By Rich Lowry & Ramesh Ponnuru
Thursday, December 17, 2020
It had long been obvious that if Trump lost the election,
his exit would be graceless.
It was hard to see him conceding defeat in any
circumstance, even if he got buried in a landslide. Having flouted norms
throughout his presidency, there was no way that he would begin honoring them
on his way out the door. Given to insulting his opponents and complaining of
unfairness in the best of circumstances, he wasn’t going to find resources of
classiness hitherto not in evidence.
Yet Trump hasn’t even managed to clear the low bar of
realistic expectations for his post-election conduct. Even before the counting
had ended, he declared himself the winner by a landslide. He spread rank
disinformation on his Twitter account every day and pursued lawsuits that
sought, based on the thinnest of justifications, to throw out millions of votes
and invalidate state elections. He lobbied Republican officials to refuse to certify
results and to award him the electors in states he lost, and failed only
because the Republicans knew such acts would be a gross violation of the public
trust at best and illegal at worst.
All in all, it’s the worst thing he’s done in his
presidency and the worst exit of a defeated president in U.S. history, an
effort that is not less infamous for being incompetent and risible.
Vote fraud is a serious offense against democracy and the
law, and should be combated as such. But the Trump team and its allies have not
been able to provide evidence of widespread illegal activity despite an
intense, indeed fevered, search for it. While the rhetoric of Trump’s lawyers
has emphasized a fraudulent, stolen election, the arguments in court typically
haven’t been about alleged fraud at all. They have focused on changes in
procedures prior to the election, disparities in how counties handled absentee
ballots, and the distance Republican observers were kept from the counting —
none of which has come close to supporting the drastic remedies Trump has
sought.
Trump was clearly preparing the ground for his fraud
allegations prior to the election. His obsessive attacks on mail-in voting were
out of proportion to the threat such voting represented. Yes, mail-in voting is
less secure than in-person voting. Yes, some states were ill prepared to handle
the tsunami of mail-in ballots. But the states that have long had robust
mail-in voting programs, such as Colorado, Utah, and Oregon, haven’t
experienced widespread fraud.
In eschewing vote by mail, Trump created an even heavier
political lift for himself by urging his voters to vote only in-person, thus kicking away an opportunity to bank votes and
requiring a massive same-day turnout to overcome what Democrats had been building
over the course of weeks. If a quarter of the Georgia Republicans who cast
absentee ballots in the primary but didn’t vote at all in the fall election had
instead voted by mail, Trump would have won the state. By contrast, in Florida,
where Trump won more comfortably than he did in 2016, the state GOP didn’t
discourage voting by mail. In the Georgia runoffs for Senate, even Trump has
urged people to vote by mail.
Trump’s attacks on mail-in voting were useful, however,
in enabling him to discredit the election. The politicization of voting methods
meant that same-day ballots would be heavily Trump while absentee ballots would
skew Democratic. The fact that key states counted the same-day ballots first
created the impression of a Trump lead that got overtaken in the dead of the
night or in the days after the election. If the order of the counting had been
reversed, Biden would have established an early lead that steadily eroded but
never disappeared.
But that’s not the way the count went. And the misleading
impression created by the sequencing of it in Michigan, Wisconsin, and
Pennsylvania is still, so many weeks
later, one of the Trump team’s chief arguments that the election was stolen.
That Trump would look for a way to undermine the
legitimacy of a loss should have been obvious from the 2016 campaign, when he
promised, with characteristic frankness, to accept the result “if I win.” Even
after winning, he made ludicrous charges about how widespread illegal voting
had cheated him of a victory in the popular vote, just as he had after defeats
in the primary.
His post-election argument this time has been a magnified
version of past practice. He has shown even more of the indifference to the
Constitution, the rule of law, and simple logical consistency that has marked
his political career. He claims to be defending the integrity of U.S.
elections, even as he demands that state legislatures ignore the laws they have
passed and judges ignore federal statutory deadlines concerning the appointment
of electors. His lawyers, meanwhile, advance half-baked theories that would
enable state governments to use federal courts to interfere with one another’s
election procedures: something that has never before been done, or really even
contemplated.
The failure of this post-election campaign has not made
it costless. Trump has encouraged millions of voters to believe that their
votes do not count toward election results. He has sent them on a hunt for participants
in a nonexistent conspiracy against the public. He has directed scorn and rage
at state officials, including Republicans who backed him loyally, whose sin
has been to follow the law instead of indulging him. And he has set a terrible
precedent for future elections, especially ones that turn out closer than this
one did.
Republicans who have not been willing to parrot his claim
of a landslide victory have generally not contradicted it, either. Instead they
have resorted to offering one shabby excuse after another for the president’s
conduct. They say, for example, that he has every right to make his case in
court, a claim that runs against decades of more sensible statements from
Republicans about the evils of frivolous litigation. A president ought to have
less leeway to abuse the courts than a fast-food patron scalded by hot coffee.
Or they say that Trump and his supporters have raised
important questions. In many cases that is an extremely charitable assessment:
There is no important or even interesting question about Hugo Chávez’s ability
to manipulate vote totals from the grave, for example. In other cases, the
questioners refuse to listen to the answers. Take the widely broadcast claim
that turnout in Milwaukee jumped suspiciously from 71 percent in 2012, when
Obama was on the ticket, to 85 percent with Biden this year. The Republican
National Committee spread that one — and didn’t correct the record when it was
shown that turnout in 2012 was actually 87 percent, and therefore hadn’t risen at
all. The lawsuits don’t merely ask questions, anyway: They request action,
typically in the form of throwing out the ballots of thousands of law-abiding
voters.
Another quasi-defense of Trump has been that many of his
opponents refused to recognize the legitimacy of his election, too, and set out
to undermine his new administration with investigations. That’s true. But this
was not behavior to emulate, and Trump has exceeded it. Barack Obama did not
delay the transition, let alone attack other Democrats for allowing it to
proceed. Neither he nor Hillary Clinton urged state legislators to override
their states’ voters.
Al Gore came closer to winning the 2000 election than
Trump did this year, and put up a political and legal fight. But he didn’t
spread conspiracy theories, urge that officials be put in jail for refusing to
back his effort, or file dozens of lawsuits that got laughed out of court.
Trump has plumbed new depths.
Of course, well before he became president, Trump had
demonstrated that he does not care about truth, the viability of the political
system, or even the Republican Party. He had shown an attraction to conspiracy
theories of all kinds. (The Venezuelan–Serbian plot to steal the 2020 election
isn’t any crazier than the notion that Ted Cruz’s father participated in the
assassination of JFK.) In 2015, responding to criticism from National Review, Trump explained his
method on TV: “I keep whining and whining until I win.” It turns out not to be
a surefire strategy.
Through much of this, most elected Republicans followed
their habit of keeping their heads down. This reflex started as an
understandable, and probably prudent, decision. After he won in 2016, Trump was
going to be president no matter what. Senate majority leader Mitch McConnell
doubtless figured that inveighing against him wouldn’t accomplish anything,
while there were opportunities for fruitful cooperation and chances to steer
him away from grievous mistakes behind the scenes. But this posture hardened
into an unwillingness by most congressional Republicans to criticize Trump on
much of anything unless the provocation was intolerable (e.g., Trump’s
preposterous discussion with Putin in 2017 of starting a joint cybersecurity
unit). Republicans got used to running away from reporters in the halls of
Capitol Hill to avoid having to say anything about Trump’s latest outlandish
tweet.
Their fear of Trump — of his ability to mobilize a lot of
their own voters against them with one tweet or statement — was well founded.
In the old days, it could take years for a president to exact revenge on a
member of his own party as he recruited an opponent in a primary, sent his
operatives to work the race, etc. In contrast, Trump could mete out pain in a
280-character burst, sometimes diminishing his targets instantly.
This fear became only more intense as Trump whipped up
passions about a stolen election, and so Republicans held their tongues even
when the president began to actively and explicitly seek to overturn an
election result not to his liking. He always said they were weak, and too many
of them proved him right.
It’s not surprising that Trump would disgrace himself after an election loss; it is remarkable that he’s done it this grotesquely, and with so many who should know better effectively aiding and abetting him.
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