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Hosts Anne Applebaum and Peter Pomerantsev talk with Hanna Rosin about the new series We Live Here Now. Rosin, along with her co-host, Lauren Ober, recently found out that their new neighbors moved to Washington, D.C., to support January 6 insurrectionists. Rosin and Ober decided to knock on their neighbors’ door. We Live Here Now is a podcast series about what happened next. Subscribe to We Live Here Now here: Apple Podcasts | Spotify | YouTube | iHeart

The following is a transcript of the episode:

Anne Applebaum: This is Anne Applebaum.

Peter Pomerantsev: And this is Peter Pomerantsev, and we’re here with a guest today, The Atlantic’s Hanna Rosin.

Hanna Rosin: Hi.

Applebaum: And although our series, Autocracy in America, has wrapped up, there is still a lot to do and think about ahead of the 2024 election.

Pomerantsev: Hanna is the host of The Atlantic’s weekly show called Radio Atlantic, and she’s also just released a new podcast called We Live Here Now, a series.

Rosin: Yeah, We Live Here Now is the story of my partner, Lauren Ober, and I discovering that we had some new neighbors, and it’s about our effort to get to know these neighbors. And it turned out, those neighbors were supporting the January 6 insurrectionists.

Pomerantsev: At the end of this episode, we’ll include the entire first episode for listeners to hear. But we want to start with a little clip that gives you a sense of what first launched them into making the series.

Lauren Ober: I guess it started just like any other dog walk. Hanna and I leashed up our pups and set out from our house on our post-dinner stroll. It was early November of 2023, and I remember it was unseasonably warm. We headed off down the hill from our house towards our neighborhood park.

Rosin: A block past the park, Lauren spotted it: a black Chevy Equinox with Texas plates we’d seen parked around the neighborhood. Just a basic American SUV. Except for the stickers that covered the back windshield.

Ober: Stickers we’re very much not used to seeing in our mixed-race, mixed-income neighborhood. Our vibe is more like, Make D. C. the 51st state and No taxation without representation. These stickers were a combo platter of skulls and American flags. There was a Roman numeral for three, the symbol of a militia group called the Three Percenters, and the pièce de résistance, a giant decal in the center of the back window that read Free Our Patriots, J4, J6. Meaning, Justice for January 6.

Rosin: Lauren notices every new or different thing in the neighborhood. And this car was definitely different. As we walked past it, Lauren said what she always said when we saw this car.

Ober: “There’s that fucking militia mobile again.” Right after I said that moderately unneighborly thing, the passenger-side window rolled down. Cigarette smoke curled out of the car. And the person inside shouted, “Justice for J6!”

Rosin: To which Lauren said—

Ober: “You’re in the wrong neighborhood for that, honey.” And then the woman in the car said words I’m not gonna forget anytime soon: “We live here now. So suck it, bitch.”

Applebaum: Hanna, I’ve had confrontation experiences myself.

I was once at a dinner in Poland—this is a couple years ago—with old friends who suddenly started repeating a conspiracy theory about the government, and it happened to be the government that my husband had been part of. And I tried to listen politely and go like, Uh-huh, yeah, that’s true, yeah, sure. And then eventually I left the room.

Rosin: Uh-huh.

Applebaum: And I’m not sure I could have lasted even that long with people who weren’t old friends and were doing the same thing. So we’re not going to talk all about We Live Here Now, since many listeners may not have yet heard the podcast, but I do want you to tell me a little bit more about that experience of being shouted down in your neighborhood—or, more accurately, being with your partner as she was being shouted down. Were you never tempted to argue back?

Rosin: Yeah, I mean, I really think it’s an accident of how the interaction happened. If it had happened at dinner, I guess you can temper yourself, like you just described. You could never see these people again. Like, you could ignore them or shout them down and then choose to never see them again. But because these people lived a couple of blocks away, I sort of knew I was going to see them a lot. So maybe that muted my reaction. My partner doesn’t have a mute button, but I just kind of knew that I better take a step back and think about what I want to do, because I was going to run into these people who, you know, happen to have militia stickers and are seemingly aggressive. So I just kind of needed a minute to think what I wanted to do. Without that pause, I’m not sure this story would have happened in the way that it happened.

Pomerantsev: And how did you build the relationship with them? I mean, was it, was there any kind of discomfort or danger involved when you first met them? And then, but most importantly, how did you build trust? I mean, how would they learn to trust you?

Rosin: You know, it’s interesting. Once you decide to step into an alternative world, it’s almost like you have to make the decision. Most of the time, we just don’t make that decision. We’re like, This is cuckoo. I’m not going. I don’t share anything in common with these people. Like, we don’t even have a shared set of facts in the way we might have 15, 20 years ago. So there’s just—like, there’s no beginning to this relationship. For whatever reason, we closed our eyes and decided to step into that alternative reality. And once you make that decision, you just do it very, very, very gingerly.

In this case, they happen to do a public event, which we knew was happening every single night, and it’s out on a street corner in D.C. And it’s public space. So that actually gave us the freedom to show up at this public event. It’s outside the D.C. Jail, and they’re in support of the January 6 prisoners. The detainees are all held in a segregated wing of the D. C. Jail, so they hold a protest every single night at the exact same time. So you know, you can steel yourself up every night and say like, Okay, tonight’s the night I’m going to go to the vigil, you know?

Applebaum: Can I actually ask you some more about that vigil? Because one of the things We Live Here Now does, it explores the way in which people can rewrite history, which is one of the things that happens. And you talk about how at the vigil, there are posters with faces of people who died on January 6. And each poster reads Murdered by Capitol Police, even though only one person was found to have died from a bullet fired by the police, And so there’s now a narrative that the people in jail are the good guys and the people outside of jail are the bad guys. I actually spent 20 years writing books about the history of the Soviet Union, and this is very much what autocratic regimes do: They change the way you remember history. They make heroes out of villains, and vice versa. And how, how did you see that happening and how did you come to understand how it worked? Why was it successful among the people that you were visiting?

Rosin: Well, that was one of the most remarkable experiences I had—is being that close to watching revisionism happen. Like, the nitty-gritty, going back and time and, Okay, when was the first time that Trump mentioned Ashli Babbitt?, who is the woman who was shot by the Capitol Police officers? Because initially, right after January 6, many—even Trump supporters—said, you know, The Capitol Police officer did a good job. You know, He did his duty. It was a terrible day. Like, if you look at things that happened in early January, everybody was sharing the reality of what happened on January 6. And then you watch how, slowly, kind of people peel away from that reality. Trump starts trying out lines at his rallies. Oh, Ashli Babbitt was murdered. He uses the words, “they,” a lot. You know, they killed Ashli Babbitt. They did this. And at that point, the Big Lie—the lie that the election was stolen—could have faded away, like it felt like a moment where it could have just been relegated to history, and then it’s like, all of a sudden, there’s this collective decision, Oh no, we’re going to revive this. And the way we’re going to revive it is by talking first about this martyr, and then about this group of people, and suddenly black is white and white is black.

And because these people who we got close to, they’re sort of innocents in this narrative. One of the main characters is Micki Witthoeft, who’s the mother of Ashli Babbitt. And just think about that. She’s a grieving mother. It’s as if her emotional-grief reality starts to align with Trump’s messaging in this perfect storm, and then all of a sudden, things that aren’t true seem, not just true, but righteous.

Pomerantsev: Tell me a bit about the myth, though, because on the one hand, it’s an alternative reality, which you described so well just now, but on the other hand, isn’t it quite American at the same time? I mean, I love when you talk about, you know, how they describe themselves as “saving democracy.” They’re the true patriots. I mean, as you encountered it, did you find it completely alien myth or something that actually sort of resonated with so many American stories about themselves: rebelling against Washington, the whole—

Rosin: Yes, I mean, one thing that I came to feel about the January 6 detainees, like, often it would pop into my head: them in costume, like, Okay, they’re, they’re sort of role-playing 1776 here, you know. Particularly, one of our episodes is about a jury trial. My partner was very randomly called onto a jury, as many people in D.C. are, and it happened to be a January 6 case. And not only that, but it happened to be one of these January 6 cases in which you feel that someone just kind of lost it for a day. You know, it’s a dad; he has five children; by a judge's count, extremely law abiding; been married for a long time. But then during that day, just kind of, you know, went nuts.

And as you get closer to what they did that day, you do feel like there was just a rush, like a rush of sort of feeling heroic, you know, feeling patriotic, feeling like you were saving the country, feeling like you have this incredible mission. And then I think, one thing that nobody predicted is that they did keep these guys in a segregated wing of the D.C. Jail, together. We don’t usually do that. I mean, Gitmo is the other place where we’ve done that. But the D.C. Jail is largely Black. And so these guys had a reputation at that day, if you remember, as being white supremacists, so they did not want to throw them into the D.C. Jail. But the result of keeping them together, I mean, you can imagine what happened.

Applebaum: So this is exactly the thing that I wanted to ask you about. I was very struck by one of the characters who you interview and describe. This is Brandon Fellows, who was a guy who was almost accidentally caught up in January the 6th. He entered the Capitol. He wound up smoking a joint in one of the offices in the Capitol. As a result, he was arrested. And because he was part of this group of prisoners, he was essentially radicalized. And that story of how the prisoners together radicalized one another, created a mythology around themselves, it reminded me of so many other moments in history when that’s happened, I mean, for both good and for bad. The IRA in British prisons radicalized; um, various jihadis and various prisons around the world are said to have radicalized that way too. But also the ANC in South Africa, who were together in a prison on Robben Island for many years. I mean, that’s how they created their cohesive movement. So it can work positively too. Weren’t you tempted to try and talk him out of it, where you—did you not want to say, “Don’t you see what’s happening to you?”

Rosin: Yeah, I mean, with him, that instinct was very powerful because, you know, he’s slightly older than my oldest child. And so I—so in his case, I did have the instinct of, like, trying to shake this out of him.

Like, “Don’t you see?,” like “You were in this—you were in this jail,” you know, and he was in this jail. He came in as a goofball. Then he came to see these guys as, like, fierce and tough. And by the end, he came to see them, as you said, Peter, as true patriots, so it’s not just that they were tough guys. It was like they were true and righteous and the next generation of founding fathers and he was just like, Nope, like you just don’t, you don’t get it. I’m deadly serious here.

Pomeranstev: So you didn’t build a coalition with them, you didn’t convince them, you don’t try to convince them to change parties. But you spent a year with them. What is it that you found meaningful in that interaction? And why is it meaningful for all of us to hear about it? I mean, it’s fascinating, but also what is the importance of doing something like this?

Rosin: I can only tell you about a limited importance, which is that over the last few years, I’ve started to read—as I bet you guys have—you know, what do you have, like, we all throw up our hands: We’re so polarized. We’re not even living in the same reality. We can’t talk to each other.

You cannot go into a conversation, as much as you deeply, deeply want to, with the intention of changing the other person’s mind. That is a losing strategy. Don’t do it. It’s so hard. It’s as hard in politics as it is in a relationship. It’s very hard because we all just want to do that. And so your only option is to just open your mind, hear what they have to say, be curious, ask questions, and that’s it.

Applebaum: And how do you do that without becoming angry?

Rosin: It’s— [Laughs.] I mean, that’s your, they just, because I’ve been to enough couples therapy [Laughs.] that it’s like, that’s your only option. And you almost have to do it with a leap of faith that there’s something human at the end of that.

Pomerantsev: So the meaning, in a way, is learning to just behave and interact in a different way.

Rosin: There are surprising kind of moments of non-nastiness that arise when you approach the world from that perspective.

Pomerantsev: I mean, I spend a lot of my time writing about propaganda and talking to people with all sorts of deeply warped beliefs, and at one point I realized that the only worthwhile question I could ask that would lead to a conversation that was human was, How did it start? How did you start believing in X?

Rosin:Yes.

Pomerantsev: And then you’d always get a very personal story.

Rosin: Yes.

Pomerantsev: Usually about some sort of trauma. I’m not saying that’s any kind of excuse, but it suddenly became a human story about how someone is making sense of the world.

Rosin: Yes.

Pomerantsev: And suddenly there was a person. Again, I never changed them. They’re still gonna do horrible things, but at least I knew they were a person. I don’t know. Maybe, in the long run, that helps us come up with better strategies to deal with it. But not immediately. It’s not a like aha moment.

Rosin: Yeah. It’s not a kumbaya. It’s just like, it really is a leap of faith ’cause as you’re doing it, you feel, Am I doing something dangerous? Like humanizing this propaganda? Like, Is this wrong, what I’m doing? And you just kind of live with that doubt and you keep asking questions, you know?

Pomeranstev: Yeah. But humans do lots of bad things. Humanizing doesn’t mean making it good; it just makes it human. You know, that doesn’t—it's like, Ooh, humanizing. Yeah, I think maybe the word humanizing needs to lose its positive aura. Humans are pretty awful.

Rosin: That’s a pretty good idea.

Pomeranstev: But they are human. [Laughs.]

Rosin: So what is the point of humanizing if you remove the positive aspects? Humanizing is good because …

Pomerantsev: You start to see the challenge for what it is rather than something esoteric. You know, it’s a real person doing real things. Therefore we can deal with it.

Applebaum: Hanna Rosin is the co-host along with Lauren Ober of the new six-part podcast series from The Atlantic called We Live Here Now. Find We Live Here Now wherever you listen to podcasts.

Pomerantsev: And we have the first episode here. Keep listening and, Hanna, thanks for talking with us today.

Rosin: Thank you both.

[We Live Here Now Episode 1: “We’re Allowed to Be Here”]

Lauren Ober: When the neighbor incident first happened, it didn’t really feel much like anything. Or maybe we were both too stunned to take it all in.

Hanna Rosin: It wasn’t until we started telling other people the story and they reacted that it began to feel like maybe we’d discovered something.

Ober: I guess it started just like any other dog walk. Hanna and I leashed up our pups and set out from our house on our post-dinner stroll. It was early November of 2023, and I remember it was unseasonably warm. We headed off down the hill from our house, towards our neighborhood park.

[Music]

Rosin: A block past the park, Lauren spotted it: A black Chevy Equinox with Texas plates we’d seen parked around the neighborhood. Just a basic American SUV except for the stickers that covered the back windshield—

Ober: —stickers we’re very much not used to seeing in our mixed-race, mixed-income neighborhood. Our vibe is more like, Make D.C. the 51st state, and, No taxation without representation.

But these stickers were a combo platter of skulls and American flags. There was a Roman numeral for three—the symbol of a militia group called the Three Percenters—and the pièce de résistance: a giant decal in the center of the back window that read, free our patriots. j4j6, meaning, Justice for January 6.

Rosin: Lauren notices every new or different thing in the neighborhood, and this car was definitely different. As we walked past it, Lauren said what she always said when we saw this car.

Ober: “There’s that fucking militiamobile again!”

Right after I said that moderately unneighborly thing, the passenger-side window rolled down, cigarette smoke curled out of the car, and the person inside shouted, “Justice for J6!”

Rosin: To which Lauren said—

Ober: “You’re in the wrong neighborhood for that, honey.” And then the woman in the car said words I’m not going to forget anytime soon: “We live here now. So suck it, bitch.”

We’ll get to who that person is soon enough. But we’re not there yet. When we first encountered the woman from the car, we had no idea who we were dealing with. I just knew I was sufficiently put in my place. “Well, okay,” I remember saying to Hanna as we walked back home.

Rosin: I remember, after it happened, we walked away in total silence. That’s my memory—each of us looping in our own heads about something.

Ober: I remember being mad because I lost. (Laughs.)

Rosin: Right.

Ober: Because I didn’t get the final word, and because I just kept thinking, like, the whole combination of it felt bad to me. It’s like, Militia stickers. Justice for J6. We live here. You just called me a name. The whole thing was very out of place. And I felt it was a little destabilizing.

Rosin: Yeah, yeah. I walked home in a half hypervigilant-neighborhood-watch brain—like, Who lives here now? What are they doing here? Are we going to get into more of these confrontations?—and a half journalism brain, like, Who’s we? Where do they live? Why are there here now? Those were my two tracks when I was walking home.

[Music]

​Ober: I’m Lauren Ober.

Rosin: And I’m Hanna Rosin.

Ober: And from The Atlantic, this is We Live Here Now.

Most of the country watched January 6 from a safe distance: something happening in their Twitter feeds or on their phone screens. But for those of us living in D.C., it was happening in our backyard.

Donald Trump: I know that everyone here will soon be marching over to the Capitol building to peacefully and patriotically make your voices heard.

Rioter: Start making a list. Put all those names down. And we start hunting them down one by one.

Person on bullhorn inside Congress: We had a disbursement of tear gas in the Rotunda. Please be advised there are masks under your seats. Please grab a mask.

[Music]

All Things Considered host Ailsa Chang: In Washington, D.C., a curfew has now taken effect from 6 p.m. Eastern tonight to 6 a.m. Thursday morning.

Ober: So we were actually left with the wreckage of that day. We were in a militarized city. We were living under a curfew. Streets were blocked off. The windows were all boarded up. And you felt like you were living, if not in a warzone, in a dangerous place.

Rosin: And there was National Guard everywhere. All the stores were closed, and there were very few regular people walking around doing regular things. And I was just thinking, Where am I? What city is this?

Ober: Right. I bought a baseball bat for protection.

Rosin: I remember that.

Ober: Which is why, two-plus years later, it felt like this whole period of time we’d rather forget was racing back. Donald Trump was looking like he’d be the Republican nominee, and a second Trump presidency seemed possible. Plus, we had a car with militia stickers lurking in our neighborhood.

Rosin: So no, we did not welcome January 6 supporters creeping back to the scene of the crime. But also, we wanted to know what they were up to.

[Music]

Ober: In the immediate aftermath of January 6, there were three names I associated with what happened at the Capitol: The QAnon Shaman, for obvious reasons; Oath Keepers founder Stewart Rhodes because he seemed really dangerous, and also he had an eye patch; and Ashli Babbitt, who has everything to do with our new neighbors’ arrival in D.C.

Four people died that day, but I only remember hearing about Ashli. Maybe that’s because she was the only rioter killed by law enforcement.

Ashli Babbitt was a Trump diehard, so it’s not surprising she made her way to D.C. for the rally. She was a Second Amendment–loving libertarian. She wholeheartedly believed in MAGA and QAnon. During the pandemic, she was hostile about mask mandates and refused to get vaccinated. When California issued a stay-at-home order, she tweeted, “This is that commie bullshit!”

Rosin: The day before her death, Ashli tweeted in QAnon speak: “Nothing will stop us....they can try and try and try but the storm is here and it is descending upon D.C. in less than 24 hours....dark to light!”

Ashli Babbitt: We are walking to the Capitol in a mob. There’s an estimated over 3 million people here today. So despite what the media tells you, boots on ground definitely say something different. There is a sea of nothing but red, white, and blue.

Ober: On the day of the riots, she seemed genuinely thrilled to be there.

Babbitt: And it was amazing to get to see the president talk. We are now walking down the inaugural path to the Capitol building, 3 million plus people. God bless America, patriots.

Rosin: More like 50,000 people, give or take. And a few thousand of them went into the Capitol—or, more accurately, broke in. When the mob of protestors breached the Capitol, busting windows and breaking down doors, Ashli was right there in the mix.

Rioter: There’s so many people. They’re going to push their way up here.

Rosin: There are four videos shot by rioters that capture this moment in its entirety: Ashli strides down a hallway like she knows where she’s going. She’s followed by other rioters, but they’re suddenly stopped when they come to a set of doors with large window panels. Through the windows, you can make out congresspeople being evacuated away from the growing mob. The crowd Ashli is with has accidentally landed at the bullseye, the actual place where these congresspeople were about to certify the election.

[Crowd noise]

Rosin: On the other side of the doors is a cop with a gun, although it’s unclear if Ashli can see him. She’s the only woman in a sea of men, and she’s small, and she seems to be yelling.

Ashli: It’s our fucking house. We’re allowed to be in here. You’re wrong.

Rosin: “It’s our fucking house. We’re allowed to be in here. You’re wrong.”

One of the rioters breaks a window, and then, out of nowhere, Ashli tries to climb through it.

[Crowd noise]

Rosin: The cop shoots.

Rioter: Oh! Oh, shit! Shots fired! Shots fired!

Rosin: She immediately falls backwards and lands on the floor. She jerks and convulses, and blood pours out of her mouth.

Rioter 1: She’s dead.

Rioter 2: She’s dead?

Rioter 1: She’s dead. I saw the light go out in her eyes. I saw the lights go out.

Rioter 2: What happened, bro? Tell the world.

Rosin: And then something happens right after she dies. It’s a detail I missed at first, but it turned out to be a spark for everything that would happen since that day. People around Ashli take out their cell phones and start filming.

Rioter 1: This individual says he actually saw her die. He actually saw her die.

Rioter 2: I’ll post that video. I have the video. I have the video of the guy with the gun, and they’re shooting her.

Rioter: Okay. I want to get with you. I’m with Infowars.com. I’m with Infowars.com.

Rioter 2: “Jayden X.” Have you ever heard of that?

Rosin: One person says he’s from Infowars and offers to buy footage from someone closer.

Rioter 1: I want to get your info right now if you got that shot.

Rioter 2: I have it all. I was right at the door.

Rioter 2: Okay. I need that footage, man. It’s going to go out to the world. It’s going to change so much.

Rosin: Even in the chaos they realize: A martyr was born.

Ober: Rumors spread immediately that the woman killed was 25, 21, a mere teenager. In actual fact, Ashli was 35. But the details didn’t matter. She was a young, white woman in the prime of her life shot dead by a Black officer. People were quick to point out that she was a veteran—a war hero, even—purportedly upholding her oath to defend the Constitution when she died.

On far-right, pro-Trump message boards post-January 6, Ashli was called a freedom fighter and the “first victim of the second Civil War.” One person wrote: “Your blood will not be in vain. We will avenge you.”

Rosin: People who came to January 6 thought they were saving our democracy from evil forces trying to steal an election.

Three years later, some of them still think that. And now, those same evil forces are keeping J6 “freedom fighters” in prison. Justice for January 6—that’s what those window stickers on the Chevy are about.

Ober: This conspiracy has gotten more elaborate over time: The insurrection was a setup, or, The prosecution of January 6 rioters represented gross government overreach, or, The government can turn on its own citizens, even kill them.

Rosin: A lot of the people who believe these things have taken their cues from one woman: Ashli’s mother. Her name is Micki Witthoeft.

Micki Witthoeft: Ashli was a beloved daughter, wife, sister, granddaughter, niece, and aunt. But beyond that, she was the single bravest person I have ever known. She was the quintessential American woman. Today is a dark day for our family and this country, for they have lost a true patriot. I would like to invite Donald J. Trump to say her name—

[Music]

Ober: It took us a minute, but with the help of some friends, we finally figured out that Micki was our new neighbor. I wasn’t sure what I thought about having Ashli Babbitt’s grieving mother come back to the place where her daughter was killed. Why was she here, in our D.C. neighborhood? What did she want? Was there some sort of future Jan. 6 on the horizon? It all felt just a little too close for comfort.

In the days after our run-in with the neighbor, I Googled ’til my eyeballs dried out. There were a lot of videos on social media that featured Micki but not a lot of solid information. I reported what I could find to Hanna.

Ober: Do you want to know what the house is called?

Rosin: What?

Ober: The Eagle’s Nest.

Rosin: Oh, stop. (Laughs.) What?

Ober: Yeah.

Rosin: No, we don’t have the Eagle’s Nest in our neighborhood.

Ober: What does the Eagle’s Nest mean to you?

Rosin: Some patriot thing.

Ober: No. Well, sure, one would think, Oh, it’s patriotic, right? American Eagle.

Rosin: Mm-hmm.

Ober: It’s where all the eagles go. But do you know who else had a very particular property called the Eagle’s Nest?

Rosin: No.

Ober: Well, I’ll tell you. It’s Adolf Hitler. However, to quote Micki, who explained to HuffPost why they called the house the Eagle’s Nest:

Ober: She said, We call our house the Eagle’s Nest, which some would say was Hitler’s hideout. But we’re American citizens, and we won that war, and we’re taking back the name. So this is absolutely not an ode to Hitler.

Ober: Here’s what else I found out: The online videos of Micki didn’t exactly make me want to bring over a tray of homemade, “Welcome to the neighborhood” brownies. Lots of shouting and scowling and general unpleasantness.

Witthoeft: Why are you all here if you’re going to let that happen? He said, Why the hell are you all here?

Person 2: He said that to you? That was very unprofessional!

Person 3: They’re fascists.

Ober: In one clip online, Micki is being arrested for “blocking and obstructing roadways.” She was at a march to honor the second anniversary of her daughter’s death, and she walked into the street one too many times. The D.C. cops did not appreciate that, and they let her know it.

It wasn’t the only time she got into it with the cops. A year later—

Witthoeft: I try to show y’all respect. I’ve been arrested twice, and I’ve done it peacefully. That’s bullshit. Your man is bullshit. That’s bullshit.

Officer: I wasn’t down here, so I can speak to how—

Ober: There were more than a few videos of Micki and her housemates getting into dustups with D.C. folks who didn’t seem to appreciate their presence in their city.

Person 1: Get the fuck outta here.

Person 2: Get the fuck off of me, bitch. Get the fuck off, the fuck off. Get the fuck off.

Person 3: Hey! We caught it on video.

Person 2: Stop fucking touching my shit.

Person 3: Get out of here, you pansy.

Ober: But later, in the same video, there’s this: Our new neighbors are getting harassed by anti-J6 protestors, folks who like to chalk the sidewalk with phrases like “Micki is a grifter.” There are a number of D.C. cops on the scene. I get tense just watching it. Finally, Micki snaps and screams at them.

Officer: I heard all the commotion. That’s why I got out. I can’t see—I didn’t see what happened out here.

Person 2: I had to beg him to get out of his car.

Witthoeft: You can tell your man that the reason I’m here is because three years ago today, y’all killed my kid. That’s why I’m here.

[Music]

Ober: Right. She’s a mom, and the police killed her kid. That’s why she’s here. She wants to make sure her dead daughter isn’t forgotten and that someone is held accountable for what happened.

And one way to do that is to maybe get yourself arrested, or at least show up everywhere—January 6 trials, congressional hearings, the Supreme Court, rallies, marches, my neighborhood.

Another way for people to take notice? A nightly vigil outside the D.C. jail, every single night for more than 700 nights.

Rosin: And we mean every night, in the rain or scorching heat. Without fail, Micki and a few supporters stand on what they call Freedom Corner and talk on the phone with the J6 defendants held inside the jail.

Ober: As I explained to Hanna:

Ober: Every night at 7 p.m., these apparently true patriots—

Rosin: Mm-hmm.

Ober: —come out, and they have a vigil for all of the January 6 defendants who are currently being held in the jail, either awaiting trial or awaiting sentencing.

Rosin: Mm-hmm.

Ober: And every night, they get a January 6 inmate on the phone, and they put them on the speaker, and then they join in singing, like, the national anthem or “America the Beautiful,” and they’re chanting, like, “Justice for Ashli.” And the evening ends, often, with “God Bless [the U.S.A.],” Lee Greenwood.

Rosin: Who’s the “they”?

Ober: So there’s a small cadre of true believers who believe that the people in the D.C. jail are political prisoners.

Rosin: Interesting.

[Music]

Rosin: Interesting is a boring thing to say. I get that. But I was only just starting to put this whole picture together, that Micki and her friends were not in D.C. just to cause chaos. They were here to push a narrative that these people—the same ones who turned our city upside down—were victims of a colossal injustice. And also, that January 6 was actually a totally appropriate exercise of freedom and liberty.

And their version of the story was getting traction with some important people—actually, the most important person.

Trump: I am the political prisoner of a failing nation, but I will soon be free on November 5, the most important day in the history of our country, and we will together make America great again. Thank you.

Rosin: If our interactions with our new neighbors had unfolded more like the typical neighborhood showdown—my MAGA hat versus your dump trump sign—things might have been easier because that would be just straight-up neighbor warfare, pure mutual hatred.

Ober: But it didn’t happen that way. Instead, two opposite dramas unfolded: (1) We got an up-close, intimate view of how history gets rewritten. Call it the lost-cause narrative for the 21st century: A group of Americans immediately sets to work retooling the history of an event through tweets and podcasts and viral video clips, in a way that distorts collective memory forever.

Rosin: But then, (2) our new neighbors became real people to us. We also got an up-close, intimate view of them, their monumental grief, their sleepless nights, their deep friendship—things that make it harder to purely hate on someone.

Ober: This woman, Micki Witthoeft, is many things to many people—Mama Micki to the January 6 defendants, mother of a dead domestic terrorist to others. But to us, she’s something else—she’s our neighbor.

Ober: Do you want to hear something rotten?

Micki: I don’t know if I do, but I will.

Ober: After months of getting to know Micki, I felt like I needed to confess something. She had been telling me how people in the neighborhood had generally been nice to them, except for this one time. One of her roommates, Nicole, had been sitting in the car, and these two women walked by and said something totally rude, and—I know, you’ve already heard the story before.

Ober: Nicole sitting in the car—that was me. And I’m fully disgusted with myself and embarrassed. Like, because that’s not how I want to be treated, and that’s not how I want to think about people. But I did it.

Micki: Oh, well, I’m surprised you—I’m impressed that you admitted that to me. I really am. That’s going to be interesting when I tell Nicole.

Ober: Since that incident, I’ve spent a lot of time with Micki trying to understand her cause, her politics, and her anger. I’ve had many moments where I thought: What the hell am I doing, getting all caught up in their revisionist history of January 6? But what I can tell you is that Micki is not who I thought she was.

She is every bit as fiery as she comes off in speeches and confrontations with people who want her out of this city. After nearly a year of knowing her, I’m still terrified of her. I have never before in my life met a person with such penetrating eyes, and she wields them to great effect. If she is staring you down, I promise you, you will find no relief.

Ober: So the window rolls down, and I guess Nicole said, you know, “Justice for J6!” Right? Reflexively, in two seconds, I go, “Well, you’re in the wrong neighborhood for that.” Right? Now, I feel like you would appreciate that because sometimes things pop out of your mouth that maybe you didn’t think about. I am a person who is very guilty of that, as my mouth runs away with me.

So, I said that, and she goes, “We live here now. So suck it, bitch.” (Laughs.)

Micki: That’s my Nicole. (Laughs.)

Ober: And I was like, Well, okay.

[Music]

Rosin: When we first ran into the militiamobile, we didn’t know anything about Micki and her crew. We thought anyone could be living in that house, with that car. Maybe it was an actual militia headquarters with a cache of weapons in the basement. Maybe it was just some wacko whose patriotism had gone totally sideways.

Ober: But now, after nearly a year of reporting this story, we know so much more. And in the rest of the series, we are going to take you through this upside-down world we landed in—where we found ourselves talking conspiracies.

Micki: I don’t know what I believe them capable of. Is it eating babies and drinking their blood? I don’t think so. But I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know what they’re up to.

Ober: How you can suddenly find yourself joking with January 6ers about militias?

Nicole: If you’re going to come down here, you’ve got to know your militias straight.

Ober: You know, I can’t—there are too many splinter groups and, you know.

Nicole: There’s factions. There’s levels. There’s color coding. (Laughs.)

Ober: Listen. When the gay militia happens, I’m there, okay? When that happens. Until then—

Nicole: Well, we’re a country of militias, you know.

Ober: And wondering, What could possibly be coming for us?

Rosin: Like, how long are you going to stay in D.C.?

Brandon Fellows: I plan to stay ’til, like, January 7. (Laughs.)

Rosin: That feels vaguely threatening.

Fellows: I could see why you would say that.

Rosin: That’s coming up on We Live Here Now.

Ober: We Live Here Now is a production of The Atlantic. The show was reported, written, and executive produced by me, Lauren Ober. Hanna Rosin reported, wrote, and edited the series. Our senior producer is Rider Alsop. Our producer is Ethan Brooks. Original scoring, sound design, and mix engineering by Brendan Baker.

This series was edited by Scott Stossel and Claudine Ebeid. Fact-checking by Michelle Ciarrocca. Art direction by Colin Hunter. Project management by Nancy DeVille.

Claudine Ebeid is the executive producer of Atlantic audio, and Andrea Valdez is our managing editor.

The Atlantic’s executive editor is Adrienne LaFrance. Jeffrey Goldberg is The Atlantic’s editor-in-chief.

Nicole. And then did I say something like, Well, bitch, I live here now, or something?

Ober: Very close to that. “We live here now, so—”

Nicole: Get used to it?

Ober: No.

Nicole: Suck it? Fuck it?

Ober: No. You’re right on the “suck it.”

Nicole: (Laughs.) I don’t know.

Ober: “Suck it,” what? “Suck it,” who?

Nicole: Suck it, fascist? (Laughs.) So much more fascist than me. Don’t tell me what I said.

Ober: You said, “Suck it, bitch.”

Nicole: Oh! Okay. Okay.

Subscribe here: Apple Podcasts | Spotify | iHeart Media | YouTube | Pocket Casts

For various reasons, January 6 rioters have been held together in a segregated wing of the D.C. jail that they came to call the “Patriot Pod.” They developed their own rituals and inside jokes, and reinforced one another’s narratives. Over time, the expected happened: They became further radicalized. And through connections with right-wing media, they have attempted to recast themselves with terms such as political prisoner and hostage, which the presidential candidate Donald Trump has now adopted as his own.

In this episode, we follow a young rioter from the Patriot Pod who went into jail a mischievous goofball and emerged willing to die for the MAGA cause. We tell, for the first time, an inside story of exactly what happened within the pod, how it spread out to the world, and what this tight-knit group is planning for the future.

This is the fifth episode of We Live Here Now, a six-part series about what happened when we found out that our new neighbors were supporting January 6 insurrectionists.

The following is a transcript of the episode:

Hanna Rosin: In May of 2024, a new person was hanging around our neighbors’ house—a young guy, fresh out of prison, who was spending nights at the “Eagle’s Nest.” Around us, Micki referred to him as “the little boy.” His real name is Brandon Fellows.

[Music]

Rosin: Brandon had come to the Capitol on January 6 armed with a fake orange beard that looked like it was made from his mom’s leftover yarn and a weird knitted hat. He was having fun until someone in front of him started smashing a window with a cane, which prompted a cop to swing his baton, and then Brandon freaked out.

Brandon Fellows: I’m like, Oh my god. Holy shit. Holy shit. I said it, like, five times, and I’m just like, Yeah. They clearly don’t want us in there. That’s what I said in my mind. I’m not going in there. I’m not getting hit. I like my face. I’m not going to get hit. I’m not doing that.

Rosin: So Brandon just hung around for a while, did some people watching. Eventually, he wandered over to the other side of the building, where, according to him, he saw cops just kind of passively letting rioters inside. So he climbed through a window and ended up in Oregon Senator Jeff Merkley’s office with his feet up on the desk, smoking a joint.

I had this idea of Brandon as, like, the Seth Rogan of insurrectionists: goofball, high by noon, not exactly militia material.

Rosin: Are you Brandon?

Fellows: Yes.

Rosin: I’m Hanna. Hi.

Fellows: Nice to meet you.

Rosin: But the Brandon I met three years later looked different: totally beardless, conspicuously fit. He showed up at this Memorial Day march that Micki organized about a week after he was released from prison.

Lauren Ober: Hey, Micki. How far are you going?

Micki Witthoeft: To the jail.

Rosin: The counterprotesters were already trailing with megaphones, so Micki was strict. Stay on the sidewalks. Don’t cause trouble.

Witthoeft: I’m not interested in any kind of conflict.

Ober: But newly released Brandon was having too much fun to obey. A D.C. resident told him to get off his property. Brandon yelled back, “I was at the Capitol on January 6!” A group of guys in MAGA hats saluted him, “Political prisoner. Thanks for sticking it out!” Marchers cheered him on as he walked by, took selfies, asked questions.

Marcher: Did you feel like you were going to get your ass kicked from time to time, being in a D.C. jail? I mean, I would think that if you’re a white boy in D.C. jail, you’d be getting your ass kicked.

Fellows: It’s total culture shock. It’s crazy. But I survived. I only got into one fight.

Rosin: I was interested in Brandon because he was one of the only released J6ers who came straight back to D.C., a one-man experiment I could follow for what was coming for us on January 6, 2025, the day the next election is scheduled to be certified—especially if Trump loses.

And I could tell, even just from that march, that some new kind of energy was blooming in Brandon. No more weed. No more disguises. Postprison, his defiance had a different tone, which I picked up when I was following him at the march and I overheard him mention death a couple of times.

Fellows: Yeah. If it’s my time to die, it’s my time to die. I prefer not to, but life is beautiful.

Rosin: I’m eavesdropping, by the way. I got here at the time when you were like, I can die. There was something about death, and I was like, Huh?

Rosin: I sound awkwardly confused because I was confused. Why does a 30-year-old think it might be his time to die? Die for what? And why so dramatic?

I’m Hanna Rosin.

Ober: And I’m Lauren Ober. And from The Atlantic, this is We Live Here Now.

Rosin: Okay, to understand how Brandon went from “I’m not doing that,” on January 6, 2021, to “I’m ready to die,” in 2024—a little bit about Brandon: He’s now 30. He grew up in Schenectady, New York, born into a line of military men going back before the Civil War. He told me his grandfather was the main inventor of a gun that shoots 3,000 bullets per minute. His dad was an Army sniper. But Brandon was different.

Fellows: I kind of went through this emo phase. I had longer hair. I dyed it black, wore black clothes, like rock-band clothes.

Rosin: When he was 13, Brandon started wearing eyeliner, trying to impress the emo girls he was hanging out with. Usually, he would wipe it off before he got to his dad’s house, but one day he forgot.

Fellows: And he’s like, Is that eyeliner on your face? And I was like, No. Clearly it was. I didn’t wipe it off. And he’s like, Don’t lie to me. He hates lies. And I was like, All right. Yes. It is. And he’s like, Brandon—this is the actual language he said. He’s like, I cannot have fags in my house.

Rosin: He said what now?

Fellows: He said, I cannot have fags in my house.

Rosin: After this and a couple of minor domestic disputes, Brandon’s dad said he couldn’t stay with him anymore—like, ever—although they did make up three years later. We couldn’t reach his dad for comment, although his mom confirmed the events. He spent the rest of his teenage years living only at his mom’s house, until he didn’t want to do that anymore, and he found his own way to live.

Fellows: So I have two tiny houses almost at all times.

Rosin: Wait. You were a tiny houser?

Fellows: Yes. I’ve been a tiny houser since 2016.

Rosin: Okay.

Fellows: I have a veggie-oil-powered bus. It’s almost—it’s 85 percent carbon-neutral. Very cool.

Rosin: From his tiny houses and his veggie bus, Brandon ran a tree-trimming business and a chimney-cleaning business. He’d never been to a Trump rally, or any rally, but decided to go that day. It’s kind of unclear why. Just all these things he’d been annoyed about—COVID restrictions, small-business restrictions—it seemed more fun to be annoyed in a crowd.

The following morning, January 7, Brandon does what people do after a big event: brunch, at a campground with other January 6 tiny housers. Apparently, he’s not alone in the January 6–tiny houser Venn diagram overlap.

Anyway, it was at this brunch where he learned that a woman had been killed at the Capitol: Micki’s daughter, Ashli. Someone showed him a video, and he cried.

Which for Brandon, is something. He doesn’t express emotions in any easily readable way and almost never in public. You can hear that in the way he speaks. But that video of Ashli—it got to him.

Fellows: And that’s a reason why I showed back up on the eighth, to D.C. I came back. But nobody was there.

Rosin: Nobody was at the Capitol—just a vast field littered with empty water bottles and pepper-spray cans—so he went home. All the other people at the Capitol on January 6—they went home too.

And then the FBI began the largest manhunt in American history. Agents combed through thousands of hours of video and sourced leads from an anonymous group of online sleuths called the Sedition Hunters.

At home, in New York, Brandon noticed a new type of visitor to his LinkedIn profile: so-and-so from the FBI Albany field office, the D.C. field office. And then a cop showed up at his mom’s house, and Brandon began his journey back to D.C.

Fellows: It’s July 2, 2021, is when I reached the D.C. jail. So I walk through the center doors, and—I kid you not—within 15 seconds, I hear on the speakers, Something, something, something, medical staff, medical staff, stabbing victim.

Rosin: About a week later, he’s moved to a temporary cell and more of the same.

Fellows: I start heading over to this basketball court, interior basketball court. So the first probably, like, two minutes, I see this dude come up to this dude, and he says, Where’s my honey bun? And he, all of a sudden, starts stabbing a guy.

Rosin: Wait. You’re watching someone—

Fellows: Yep.

Rosin: With what?

Fellows: I couldn’t make out what it was, but I saw him stabbing him, and I saw some blood. And I watched that just with my jaw dropped, and I’m looking to my right, and I’m seeing these four payphones. And everybody’s just talking. They’re still talking to the person they’re on the phone with, like this happens all—like this is nothing. I was like, I gotta get out of here.

Rosin: Were you genuinely freaked out?

Fellows: I went to go do pull-ups immediately.

Rosin: For a lot of J6ers I’ve interviewed, intake at the D.C. jail is seared into their brains. Most of them had never been to jail before, much less the D.C. jail, which is notorious for its violence. I’ve heard of J6ers who cried in the transport van when they realized where they were going.

But intake is not where they stayed. The population of the D.C. jail is about 90 percent Black, and judges were importing a bunch of guys whose collective reputation was “white supremacist,” so they ended up housed in a segregated unit. The consequences of this were huge and sometimes absurd.

What resulted would eventually become known as the “Patriot Pod,” the place where groups of J6ers were imprisoned together, 20 to 30 at a time over three years. These are the people that Micki and Nicole held their vigil for every night over those two years.

By the time Brandon arrived in D.C., about six months after January 6, he already knew about the Patriot Pod.

Fellows: So we’re walking in, and I’m just imagining in my head. I’m like, Oh I’m gonna walk in to cheers. Like, oh another person like, Hey. We’re sorry this is happening to you. But hey—you know, you made it.

Rosin: There were no cheers, but there was plenty of goodwill. Plus, for Brandon, this was a who’s who of J6—people he’d read about or seen on YouTube during the endless hours he’d spent on house arrest.

Fellows: People started coming up to my cell and talking to me. One standout was Julian Khater, because he said, Hey. I’m the guy that they accused of killing Officer Sicknick. I’m like, No way!

Rosin: This was the crowd that Brandon was walking into: Khater, who pleaded guilty to assaulting officers with a dangerous weapon, and Guy Reffitt, Nicole’s husband, who came to the Capitol with a gun, and a guy named Nate DeGrave, who bragged about punching a cop.

Fellows: Tons of people started coming over, and they’re like, Hey. We’ve got commissary for you. We’ve got commissary. And I’m like, Oh. Okay. So that made up for the not cheering.

Rosin: Fellow J6ers came by Brandon’s cell and asked, Hey. You need a radio? Pen and paper? Need some extra clothes? They dropped off beef jerky, ramen, mac and cheese. Dozens came by just to introduce themselves and talk to the new guy. By the end of the day, Brandon had a stack of items outside his cell and a lot of new friends.

Rosin: They’re just giving you stuff?

Fellows: Yeah.

Rosin: I mean, this is like—this sounds like summer camp.

Fellows: I want to be careful to say that it’s summer camp because, you know, we’re not getting sunlight. We’re getting terrible food. We’re getting—yeah, okay, cool—getting camp food.

But it seemed like at that moment, despite all the terrible stuff going on, we had a good sense of community. At least that’s what I was feeling at first. And like, we were taking care of each other.

Rosin: And why do you think it was like that?

Fellows: We’re the same—like, we all are there for the one event. This isn’t like, you know, in the other wings, where it’s like, Oh, what are you in for? We all know the event we’re in for. We just, like, have different stories of what happened at that event.

[Music]

Rosin: Because most J6ers had no criminal records, the jail-ness of jail came as a shock to them. Their families were mostly far away. They couldn’t shave. Their cells stank. And this is all happening in the winters of 2021 and 2022, when COVID variants were running rampant, especially in jails. Sometimes they had to endure long stretches of solitary confinement. People told me that by day three of being confined, they could hear real disturbing moans coming from some of the cells.

During one nine-day stretch of COVID-induced solitary, Brandon kind of lost it. A fellow J6er, a guy named Kash Kelly, was on detail, which meant he could roam from cell to cell, and he came to Brandon’s rescue.

Fellows: Kash comes up to me, and he’s like, You okay, man? I’m like, Yeah. (Sighs.) And then he’s like, No. No. Are you really okay? And I start tearing up and bawling, because I was, like—I didn’t expect to. I just started bawling. And I, like, turned away from him. And he’s like, Oh, bro. Bro, you alright?

Rosin: The J6ers were going through hell, but the difference between them and the average person in D.C. jail—or, really, any American jail—is that they were going through hell together, so they could soothe each other with a reach out, some commissary, a well-timed joke.

Sometimes, they even found a way to have fun. When the COVID era died down and the men could spend more time out of their cells, they came up with one for the ages, one they’ll remember at a million reunions down the road. They called it The Hopium Den.

On these nights, the men of the Patriot Pod gathered their chairs into a semicircle, their cozy amphitheater the site for the show. The emcee was a U.S. Special Forces vet accused of beating a police officer on January 6 with a flagpole. In jail, his fake mic was a mop.

The Hopium Den was a place where the J6ers turned the drudgery of jail into theater. For example, one guy took moldy bologna and rubbed it on another guy’s head and called it a hair-growth commercial. Another guy lifted his shirt up and ate coleslaw like a slob—apparently, he really loved the gloopy prison coleslaw. This was a roast. They rapped diss tracks, wrote mushy poetry to pretend they were gay.

I’ve heard about so many Hopium Den skits, sometimes the guys are snorting with laughter when they recount them to me. And I never understand why they are funny. But that only tells me that, as much as they were stressed and got fed up with each other sometimes, they still had a million inside jokes.

Nate DeGrave: Dear fellow Americans, I never thought I’d write a letter like this.

Rosin: It’s not easy to mark exactly when these individual J6ers became the Patriot Pod—became a unit—and when that unit became an important symbol to MAGA out in the world. One important early moment came in October 2021, when a guy named Nate DeGrave wrote a letter to a right-wing media site.

DeGrave: This is my cry for help. My name is Nathan DeGrave, and as a nonviolent participant at the January 6 rally, I spent the last nine months detained as a political prisoner in pod C2B at the D.C. D.O.C., otherwise known as D.C.’s Gitmo.

Rosin: In his letter, Nate described the conditions as “inhumane.” He said the J6ers were depressed and anxious from the “mental abuse we endure.” He complained about the guards. And then came the important part: He used the phrases “political prisoner” and “D.C.’s Gitmo”—phrases that would shortly be everywhere.

Nate sent the letter to a friend he knew at Gateway Pundit, a right-wing media site. And immediately, it caught fire. Marjorie Taylor Greene posted about it. Greg Kelly called. Tucker Carlson mentioned it.

DeGrave: It started to catch a lot of attention, and more and more people were adopting the same phrases and words that we were using to describe ourselves.

Rosin: Nate DeGrave was on the phone with his attorney right after his letter got published, and the attorney was watching the GiveSendGo, which is a Christian crowdfunding site. Lots of people in the J6 pod use the site to raise funds for legal fees.

DeGrave: I mean, it went from zero to, like, $20,000, $30,000 in a 10-, 15-minute period.

Rosin: What?

DeGrave: And then I just continued to climb from there. And I think at the end of the first day, I was at probably just north of $70,000.

Rosin: In one day.

DeGrave: In one day. It was amazing. I almost forgot for a moment that I was still in jail.

Rosin: The immediate virality confirmed something for them: Even though their surroundings—iron bars, broken toilet, curfew—told them one story, You are temporarily banished from decent society, that story, they were starting to believe, was not true. They were the decent society. It was the outside that was wrong. And maybe the key thing that confirmed this new truth for them was what happened with the song.

[J6 Prison Choir featuring Donald Trump, “Justice for All”]

Rosin: How did the singing start? Like, how did that tradition start?

Scott Fairlamb: It was right, I think, when I had come in that it started to take off. I’m not sure exactly who started it. It kind of just snowballed, you know?

Rosin: This is Scott Fairlamb, who pleaded guilty to assaulting a police officer. Scott arrived in the Patriot Pod in March 2021.

Rosin: So it happened at a certain time every night?

Fairlamb: Every night at 9 o’clock, we would get everybody and make everybody aware at three minutes out.

Rosin: How?

Fairlamb: I would yell through the door, “Three minutes!” And everyone else could echo it: “Three minutes.” “Three minutes.” “Three minutes.” So everybody would be ready.

Rosin: Scott said at first, the singing started out hesitant, kind of quiet. They weren’t exactly choir types, plus you never knew if the CO on duty that night could get pissed about the singing. But night after night, they did it. And at first, in these early months of the Patriot Pod, it wasn’t for anyone. There was no audience. It was just for themselves.

Fairlamb: And then mid-song, you know, “And our flag was—” and then everybody would yell, “—still there!” You could feel the building shake.

Rosin: Why “still there”? Why those words?

Fairlamb: Because we were “still there.” It was a reminder.

Rosin: That what?

Fairlamb: That we stood up for what we believe in and that we were still patriots, no matter who wanted to deem us as less than that, and it was something that really kept my morale and my love of country intact.

Rosin: Like The Hopium Den, this singing had an element of theater. Unlike The Hopium Den, this particular ritual spread far and wide, from their little jailhouse community theater out to the political equivalent of Broadway.

If someone made the inspirational musical, here is how it would roll out: A group of men believe they’ve been betrayed by their country, and they start to taste despair. Without their love of America, who even are they? Then one day, one of them opens his mouth and warbles a patriotic tune.

[J6 Prison Choir featuring Donald Trump, “Justice for All”]

Rosin: One of the men—that’s Guy Reffitt—tells his wife about it—that’s Nicole. And one day, she meets a new friend, Micki, and they, too, join the singing.

Person on speaker: It’s 8:59. Let me say the one-minute warning—

Rosin: Pretty soon, they recruit a small, amateur choir. That’s the nightly vigil. They start livestreaming the singing every night, and someone hears it and has an idea: Take this song plus Trump’s voice, and you have magic.

[J6 Prison Choir featuring Donald Trump, “Justice for All”]

Rosin: Trump starts to use this recording as his campaign walkout song, the same song we heard at CPAC. It goes to No. 1 on iTunes.

At his first big official campaign event, in Waco, Texas, in March 2023, Trump goes big and theatrical with it.

[J6 Prison Choir featuring Donald Trump, “Justice for All”]

Rosin: Huge screens play dramatic scenes from January 6 as he speaks.

Donald Trump: Thank you very much, everybody.

Rosin: And curtain.

Ober: In all this singing and fraternizing, there was one person who was on the fringes. Some guys would bully him, get on his case because his cell was filthy. In the Patriot Pod, Brandon stood out for the wrong reasons, so he set out to fix that. That’s after the break.

[Break]

Rosin: As Brandon spent more time fraternizing with these guys, he started to think more about one way he was not like them.

The way Brandon saw it, there was a bright line in the pod. On one side were him and a couple of other guys—the nonviolent guys, he calls them, who, when they saw trouble, ducked. And on the other, heroes: people like Nicole’s husband, Guy Reffitt, who’d brought an actual gun to the Capitol. Eight months into jail for Brandon, he wanted to be on the other side of that line.

Fellows: These guys are the real people, the real heroes. I’m not a hero. I’m just some idiot that took selfies inside and smoked somebody’s joint that was passed around. I was there to take selfies, and I just happened to get caught up in this crap. But these people were actually, it seemed, willing, though they didn’t use guns. And then I just started—my eyes started opening up.

[Music]

Rosin: Here was his clever idea: Some of the detainees had been given these iPad-like devices. The evidence being used against them consisted of videos, so they needed to watch them to prepare a defense. And Brandon noticed that on his device, the camera hadn’t been turned off.

Fellows: Bro, a cockroach just came out of that. Hold on.

Rosin: So he started to film.

Fellows: Do you see him moving around in there?

Rosin: He leaked those videos to Gateway Pundit, and on May 25, 2022, they published a story: “Exclusive Footage: Secret Video Recordings [Leaked] From Inside ‘The Hole’ of DC Gitmo.” It wasn’t “the hole,” just a regular cell, but whatever. It’s a better headline that way. Quote, “First footage ever released of cockroach and mold infested cell of J6 political prisoner.”

His fellow detainees were, for once, calling Brandon Fellows “brave.”

Fellows: I told them, Hey, guys. Here’s how we’re gonna sneak out future videos. Here’s how we’re gonna do this. I feel like I earned my respect, because, remember, some of them didn’t—some of them used to say, You’re not even a January 6er. Some of them used to say that because, you know, I didn’t do anything violent.

Rosin: Brandon couldn’t undo how he’d acted on January 6, 2021. But what he could do was pitch himself as the strategist of a future operation, whatever that operation might be.

By the time I met up with him, outside the jail, the clock was ticking. The upcoming election was close. And Brandon was strategizing. This time, some things were different: For one, he’s a mini celebrity. People from all over the world have offered him a place to stay if he needs it. He’s had job offers, one from one of the many J6ers who have run or are planning to run for public office. All the sudden, he seems to be everywhere.

In June, he popped up in my Twitter feed, going viral for making funny faces behind Dr. Anthony Fauci at a public hearing. And in July, this came up on our neighborhood text chain: D.C. Community Safety Alert. J6er Brandon Fellows in a MAGA group house called the Eagle’s Nest—yes, like Hitler—is bragging on Twitter about punching women at local bars.

Punching women at local bars? I’d known Brandon enough by now to think this was a little out of character. Or maybe I didn’t know Brandon. So first thing I did, of course, was watch the videos.

[Overlapping shouting, swearing]

Rosin: Best I can tell, here is what happened: The bar—which, by the way, happens to be a few minutes from my office—is packed for July 4. A woman sitting with her boyfriend says something about Brandon’s MAGA hat, which is hanging from his backpack. Brandon is there with another woman—I know her from the vigil—and she starts filming and taunting the woman and her boyfriend.

Woman: Oh my god!

[Shouting]

Rosin: Then it all breaks: The woman throws a punch, which lands on Brandon. He punches back. And then the boyfriend gets involved, and by the end, Brandon is pinning him down.

I can say this: Brandon didn’t start it. But I can also say this: The trolling escalated pretty quickly into a real fight. And so I suddenly felt more urgency to figure out what Brandon actually meant at that Ashli rally when he said he was “willing to die,” because in this bar incident, there was a very thin line between words and actual violence, which is, obviously, relevant to current events.

Rosin: Like, how long are you going to stay in D.C.? Like is this—do you have a plan here?

Fellows: Yeah. I plan to stay ’til, like, January 7. (Laughs.)

Rosin: Wow.

Fellows: Yeah. That was my plan.

Rosin: That feels vaguely threatening.

Fellows: I could see why you would say that, especially considering, you know, my feelings.

Rosin: About violence?

Fellows: Well, about how, man, I wish, after seeing all the chaos that’s happened in the world and to the country, how I wish people did more on January 6—instead of, like me, taking selfies and just smiling. I think it would have been better off if people actually would have actually been there for—like, more people would have actually been there for an insurrection.

Rosin: Best as I can tell, here was the evolution of young Brandon: When he arrived at the Patriot Pod a nonviolent J6er, he was a little starstruck. The violent offenders were, to him, hardcore. But when he left, they were more like exalted, not just hardcore but righteous— more like Founding Fathers.

Fellows: Who was it, Thomas Jefferson? He said something along the lines of—I think it was Thomas Jefferson—every 250 years or so, the tree of liberty will have to be—What is it? Like, we’ll have to have the blood of the tyrants and the patriots. Like, they’ll have to cleanse it. It’ll have to be cleansed with the blood of the patriots and the tyrants.

And that is such a scary thought. I don’t want that to happen. I think more people, as I continually point out, I think more people would have suffered if we didn’t have the Civil War and the Union didn’t win.

That’s how I kind of, like, view it. Like, All right, are we there? Do we need something like that in order to, like, save more lives? That’s how I view it. I know people disagree, but that’s what I look to.

Rosin: So what he’s saying is that sometimes blood has to be shed in the short-term to restore America to its original purpose in the long-term, or some illogical logic like that.

Fellows: This is all make believe, by the way. This is—

Rosin: I can’t tell with you what is make believe.

Fellows: No. No. No. I’m not making it up. I’m saying, though, I hope that it doesn’t come to this. You know, I’d be nice if Trump just got in, and if he just does what he did before, that’ll be a nice Band-Aid. We need something a little bit more intense, and I’m hoping it goes a little bit more intense.

Rosin: But there’s just a possibility that he will legitimately lose this election, like, at the ballot box.

Fellows: Yeah. I think at that point, you know, people might have to do something.

[Music]

Rosin: Donald Trump has been saying that he’ll only lose if Democrats cheat like hell. Brandon is taking that one step further: He’s saying it doesn’t matter if Trump loses legitimately or illegitimately. Either way, people might have to do something. So I guess now I had my answer—this is what Brandon meant when he said at the Ashli Memorial Day march, “It’s my time to die.”

Maybe the Brandons of the world just like to talk. Maybe the FBI will be better prepared. I don’t know. But I can tell you that a lot has changed since Brandon first showed up at the Capitol. The energy of these J6ers—it’s not shocked and naive, like it was four years ago. It’s more calculated and steely. This whole “cleansing with the blood of the patriots” thing that he’s talking about is not thinking of it as an accident that happened one day, when things got out of control. It’s more like a plan.

Ober: Soon after that incident at the bar where Brandon punched a woman, Micki and Brandon “had words” about his antics, mostly because she doesn’t like drawing that kind of negative attention to her house or her cause.

But these amped-up young patriots and the women of the Eagle’s Nest—they may be moving in different directions. That’s in our next and final episode of We Live Here Now.

[Music]

Ober: We Live Here Now is a production of The Atlantic. The show was reported, written, and executive produced by me, Lauren Ober. Hanna Rosin reported, wrote, and edited the series. Our senior producer is Rider Alsop. Our producer is Ethan Brooks. Original scoring, sound design, and mix engineering by Brendan Baker.

This series was edited by Scott Stossel and Claudine Ebeid. Fact-checking by Michelle Ciarrocca. Art direction by Colin Hunter. Project management by Nancy DeVille.

Rosin: Claudine Ebeid is the executive producer of Atlantic audio, and Andrea Valdez is our managing editor. The Atlantic’s executive editor is Adrienne LaFrance. Jeffrey Goldberg is The Atlantic’s editor in chief.

Subscribe here: Apple Podcasts | Spotify | iHeart Media | YouTube | Pocket Casts

About 1,500 people have been charged for their actions on January 6. Some brought weapons to the Capitol. Some committed acts of violence that were caught on camera. Some belonged to militias. And then there is a different category of defendant: someone with no criminal record who showed up on that day and went overboard and committed a crime.

The families of January 6 defendants have long argued that the punishments their loved ones received were too severe. (The Supreme Court took up one of their arguments and agreed.) In this episode, we contemplate that enduring complaint in an uncomfortably personal way. Soon after we discovered that our new neighbor was Micki Witthoeft, the mother of Ashli Babbitt, Lauren served as a juror on a January 6 case and emerged queasy about the outcome. We visit the defendant’s wife and talk to the judge in the case.

This is the fourth episode of We Live Here Now, a six-part series about what happened when we found out that our new neighbors were supporting January 6 insurrectionists.

The following is a transcript of the episode:

Hanna Rosin: What do you mean you feel bad for him?

Lauren Ober: Oh, I feel so bad. I feel so bad because he believed so many lies to get him to this point. Like, he was suckered in. So he’s going to go to jail for believing Donald Trump and for believing all of the rhetoric. And all of those people who spewed that—all the official people who spewed that—there’s nobody official who’s losing.

Rosin: Now that hundreds of people have been through the courts for crimes related to January 6, we know a lot more details about who they were. Some were Oath Keepers who showed up prepared for battle. Some carried guns or knives and beat up cops with flagpoles.

But there was also another group of just guys—young, curious normies. Or dads who maybe got a little too deep in the MAGA universe and then got a little too wild in the moment—criminal for the day.

We know about them, too, because a lot of them had their own YouTube channels or podcasts or whatever. Like this guy, who made this podcast recording with his friend on January 8, right after he flew home. He’s the guy Lauren feels bad for, the guy at the center of this episode. His name is Taylor Johnatakis.

Taylor Johnatakis: So this is the girl who was murdered. This is Ashli.

Ashli Babbitt: —walking to the Capitol in a mob. There’s an estimated 3 million people—

Johnatakis: We’re walking. I was here in this—I was here in this crowd.

Babbitt: Despite what the media tells you, boots on ground definitely say something different. There is a sea of nothing but red, white, and blue.

Rosin: The podcast host then shows his friend the video that Ashli Babbitt recorded on her phone and posted on Facebook of her walking towards the Capitol with a Trump flag wrapped around her waist.

Johnatakis: That was Ashli. That’s Ashli who got killed.

Guest: Wow. I had no—I had never seen the face to the name.

Johnatakis: Okay. That’s—what?!

Guest: I’m serious.

Johnatakis: You don’t know her?

Guest: No. I’m serious. There’s so much that you just can’t see from the outside.

Johnatakis: Oh my gosh.

Guest: It may have been played on the news, but I have not seen it. There’s a lot of stuff I haven’t seen.

Johnatakis: (Gasps.) I can’t believe it.

Guest: Do we need to take a break?

Johnatakis: I can’t believe you don’t know her name. Dude. She died for us, man. (Voice breaks.)

Guest: Yeah. I don’t—that’s the first time I’ve seen her.

Johnatakis: I didn’t realize you didn’t know her name. (Cries.) I’m sorry.

Rosin: The podcast host, the guy who is losing it, is not a right-wing media star or an influencer. He’d be lucky if a hundred people listened to his podcast. But someone important did listen: the FBI.

So now we are going to take a detour into the more surreal parts of the January 6 aftermath, where a goofy dad of five who had never been accused of a crime in his life gets caught up in an FBI roundup. And we’re doing that because D.C. citizen Lauren Ober was one of the people who had to decide his fate.

[Music]

Ober: I’m D.C. citizen Lauren Ober.

Rosin: And I’m Hanna Rosin. And from The Atlantic, this is We Live Here Now.

​Ober: A couple months before I met Micki, I got a notice in the mail. It was a summons for jury duty for the U.S. District Court of the District of Columbia, Criminal Division. And because I am number-one best citizen, I didn’t throw the summons in the garbage. I opened it.

Rosin: On the day she was supposed to show up, which happened to be right after we learned who our neighbors were, Lauren said something offhand to me.

Ober: “I bet it’s a January 6 case.”

Rosin: We both laughed at this idea. Like, how wild would it be—just weeks after learning that some of your neighbors were very prominent Justice for J6ers—to get onto a January 6 jury? It would just be too weird.

Ober: Now, of course you know where this is going. I walked into Courtroom 15 and sat down with other potential jurors, and then the judge told us the trial we were being considered for was a January 6 case, which maybe shouldn’t have been surprising.

[Music]

Ober: January 6 is the largest criminal investigation in U.S. history. And most of these cases have been adjudicated in D.C. So I guess I had a pretty high chance of ending up on a January 6 jury. Fun fact: You can see a lovely tableau of the U.S. Capitol from the building. I mean, how many courthouses have a view of the crime scene?

The defendant, Taylor Johnatakis, was charged with three felonies: obstruction of an official proceeding; civil disorder’ and assaulting, resisting, or impeding certain officers—also, a handful of misdemeanors. In my jury notebook, I wrote: “Looks like a regular guy. Short brown hair, a brown beard, and rectangular glasses.” One thing that stood out was how much Johnatakis smiled and made eye contact with the jury. It seemed like he was—I don’t know—happy to be there or something. It was creepy.

Johnatakis: Trump speech is over. It was awesome.

Ober: The prosecutor told us in her opening statement that we’d be seeing a lot of video evidence from January 6 because a lot of these guys made videos and recordings of themselves, like the video podcast that you heard earlier, where the host cries about Ashli. That was Johnatakis. He made and posted a lot of videos the prosecution played us at trial, like this:

Johnatakis: We’re walking over to the Capitol right now, and—I don’t know—maybe we’ll break down the doors.

Ober: And this—

Johnatakis: I was on the front line. I was on the gate. I organized a push up to the Capitol because I felt like that is exactly what we needed.

Ober: And also this—

Johnatakis: We had a right to be there. We were supposed to be there. I was there, okay?

Ober: As the case continued, over about three days, there was more and more video evidence. Even in the horde of people swarming the Capitol, Johnatakis was easy to pick out. He was wearing a red MAGA hat and had a megaphone strapped to his back, so the jury could follow his movements as he made his way closer and closer to the doors of the Capitol.

As Johnatakis climbed the many sets of stairs that led to the various entrances of the Capitol, he shouted into his megaphone to no one in particular for, like, a solid 10 minutes about oligarchs and censorship and how Mike Pence apparently abused children.

Johnatakis: I never, never, never considered the fact that our vice president is a child molester!

I never considered the fact that our vice president is in business with the Chinese Communist Party.

Ober: When Johnatakis reached the top of the stairs, he was blocked from going any further by a bunch of metal barricades and lines of cops. This is the moment where the prosecution offered evidence that the defendant was not just one of the guys milling around but actually a riot leader, because he was yelling into his megaphone, directing people what to do.

Johnatakis: Don’t throw any shit up here. Don’t throw any shit up here. They don’t need that. They don’t need that. And I don’t need to push it back when we come to that. Push it out of here. We’re just using our bodies—

Ober: Although no one seemed to be listening to a word he was saying, until he said this.

Johnatakis: One, two, three—go! One foot!

[Cheers and clanging]

Ober: This is where the action started. Johnatakis motions to the people around him to put their hands on the barricade. When they do, he shouts, One, two, three, and starts pushing the barricade into the cops. The cops on the barricade push back, while another line of cops behind them shoots pepper spray at the rioters and tries to hit them with nightsticks. The defendant retreats, and the cops restore their line. The whole thing lasts about a minute.

When the jury catches up with Johnatakis again, it’s in a video he made as he’s walking away from the Capitol.

Johnatakis: They’re that afraid of us. They’re that afraid of us. They had to usher the congressmen and senators out of the House in shame with black bags. I got gassed. I got hit pretty dang hard a couple times with a nightstick. It’s not funny. It hurt. We’re done. I’m walking away from the Capitol. I’ve shed some tears. I’m very sad about what I have watched firsthand unfold.

Ober: Now, the prosecution was selling a pretty good story here. In tape after tape, Johnatakis declares, It’s me. I’m here. I’m ready to go. He sounds pretty unhinged, and he uses his megaphone to get a bunch of people to go after the cops.

Then it was the defense’s turn, which in this case meant the defendant himself. Despite the judge’s warning against it, Johnatakis decided to represent himself, and the result was bizarre.

After the witnesses testified, Johnatakis apologized to them and asked them questions like, Is there anything I can do to make amends for my actions on that day? At some point, he told the jury, I’m sorry for my sins, and I repent. He did argue that a lot of what he’d said was, quote, “hyperbolic rhetoric”—that he had a podcast, and he sometimes used overblown language. That was, at least, a relevant argument. But the videos had shown Johnatakis doing more than just talking.

Then both sides made their closing statements. One sounded like a professional court argument, and the other lectured the judge about a legal term and then recited scripture. Then the judge sent us, the members of the jury, off to deliberate.

While we deliberated, this is the thing I kept coming back to: Compared to other J6ers I’d read about, this guy wasn’t a member of a militia. He didn’t carry a weapon or beat up a cop. On the other hand, it was pretty clear that Johnatakis had done what he was accused of. We weren’t judging his actions in comparison to others; we were judging based on what we saw on video and witness testimony.

Everyone on the jury took it seriously, and the verdict was unanimous: guilty. The clerk read the verdict out loud, and I kept my head down so I wouldn’t accidentally make eye contact with the defendant.

A couple of days after the trial, Hanna and I left for a Thanksgiving vacation. I should have been having fun, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Taylor Johnatakis. While we were enjoying our trip, he was sitting in a cell at the D.C. jail, where he would spend the next five months before learning his fate.

It didn’t feel like some miscarriage of justice, but I didn’t feel great about it. Almost a year later, I still don’t.

Rosin: We explore why that is, after the break.

[Break]

Rosin: In the days after Lauren’s jury duty, I noticed she had an uncharacteristic heaviness about her, so we sat down and talked about it.

Rosin: So did anybody else feel sorry for him?

Ober: I mean, I would say that, like, half the people in the room felt bad for him.

Rosin: Why? The feeling bad is—I mean, I almost get it. I don’t a hundred percent get it, because it sounds like, you know, the thing you described him doing at the top of the steps with those barriers is edging on a kind of violence. There are victims, who are those cops—

Ober: It’s not edging on a kind of violence. It actually is an act of physical violence, technically, according to the law. That is what we were asked to determine, and the government proved that.

Rosin: And there were people there—police officers, you know, they’re people. Some of them were traumatized. So the violence didn’t just happen against property. You guys fulfilled your duty. He is guilty. And yet something feels not right to you about the outcome.

Ober: Because he seems like a guy who was lost. His whole argument was hyperbolic rhetoric. And he was suggesting that he got caught up in the spirit of, like—for the Trump people, they felt like they were part of something: They’re a part of a thing that is so much bigger than themselves. They are a part of a movement. They’re a part of history. They matter, right? They matter. And—

Rosin: But all crimes and genocides are caused by people who have a hole in their life, and then they want to be part of a thing, and so they get swept up in a thing and then—

Ober: No. That’s not true. That’s not true at all, because most crimes—most violent crimes—are crimes of passion or crimes of opportunity.

Rosin: All mass crimes—all mass, cultural crimes are generally someone in power preying on people who want to matter and belong.

Ober: Yes, and I feel bad about that. That is sad to me. That is sad that all of these people who—they did that to themselves. I understand that. I was on a jury, and I found him guilty. I didn’t say he didn’t do this.

But this guy is just getting used. He has a nice family, beautiful children. He has a nice wife. He goes to, you know, his church. Like, he has a nice, respectable job. He made his own business. Like, that’s a fine life. That’s a fine life, but in some way, he was led to believe that’s not good enough. You have to fight for this thing. You have to save America because America’s going down the tubes, even though he had probably a really nice life. I don’t know what his life was like, but from all that I can tell, it was, like, nice people.

Rosin: Okay, a last thing: Is there anything else that you feel you really want to know? Anything you still have a kind of burning flame of curiosity about?

Ober: Yeah. I mean, I would love to understand: What is your family gonna do now? And, you know, Now you’re forever, like, a January 6er. And you’re branded with that now. Maybe that’s a proud brand to have. I don’t know. I am really curious about where you go from here.

[Music]

Rosin: Lauren, of course, is not trying to say that he shouldn’t be punished at all. She voted to convict, after all. So what is her queasy feeling? Is it a “zoom in, zoom out” thing, like a lot of us would feel bad for a defendant if we were on their jury and got to know them better? Or are the January 6 prosecutions just a really unusual set of circumstances that we don’t have a box for yet?

What I took away was: There is something about the ratio of crime to punishment that wasn’t sitting well with Lauren. Of course, we now know she wasn’t the only one. The Supreme Court justices ruled seven months later that some of the January 6 defendants had been improperly charged with a felony of “obstructing an official proceeding.” Both Johnatakis and Nicole Reffitt’s husband, Guy, were charged with that felony. The government is reviewing their cases, along with the cases of the hundreds of defendants who were impacted by the ruling.

At the vigil, by the way, Micki and company celebrated that Supreme Court ruling with champagne and cake.

The defendant in Lauren’s case, Taylor Johnatakis, went straight to the D.C. jail. And then five months later, he appeared at his sentencing hearing. It seemed weird for Lauren Ober, Juror No. 3, to go, so I went instead.

The defendant’s wife, Marie, sat in the row in front of me, surrounded by three of her five children. She looked tiny. People can get dwarfed by official proceedings. Plus, it had been raining hard that morning, so everyone seemed extra wilted. Micki sat a few rows behind, barely taking her eyes off Marie and the kids.

After the prosecution and the defense made their cases, it was the judge’s turn to announce the sentence. But before doing that, he made an unusually long speech. His name is Judge Royce Lamberth. He’s a Reagan appointee who’s handled dozens of J6 cases. He described this defendant as always courteous and respectful. He said the defendant was not, quote, an “"inherently bad person.”

He mentioned that he’d gotten 20 letters from family members about Johnatakis’s good character and that he’d read all of them. Some sample compliments from those letters, quote: “He is faithful to his wife and children. He’s faithful to God. He loves his brothers and sisters. We love him more than words can express.” And: “Never had a legal issue, outside a speeding ticket.”

The judge said he’d even called one of the family members who’d written an especially good letter, which is wild. Can you imagine getting a phone call from a judge in D.C., out of the blue, who says, Hey, I’m about to send your relative to prison. I just wanted to talk to you about it? It was like this judge had a bit of that same queasy feeling that Lauren had had, because he went to such great lengths to explain his reasoning.

And then the sentence. Counts one and two: 60 months. The defendant’s wife put her arm over her youngest son’s shoulder. Count three: 12 months. The son, who was just old enough to do math, started to cry. Plus 15 more months. Now Marie started to cry. 87 months total—more than seven years. That little son of theirs might be taller than his dad the next time they were home together.

Okay, remember Lauren’s questions to me?

Ober: What is your family gonna do now? And, you know, Now you’re forever, like, a January 6er. And you’re branded with that now. Maybe that’s a proud brand to have. I don’t know.

Rosin: Seeing Marie and her family in court made me want to know too.

[Music]

Rosin: Hi. Should I take my shoes off?

Marie Johnatakis: Come in.

Rosin: A couple of months after the sentencing, I visited Marie Johnatakis, the defendant’s wife—the one who’d cried in the courtroom—at their family home in Washington State. When I was planning the trip, my editor reminded me of the usual travel-danger precautions: Be careful. Make sure someone always knows where you are, which, when I got there, was pretty funny.

The vibe in this house was so powerfully “mom’s in charge.” Like, the thing of note was how all the toys and kid things were so neatly put away and organized in baskets.

Rosin: Why is it so neat? You have five children.

Marie Johnatakis: Yes. So these are our things, but there’s a lot—

Rosin: This house, an oversized actual log cabin set back on a woodsy road, where they had raised and homeschooled those five children, felt so far away from January 6 and jail and D.C. courtrooms that it made me want to know what her reality was on the day that her husband was standing in front of the Capitol with that bullhorn.

Rosin: Did you guys watch it on TV? Like, did the kids know what was going on?

Marie Johnatakis: We did not watch it on TV. We were doing other stuff. I’m trying to even remember the weather for that day, but probably would have been kids playing Legos, big kids probably hanging out with other big kids.

Rosin: And what are you doing?

Marie Johnatakis: I’m just taking care of all the kids, cooking dinner, cooking lunch. (Laughs.)

Rosin: The feminist thought did occur to me at this moment that one way to see some of these J6 cases is that the men were out enacting their 1776 fantasy while the women were home putting away the Legos. And there was plenty of evidence of that in this case. Remember how Lauren and I went away for Thanksgiving right after the trial?

Well, that meant that Taylor, the husband and father, was in D.C. at his trial just before Thanksgiving. And his wife, Marie, was home with their five kids, planning the holiday dinner, which she just assumed her husband would be home for—because she somehow thought that even if he did get convicted, he would be able to wait for his sentencing at home.

Marie Johnatakis: It was really surprising that they took him into custody then. And I just remember thinking, like, He’s not a danger. He’s been out this whole time. Can you please just let us? You know, we just need a little more help. (Cries.)

But anyways, so when he didn’t fly back home, it was one of those things that it’s like, Okay. It’s me.

Rosin: And then to cap it off, on the morning of Christmas Eve, the family walked downstairs to discover that their dog had died. He’d stopped eating when dad left.

Rosin: Oh, come on. I mean, My dog died on Christmas Eve is, like—

Marie Johnatakis: It’s the worst country song you’ve ever heard. The worst one. (Laughs.) My husband’s in jail, and my dog is dead.

Rosin: And it’s Christmas Eve—

Marie Johnatakis: And it’s Christmas Eve.

Rosin: Yeah.

Marie Johnatakis: Oh. (Sighs.) So yeah—it is pretty pitiful. (Laughs.)

Rosin: Yeah. That’s almost so bad that you have to laugh.

Marie Johnatakis: You have to laugh. You have to laugh.

Rosin: Yeah. Exactly.

Rosin: So here she was: no husband, no dog, no steady paycheck, and not enough savings, which likely meant they would have to sell this beautiful house. That’s why the toys were extra neatly arranged when we came over—they were staging the house for potential buyers.

Taylor didn’t explicitly choose his ideals over his family, but that was kind of the end result. Like, he could have plead guilty, which would have probably cut his sentence in half. Or he could have gotten a lawyer, instead of representing himself. But he took none of those roads, and now she had seven years of: Okay. It’s just me.

Rosin: Was there a moment where you were ever mad at him?

Marie Johnatakis: I don’t think so. I think that, you know, I’ve known Taylor for a really long time, because we’ve been married 19 years. And he has a really, really good heart. And he’s motivated by things that I think are noble.

And so I know this is going to be kind of hard to understand, but if you can imagine, like, a place where, let’s say, you were really convinced that, you know, the election was—like, there were problems with it, and maybe it was enough to stand up for it. And I don’t know if this is skewed as far as, like, my idea on this, but there’s a lot of times that people stood up for things, and it cost them dearly. And while it almost sounds bombastic to think that this could be something like that—like, he said enough times, I wish I hadn’t have gone.

But some of me thinks, like—I mean, who does stand up for it? Who does say, Hey. There’s a problem here? And at some point, there are casualties. I don’t know, all the woulda, shoulda, couldas. I’m like, I wish they would have—because he had a bullhorn, I’m like, Tell the guy in the bullhorn to shut up. (Laughs.) He would have listened.

[Music]

Rosin: And this was the beautiful, terrible exchange that brought me to human empathy and then deposited me at a dead end—because the couple had doubled down on their doubts about the election watching Dinesh D’Souza’s movie 2000 Mules, a garbage film full of conspiracies and lies. And that had prompted them to think everything involving the government was rigged, including his trial, which is why he went about it in the weird, self-defeating way he did.

And yet she had explained her position to me with such gentleness and humility—with humor, for God’s sake—even leaving room for my doubts, that I had nowhere left to go. I totally understood her position. And also, I totally didn’t.

I did have one more thing to say, though.

Rosin: Okay. Here is my moment to tell you a difficult thing.

Marie Johnatakis: Okay.

Rosin: Okay. The reason I know about Taylor’s case is because my partner, also my partner on this project, was on the jury.

Marie Johnatakis: Okay.

Rosin: Questions?

Marie Johnatakis: Question? I don’t think so. No. I don’t think so.

Rosin: You sure?

Marie Johnatakis: Yeah. What questions should I ask, Hanna?

Rosin: I wouldn’t want to—I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to meet someone who was close, even if it’s a step removed, to someone who helped put my husband in the position or who participated in that in every way. I think that could be a hard thing to hear.

Marie Johnatakis: Yeah. No. You know, we went to the sentencing, and I watched the judge up there, you know, playing his role and the prosecution doing their role. And it just—I don’t know. I just felt a lot of compassion towards them all, because everybody is playing the part that they have been asked to play, including your partner. And I think that we all just do our best.

Rosin: Before I left, she told me if I had any guilt about it, I should let it go. A couple of weeks after our visit, she wrote about our conversation on her blog: “I remember praying during the trial that someone on the jury would not convict…just one person. I prayed so hard for that. She,” and she means Lauren here, “could have been that one. And yet—I still can’t find it in my heart to be angry—it’s just not there.”

[Music]

Rosin: The J6 judges have found themselves in a tough spot. Lamberth, the judge in Johnatakis’s case, is a Republican appointee, remember. Still, he and his colleagues have taken heat from Republicans.

Since the J6 cases have been going through the courts, New York Congresswoman Elise Stefanik, the House Republican Conference chair, and Republican Congressman Jim Jordan from Ohio have repeatedly filed complaints against the D.C. circuit for “corruption” and “bias.”

[Music]

Rosin: And then, just before Johnatakis’s sentencing hearing, Stefanik took it a little further. She, too, started referring to the January 6 prisoners, many of whom had been sentenced by Lamberth and his colleagues, as “hostages.” Here’s what she said.

Elise Stefanik: I have concerns about the treatment of January 6 hostages. I have concerns. We have a role in Congress of oversight over our treatments of prisoners. And I believe that we’re seeing the weaponization of the federal government against not just President Trump. But we’re seeing it against conservatives. We’re seeing it against Catholics.”

Rosin: I have no proof of this, but maybe that’s what Lamberth had in mind when he was writing that letter he read at the sentencing hearing that he sent to Johnatakis’s family.

He wrote, “Political violence rots republics. Therefore, January 6 must not become a precedent for further violence against political opponents or governmental institutions. This is not normal.”

Ober: In our next episode: what happened inside the D.C. jail’s “Patriot Pod.” And our tour guide: a young troll or maybe a true radical.

Brandon Fellows: He said, Hey. I’m the guy that they accused of killing Officer Sicknick. I’m like, No way!

Ober: We Live Here Now is a production of The Atlantic. The show was reported, written, and executive produced by me, Lauren Ober, and Hanna Rosin. Our managing producer is Rider Alsop. Our senior producer is Ethan Brooks. Original scoring, sound design, and mix engineering by Brendan Baker.

This series was edited by Scott Stossel and Claudine Ebeid. Fact-checking by Michelle Ciarrocca. Art direction by Colin Hunter. Project management by Nancy DeVille.

The Atlantic’s executive editor is Adrienne LaFrance. Jeffrey Goldberg is The Atlantic’s editor in chief.