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Man who spent his life helping young people is now donating a kidney

By Allison Klein
Man who spent his life helping young people is now donating a kidney
David Simpson, left, and Madeleine Hernandez, 20, share a high five during the weekly dinner for young men and women in Washington, D.C., on October 16, 2018. MUST CREDIT: Photo for The Washington Post by Astrid Riecken. For use only with DC-KIDNEY

WASHINGTON - David Simpson is donating his kidney to a young woman today in Washington, D.C., because his tissue is a perfect match, and her kidneys are failing and slowly poisoning her.

Simpson didn't have to do it; he had an out. "They told me they'd write me a letter saying they rejected me if I wanted," Simpson said of his doctor.

But Simpson, 57, and his wife, Kathy Fletcher, 56, never take the easy way out. Their life's work has become pushing the boundaries of what it means to give to young people, many with dire life stories, who are just entering adulthood and are hungry or don't have a place to live or enough money for college or countless other needs.

It started around 2010 when they began helping friends of Fletcher's son, Santiago, while he was in middle and high school. But years later they had become so engrossed in helping young people that Simpson decided to quit his job working for a nonprofit that advocates for campaign finance reform to dedicate himself to it full time.

"We said yes - step by step by step - until we had eight kids living in our house," said Simpson, referring to last year, when all their beds were full. They convinced neighbors to take in another few young people they didn't have room to house.

In fact, the 20-year-old woman who is getting Simpson's kidney, Madeline Hernandez, lives with Simpson and Fletcher, one of four young people in their 20s, most of them artists, who are ​now part of their make-shift family.

But the couple also helps an extended family about 40 other young people through a nonprofit they created two years ago named, appropriately, All Our Kids, or AOK. And the world of people who assist and support the effort - with donated funds or tickets, time, an extra bed or a few dozen cookies - include friends, family and famous musicians like Yo-Yo Ma and Joshua Bell.

"What we're doing is insane," jokes Simpson, as he tries to explain the tribe of young people he and his wife have informally adopted.

For Simpson, giving his kidney to one of his "kids" was a simple decision once he realized he was a match - an almost miraculous coincidence given the odds of about one in 10,000.

"Of course I'm going to do it," he said.

The couple's mission started when Santiago, then a student at Alice Deal Middle School in the District of Columbia, brought home a friend who needed a meal. One friend in need led to another and another, until Santiago's house became the go-to hangout spot in high school.

"We started establishing relationships with these kids and we realized there were things they weren't getting, not because of love but because their family didn't have it - clothes, bikes, lots of things," Simpson said.

As Simpson and Fletcher listened to their life stories, they figured out they could help here and there.

If someone needed a shirt, they'd buy one or give one of their own. If someone needed help filling out financial aid forms, or finding a lawyer or counselor, they could depend on Simpson and Fletcher. The couple also tried to give them undivided attention and guidance, and regular family dinners, which many had never had before.

A few kids started spending the night. One didn't have a home after his mother lost her job and she went to stay with a sibling. Another had lived with his grandmother who passed away. Yet another wasn't getting along with her parents and was living on friends' couches after her parents kicked her out.

Simpson and Fletcher are financially comfortable but not wealthy; as her day job, Fletcher runs an arts educational program through the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Their three-bedroom home in the Crestwood neighborhood of D.C. is warm but not fancy. But compared to the young people they were helping launch into adulthood - kids who had been without a safety net as they coped with the fallout of sexual assaults, violence, homelessness and other trauma - they had more than enough to share.

Plus, Fletcher grew up with nine siblings, 14 aunts and uncles and 74 first cousins in an Irish Catholic family on Long Island. So a house is not a home for her without some foot stomping, singing and laughter. She also has a deep commitment to civil justice and looking out for those who are vulnerable.

"I feel like we all have a shared responsibility in this world to take care of people," she said.

As word got out in the friend group and D.C. artists community, more kids started showing up - and hanging out, and staying over in a spare room. In the summer of 2016, Fletcher and Simpson encouraged several of their "kids" to apply to college, and they all got in.

"We were like, 'We don't have any money,' " Simpson said. "They have some financial aid but that doesn't cover costs of college."

Fletcher and Simpson talked to a bunch of friends who committed to giving money if they formalized what they were doing. So the couple created a nonprofit and Simpson left his job. They held some local fundraisers and some in New York. Fletcher was able to get cellist Yo-Yo Ma to donate VIP tickets to an AOK auction, and violinist Joshua Bell has performed at three benefit concerts for them.

Generosity such as that is the financial backbone of AOK, as Simpson and Fletcher are now helping to support 15 kids in college with either tuition assistance, a monthly stipend or both - and they give various other young people things as needs become apparent: computers, toiletries, shoes, advice. They also have started an arts collective with donated space where the young artists can get together and show their work.

The four young people who reside with them now mostly live in a converted garage and partially finished basement. The house rules include respect, kindness and honesty. They rarely have problems. Once their car was stolen by a guy who was living with them - but he left it four blocks away and never came back.

"The peer component is the most important thing," Simpson said. "They challenge each other to make good choices."

While Fletcher and Simpson have opened their home and hearts to kids for years, a kidney donation is a new level of giving.

Fletcher loves Hernandez as a daughter, too, she said, but she was hoping somebody on the list of potential donors other than her husband would be a match because she was concerned about the medical risk.

But when the news came back, and Simpson was medically cleared to be a donor, she felt like it was meant to be. She didn't want to fight fate.

"When it turned out to be him, it was like grace," Fletcher said.

For years, the family has been hosting Thursday night dinners at their home for anywhere from 20 to 30 guests, mostly AOK kids, as well as a group of Simpson and Fletcher's neighbors and friends who both support them and enjoy their energy.

This time, they hosted a big, tearful pre-kidney donation dinner Tuesday night as a send-off before Simpson and Fletcher went to back-to-back five-hour surgeries at Georgetown University Hospital.

Sara Pratt, a civil rights attorney who regularly comes to weekly dinners to offer guidance and support, was among those who showed up.

"I feel like I'm an aunt," said Pratt.

Pratt was joined at the table by a few neighbors and about 15 AOK kids ranging in age from 17 to 24. Dinner rules are to put your napkin on your lap and take seconds of the food. They generally go around the table and talk about things they're thankful for, or anything that's on their mind. Emotions are often laid bare.

One by one, the guests each told a story of how a friend brought them to this home for dinner either years or months ago, and they've been coming back since. Several choked up about how much AOK means to them.

"Sometimes I feel like I don't deserve this," said Chynajah Lewis, 20, a student at Howard University as tears streamed down her face. She explained how she met James Drosin, 21, who is a part of AOK, and how he brought her for dinner. After that, Simpson and Fletcher started helping to pay for her college when her mother could no longer afford it.

Many said they were initially confused about what AOK is. One of the first things they noticed was that Fletcher and Simpson are white and that everyone they are helping is a person of color. Simpson is upfront about this, and says he does not purposely seek out people of color, but he also does not shy away from using his "white privilege" to help others.

One of the women at the table said the first time she showed up for dinner the racial differences made an impression on her. "I'm not going to lie, I was like, 'Is this a cult?' she said, getting big laughs. Lewis added she felt the same way, but thought: "' Okay, I've got this, I've been to summer camp.' "

Lewis said her mother wound up in a domestic violence shelter with her younger sister, unable to continue paying her college tuition.

A woman who would identify herself only as Tahrook, 24, shared how she grew up in the slums of the Philippines. "I know how it feels to have nothing," she said.

Shaughn Cooper, 23, said a friend brought him to dinner for the first time at Christmas and Simpson and Fletcher gave him a present ​ to unwrap. "I hadn't gotten a Christmas present in years," said Cooper, who is now a freelance photographer.

Hernandez's turn to talk

When it was Hernandez's turn to talk at the dinner, she said she was "having a weird day." She had just come back from dialysis.

Her medical problems started in 2016, when a few months after she moved in, Simpson took her to the dentist, who tested her blood pressure and told her to go right to the emergency room. At Children's National Medical Center, she was diagnosed with kidney disease, and was told at some point she'd need a new kidney.

Things got worse over time. "She was getting sicker and sicker in front of our eyes," Fletcher said.

Over the summer, her kidney function dropped so much that doctors said it was time for a transplant.

Simpson started working the phones to find possible donors. He had a list of eight people, including some of her family members. Also on the list was his neighbor Paul Budde, husband of Mariann Budde, bishop of the Episcopal Diocese at the National Cathedral.

The Buddes are close friends of theirs who have taken in several AOK kids who Fletcher and Simpson did not have room for, including two who are currently living at the Budde home.

But Simpson got the call instead, and now he and the young woman he thinks of as a daughter were waiting for one of his vital organs to become hers.

Hernandez shared her own story of meeting Simpson and Fletcher.

She had been fighting with her parents and sleeping on friends' couches when she met the couple through friends, she said, and they gave her a room in their house.

"I was having a hard time, I wasn't fitting in anywhere," she said.

She had problems trusting, and at first stayed in her room, begging off from dinner often. As time went on, she started to come to dinner and open up. She would not have imagined she'd still be in their lives three years later, she said.

"If you invest a little of yourself into people, you can get that back," said Hernandez, a student at the University of the District of Columbia.

Now she said they're like her second family. And despite her anxieties, Hernandez told the group, she was ready for go time.

"I'm taking David's kidney with me," she said with a wide smile.

Democratic candidates for Congress have raised a record-shattering $1 billion this election

By Michelle Ye Hee Lee and Anu Narayanswamy
Democratic candidates for Congress have raised a record-shattering $1 billion this election
Senator Claire McCaskill, a Democrat from Missouri, arrives on Capitol Hill on Oct. 5. MUST CREDIT: Bloomberg photo by Aaron P. Bernstein

Democratic candidates running for Congress this year collectively raised more than $1 billion for their campaigns - a record-shattering sum that highlights the party's zeal to retake the House and Senate and underscores the enormous amount of money flowing into the midterm races.

The $1.06 billion raised through the end of September surpasses the nearly $900 million collected by Republican candidates for Congress in 2012 - previously the largest haul registered by a single party by this point in the election cycle, according to a Washington Post analysis of Federal Election Commission records.

And it is the first time since 2008 - when Democrats swept the White House and both chambers of Congress - that Democratic candidates for House and Senate have outraised Republicans in direct contributions to candidates' committees.

Republican candidates for Congress raised $709 million through September, FEC records show.

While the fundraising shows remarkable strength on the part of Democrats, it remains to be seen whether the financial advantage can translate to electoral success, said Brendan Glavin, researcher at the nonpartisan Campaign Finance Institute, which analyzes historical campaign finance records.

"Money provided the platform and provided the ability to get out in front of the voter," he said. "We'll see what happens in the final step."

The figures do not include candidates who are no longer on the ballot or fundraising by outside groups that raise and spend unlimited amounts to support or oppose candidates. Candidates will continue to raise money until, and beyond, the Nov. 6 election.

Sheila Krumholz, executive director of the Center for Responsive Politics, said in a statement Wednesday that this year's midterm election is on track to becoming the costliest congressional election cycle in U.S. history.

"We expected to see the numbers climb, as they typically do, but the astonishing spike in campaign donations is a solid indicator of the intensity driving this year's campaigns," she said.

Democrats are also raising more money than Republicans in donations of less than $200 typically viewed as a sign of grass-roots support. Democrats on the November ballot raised $205 million in such donations - more than three times the amount Republican campaigns pulled in, The Washington Post's analysis shows.

ActBlue, a fundraising platform for Democratic candidates and causes, has been key to the infusion of cash coming in smaller, recurring amounts this year. ActBlue allows donors to give on their smartphones, with the money transferred to the campaign committee the next day.

In the third quarter alone, Democratic candidates and liberal organizations raised more than $385 million from 8.2 million unique contributions through ActBlue, which is more than the amount of money donors gave through the platform in the entire 2014 midterms, the group said.

Since 2017, 4.6 million people have donated through ActBlue, and 60 percent of those donors were first-time contributors, most of whom then went on to give repeatedly, said Erin Hill, executive director of ActBlue. She said giving to political campaigns has become a way for people to express their displeasure over President Donald Trump.

"We're in this time of historic civic engagement," Hill said. "People are marching and taking all sorts of action - protesting, calling their representatives and making small-dollar donations."

Some of those who amassed the most were self-funded, meaning they gave a large amount of money to their own campaign.

The two Democratic candidates for Senate who have raised the most money so far this election are Rep. Beto O'Rourke, who raised a record-setting $61.7 million in his quest to unseat Texas incumbent GOP Sen. Ted Cruz, and Missouri Sen. Claire McCaskill, who raised $28.6 million.

The two GOP Senate candidates who have amassed the most money are Gov. Rick Scott of Florida and Robert Hugin of New Jersey, who are both largely self-funding their campaigns.

On the House side, the candidates who have amassed the largest war chests so far are Democrat David Trone, in Maryland's 6th Congressional District - who gave himself most of the $16.5 million he raised - and Rep. Devin Nunes, R-Calif., chairman of the House intelligence committee, who has raised $10.6 million so far for his reelection.

Democratic candidates who survived tough primary battles have received an infusion of cash in the third quarter as they stocked up for their general election fight.

This was especially the case in the most competitive House seats, where first-time challengers raised $3 million or more from July through September.

It is unusual for first-time House candidates to raise $3 million or more in one quarter, Glavin said. House candidates who raise such sums tend to be in House leadership, incumbents who are prolific in raising large amounts of money through mail solicitations, and those who self-funded their campaigns, according to a CFI analysis.

Yet in the third quarter of 2018 alone, several Democratic challengers in the most competitive House races posted remarkable hauls. Among them were $4.4 million from Scott Wallace in Pennsylvania's 1st Congressional District, $3.8 million by Katie Hill in California's 25th District, $3.8 million by Antonio Delgado in New York's 19th District and $3.7 million by Amy McGrath in Kentucky's 6th District.

The FEC data analyzed by The Post for this story included fundraising figures from some Democratic challengers to Democratic incumbents, mainly in a handful of congressional races in California and Louisiana. The Post's analysis focused on candidate committees' fundraising data as of Sept. 30 for those running for the House and Senate in the Nov. 6 general election.

Witness to a killing: Virginia man becomes target after testifying

By Wesley Lowery and Dalton Bennett
Witness to a killing: Virginia man becomes target after testifying
Kenneth Moore looks out the front door of his home in Virginia in September, 2018. He moved after witnessing a deadly crime. MUST CREDIT: Washington Post photo by Salwan Georges

RICHMOND, Va. - As his wife began taking the groceries into their apartment, Kenneth Moore stayed planted in the driver's seat of his car, turned up the music and lit a blunt.

Moore, 34, liked to imagine his dented, gray Ford Focus as an escape from everything he hated about Gilpin Court, the sprawling public housing complex where he'd lived for about two years, where gunfire often sent his family down onto their stomachs in fear, cheeks pressed against the cold linoleum floor.

As he relaxed this Sunday afternoon in October 2016, Moore noticed two men on bicycles roll up the street, passing his car. Then he heard a gunshot - glancing up in time to see one of the men fire four or five more times toward the high-rise about a block away.

Moore ran for the apartment, followed closely by his wife, who had been returning to the car for another armful of groceries when the shooting started. Later, they watched from behind a window shade as police put up yellow crime scene tape, and they wondered whether anyone was hurt.

Although he didn't know it at the time, Moore had just become a witness - possibly the only witness - to a homicide. Just up the street, a single bullet had shattered the front windshield of a Nissan Altima parked outside the high-rise. Carmella Winston, 52 - who went by her middle name, Diane - was struck in the head as she sat in the passenger seat. She died later that day.

Winston is one of more than 50,000 homicide victims in major American cities since 2007. The majority of those killings - more than 26,000 - have never resulted in an arrest, according to an ongoing Washington Post examination. In many, if not most, of the unsolved cases, police said investigators believe they know the killer's identity but can't persuade potential witnesses to cooperate.

While most of the departments surveyed by The Washington Post have struggled with low homicide arrest rates, Richmond police are one of the few exceptions.

Officers there have the highest homicide arrest rate of 50 major American cities surveyed, having made an arrest in 351 of 495 homicides - more than 70 percent of cases - since 2007. That outcome, police officials said, is the result of persistent community outreach that has helped encourage witnesses to cooperate.

"If I'm in the city, I'm at every scene," said Chief Alfred Durham, a former District of Columbia police officer who has led Richmond's department since early 2015. "People in the community need to see members of our command staff engaging and doing everything possible to close each case. . . . We're out there building relationships."

Detectives said they have worked hard to gain the confidence of potential witnesses by assuring that police will do all they can to protect them if they come forward.

The high homicide arrest rate is a marked turnaround from just 12 years ago, when Richmond was briefly considered the nation's murder capital because of its high rate of killings per capita. In the years since, current officials said, successive chiefs have overhauled the department, violence has fallen, and arrest rates have soared.

Richmond police acknowledge that they do not face the same challenges as their counterparts in other cities: Even in the mid-2000s, the amount of violent crime in Richmond was far below that in the nation's deadliest cities. For example, while detectives in Baltimore, Detroit and Philadelphia field about a homicide a day, Richmond police have one per week. Unlike their counterparts in Chicago or New Orleans, Richmond police grapple with almost no gang violence.

Still, police here have had success solving cases even in the city's most violent and impoverished neighborhoods, including Gilpin Court - the 780-unit public housing project named after Charles Sidney Gilpin, a Richmond native and famed black actor from the 1920s. There were 22 homicides in Gilpin and the surrounding blocks between 2007 and 2017. All but one of the victims were black. Police made an arrest in 18 of the cases.

Yet Diane Winston's death appeared to be the kind of killing police consider among the most difficult to solve: a bystander killed by an unknown stranger, the bullet most likely intended for someone else.

What the Richmond police needed to bring Winston's killer to justice was a willing witness. They needed Moore.

- - -

In a recent interview, Jean Redwood recalled that her family had just finished their Sunday dinner, about 3 p.m. that afternoon, and were en route to take a plate of food to Redwood's brother, who lived in the Gilpin high-rise. They'd parked on the street - Redwood, now 77, was in the driver's seat, and Winston, her daughter, was seated next to her. Three young grandchildren were in the back.

As Redwood began to pull out of the parking spot, she heard the gunfire.

She quickly ducked low in her seat, screaming for the children to get down. Looking up, she saw shattered glass inside the car. Then she glanced right and saw Winston slumped motionless against the passenger door. A single bullet had pierced the windshield and struck her in the left eye.

In a panic, Redwood jumped out of the car, hollering and crying in the middle of the street as two of her grandchildren, 4- and 6-year-old girls, hid horrified on the floor of the back seat.

"Nana, get back in the car!" her 8-year-old grandson screamed as he chased her into the roadway.

"Let's go to Ms. Debbie's house," the boy urged, as he guided his grandmother back to the driver's seat and directed her to a family friend's home around the corner, where they dialed 911.

Detective Jeff Crewell's shift wasn't supposed to start for another hour when he got the call at home and made his way to Gilpin.

A tall detective with black hair and sea-green eyes, Crewell joined the department in April 1999 after a stint in the Marines. He used to patrol neighborhoods like Gilpin and said assignments in the public housing projects are the most important part of his job. Out in the suburbs, policing often means breaking up high school parties and investigating car break-ins, he said. But in the public housing units of a big city, policing means saving lives and securing justice for victims of serious crimes.

Crewell recalled that by the time he arrived at Gilpin, a crowd had begun to gather around Redwood, who was still disheveled and distraught.

Crewell whisked Redwood away from the crowd and back to the police station, where he gave her a bottle of water and sat her in a conference room to be interviewed.

"I've got some news," Crewell told her after about two hours.

Redwood hung her head. She already knew what was coming. Her daughter hadn't made it.

Back at Gilpin, detectives had begun their canvass for clues and witnesses.

Richmond police had received multiple 911 calls about the shooting. Most were frantic requests for an ambulance - one with the desperate screams of Winston's mother audible in the background. But others offered crucial information.

"The dude that shot her, his name is Rabbit, his nickname is Rabbit," an anonymous caller told police minutes after the shooting. "Somebody is hiding him in one of them apartments."

Minutes later, the same tipster called with another lead: "His last name is Scott."

Within moments, detectives connected with the patrol officers whose beats include Gilpin. They knew Rabbit - George Trevon Watson Scott, 23, the middle of three children in a family well known in Gilpin. Court records show Watson Scott had prior drug-related convictions, but his family said he had no history of violence.

Now that police had a name, they needed to find a witness.

In Richmond, detectives' strategy when canvassing is to walk up to each home and ask whoever answers the door what, if anything, they saw. Because detectives go to every residence, they can assure anyone willing to provide information that their neighbors won't know it was them.

Sometimes the knocks elicit reluctant leads - a name whispered in a detective's ear or scribbled on a piece of paper. More often, they end with a simple insistence: "I don't know anything about that."

Then there are the times when a detective can tell that the person behind the door knows something, but isn't ready to talk.

That was Kenneth Moore the first time police approached his home on the night of the shooting. He and his wife told the detectives they hadn't really seen much. They were still relatively new in the neighborhood, and they wanted to avoid trouble - not insert themselves into the middle of it. Still, Moore made a suggestion.

Much of the initial search had been focused near the high-rise, where police suspected the shots had originated.

But Moore directed detectives to an alleyway. There, they found four shell casings, from a .40-caliber Smith & Wesson handgun.

Moore, the detectives realized, knew more than he was letting on.

One night after the shooting, detectives returned to his apartment. This time, Crewell told Moore and his wife that the victim, an innocent bystander, had died. Was there anything else they could tell him?

Shameek Massey, Moore's wife, had answered the door. When Crewell was done speaking, she glanced back at her husband, who was standing behind her on the apartment stairs. If he was going to say something, they both knew now was the time.

For a decision that would change his life, Moore said he doesn't recall much of a complicated debate. His gut told him not to talk, to stay out of it and to mind his own business. But his conscience tugged at him. Talking to the police could put him in danger - especially if anyone in the neighborhood found out - but it was the right thing to do.

Yeah, he had seen the shooter, Moore reluctantly admitted. It was a man on a bike, in a black hoodie with a big white symbol on the back. He said he didn't know the guy but would recognize him if he saw him again.

It was a major breakthrough for Crewell, who said each case is like a set of building blocks. The tips and whispers are the first block, and finding and winning over a witness is the second. Now, he asked Moore to give him the third - come down to the station and look at a lineup.

Unlike some who lived in Gilpin, Moore said he didn't particularly dislike the police. Sure, there were bad cops, he said, and the department seemed to rally around their own anytime an officer was accused of wrongdoing. But was that really so different from the mind-set in the projects?

"They have their code, and we have ours," Moore explained.

Still, Moore said, he wasn't eager to visit the police station.

In the early 2000s, he was arrested after he helped his manager steal $5,000 from the McDonald's where they worked. Moore, who was a cook, said his manager had told him she needed the money because she was about to be evicted, so he had his brother pretend to rob the restaurant as the manager closed up for the night. It was a half-baked plan that Moore's brother confessed to as soon as police took him into custody.

All three were prosecuted and sent to prison, where Moore spent eight months behind bars. The felony "theft by an employee" conviction on his record has kept him out of work for the decade since. After five years on probation, Moore said, he took pride in no longer having to submit himself to the monthly check-ins.

Still, as Crewell stood in the doorway, Moore thought to himself: He hated all of these shootings. How would they ever stop if no one was willing to snitch on the shooters?

"I've got a mother; that could have been my mom. Or anyone I know," Moore said. "If something like this hit home, I would want somebody to talk."

Sure, Moore told Crewell, he'd come down to the station.

- - -

When asking a witness to identify a suspect from a photo lineup, Richmond police employ a "double blind" strategy - the detective showing the photos doesn't know which person in the photo lineup is under suspicion. Crewell said this is to ensure that witnesses truly identify the people they believe committed the crimes without any help, intentional or inadvertent, from the officers conducting the lineups.

At Richmond police headquarters, a detective showed Moore eight photos. Immediately, he narrowed it down to two who could have been the shooter.

"All of the dudes they were showing me were chubby, but (the shooter's) face wasn't fat," Moore recalled. "It was an oval shape."

He looked again, closer this time. The shooter was the man in photo No. 5, Moore told the police. The man he had identified was George Trevon Watson Scott.

The identification, from a direct witness, was what police needed to make an arrest. Watson Scott was taken into custody and charged with second-degree murder.

Although the high-rise apartments had security cameras, none captured the shooting itself, and investigators never recovered the murder weapon.

Police said they do not believe Winston was the intended target, but they have never publicly stated who was. Winston's family members said the rumors around Gilpin are that Watson Scott was shooting at another man - possibly the other man riding a bicycle - after an argument.

Watson Scott pleaded not guilty - he hadn't done it, his attorneys argued. Without the murder weapon or video of the shooting, how could prosecutors prove he did?

"In certain neighborhoods, everybody knows the people who are involved in criminal activity," said Capt. James Laino, who oversees the major crimes unit in Richmond. "The challenging part is taking that information, building a case and then having that witness be willing to testify in court."

Although Richmond police officials said they tightly safeguard the identities of witnesses who come forward before trial, if a case goes to court, any testimony becomes a matter of public record.

Moore and Massey were both asked by police to testify. And no, police told them, they couldn't do so anonymously. They would be in open court, sworn in under their real names, sitting across from the man they were accusing of murder.

They began to think about all of the ways their lives could change. Moore said he wondered, as he walked home from a nearby convenience store, whether the neighbors knew he was the witness. Massey said she spent late nights on the phone with her mother debating the pros and cons - what if they were threatened and had to move? They'd have to pull the kids out of school. Was it worth it?

"It wasn't that I didn't want to do the right thing," Massey said. "It was what could come afterward - having to move, my kids having to move."

Still, they found Crewell humble and attentive. They said they felt like his questions showed he truly wanted to solve the case. He always made sure their meetings were away from their home so they wouldn't be seen talking with police. And the department had agreed to cover Moore's phone bill, $60 a month, to make sure they could stay in touch with him until the trial.

When the case finally made it to court eight months later, Moore and Massey showed up.

- - -

On the morning of the bench trial, Redwood worried about the witnesses.

Redwood had felt joy when she got the call from Crewell two weeks after the shooting, telling her that he had found witnesses. But now she was scared for Moore and Massey - they had kids, too, didn't they? Would testifying put them at risk? Would it shatter their family the way the shooting had hers?

Winston had been the center of their universe, practically a mother to her 17 nieces and nephews and a best friend to her own mother. Born and raised in Gilpin, Winston had been living with Redwood in Henrico County, about 10 miles south.

She brought in modest wages as a nurse's assistant and a cook at McDonald's, but family members said Winston had fine tastes - her first love was her pearl white Thunderbird with red interior. She rarely drank, but when she did, it was sips of coffee-flavored brandy, never beer.

Outspoken and confident, she could be mean as a snake, her family members said. Her boyfriend recalls that most of their courtship consisted of him carefully calibrating each word to avoid a sharp, biting response.

In the days after the shooting, family members had gotten phone calls, texts and Facebook messages from people they had long known. It seemed everyone in Gilpin had heard gossip about the shooting and the suspect, but no one was willing to speak with police.

Now, settled into a seat near the front of the courtroom, Redwood eagerly waited to hear from the only people willing to cooperate with police.

Moore was the second person to take the stand. He told the judge he'd been sitting in his car, smoking marijuana, when he saw two men bike past him. When he heard gunfire, he looked up - there was only one man there now, the one in the black hoodie, and he was shooting toward the high-rise.

"Do you see the person that you saw firing those four or five shots down St. James Street in the courtroom today?" the prosecutor asked.

"Yes," Moore replied, before raising his hand and pointing to Watson Scott, who sat in a blue prison jumpsuit, sandwiched between his attorneys, just a few feet away.

Watson Scott's defense attorneys tore into Moore's credibility on cross examination. Could he really be sure of whom he saw? Wasn't he high at the time? And hadn't he hesitated during the photo lineup?

"He was definitely trying to play with my brain," Moore recalled of the defense attorney's questioning. "I did get upset but didn't want to show it."

Both legal teams recognized that the case rested solely on Moore. Massey testified, too, taking the stand right after her husband. But she hadn't actually seen the gunman's face - Moore was the only person who placed Watson Scott at the scene of the shooting, firing the gun.

Watson Scott's defense team insisted that Moore's view of the shooter had been obstructed and that he had identified the wrong person.

In court filings, they argued that eyewitness testimony is "the leading cause of wrongful convictions" and cited data showing that at least 602 people were later exonerated because witnesses were mistaken in their identification.

"We wholeheartedly believe that Mr. Watson is innocent, and it's a case of mistaken identity," Catherine Lawler, one of Watson Scott's defense attorneys, said in an interview with The Washington Post. She also said that she believes police pressured Moore to identify someone from the photo lineup and that he may have previously seen Watson Scott in Gilpin.

"They got the wrong guy," she said.

Watson Scott never testified, and his attorneys offered no alibi that would prove he was not the shooter.

"The entire case hinges upon this one witness, a convicted felon who's smoking marijuana, who's making an identification across the street with another person in between them, and that person has their hoodie drawn," Ali Amirshahi, Watson Scott's lead public defender, said in his closing argument. "That in and of itself is reasonable doubt to convict somebody of murder."

The judge ruled almost immediately, concluding that Moore's testimony was credible and that the prosecution had proved beyond a reasonable doubt that Watson Scott had been the shooter. Finding Watson Scott guilty of second-degree murder, the judge sentenced him to 40 years in prison, with 16 suspended. An appeal is pending, and Watson Scott's family and attorneys still insist he is innocent.

Moore said he felt proud of himself as he gazed over to Winston's family, who had been present for the entire trial wearing T-shirts with her face printed on them.

Then he felt the fear rise up from his stomach. How would things change now that everyone knew he was the witness?

- - -

Moore's first impulse was to run - for his family to pack up and drive back to New York, where he'd grown up, where he knew he'd be safe.

He spent hours replaying the short trial in his head, scanning the faces of each person he remembered from the courtroom. As he walked the cracked sidewalks of Gilpin, he kept his head low, hoping to avoid eye contact with the people he passed.

But he had moved here to be closer to his mother, who lived in Richmond. Moving back to New York would mean abandoning her. And besides, he thought to himself, there was time to make up his mind. If someone was going to retaliate, it probably wouldn't be for at least a few months, right?

It took just two weeks.

That afternoon, Moore had driven to Tiger Market, a convenience store with a kitchen that fries takeout chicken and where many Gilpin residents paid their rent.

He had just gotten back into his car, a bottle of Dr Pepper and a bag of salt and vinegar chips in his hands, when a brick smashed into his driver's side window.

Moore looked up and saw three men approaching his car with more bricks and sticks.

He threw it in reverse and sped away.

"You didn't run them over?!" Massey exclaimed minutes later, as her husband relayed what happened.

"We've got to get out of here," Moore replied.

They called Crewell that day to tell him what happened and began the process of applying for housing elsewhere. They pulled their four kids out of school and started packing. By the next month, they had left Gilpin for good.

Today, Moore and Massey live elsewhere in Virginia, in a nondescript, sparsely furnished apartment with no air conditioning, no longer near his mother in Richmond.

The Richmond Police Department helped pay for their moving costs, but uprooting and relocating so quickly set them back financially. Several of the bedrooms lack dressers, and for the past few months, Moore has struggled to pay his phone bill.

He is still convinced that he did the right thing, even if he's frustrated with having to start over in a new city. But at least, he notes, his new neighborhood is quiet. He doesn't have to sit in his car anymore because there is nothing to escape - there are rarely any shootings.

- - -

The Washington Post's Kimbriell Kelly, Steven Rich and Ted Mellnik contributed to this report.


Video Embed Code

Video: Diane Winston was struck and killed by a stray bullet meant for someone else in Richmond One man witnessed the shooting and helped lead police to her killer.(Dalton Bennett/The Washington Post)

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Pulitzer-winning opinion from the most respected voices in the world.

Why Nancy Pelosi doesn't care what they say about her

By e.j. dionne jr.
Why Nancy Pelosi doesn't care what they say about her


(Advance for Thursday, Oct. 18, 2018, and thereafter. Web release Wednesday, Oct. 17, 2018, at 8 p.m. Eastern time.)

(For Dionne clients only)


CAMBRIDGE, Mass. -- "Do whatever you have to do. Just win, baby."

Nancy Pelosi's feisty, candid and pragmatic words to Harvard students on Tuesday reflected the House Democratic leader's full adaptation to the role of designated dart board for House Republicans. She granted full absolution to party hopefuls who think they'll enhance their chances of winning by promising not to elect her House Speaker.

"None of us is indispensable," she declared amiably.

But then came a steely postscript: "You can't let the opposite party choose the leader of your party."

"And I say this especially to women," she added, "because they think women are going to run away from the fight. But you can't do that. You believe in what you have to offer."

She does, and her implications are clear. Republicans want to get rid of her because she's effective. Sexism is a big reason for her starring role as an ogre in GOP advertising. And while Democrats should say what they need to say now, they'd do well to be wary of deposing her in response to pressure from the other side.

Speaking before a packed house at an event sponsored by the Kennedy School of Government's Institute of Politics, Pelosi made as clear as she could that -- far from being the ultra-liberal of conservative demonology -- she is thoroughly in touch with the sensibilities of the swing voters her House candidates need to persuade.

She didn't mention President Trump until well into the conversation, emphasizing instead the Democrats' core promises: to hold down health care costs; to enact campaign-finance reform and other democratizing political changes; and to implement a big infrastructure program that Trump himself might back.

Pelosi pushes hard against the idea that a Democratic-led House would move quickly toward impeaching Trump. On the contrary. "I think using the word 'impeachment' is very divisive," she said, "and that isn't a path that I would like to go down." She knows that Trump uses impeachment talk to fire up his own base. She is not about to feed the blaze.

At the same time, she stressed that she wants the "documentation" from Special Counsel Robert Mueller's investigation to be "preserved" so Congress and the public can have "the documents and the truth." If there is a case for impeachment, she seemed to suggest, it will emerge from what Mueller finds, not what Democrats say.

She is equally careful about the sorts of inquiries a Democratic House would launch into other aspects of the Trump presidency. Pelosi lists a long series of Trumpian abuses, but then adds: "I don't think this should be scattershot. I think it should be responsible, honoring our Constitution and our responsibilities. ... I've asked my chairs to be prepared, but not everything is on par with everything else."

The more militant in the party might find Pelosi a bit too deliberate. But she has a shrewd sense of what a legislative majority can -- and can't -- accomplish. She earned a lot of the credit for the passage of the Affordable Care Act in 2010 under excruciating political circumstances.

But none of this reduces the pressure she might face. According to an NBC News count in August, at least 57 Democratic House candidates have said they would not support her for speaker, reflecting in part a desire for generational change. In a party that increasingly leans on younger voters, Pelosi is 78; the No. 2 Democrat, House Whip Steny Hoyer of Maryland, is 79; and the No. 3 member of the leadership, Rep. Jim Clyburn of South Carolina, is 78.

Responding to a student questioner who complained that the House seniority system freezes out the young, Pelosi briefly mooted the possibility she might serve as a transitional speaker to new leadership. "I see myself as a bridge, really," she said.

But when Mark Gearan, the director of the Institute of Politics, pressed her on the bridge she had in mind, she didn't elaborate beyond saying that she was focused on "how we're taking what we're doing into the future."

Pelosi expressed guarded confidence that the electorate would side with the Democrats in order to reintroduce "checks and balances" to Washington. But she warned that many House races are very close. And if instead, the election proved to be "a validation" of "the practices and the personal affronts of this president of the United States, I pray very hard for our country."

Which is why she doesn't much worry over what Democrats say about her between now and Election Day.

E.J. Dionne's email address is Twitter: @EJDionne.

(c) 2018, Washington Post Writers Group

Here's a reality check: Your child probably won't get a full ride to college

By michelle singletary
Here's a reality check: Your child probably won't get a full ride to college


(Advance for Wednesday, Oct. 17, 2018, and thereafter. Web release Tuesday, Oct. 16, 2018, at 8 p.m. Eastern time.)

(For Singletary clients only)

WRITETHRU: Swaps in new headline to correct meaning


WASHINGTON -- As the deadlines for early college admission get closer, many parents dream of big scholarships for their star athletes or academically gifted students.

They argue that they didn't need to save. Instead, they shuttled -- or dragged -- their children to sports practices, hoping all that time on courts or fields would pay off in big money for college. Or they banked on their children getting merit-based financial aid because of their superior grades.

But when they finally get the financial-aid packages after the joy of the acceptance letters, many will be shocked into reality -- or debt.

Only 0.2 percent of students got $25,000 or more in scholarships per year based on the 2015-16 National Postsecondary Student Aid Study (NPSAS), the most recent data available, according to Mark Kantrowitz, publisher and vice president of research for

In analyzing the scholarship figures, Kantrowitz notes that a total of $6.1 billion in scholarships were awarded to 1.58 million recipients. That's 8.1 percent of students and an average of $3,852 per recipient. If you limit the data to students who are enrolled in bachelor's degree programs, the figures are 12.7 percent (1 in 8 students) and $4,202 per recipient.

The odds are not in your child's favor to get enough money for college that you can afford (BEG ITAL)not(END ITAL) to save.

My eldest child was in the top 5 percent of her high school class and was an AP scholar, a status awarded by the College Board to students who receive scores of 3 or higher on three or more AP exams. We were through the roof with happiness when she got a $20,000 presidential scholarship from the University of Maryland. However, divided over four years, it was $2,500 a semester. We had to make up the difference of about $60,000 with our savings and investment returns built up over 18 years in a 529 plan.

"Parents have a tendency to overestimate eligibility for merit-based aid and underestimate eligibility for need-based aid," Kantrowitz said. "I often hear from parents who think their child will get a free ride because they are their high school valedictorian or salutatorian. But there are more than 80,000 valedictorians and salutatorians each year, so that doesn't really distinguish them from other students. Thousands of students get perfect SAT or ACT test scores. With rampant grade inflation, hundreds of thousands of students get a 4.0 GPA each year."

Looking deeper into the data, here's what Kantrowitz says is the reality when you combine scholarships with need-based grants.

-- 1.5 percent of students in bachelor's degree programs got enough scholarships and grants to cover 100 percent of the cost of attendance.

-- 2.7 percent got enough to cover 90 percent of the cost of attendance.

-- 5.9 percent got enough to cover 75 percent of the cost of attendance

-- 18.8 percent received enough to cover 50 percent of the cost of attendance.

Still dreaming you child will slam dunk an athletic scholarship?

Only 2.3 percent of students in bachelor's degree programs received athletic scholarships, with an average of $11,914 each based on the 2015-16 figures.

Of course, some will get more, others less. The point is that being athletically gifted doesn't guarantee a full ride. Even with a pretty substantial partial scholarship, many families are left with a deficit -- especially for student-athletes who attend more expensive colleges, Kantrowitz said.

So this is yet another reminder to fill out the Free Application for Federal Student Aid form (FAFSA). Whether your child will be applying for early admission to college or is a returning student, complete the form sooner rather than later. With limited funds, schools often hand out scholarships on a first-come, first-served basis. Even if you're a high-income family, fill out the FAFSA.

If you've got some years to go before your child is ready for college, save all that you can, preferably in a 529 college-savings plan. Under a 529, earnings are not subject to federal tax -- and generally state tax -- if they are used for qualified education expenses such as tuition and fees.

OK, so now you know. This doesn't mean your child shouldn't be aggressive in applying for scholarships. And fall is the time to do it. In fact, November is National Scholarship Month, which is sponsored by the National Scholarship Providers Association.

When it comes to counting on scholarships, aim high. But prepare for the possibility that the amount will be lower than you expect -- and much less than you need to pay for college.

--0-- --0-- --0--

Readers can write to Michelle Singletary c/o The Washington Post, 1301 K St., N.W., Washington, D.C. 20071. Her email address is Follow her on Twitter (@SingletaryM) or Facebook ( Comments and questions are welcome, but due to the volume of mail, personal responses may not be possible. Please also note comments or questions may be used in a future column, with the writer's name, unless a specific request to do otherwise is indicated.

(c) 2018, Washington Post Writers Group

Italy's debt monster: a primer

By robert j. samuelson
Italy's debt monster: a primer



(For Samuelson clients only)


WASHINGTON -- Just when it seemed safe not to worry about the next financial crisis, up pops Italy. "In Italy, lavish plans may propel next crisis," warned The New York Times. Or, "Italy's budget rattles financial markets on debt crisis fears," said Sky News.

Exactly how a crisis might emerge isn't clear. Would Italian interest rates soar, reflecting fears that the country can't service its colossal debt? Would Italian banks weaken because their bonds lose value? Would there be spillover effects on other countries? Might Italy abandon the euro?

What is clear is that the new Italian government is flirting with trouble. All the ingredients of a crisis are present.


(1) Italy's sovereign debt -- that is, its governmental debt -- is already massive. It's estimated at 131 percent of the country's economy (Gross Domestic Product), the second highest among countries in the eurozone. The highest is Greece (nearly 180 percent of GDP), but Italy's is more worrisome, because its economy is the third largest in the eurozone, behind Germany's and France's. Italy's economy is roughly 10 times the size of Greece's, says economist Desmond Lachman of the American Enterprise Institute. Whatever happens, the impact on Europe's economy and financial markets will dwarf the repercussions of the Greek crisis.

(2) Italy's economic growth is almost non-existent. Since 2010, it has averaged less than 0.2 percent annually, reports the International Monetary Fund. This is important. If countries are growing rapidly, borrowers can repay their loans more easily, because their incomes -- wages, salaries, profits -- are also growing rapidly. Virtually all advanced countries have experienced economic slowdowns. But Italy is an extreme case. The fact that its growth is near a standstill means the country is highly vulnerable to anything that raises its debt or reduces its growth.

(3) Italy's new government proposes expanding its budget deficit, from 0.8 percent of GDP -- what the previous government proposed -- to 2.4 percent of GDP. There's a collision between what financial markets want (lower deficits) and what Italy's government wants (new policies to satisfy its supporters). The coalition government consists of the populist-left Five Star party and the populist-right League Party. They are committed to a guaranteed "universal basic income" for the unemployed, tax cuts and a rollback of increases in the retirement age.

At the least, Italy and the European Commission -- the Brussels-based bureaucracy that oversees the European Union's laws and regulations -- seem destined to collide, because the proposed 2019 budget violates European Union rules calling for much lower debt levels. The question is whether the dispute ends in an acceptable compromise or triggers a major confrontation.

"This budget doesn't make the Italian debt sustainable," says Jeromin Zettelmeyer, a former top German economic official now at the Peterson Institute in Washington. "The worry is about a political standoff. The government could ignore requests of the European Commission [for budget changes]." But so far, he notes, "there is no panic in the markets," suggesting that investors believe an accommodation will be reached.

The larger issue is why the Italian economy has bogged down in recent decades. As Bill Emmott, a former editor of The Economist, noted in his book "Good Italy, Bad Italy," this wasn't always the case. From 1950 to 1970, Italy's GDP grew an average of 5.8 percent a year -- a rate that, even if halved now, would still make sizable debt reduction possible.

To some extent, an economic slowdown was inevitable. There was a long period after World War II of "economic catchup" as Italy and many countries rebuilt and adopted existing technologies. But more recently, Emmott argues, over-regulation and chronic budget deficits have sapped Italy's economic vitality.

Italy's debt has become an economic and political monster. What's ultimately at stake is whether the monster can be controlled inside of Italy or whether it breaks out, spreading havoc across global economies and financial markets.

(c) 2018, The Washington Post Writers Group

Canned crab? Elizabeth Warren is unfit to lead.

By dana milbank
Canned crab? Elizabeth Warren is unfit to lead.



(For Milbank clients only)


WASHINGTON -- Poor Elizabeth Warren.

She took President Trump's bait and submitted to a DNA test to demonstrate her Native American genealogy -- and, in so doing, may have doomed her presidential campaign before it began. Now the Massachusetts senator is not only enduring Trump's "Pocahontas" insults (at least when he's not calling another woman "Horseface") but also being disparaged by Indian tribes.

"Senator Warren is undermining tribal interests with her continued claims of tribal heritage," proclaimed the Cherokee Nation, decrying her "inappropriate and wrong" use of a DNA test, a "mockery" that dishonors "legitimate" tribal citizens.

Ouch. But I can understand why the Cherokees -- and indeed all people of good taste -- might wish to disavow Warren: It's the crab mayonnaise.

Among the many unfortunate results of Warren's recent DNA test suggesting she's somewhere between 1/64th and 1/1,024th Native American by ethnicity: It inevitably draws attention to her contribution to the '80s cookbook, "Pow Wow Chow: A Collection of Recipes from Families of the Five Civilized Tribes." Under "Elizabeth Warren, Cherokee," it lists five recipes, three of which were apparently cribbed from the New York Times and Better Homes and Gardens.

Worse, one of the recipes she submitted: "Crab with Tomato Mayonnaise Dressing." A traditional Cherokee dish with mayonnaise, a 19th-century condiment imported by settlers? A crab dish from landlocked Oklahoma? This can mean only one thing: canned crab.

Warren is unfit to lead.

Yet it is difficult not to feel sorry for Warren. Though she doesn't claim tribal membership, she clearly wants to be embraced. And so I extend an invitation to the senator to join my tribe. Warren should become a Jew. As Trump said when asking for African-American votes shortly before praising Confederate Gen. Robert E. Lee: "Honor us."

The Tribes of Israel have little to do with Native American tribes beyond the Yiddish-speaking Indians in Mel Brooks' "Blazing Saddles." But no DNA test is required. A stickler might require Warren to ask three times before becoming a Member of the Tribe -- "MOT" -- but for many, being Jewish is a state of mind, as comic legend Lenny Bruce explained decades ago:

"If you live in New York or any other big city, you are Jewish. It doesn't matter even if you're Catholic; if you live in New York, you're Jewish. If you live in Butte, Montana, you're going to be goyish even if you're Jewish. Evaporated milk is goyish even if the Jews invented it. Chocolate is Jewish, and fudge is goyish. Spam is goyish, and rye bread is Jewish. Negroes are all Jews. Italians are all Jews. Irishmen who have rejected their religion are Jews. Mouths are very Jewish. And bosoms. Baton-twirling is very goyish."

The same applies to current politics. If you work in the Trump administration, you are goyish even if you are Jewish. The House is goyish, the Senate is Jewish. Jeff Flake: Jewish. Dianne Feinstein: goyish. Sonia Sotomayor: very Jewish. Steny H. Hoyer: crazy goyish.

Warren would have some work to do. Her demeanor screams white bread and Jell-O molds. But a few adjustments might help: Stop calling herself "an Okie to my toes." (Even Jews who live in Oklahoma are goyish.) And, for heaven's sake, stop with the crab mayonnaise.

Of course, I don't actually desire to have Warren join my "tribe" -- which, in any event, is only part of my heritage. Like most in the American melting pot, I'm a mutt: a stew of English and German, western pioneers and sharecroppers, immigrants from the shtetl and a great-great-great-grandfather who died fighting for the Iowa 39th Infantry in the Civil War.

This is why Warren's DNA stunt was such a blunder: She took Trump's DNA-test dare and let him divide us -- again -- by race and ethnicity, just as he did when he goaded President Barack Obama to prove his legitimacy by producing his birth certificate.

It's sad that the Cherokees responded by noisily rejecting Warren, but that's their right.

It's disgusting that the episode has also set off the worst in some, such as Sen. Lindsey O. Graham, R-S.C., who joked on Fox News that it would be "terrible" if a DNA test found he had Iranian ethnicity.

No, Senator. What's "terrible" is that Trump has found a new, high-tech way to stoke tribalism and division. And Warren fell for it.

Follow Dana Milbank on Twitter, @Milbank.

(c) 2018, Washington Post Writers Group


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Video: President Trump on Oct. 15 said he did not owe $1 million to a charity of Sen. Elizabeth Warren's (D-Mass.) choice because he did not 'personally' test her DNA.(The Washington Post)

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Trump deserves credit for sticking by Kavanaugh

By ruben navarrette jr.
Trump deserves credit for sticking by Kavanaugh


(Advance for Wednesday, Oct. 17, 2018, and thereafter. Web release Tuesday, Oct. 16, 2018, at 8 p.m. Eastern time.)

(For Navarrette clients only)


SAN DIEGO -- Americans have long lived as part of different tribes. Now we live on entirely different planets.

Half the country can't stand the other half. With liberals cornering the market on compassion and conservatives having a monopoly on patriotism, everyone thinks they're superior to everyone else.

We all have to do our part to heal the breach. One way to do that is to examine issues from the opposing perspective, and to look for the positive even in those cases when all you see initially is negative. It's also not a bad idea to get out of attack mode now and then, and acknowledge when the other side does something that is good and helpful.

I'm a Never Trump'er who thinks the president has hurt America more than he has helped it. I'm also someone who would welcome impeachment if Democrats take the House of Representatives. Even so, I get tired of seeing those in my camp look down their noses at President Trump and insult his voters as dumb, dangerous or -- to borrow a word -- deplorable. Many critics are so blinded by their outright hatred and contempt for Trump that they can't even imagine praising him when he's on the right track, pursues the right policy or displays the right instinct.

In that spirit, here's my humble contribution to fixing America's broken dialogue.

Each week, I resolve to find one positive trait that Trump exhibits. I'll start with something that can be rare in Washington these days: loyalty.

Hold the snickers. I realize this has not been one of Trump's strong suits. Witness his shabby treatment of former Secretary of State Rex Tillerson, former White House Chief of Staff Reince Priebus, former National Security Adviser H.R. McMaster, and former White House Chief Strategist Steve Bannon.

Still, if you're not an employee but simply a nominee, perhaps you'll enjoy more loyalty.

Trump should be commended for standing by Brett Kavanaugh, through slings and arrows, until the embattled Supreme Court nominee took his seat.

During the White House swearing-in ceremony on Oct. 8, Trump patted himself on the back.

"Those who step forward to serve our country deserve a fair and dignified evaluation, not a campaign of political and personal destruction based on lies and deception," he said. "What happened to the Kavanaugh family violates every notion of fairness, decency and due process. In our country, a man or woman must always be presumed innocent unless and until proven guilty."

Kavanaugh responded by showing his gratitude to Trump for not cutting him loose as a political liability.

"Mr. President, thank you for the great honor of appointing me to serve as a Justice of the Supreme Court. I've seen firsthand your deep appreciation for the vital role of the American judiciary. I am grateful for your steadfast, unwavering support throughout this process. And I'm grateful to you and Mrs. Trump for the exceptional, overwhelming courtesy you have extended to my family and me. Mr. President, thank you for everything."

Trump gets praise from many Americans for keeping promises and talking straight because most politicians aren't known to do either of those things. Likewise, it serves him well that he displays loyalty now and then -- because many presidents aren't known for leveraging capital and sticking their necks out for someone else. Sadly, that's true even if it was the politician who tossed that person into the lion's den to begin with.

Bill Clinton wasn't loyal to Lani Guinier, his old law school friend who he nominated to head up the Civil Rights Division of the Justice Department. When Republicans attacked her as a "quota queen" over her support for affirmative action, Clinton bailed.

George W. Bush wasn't loyal to Alberto Gonzales. When Democrats accused the attorney general of politicizing the firing of U.S. Attorneys -- a trend that emanated from the White House -- Gonzales was the scapegoat. He resigned, and Bush didn't stop him.

Barack Obama wasn't loyal to Thomas Saenz, the Yale-educated civil rights lawyer who made a name for himself litigating cases of the Los Angeles office of the Mexican-American Legal Defense and Education Fund. When Obama offered Saenz the chance to head the Civil Rights Division of the Justice Department, anti-immigrant groups began a smear campaign. Obama rescinded the offer.

So here comes Trump. When the Left threw everything at Kavanaugh -- the kitchen sink and every other appliance -- the president didn't flinch. He stood by his guy.

That counts for a lot. And Trump deserves credit for it -- no matter what planet you live on.

Ruben Navarrette's email address is His daily podcast, "Navarrette Nation," is available through every podcast app.

(c) 2018, The Washington Post Writers Group

A brooding crown prince searches for a scapegoat

By david ignatius
A brooding crown prince searches for a scapegoat


(Advance for Wednesday, Oct. 17, 2018, and thereafter. Web release Tuesday, Oct. 16, 2018, at 8 p.m. Eastern time.)

(For Ignatius clients only)


WASHINGTON -- Inside his royal place in Riyadh, Mohammed bin Salman is said to have alternated between dark brooding and rampaging anger in the days after the death of Jamal Khashoggi, as the crown prince looked for someone to blame for what Turkish officials have said was a grisly murder.

One possible scapegoat, according to several sources, may be Major Gen. Ahmed al-Asiri, deputy chief of Saudi intelligence. Asiri "has made numerous approaches to MBS on taking actions against Khashoggi and others," said one source who's familiar with Western intelligence reports.

The U.S. government learned last month that Asiri was planning to create a "tiger team" to conduct covert special operations, I'm told, although the U.S. didn't know the targets. U.S. intelligence also learned, but only after Khashoggi's disappearance from the Saudi consulate in Istanbul on Oct. 2, that the crown prince had told his subordinates this summer that he wanted Khashoggi and other Saudi dissidents brought back home.

The swirling reports and recriminations surfaced as Secretary of State Mike Pompeo visited the kingdom Tuesday and urged King Salman and his son to conduct a "transparent" investigation of the disappearance of Khashoggi, a Washington Post columnist. But such efforts will face rising skepticism in the U.S. Congress, epitomized by the blast Tuesday from Sen. Lindsey Graham, R-S.C., that MBS "had this guy murdered."

Jared Kushner, President Trump's son-in-law and adviser, urged MBS last weekend to organize an investigation that could identify the culprit responsible for Khashoggi's death, two sources told me. The next day, Trump said he thought "rogue killers" may have been responsible, seemingly telegraphing a fall-guy strategy.

The Khashoggi case isn't the first time that the palace allegedly attempted to kidnap a critic. After one prominent Saudi criticized aspects of the crown prince's plan to privatize Saudi Aramco in a meeting abroad with potential foreign investors, a Saudi plane arrived along with an official who allegedly tried to arrest the man as a terrorist. He escaped, but the message was clear: Challenging MBS was risky.

The darkening mood inside MBS' palace in recent months shows a crown prince facing economic pressure and tightening his circle of advisers.

MBS' key counselor is said to have been Saud al-Qahtani, his media adviser but increasingly also his consigliere in the kingdom's battles with foreign adversaries such as Qatar and Iran as well as domestic critics. Qahtani is young and headstrong, like his boss.

Qahtani organized interviews with MBS for visiting foreign journalists. But sources say he was quietly assuming a larger role overseeing strategy in social media, which the Saudis (like the Russians) view as a domain of war.

Qahtani is a demon in Saudi Twitter debates, with 1.3 million followers and barbed messages to dissenters. He has created a hashtag with the Arabic term for "Black List," and he urges Saudis to report enemies of the kingdom on social media, Qahtani and other advisers have helped MBS use the latest and most aggressive hacking techniques against adversaries.

MBS' tight inner circle has helped him push modernization efforts, such as reducing the power of the religious police, allowing women to drive, and opening movie theaters and other public entertainment. But his team of palace advisers has often amplified, rather than challenged, MBS' worst impulses.

This breakdown was evident immediately after Khashoggi's disappearance, when official Saudi statements were all happy talk. Behind the scenes, says one knowledgeable source, "MBS went into a funk for several days after learning of Khashoggi's death before re-emerging on a rampage of anger around what happened and trying to figure out a response."

Adding to MBS' anxiety in the weeks before Khashoggi's disappearance was the erosion of his big plans to boost the Saudi economy. In August, the kingdom delayed indefinitely its plans for the Aramco privatization, which MBS had hoped would raise more than $100 billion. That same month, plans for a big investment in Tesla cratered. An investment deal with the Japanese company Softbank also hit a snag.

Surrounded by yes-men who saw suppressing dissent as part of a media war, and rattled by the reversal of his dreams for economic reform, MBS moved toward the fateful moment when Khashoggi entered the Saudi consulate in Istanbul. When the brave journalist opened the door, he began a catastrophic process that has now put MBS' own future in question. Putting a lid on a murder investigation won't be easy, even for a brashly confident prince.

David Ignatius' email address is

(c) 2018, Washington Post Writers Group

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