Administration

Trump’s WHCA dinner with the press turns into night of tears and terror

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by Judy Kurtz - 04/26/26 12:53 AM ET

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by Judy Kurtz - 04/26/26 12:53 AM ET

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I’ve covered the White House Correspondents’ Association (WHCA) dinner at least a dozen times.

Over the years, I’ve detailed just about every angle. Filed countless stories. But I’ve never covered the Correspondents’ dinner from underneath a white linen table at the Washington Hilton hotel.

I’ve never gripped the carpet to steady myself while crouching down in my black satin heels, clutching my phone in one hand while peeking out from under the tablecloth to see what was happening.

I’ve never experienced a loud and rambunctious crowd of more than 2,000 people turning virtually silent in an instant.

But here I was. Alone and taking cover under a table at what’s considered Washington’s biggest and buzziest night of the year.

I had scrambled my way here just moments earlier. We had just finished our first course — a hoity toity-sounding spring pea and burrata salad.

When we sat down at table 224, some of us jokingly griped about its less-than-prime location. It was situated in the back of the Hilton’s massive ballroom, on an outer tier just steps from the doors that led to a staircase to the security area and lobby. I quipped to my seven colleagues at The Hill’s table that at least our spot provided an easy exit to the bathroom.

I was putting down my phone, after trying to get some grainy, zoomed in photos of one particularly notable guest. President Trump, who boycotted the dinner throughout his first term in office, was attending the annual gala for the first time as commander in chief.

WHCA President Weijia Jiang had just thanked Trump for coming, telling him, “It is meaningful that you’re with us tonight.”

Suddenly, I heard three or four loud bangs in a row. They were coming from behind the door — just steps from our table. Plenty of servers were in the area, so my first thought was, “Boy, do I feel bad for whoever dropped a tray of plates.” But almost immediately after the sounds, what looked like agents came rushing through the doors shouting, “Move! Move!”

That’s when I ran.

I tried to scan for an exit, but the many doors were shut and I couldn’t tell which would get me out and which would lead me to the ballroom’s kitchen. So I eyed a table that was in the opposite direction from where the sounds were coming from and crawled into my makeshift hiding spot.

The phone reception in the Hilton is notoriously terrible. Every year, I remind our editors that it’s nearly impossible to file stories from the dinner itself because there’s almost no cell or reliable WiFi service. I was in the dark about what was happening.

Finally, I glimpsed out from under the tablecloth again and started to see other tuxedoed men and women in their ball gowns emerge from under the tables. But even as the silence was breaking and some partygoers were returning to their seats, I saw a group of agents run right past me with guns drawn. They ducked through one of the kitchen doors. As it swung open, I saw two servers standing there, with their hands in the air as the agents flew by. I saw FBI Director Kash Patel and an entourage being ushered out of the ballroom.

I ran back over to table 224 and hugged some of my co-workers.

Right by our table, broken glass and broken dishes were scattered on the floor, seemingly dropped in the initial chaos. We tried to compare notes on what little information we had when a text or email happened to go through, or when someone was able to get enough service to check social media for updates. There were a few attempts at gallows humor as we waited to learn if the dinner would continue on.

Jiang then took to the microphone onstage and announced that this year’s dinner would be rescheduled.

“Law enforcement has requested that we leave the premises,” she told the room.

As we made our way through the ballroom and to an exit, more than 10 officers and agents stood in a line blocking the area by the metal detectors.

Amid the nightmare scenario, there was a bit of classic Correspondents’ dinner wackiness. The gala can sometimes draw a hodge podge of celebrities mixing and mingling among the journalists, lawmakers and administration officials. I exited the hotel behind Dana White as the UFC chief was snapping selfies with admirers.

I stepped out of the Hilton and finally had cell service once again to order an Uber. The streets were quiet. Patrol cars blocked the entrance area of the hotel, so I walked to the next block. That was blocked too, so I kept walking. And walking. More streets were blocked than I had ever seen before following the dinner. I finally made it to a car accessible street and hopped in the Uber.

“How was your n