s and 70s, Roy Cohn seemed untouchable. Federal authorities tried repeatedly to bring him down on charges ranging from bribery to perjury, but Cohn wriggled free every time. “He did whatever he wanted, and he felt he was good enough at everything to get away with it,” recalled one colleague; Cohn himself once boasted to Penthouse magazine, “I decided long ago to make my own rules.” This “screw-you stance” – a lifelong philosophy of flaunting the rules – only enhanced Cohn’s aura in the eyes of certain clients. To many, he was a prototypical political fixer, a man unencumbered by ethics who could produce results by bending or breaking the norms.
Cohn also ingratiated himself with the powerful in politics. He became a fixture in Republican circles, advising figures like Richard Nixon (Cohn was an informal adviser to Nixon’s 1968 campaign) and forging a close friendship with Nancy Reagan, wife of Ronald Reagan. In the 1980s, when Cohn was battling illness, the Reagans even pulled strings to help him obtain experimental treatment for AIDS, despite Reagan’s public silence on the epidemic. Roy Cohn’s influence network extended coast to coast, but nowhere was it stronger than in New York City. There, amid the cut-throat world of real estate and politics, Cohn met a young man who would become his most famous protégé: Donald J. Trump.
Mentor to an Ambitious Protégé: Cohn and Trump in New York
When Donald Trump encountered Roy Cohn at Le Club in 1973, Trump was 27 years old and eager to make a name beyond his father’s outer-borough real estate empire. Roy Cohn, then in his mid-forties, was a well-connected attorney known for his ferocity and his media savvy. According to accounts of their meeting, Trump was facing a lawsuit from the Justice Department accusing the Trump family’s rental properties of systematic discrimination against Black tenants. Fred Trump, Donald’s father, had already hired a reputable law firm to handle the case, but Donald wanted a street-fighter. So he asked Cohn whether they should settle. Cohn’s answer — “Tell them to go to hell” — encapsulated the ethos he would impart to Trump. In Cohn’s world, one never admitted wrongdoing, never settled, never apologized. One fought back hard, loudly, and dirty if needed.
Impressed, Trump dumped his father’s lawyers and retained Roy Cohn. What followed was a 13-year symbiotic relationship between the two men. Cohn became Trump’s personal lawyer, fixer, and mentor – an ally who was always on call. “Donald calls me 15 to 20 times a day,” Cohn bragged to a reporter in 1980, acknowledging the unusually close rapport he had with his client. He guided Trump through legal battles and business deals, navigating New York’s byzantine zoning boards and political clubs. With Cohn’s help, Trump obtained lucrative tax abatements for his projects and struck back at anyone who stood in his way. At Trump’s side, Cohn was known to send threatening letters, launch countersuits, and spin sensational stories to tabloids to insulate Trump’s image. If a contractor complained Trump hadn’t paid a bill, Cohn would respond with a lawsuit. If negative press loomed, Cohn leaked his own version first to friendly gossip columnists, a tactic he’d honed since his McCarthy days. He even linked Trump to other operatives in his circle, famously introducing him to a young Republican strategist named Roger Stone in the late 1970s. (Stone would later play a role in Trump’s 2016 campaign, carrying forward Cohn’s brand of rough-edged politics.)
For Trump, Roy Cohn was more than a lawyer – he was a model of how to wield power and intimidation. The lessons Trump absorbed were straightforward and relentless: always attack, never defend. “Roy has an impact on Donald’s understanding of how to deal with the media — attack, attack, attack, never defend,” Roger Stone later explained, drawing a direct line from McCarthy’s protege to the future president’s style. Cohn taught Trump to view any controversy as a publicity opportunity and any critic as an enemy to be crushed. This approach was on display as early as the 1970s. In the housing bias case, under Cohn’s direction, the Trump Organization turned the tables and sued the federal government for $100 million for defamation. (The aggressive move failed – the Trumps eventually settled the original case with no admission of wrongdoing – but the message was clear: Trump would not be pushed around.)
Cohn also inculcated in Trump an instinct for performing in the court of public opinion. Decades before Twitter existed, Roy Cohn understood the value of dominating headlines. He had reporters on speed-dial and knew how to plant stories. This media manipulation was a hallmark of Cohn’s career – a skill he perfected while staging McCarthy’s spectacles and later used to serve clients like Trump. As an attorney in New York, “Another of Cohn’s tactics was to befriend the town’s top gossip columnists,” one profile noted. “He was irresistible to tabloid writers, always ready with scandal-tinged tales.” Trump eagerly absorbed this showman’s flair. He learned to call up gossip reporters like the Daily News’s Liz Smith or the New York Post to leak tidbits about his business conquests and personal life, ensuring his name stayed in the papers. In all these ways, Trump was following Cohn’s playbook.
Yet the mentorship had a darker underside. Roy Cohn, despite his loyalty to Trump, expected loyalty in return. And Trump, who valued loyalty “above everything else – more than brains, more than drive and more than energy”, nonetheless showed a transactional coldness when Cohn could no longer serve him. In the mid-1980s, as Cohn was dying of AIDS (a diagnosis he tried to hide) and finally facing disbarment for his years of unethical conduct, he found himself increasingly shunned by his friends and clients. Donald Trump was no exception. Sensing his mentor’s power ebbing, Trump distanced himself. Cohn’s former secretary recalled bitterly, “Donald found out about [Cohn’s illness] and just dropped him like a hot potato.” In 1986, disbarred and gravely ill, Roy Cohn died essentially alone, at age 59. At his funeral, the city’s power elite mostly stayed away. Trump did not attend. But the impact of Cohn’s tutelage on Donald Trump was already sealed – and it would become starkly evident decades later when Trump ran for president.
Parallels in Political Chaos: McCarthyism and Trumpism
When Donald Trump ascended to the presidency in 2017, some observers noted uncanny echoes of McCarthy-era tactics returning to Washington. It was as if the ghost of Joe McCarthy – channeled through the teachings of Roy Cohn – had reappeared on the American political stage. Both the McCarthy era of the 1950s and the Trump presidency decades later were marked by chaos, controversy, and a climate of fear and division. And in both cases, Roy Cohn’s influence lurked in the background: in McCarthy’s day, directly, and in Trump’s, through the political DNA he left behind.
Attacks on “Enemies” and Conspiracy Claims: In the 1950s, Senator McCarthy rose to power by attacking perceived enemies within. He claimed to have secret lists of communists in the government and accused departments like the State Department and Army of harboring traitors. His accusations were often evidence-free but created a panic. Officials, writers, even decorated war heroes were not safe from McCarthy’s slander if they crossed his path. Fast forward to the Trump era: President Trump likewise proved adept at casting certain groups as internal enemies. He railed against the so-called “Deep State,” suggesting a shadowy cabal of bureaucrats was undermining him. He accused federal law enforcement and intelligence agencies of bias, at one point even suggesting his predecessor had wiretapped him — a modern echo of McCarthy’s conspiratorial style. Trump demonized the press as well, calling mainstream media outlets “the enemy of the American people” early in his presidency. (Notably, that phrase “enemy of the people” harkens back to authoritarian regimes and, in some historians’ view, represents a form of “new McCarthyism” aimed at discrediting the press.) Both McCarthy and Trump showed a talent for identifying scapegoats and rallying public anger against them — be it “reds” in the State Department or “fake news” journalists in the White House briefing room.
Media Manipulation and Bombast: McCarthy and Trump each proved masterful at manipulating the media of their times to create a frenzy. McCarthy thrived in an era of newspapers and radio. He understood how to generate sensational headlines. One historical analysis noted that McCarthy would release his most shocking allegations late in the day, just in time for journalists to meet evening deadlines — leaving no time to verify his claims before they hit the front page. This ploy guaranteed blaring headlines about communist conspiracies in the next morning’s papers, forcing his targets onto the defensive. Trump, for his part, harnessed the speed and reach of social media and cable news. With a single tweet in the wee hours, he could send newsrooms scrambling and dominate the news cycle. Like McCarthy, Trump displayed a showman’s instinct. He understood that outrageous statements (however inaccurate) would command attention and shape public conversation. In both eras, the press at times struggled with how to handle the firehose of false or exaggerated claims. During McCarthy’s heyday, many journalists amplified his charges uncritically at first, cowed by his power or eager for scoops. During Trump’s term, media outlets often found themselves chasing his latest provocative tweet or off-the-cuff remark. The result in both cases was a kind of constant media storm, which these men used to their advantage.
Loyalty and Purges: Inside their operations, McCarthy and Trump both demanded loyalty and were quick to excoriate or expel those deemed traitors. McCarthy’s Senate staff (Cohn included) was expected to be unquestioningly loyal, and he turned on colleagues who didn’t support his crusade. He pressured government agencies to fire employees suspected of disloyalty not just to country, but to McCarthy himself. Under McCarthy’s pressure, loyalty tests became commonplace; people’s careers depended on affirming their anti-communist credentials and, implicitly, allegiance to McCarthy’s cause. In the Trump White House, loyalty was also a constant theme – Trump famously said, “I value loyalty above everything else,” and he bristled at any dissent. He privately urged FBI Director James Comey to pledge personal loyalty to him; Comey’s refusal and continued Russia inquiry led to his firing. Trump publicly belittled officials he perceived as insufficiently devoted – from his Attorney General Jeff Sessions (whom he derided for recusing himself from the Russia probe) to Republican lawmakers who criticized him. High-ranking aides were often subjected to public loyalty rituals, such as a Cabinet meeting where each member took turns lavishly praising the president on camera. Those who defied Trump’s wishes – even if following law or principle – were labeled “disloyal” and pushed out. This created an atmosphere, as one Politico analysis put it, unprecedented in U.S. history, with an administration built almost entirely on personal loyalty to one man.
Disregard for Norms and “Decency”: Perhaps the most striking common thread is a willingness to defy political norms and basic civility. Joseph McCarthy became notorious for his brazenness and cruelty. He leveled grave accusations without proof, interrupted and insulted witnesses and senators alike, and trampled the normal decorum of congressional inquiries. By 1954, his Senate colleagues were so appalled by his conduct that they condemned him for “conduct unbecoming”. “McCarthy had, in the words of Boston lawyer Joseph Welch, ‘no sense of decency,’” one historian noted, summarizing the senator’s cavalier destruction of others’ lives. President Trump, while operating in a very different context, showed a similar willingness to smash through the customary guardrails of his office. He blasted judges who ruled against him, refused the usual transparency (for example, breaking the tradition of releasing tax returns), and at times encouraged extraordinary actions (even suggesting he could pardon himself, or pressuring state officials to “find votes” after the 2020 election). His critics accused him of having “no bottom” to what he would say or do; even some members of his own party were taken aback by the norm-breaking. Like McCarthy, Trump often blurred the line between governance and personal grievance-settling. And like McCarthy, Trump could display startling vindictiveness: McCarthy wanted his enemies ruined, and Trump frequently demanded the jailing of his political opponents, leading chants of “Lock her up!” against Hillary Clinton and calling his critics treasonous.
The chaos that engulfed Washington during each man’s ascendancy had different causes but a similar feel. In McCarthy’s case, the chaos was fueled by a climate of suspicion he fostered — a sense that anyone might be unmasked as disloyal at any moment, and that policy debates were less important than loyalty tests. In Trump’s case, chaos came from constant turmoil and churn: firings, surprise tweets upending diplomatic positions, legal investigations, and a polarized public square that turned every issue into combat. The common denominator was an erosion of the usual rules and an atmosphere of constant combat. It is no accident that both eras gave America new political vocabulary — “McCarthyism” then, “Trumpism” now — to describe an approach to politics viewed by many as extremist and divisive.
Common Themes: Tactics and Traits Repeated
Looking at the arcs of McCarthy, Cohn, and Trump, certain recurring themes emerge. These are tactics and traits that seem to pass like a baton from one to the next, defining a style of political combat that America has seen more than once. Experts and historians have pointed out these common threads:
- Media Mastery & Manipulation: Both McCarthy and Trump cultivated media obsession. McCarthy fed reporters dramatic claims (often too late in the day to be fact-checked) to grab headlines, while Trump used Twitter and rallies to dominate news cycles with provocative statements. Each understood that controlling the narrative – even with lies or exaggerations – was key to maintaining power. This manipulation often left the public unsure of truth, a confusion that benefited their agendas. As veteran journalist Marvin Kalb noted, Trump’s disparagement of the press as “fake news” and “enemy of the people” was aimed at discrediting independent sources of truth, similar to how demagogues of the past undermined the free press.
- Targeting “Enemies” & Scapegoats: All three figures were quick to identify enemies and launch attacks. McCarthy targeted alleged communists (and anyone who opposed him was branded as such). Cohn carried that ethos into his legal battles, smearing adversaries to win for his clients. Trump likewise constantly pointed to “enemies” – be it political rivals, critical media, or officials in his own government deemed disloyal. The attacks were often personal and unrelenting. This us-vs-them mentality rallied supporters by painting a stark picture of patriots versus villains. It also served to deflect criticism – any allegation against them could be dismissed as a lie from the “enemies.”
- Loyalty Above All: Demands of personal loyalty were a hallmark of both McCarthy’s circle and Trump’s inner circle. Cohn’s career exemplified this: he was fiercely loyal to McCarthy, then expected total loyalty from his clients and proteges. Trump, mentored by Cohn, internalized the lesson that loyalty should be absolute and one-directional. “I need loyalty, I expect loyalty,” Trump told FBI Director Comey in a private dinner, sounding every bit like a mafia boss (as Comey later recalled). In Trump’s administration, officials often felt their job security hinged on personal fealty, not just performance. McCarthy similarly trusted only a tight group of acolytes and treated others as potential subversives. This obsession with loyalty created insular, at times paranoid leadership styles – and those who were perceived as insufficiently loyal were vilified or cast out in both eras.
- Rule-Breaking & Norm-Smashing: McCarthy and Trump each showed disdain for the norms that typically constrain political leaders. McCarthy trampled Senate rules of decorum, made wild accusations without evidence, and violated due process in his hearings. Trump defied countless presidential norms – from profiting off the presidency and pressuring law enforcement for personal favors, to casting doubt on the integrity of elections. Roy Cohn’s own mantra, “make my own rules,” permeated Trump’s attitude. Both men operated on the premise that normal rules didn’t apply to them. This norm-shattering behavior often led to institutional crises: McCarthy’s antics spurred the Senate to rein him in with a rare censure, and Trump’s actions led to impeachment trials and debates over the limits of executive power. In both cases, their disregard for rules was a source of chaos – but also, to their followers, a sign of “strength” and refusal to be “politically correct.”
These common themes underscore a continuity in American demagoguery. The playbook refined by McCarthy and Cohn in the mid-20th century – dominate the media, attack enemies ferociously, demand loyalty, and shatter the norms – found new life in Trump’s 21st-century politics. It’s a through-line that shows how certain dangerous political strategies never quite disappear, but rather lie dormant, waiting for the right moment and personality to revive them.
Historical Reflections and Legacy
Historians and political analysts have grappled with what the McCarthy-Cohn-Trump saga means for American democracy. Many note that it serves as a warning from history. After McCarthy’s fall in 1954, “McCarthyism” became synonymous with reckless demagoguery, and it was largely remembered as a shameful chapter. The U.S. Senate’s firm response — censuring McCarthy — and the media’s eventual courage in debunking his claims helped restore a kind of equilibrium. By the 1960s, one historian notes, McCarthyism was widely seen as “an embarrassing episode of national hysteria.” Few politicians dared employ such tactics again for a long while. The consensus was that American institutions had learned their lesson and built up antibodies against that style of politics.
But the rise of Donald Trump made observers question whether those antibodies were still effective. “Today, the demagogue is in the White House,” wrote Professor Landon Storrs in 2017, comparing Trump to McCarthy, “and the Republican-controlled Congress seems disinclined to put country above party.” Her implication was clear: unlike in McCarthy’s time, when senators from both parties eventually stood up to McCarthy’s excesses, in Trump’s time the guardrails (Congressional oversight, internal dissent in the party) often failed to restrain similar tactics. Trump was enabled by his political allies in ways McCarthy never fully was. Some analysts argued that Trumpism represented a kind of “new McCarthyism”, supercharged by modern media and aimed not at communists but at various “others” – immigrants, Muslims, civil servants, journalists – depicted as un-American traitors. “Like McCarthy, Trump is a sociopathic personality whose aberrant behavior facilitated a right-wing campaign against core democratic values,” wrote columnist Richard Kreitner, drawing a direct parallel between the two men. The two, he and others pointed out, shared traits like shameless lying, self-aggrandizement, and opportunism. Neither was truly loyal to anything but himself, and both were willing to switch ideologies or parties to climb the ladder of power.
A particularly telling connection is the figure of Roy Cohn himself. Cohn’s presence in both stories – as McCarthy’s attack dog and Trump’s mentor – is not just biographical coincidence but symbolic of a lineage. “Trump’s one-time mentor was Roy Cohn, McCarthy’s right-hand man — and that connection, too, is worrisome,” Prof. Storrs observed. What Cohn passed on to Trump was not a policy platform or political ideology, but a set of tactics and an attitude. It was the idea that all publicity is good, that might makes right, and that to win, one must push every limit. Trump internalized Cohn’s lesson that “winning” was the only goal – and that norms, facts, or fairness should not stand in the way. This has broader implications: it challenges the notion that American politics inevitably progresses toward more civility and accountability. Instead, it suggests that old playbooks of demagoguery can resurface, especially in times of social stress.
There is also the question of legacy. Joseph McCarthy’s legacy is universally seen as toxic; he is remembered as a bully who was ultimately repudiated by the system. Roy Cohn’s legacy, while less known to the public for years, shot back into the spotlight precisely because of the Trump presidency. In fact, the refrain “Where’s my Roy Cohn?” was reportedly voiced by President Trump in frustration, as he felt beleaguered by investigations – a sign that he longed for a loyal enforcer to shield him, the way Cohn had always done. The irony is thick: a president of the United States pining for a man widely regarded as an ethically void fixer, someone disbarred for fraud and dishonesty in his final days. It speaks to how deeply Trump prized Cohn’s approach. The phrase became the title of a 2019 documentary about Cohn, underscoring how relevant his influence had become in the public mind.
Meanwhile, historians like Ellen Schrecker, a foremost scholar on McCarthyism, have suggested that Trump’s rise forced a reexamination of the McCarthy era’s significance. Schrecker and others highlight the structural conditions that allow demagogues to thrive: fear of external threats, social upheaval, partisan media ecosystems, and weak opposition. McCarthy exploited Cold War fears; Trump rode a wave of populist anger and economic anxiety. In each case, the demagogue offered simple scapegoats and strongman posturing as answers to complex problems, and enough of the public bought in to shake the foundations of democracy. The broader implication is that American democracy is not automatically self-correcting. It depends on individuals – senators, judges, journalists, citizens – standing up for norms and truth. When those fail, figures like McCarthy or Trump can do lasting damage. As one commentator put it, “When national security threats coincide with rapid social change, Americans become more susceptible to demagogues peddling paranoid portrayals of enemies within.” The McCarthy-Cohn-Trump continuum is a case study in that dynamic.
The story of Joseph McCarthy, Roy Cohn, and Donald Trump is a powerful reminder of how personal connections can echo across decades in politics. A young lawyer in the 1950s absorbs the dark arts of demagoguery at a senator’s side; he passes those techniques to an apprentice in the 1970s and ’80s; and by the 2010s, those techniques reach the White House. It is a narrative that reads almost like a cautionary tale. As one political writer quipped, “history doesn’t repeat, but it often rhymes” – and the rhyme between McCarthyism and the tumult of the Trump era is one that will likely occupy historians for years to come.
