On a fateful night in April 2019, John Paul Mac Isaac was working at his store, The Mac Shop in Wilmington, Del., when a customer walked in who would upend his life. In his forthcoming book, “American Injustice: My Battle to Expose the Truth,” Isaac will tell his story — and here, in an exclusive first look, he describes the moment he met Hunter Biden.
It was a Friday night, 10 minutes before the shop’s closing time. I was checking out a website about CNC machines and woodworking. I had no intention of working late; I was ready to go out after a long and busy week. But then bright, cool LED headlights bounced off the counter from the front window. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. My vision of leaving the shop quickly faded as the door chime sounded. As was usual for this time of day, I thought: “What kind of person expects quality service right before closing time?”
I struggled not to roll my eyes when in stumbled a man clutching three MacBook Pros. He was about my height, six feet tall, but a little heavier. He wore casual clothing — dark blue and gray. Alcohol fumes preceded him. He slid the three laptops onto the bar counter as he fumbled for a seat.
“I’m glad you’re still open,” he said. “I just came from the cigar bar, and they told me about your shop, but I had to hurry because you close at seven.”
He looked older than me but had a surprisingly high-pitched voice. An air of entitlement radiated off him.
“Great,” I thought. “Another one who thinks the world revolves around them.”
To him I said cordially, “You made it just in time.”
“I need the data recovered off these, but they all have liquid damage and won’t turn on,” he said.
“Well, let’s get you checked in and see what’s going on.” One of the computers had a Beau Biden Foundation sticker covering the Apple logo, but I wasn’t sure at first whom I was talking to. I opened my customer relationship management software (CRM) and asked him for his first name.
“Hunter,” he said.
I then asked him for his last name. He paused and looked at me funny, as if I were from another country and how dare I not know who he was?
“Ah, Biden,” he responded, with a sarcastic edge.
I collected his phone number and email, and fed them into the system. Once the paperwork was started, I paused and remembered that this guy had lost his brother, Beau, about two or three years earlier, and I felt a little bad for him. Maybe the Mac with the sticker belonged to his now-deceased brother, and it would bring closure to have access to those memories trapped inside.
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