by Sam Turge, Senior Polical Correspondent for IRREVERENT
I checked into the Hampton Inn on 14th Street at 10:00 AM. Government rate. The elevator smelled like a wet flag left out in July, and the carpet in the hallway made a sound I can only describe as patriotic resignation. My room had a coffee maker that brewed something tasting like it was last fresh during the first Bush administration, and the walls were thin enough that I could hear the occupant next door rehearsing what sounded like a deposition. I dropped my bag, confirmed checkout was 11:00 AM, and walked to the White House. I figured I'd have this wrapped up by lunch. Maybe I'd even switch to a hotel with windows that opened.
The assignment was straightforward. Gabriel Perez, the White House teleprompter operator, had just been placed on unpaid leave after allegedly making roughly $100,000 on Kalshi, a prediction market regulated by the CFTC — the same body now investigating him. Perez had advance knowledge of presidential speech content because he literally loaded the words into the machine. Donald Trump Jr., a "strategic advisor" to Kalshi, received a roughly $300,000 free equity stake when he joined in early 2025. That stake is now potentially worth millions as Kalshi eyes a $40 billion valuation. Separately, he invested millions in Polymarket, Kalshi's main competitor. White House spokesperson Anna Kelly had stated on the record, "There are no conflicts of interest."
My editor wanted a sidebar. A short piece. Find one person in the building who had no material nonpublic information they could theoretically use to trade on Kalshi. A palate cleanser. Twenty minutes, I thought. Thirty if security was slow.
I started with the Press Office.
Lydia Vance, Deputy Press Secretary, was eating a salad at her desk when I leaned through the door. I explained my project. She set down her fork.
"You're looking for someone with no edge?" she said.
"None," I said. "No advance knowledge of anything tradeable."
She laughed. Then she stopped laughing.
"Well, I know about policy announcements before they're public," she said. "We embargo the tariff numbers until the morning briefing. If I knew the steel tariff was jumping to twenty-five percent and I bought the right Kalshi contract the night before, that would be..." She trailed off. "I don't do that. I'm not being investigated for anything." She took a bite of lettuce. "Why, is someone investigating me?"
I told her no. I asked where I might find someone with less information than her.
She wiped her mouth with a napkin. "Try Margaret. But good luck."
Margaret Holbrook, Social Secretary, was arranging place cards on a long table in the Map Room when I found her. I asked the same question.
"I know every head of state visiting before it's announced," she said, not looking up. She held a card between two fingers like a playing card. "The Indian Prime Minister's coming Tuesday. State dinner. Black tie. That moves markets, doesn't it? A bilateral meeting means something. If I knew the Japanese delegation was getting downgraded from a state dinner to a working lunch, I could make money on that." She slid a card three inches to the left. "I don't, of course. I'm not being investigated." She finally looked at me. "You want someone with no edge? Talk to Scheduling. They know everything, but maybe they'll know who doesn't."
Raymond Cho, Director of Scheduling, was on the phone when I arrived. He hung up and listened to my question with the patience of a man who had just been asked to reschedule the same NATO call for the fourth time.
"I know which world leaders get calls before the markets open," he said. "Six AM to Tokyo means something. Eight AM to Berlin means something else. A call to the Saudi finance minister on a Sunday? That's a contract. I could trade on that if I were the kind of person who did that. I'm not. I'm not being investigated." He looked at his watch, then at me. "You know who might know less than me? The chef. He just cooks."
Antoine Mercier, Executive Chef, was frosting a cake in the kitchen that smelled like cinnamon and leverage.
"I know which foreign leader gets the chocolate ganache and which one gets the sorbet," he said, holding a spatula like a gavel. "The sorbet means they're in the doghouse. A trade deal has gone sour. You could absolutely make money knowing who gets sorbet before the announcement. I don't. I'm not being investigated." He pointed with his chin toward the back stairs. "James might know less. He just picks out ties."
James Whitfield, Presidential Valet, was pressing a navy suit in a small room that smelled like cedar and steam.
"I know which suits get packed for which trips," he said, not looking up. "Navy means domestic. Staying home. The charcoal with the gold bars means a major announcement. If I pack the casual khakis, there's no speech. If I pack the charcoal, there's a speech, and if I pack the blue tie with the small dots instead of the red one, it's diplomatic, not economic." He set down the iron. "I don't trade on it. I'm not being investigated." He held up a red tie and examined it. "You could ask the guy who orders the Diet Coke. He seems nervous lately. I think he knows something."
I found Dennis Krantz, Procurement Assistant for Presidential Beverages, in a basement supply closet that smelled exactly like my hotel hallway. He was counting cans of Diet Coke on a metal shelf.
"I don't know anything," Dennis said, before I fully introduced myself. "I just order the Diet Coke. Two hundred cans a week, regular, like clockwork. But last week it was three hundred. This week it's three-fifty. Something's happening. More rallies, maybe? More speeches? I don't know what it means, but it means something." He looked at the cans, then at me. "I'm not being investigated. Should I be?"
I told him no. I said I was looking for the one person in the building who couldn't possibly have an edge.
He looked relieved. Then confused. "Is there such a person?"
I was starting to wonder.
On my way out, I passed a member of the groundskeeping staff, a man in khakis with a leaf blower, working near the Rose Garden fence. I didn't have to ask. He turned off the blower. "I overheard two guys in suits last week. Something about 'de minimis.' I don't know what that means. They said it like it was expensive." He turned the blower back on. "I'm not being investigated."
I walked back toward the entrance. The assignment had compounded. I wasn't looking for the person with the least access to foreign dignitaries, or scheduling, or dessert courses, or wardrobe patterns, or beverage procurement velocity, or overheard conversations near hedges.
I was looking for the person with the least advance knowledge of what Donald Trump would actually say in his speeches.
And that person wasn't in the kitchen, or the closet, or the Map Room, or the Press Office, or the Scheduling Office, or the wardrobe, or the Rose Garden.
It was the Oval Office.
Gabriel Perez had the script. He loaded the teleprompter. He knew the words that were supposed to be said. But the president does not read the teleprompter. He goes off-script. He abandons the text. He treats the prepared remarks as a polite suggestion, a jumping-off point, a decorative object.
Perez was betting on a document the president ignored. The teleprompter operator had inside information on a speech that never happened. The only person more in the dark was the man at the podium.
The person in the building with the least advance knowledge of what Donald Trump will say is Donald Trump.
I walked back to the Hampton Inn. The elevator still smelled like a wet flag. The coffee maker was still broken in the same specific way. I called the front desk and asked if I could extend my checkout.
They said late checkout was an additional $35.
I said I'd take it. This was not a sidebar.
Sam Turge covers politics from wherever the story puts him. He can currently be reached via the Hampton Inn.
Names and roles of White House staffers encountered in this piece are fictional composites.