#RolandMartinUnfiltered - Project 2025: Up Close and Personal Chapter 6 Mass Deportation Disaster

Episode Date: November 1, 2024

The story that leads off Chapter 6 of Trump's Project 2025: Up Close and Personal, Mass Deportation Disaster captures the struggles of 12-year-old Alvaro and his mother in a fictional detention center in West Texas. Alvaro expresses his hunger to his mother, who is too weak to properly care for herself. As they navigate the deteriorating conditions of the camp—overcrowded with diminishing food supplies, hostile guards, and a sense of fear from both authorities and fellow detainees—Alvaro reflects on lost friendships and longing for better times. His mother’s health declines as she sacrifices for him, giving him her piece of bread despite needing it more herself. This highlights Alvaro’s growing awareness of their desperate situation. He learns from a friend, Manuel, about possible escape routes and decides to plan his own escape to ensure both his and his mother’s safety. In the second half of Chapter 6, in a parallel narrative, soldier Jake Caldwell describes the chaos of the detention center from his perspective. As he witnesses the overwhelming influx of women and children, he feels the systemic failures of the camp. The environment strips away humanity, leading children to escape in search of freedom. As both narratives unfold, Alvaro attempts to escape the camp, filled with hope for a future where he can see his mother smile again even as Jake grapples with the moral dilemmas of his role in the oppressive system. Their stories intertwine themes of resilience, sacrifice, and the harsh realities faced by both detainees and guards in the unjust conditions of the camp. We'd like to thank all the artists who volunteered their time to make this episode:Mark Ruffalo and Andrea Guidry who read the chapters and  others who contributed character voices.   Sound design by Marilys Ernst and Jon Moser. Trump's Project 2025: Up Close and Personal is written by David Pepper and produced by Pepper, Melissa Jo Peltier and Jay Feldman and is a production of Ovington Avenue Productions and The Bill Press Pod.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is an iHeart Podcast. Hello, I'm Bill Press, host of the Bill Press Pod, and welcome to Trump's Project 2025 Up Close and Personal, Chapter 6, the Mass Deportation Disaster. As you know, Trump has repeatedly said that if reelected, he will order the mass deportation of millions of undocumented immigrants. And we're going to have the largest deportation in the history of our country. And we're going to start with Springfield and Aurora. Now, note, Trump's not just talking about what he calls illegal immigrants. The Haitians in Springfield, Ohio, for example, are here legally.

So if he can deport them, there's nothing to stop him from deporting other legal immigrants here in America. A recent estimate of the cost of this detention and expulsion is estimated to be $315 billion, billion dollars. And that doesn't count the cost to the American economy, the loss in tax revenue these workers pay, or the services they provide. More importantly, it doesn't count the human cost of separating families, devastating communities, and inevitably, mistakenly rounding up brown and black legal citizens of the United States. Sadly, Trump's fear tactics are working on millions of our fellow Americans, which is why it's so important for you to share these episodes with all of your friends and family

who may still be undecided about whether to vote at all. In this episode, we tell the very human story of what happens to people on both sides of this disastrous detention and expulsion plan. It dehumanizes both the black and brown people who are rounded up and the men who guard them. The actors Mark Ruffalo and Andrea Guidry tell these stories. We begin at a detention camp in Texas. Chapter 6, June, Capital Monthly, Alvaro, by Rose Cunningham, West Texas. Mama, tengo tanta hambre. I'm so hungry. Alvaro spoke strong English thanks to a grandmother who'd begun teaching him at three,

and almost three years of elementary school in Chicago. But Mama preferred Spanish, especially when she was so worn down, too tired to search her mind for words. Didn't you have dinner? She asked. They ran out of food, and older kids stole mine. Again? Did you tell anybody? Who do I tell? The guards laughed as they did it. It was like everything else at the center. It started bad and quickly grew worse. They had less space than ever. More cots,

yes, but even more people. Every day, more people. Alvaro lost his cot the third week of air. The buildings were more dirty, more smelly, more rat and bug infested. The food tasted worse and worse, and the portions grew smaller. Now, if you were late to the line, they ran out. Tonight, it was late kids who took his food and pushed him down. Then there were the guards. At first, they were calm. They looked fresh and clean and young. Serious, but respectful. But as weeks went by, they grew tired and unhappy. Some angry.

Then new guards appeared. They were older and much worse. Some were cruel, like the ones who'd laughed in the cafeteria. Some were violent. There had been an initial order to the center, like a large school, just with fences. But too many families and angry guards meant that order quickly disappeared. The prisoners in the camp also changed. Every morning, plumes of dust in the distance

signaled that the next wave of prisoners was arriving. Minutes later, the tall fence slid open and old black buses entered the camp and parked. Guards took the new women and children from the buses into the processing center. While frightened and lost, the new families looked alive, healthy. Their clothes and faces and hair appeared far more fresh than those of the prisoners they were joining. That would change in days, Alvaro knew.

And by the time families lined up to board the green buses that took them away, they looked like ghosts. Within weeks, their mood turned to fear. Not about the future or where they would all go, but about each day. About survival and personal safety. Threatened not just by the camp or the guards, but by each other. Everyone clung to their cot, craved food and water, held tight to the few possessions they'd grabbed when the new government came banging on their doors. Tensions only heightened when guards began erecting tents outside

to manage the overflow of prisoners, rotating families through them in multi-week shifts. Every two weeks or so meant more tents and more rotations. Those who returned inside from their time in the tents looked like phantoms. And too often, the fear and desperation from it all spilled into anger. Kids fighting each other, mothers fighting kids, and one another. And now it was stifling hot. Anyone stuck in the tents had no escape from the heat.

And during the day, all the kids and healthy mothers were sent outside. So they endured the worst of it as well. Did Manuel help you? I told you, Mama. Manuel has left. Manuel, his final friend. The center was unlike school, where Alvaro made friends and they stayed friends. At the camp, he made a friend one week. They laughed, played games, talked about girls and soccer in their homes, stood together to get food, protecting one another. I'm sorry, Alvaro. I know you liked him.

Then one day, that new friend disappeared, driven away in a green bus with no goodbye, like he had never been there at all, which made the center lonely all over again. Mama beckoned to him. She lay in a metal cot next to the thin blanket on the hard floor where Alvaro spent his nights. Hers was one of hundreds of cots in the large room, row after row spread across a concrete floor as large as eight or ten basketball gyms from his school in Chicago. The giant room was like a village, talking and crying and yelling, all of it echoing against the walls so that the sound came from all directions. Mama put her hand on his forehead. Her fingers were thin, her palm dry.

Then she cast her smile, and for a moment, the entire camp disappeared. All of his tension faded. It was his first and oldest memory from his youngest days in San Benito. Mama's smile and all that changed when she cast it. Her cheeks lifted and her eyes narrowed while Alvaro warmed from the inside. Whatever their troubles, the smile always lifted him. Even when she was taken from San Benito, gone for several years, the memory of Mama's smile assured him she would come back. When she came home, bruised and scarred and quiet, the smile returned once she saw him.

And when her cheeks lifted, the pink scars disappeared. And it remained after they escaped to America and moved into the small apartment in Chicago. And even though she was always tired now, too thin, too pale, her once shiny hair falling out, Mama's smile lifted him even on their worst days at the center. Like today. I have a surprise for you, she whispered.

She reached into a small plastic bag beneath the cot, then brought her hand out, cupping something within. He came by today, the one who is nice to us. I saved it for you. She opened her hand to reveal a piece of bread, thick and fresh. No, Mama, he said, waving his hand. It's for you. You need it more than I do. She had almost no energy now, so different from when he was little. Then Mama and he would dance to music with his cousins and aunts and uncles, they would dive into

the pond behind Pia's home, splash each other, and swim around. When she returned to San Benito after being taken, all of that energy was gone. On the trip to America, he overheard others in the group say she might die. Some energy returned in Chicago, but it was sapped by her work, cleaning rooms of a large hotel. He'd make his own dinner as she went to bed before dark. Here, outside of occasional cafeteria visits, she lay in the cot all day, sleeping most of the time. Every week, nurses came to check on her, but all of them frowned in the same way. Most spoke no Spanish. They would tell Alvaro what they thought, and he would tell Mama. But what he never told her was that they did not know what was wrong.

One young guard would sneak Mama extra bread every few days. Good bread, not the bread given to prisoners. But none of the nurses or the medicine or the extra bread was helping. Mama reached her hand closer to him. Alvaro, if you did not have dinner, you must eat. The guard will bring more to me. He knew she would not eat the bread, not if he was hungry. So he took it from her hand.

He ate the first bite slowly, chewed and savored it, unsure when his next bites of food would come. But then, still hungry, he stopped eating. He craved more, but this was not the time. He put the large piece that remained under his blanket. He'd save it for tomorrow, just in case. Thirty minutes later, the room turned pitch black. Alvaro lay on his bed, closed his eyes, but could not sleep. And not because he was hungry, nor that the noises of the village still echoed all around, and would for hours more. He and Mama were used to that. No, it was because of the images racing through his head. Mama lying in a cot all day, the nurses frowning. He was only 12, but he was smart enough to see it clearly.

What made Mama happy was helping him, when what she needed was to help herself. Ever since he could remember, he'd been the cause of her difficulties. She was on the way to get him from'd been the cause of her difficulties. She was on the way to get him from school when the gang took her from San Benito. Before escaping to America, she had come back for him. He knew now that the journey had been far more difficult because he was with her. Things she had to do with the men who were helping them, all to keep them safe. Alvaro was old enough to take care of himself now.

And over the past two weeks, he had learned something. Something his last friend, Manuel, had told him. Some of the boys had disappeared, not because the green buses took them away, but because they had escaped. He didn't tell Mama, but his friend Manuel had escaped. And because of Manuel, he now knew how to escape. It started with whispers, yawns, chatter. Then it grew louder. Squeaks and scrapes of metal cots against the floor. Cries of young boys and girls. Soothing or scolding voices of their mothers.

The cacophony of the village stirring all at once woke Alvaro before he ever opened his eyes. Even with the lights on and the noise, he kept them closed for a few seconds longer. Niho. He yawned. lights on and the noise, he kept them closed for a few seconds longer. Ni hao. He yawned. Ni hao, you better go get breakfast before the other boys get there first. Alvaro opened his eyes, rose quickly, and walked toward the cafeteria. Women and girls and smaller boys stood at the back of the food line, stepping forward quietly. He grabbed a tray and plastic silverware, then joined behind them.

A small girl turned to look at him. She smiled up at him, and he grinned back. She looked clean, fresh. A pink ribbon still clung to her black hair. Definitely a new arrival. Maybe on one of yesterday's buses. Hola, he said. Hello, she replied in perfect English, better than his.

I'm Maria. She politely lifted her hand. He embraced it and shook. Her palm was pudgy and warm. Hi there, I'm Alvaro. Maria's mom looked at Alvaro skeptically, then patted her on the back. Come on, Maria, let's get some food. She had only a trace of an accent. Maria turned the other way. He reached the first station of the line. Pieces of bread lay on small napkins. He grabbed the biggest one he saw.

Unlike Mama's from last night, it was thin and dry. He began eating it so nobody could take it from him. It hardly had any taste at all. At the next station were bowls of a watery oatmeal. They'd started serving this every morning about a month ago. Like the bread, no taste. Still, he put a bowl on his tray. Tray in hand, Alvaro followed Maria and her mother to a table that was almost full. A good group, safe. A finger tapped his shoulder. Are you hungry? Maria asked as she held her cup of water. You are eating so fast?

She looked serious, but he couldn't help but smile back. No, I just like to eat fast. She nodded, satisfied. He scooped up more oatmeal and swallowed it. He overheard Maria's mother talking to another woman. We got caught up in this by mistake, she said. We are both U.S. citizens, my husband too. They have us confused for others.

I assume they'll get it straightened out. The other woman nodded, no doubt thinking what Alvaro was thinking. They had heard this in recent weeks from new arrivals, people who were swept up by the government and taken to the center by mistake, confident that the government would be able to correct the mistake. The people who said that were still in the camp. Some had already been taken away in the green buses. Noise at the back of the line caused Alvaro to look over his shoulder again. More large boys arriving. Some were stepping in front of others, leading to jostling and arguing. Alvaro's table was now full, which would protect him as long as no one left

before the boys got to the end of the line. Heart racing, he ate faster, slurping the food down. The bigger boys neared the end of the line, six of them now talking loudly. They each had bowls on their trays, but with the smaller portions of late, the larger boys would still grab other kids' food. The woman sitting on the other side of Maria's mother stood up, and her two children followed her. The shield of a full table was now gone. Alvaro lifted the plastic bowl to his lips and swallowed the last of the oatmeal. Young man, I'm not going to eat this bread, and you look hungry. Now it was Maria's mother talking.

You can have mine. Are you sure? He asked. I'm sure. Thank you. She handed him the piece of stale bread. He held it up to his mouth for a moment, but didn't eat it. While he pretended to chew, he slipped it into his pocket. It would taste better later. Which gave him an idea.

New arrivals like Maria's mother wouldn't like the bread here. And new arrivals were usually the first to come to breakfast. So maybe there would be more bread to grab. Alvaro walked over to the gray plastic garbage can in the far corner of the cafeteria. Several crusts of bread were already scattered amid discarded bowls and silverware. He tossed his plastic bowl in, then grabbed several crusts. For the next 10 minutes, he took more crusts and stuffed them in his pockets. Back at Mama's cot, Alvaro knew he had less than one hour.

He talked to her as much as he could, not only to hear her voice, not knowing when he would hear it next, but because he needed to learn things they'd never talked about before, so he could find her later, so she would know where to go. Mama, I remember San Benito so well. Maybe we will go there when we leave here. She frowned. Mijo, it is not a safe place for us. I know, but it is our only home now, and it is small. He knew other cities, large like Chicago, would be too big to find one another. Yes, it is. But remember, it's not safe. That is where I was taken from. They may take me again. Alvaro's stomach nodded. She never talked about being taken, or what happened in the two years when she was gone. What caused those scars and her silence?

What had changed forever the look in her eyes? Okay, we will find another small town to go to. Have you thought of one? Alvaro, why are you asking me this? I want to get past this place and know where we will be. She smiled at him. I like that. She looked up and around. Do you know where we would be. She smiled at him. I like that. She looked up and around. Do you know where I would go if I could? Exactly the conversation he wanted to have. Where? A town you would love. Where? I played there as a girl. My abuela would take me there. It's where I learned to swim.

Where I played soccer on the beach. He waited. It's called Monterico. He hadn't heard the name before. He'd only seen beaches as part of their escape to America, and he'd only played at a beach in Chicago. Is it small? He asked.

Yes, smaller than San Benito, not far from Guatemala City. And the name again? Monterico. Monterico. Monterico. Monterico. He drilled the name into his head. He repeated,

He looked right into her eyes as he said morning, about 30 minutes after the cafeteria closed, and shortly after guards opened the center's doors to go outside. The best time is when the buses arrive. Manuel had whispered last week as they watched black buses enter the camp. Their conversation came after Manuel had been sent to the tents for one week. He looked so thin, his eyes so tired. Alvaro remembered every word. The guards are helping with the new arrivals.

Between the buses and the tents, they don't have enough people to watch every part of the center at the time many buses arrive. Manuel had then pointed to a section of the fence, past the back side of the building, next to one light post, where the bottom had come loose from the dry soil beneath. That allowed the fence to be pushed up, creating enough space that a smaller-sized boy could squeeze underneath. When Manuel disappeared the next day, Alvaro knew it had worked. And the last time Alvaro had seen Manuel was at breakfast. He'd left when the buses had arrived. Taking even a small plastic bag outside would draw attention. So, after Mama fell back asleep, Alvaro put his second shirt on over his first. He also pulled a second layer of

socks over those he already wore and put on his other pair of shorts over the shorts he had on. The outer shorts also hid the bread crusts in his pockets, and Mama's piece of bread below them. Alvaro kissed Mama on the forehead, stared at her face for a few seconds more, then walked to the nearest door. Others moved toward the door as well. Two guards, a man and a woman, stopped at the doors and turned to face the growing group. Alvaro stood about ten people deep in the group, not wanting to stand out. A large hand gripped the back of his left shoulder. He whirled around to see one of the bullies from yesterday evening.

The boy, inches taller than Alvaro and far heavier, the fresh look of a new arrival, grabbed the outer t-shirt and pulled it upward. Little man, why dress so warm when it's going to be a hundred degrees today? He asked, laughing. Alvaro could barely breathe. They were within earshot of the guards and the boy was talking loudly. Um, I was cold in here this morning. I'll take it off when I warm up outside. The boy turned to another boy behind him. Alvaro recognized him too, the one who had pushed him to the ground after they'd taken his food.

Like many who had already slept in the tents, he had large red sores all over his arms and legs. Look, the little man has two t-shirts on. The other boy laughed along, eyeing Alvaro up and down. Thick in the shorts too. I think our friend is up to something. The words hit like a punch to the gut. They were going to give him away. He was tempted to run back into the room's center, but that too would stick out. Please, leave me alone, he said, reaching into his pockets. I will give you bread if you will just leave me alone. The second boy's eyes lit up. He'd been at the center much longer than the first.

How much? One handful each, from just this morning. They nodded. It was a painful trade-off, but the two were about to get him in trouble. He curled his fingers up, grabbing crusts in each hand, but making sure some remained below his fingers. Most important, the fresh piece from Mama, which was buried the deepest. He lifted both hands out and passed the crusts off to each boy. The larger boy shoved him again, nearly knocking him down. There are more. Give them

all or we tell the guards you have two sets of clothes on. Alvaro exhaled. He had no choice. He reached for the remaining crusts and handed them over. He began to lift Mama's piece too, but a long squeak pierced the air. The guards were opening the doors. The group, now in the dozens, jostled forward. Alvaro pushed with them, stepping a few feet to his right to get away from the boys, then past the guards and out the door. The summer heat hit his face, and he squinted from the sun's glare. Two minutes later, in the far distance, the first plume of dust kicked up.

One bus, far away. Three guards began to walk toward the entrance to the camp. Only three. Not enough. Alvaro paced to his right, purposefully avoiding staring at the buses and the guards. Two more sets of doors opened, more groups of prisoners flooding outside. Two more clouds of dust appeared in the distance. Then came a fourth dust cloud, followed by a fifth. Alvaro let out a long breath.

Five buses would be enough. It was time. He walked toward the shaded area, then along the wall of the building. He stopped to look back towards the fence. The black rectangular shapes of the buses now headed from right to left across the desert. Then the rectangles became squares

as the buses turned toward the center. A large group of guards now waited where the gate would open. Alvaro walked faster along the side of the building, his path still obscured in the shadows. Brakes squealed as the first bus stopped at the gate. Then came the slow click-clack of a chain as a portion of the fence moved sideways to open the bus entrance. Just before reaching the far corner of the building, Alvaro looked back to see the first bus enter the grounds. Something collided with his ankle and he fell to the ground, thrusting his hands forward to keep his head from crashing against the concrete surface. Trickles of blood seeped out of the corner of each palm, but Alvaro's surging adrenaline

stifled any pain. You escaping now? He heard from above. He looked up to see the larger boy from before leaning over him. His skinny friend stood next to him. Alvaro pushed himself up with his hands. He looked down to assess the damage. His left knee was bleeding, and his other wounds now stung as if someone had poured alcohol on them.

Mama's piece of bread was protruding from the top of his pocket. Inches from the larger boy's face, a flash of anger trumped his fear. He said one word, See. The boy stepped back, then gestured both hands in the direction of the fence behind them. He knew about the light pole. Well, why didn't you say so? He grinned.

Go on through and don't come back. The more food for us. Alvaro looked up at him in silence, speechless. It was now clear he was braver than they were. He scampered between the two and away from the building. The light pole was not too far now, but the space between was wide open and only a few prisoners were walking in the area. He would stick out when he crossed. All five buses were now parked within the grounds. Passengers were getting off each one and groups of guards were walking them over to be processed.

There were no guards on his side of the camp. Heart racing, Alvaro walked quickly across the concrete. Once halfway there, he sped up to a jog. He reached the light pole. On the right side, Manuel had said. That's where boys are squeezing through. A foot from the ground, he wrapped his fingers around the steel wires of the chain link fence. He pulled, but the fence didn't budge. He stepped a foot over, pulled even harder, using both hands this time. Still no movement.

He clenched his jaw in frustration. But this was where Manuel had pointed. Maybe guards had found the escape and fixed it. He sidestepped another foot. It's so hard, the chain-link wire sliced into the skin of his fingers. Still nothing. An engine revved up behind him. One of the buses was done offloading and was already driving away. Sweat fell into his eyes as his

stomach tightened. Soon, guards would walk back in his direction. He moved one more foot to his right. He grabbed the chain link wires as tightly as he could, then leaned back so his entire weight pulled against the fence. His fingers bled more. And it moved. The bottom of the fence slipped up and away from the surface, almost causing Alvaro to fall backward. The engine of a second bus revved up. Alvaro looked back to see that it too was turning around to opening. It was a tight fit. So tight, the sharp edges of the fence's bottom pierced both legs as he slipped them under. He stifled a scream. Once through, he let the fence go and it sprung back into place, tight against the ground.

No hole to be seen. Alvaro's blood was pulsing now, every sense heightened. He was free, on the other side of the fence for the first time since becoming a prisoner months ago. Buses three and four now circled to leave. Alvaro turned away from the center and toward the desert. A warm wind heated his face, dust flying into his eyes. When we come back after a short break, our story continues from a different perspective, this time from a guard at the camp who grapples with the moral dilemma of his role in this oppressive system.

I know a lot of cops, and they get asked all the time, have you ever had to shoot your gun? Sometimes the answer is yes. But there's a company dedicated to a future where the answer will always be no. Across the country, cops called this taser the revolution. But not everyone was convinced it was that simple. Cops believed everything that taser told them.

From Lava for Good and the team that brought you Bone Valley comes a story about what happened when a multi-billion dollar company dedicated itself to one visionary mission. This is Absolute Season 1, Taser Incorporated. I get right back there and it's bad. It's really, really, really bad. Listen to new episodes of Absolute Season 1, Taser Incorporated, on the iHeartRadio app,

Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Binge episodes 1, 2, and 3 on May 21st, and episodes 4, 5, and 6 on June 4th. Ad-free at Lava for Good Plus on Apple Podcasts. I'm Clayton English. I'm Greg Lott. And this is Season 2 of the War on Drugs podcast. Yes, sir. We are back. In a big way.

In a very big way. Real people, real perspectives. This is kind of star-studded a little bit, man. We got Ricky Williams, NFL player, Heisman Trophy winner. It's just a compassionate choice to allow players all reasonable means to care for themselves. Music stars Marcus King, John Osborne from Brothers Osborne. We have this misunderstanding of what this quote-unquote drug thing is. Benny the Butcher. Brent Smith from Shinedown.

We got B-Real from Cypress Hill. NHL enforcer Riley Cote. Marine Corvette. MMA fighter Liz Karamush. What we're doing now isn't working, and we need to change things. Stories matter, and it brings a face to them. It makes it real. It really does.

It makes it real. Listen to new episodes of the War on Drugs podcast season two on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. And to hear episodes one week early and ad free with exclusive content, subscribe to Lava for Good Plus on Apple Podcasts. Later in the podcast, author David Pepper will tie each of the story elements back to specific references in Project 2025 and Trump's own words and dangerous promises. But first, the second part of this story, Chapter 6, Part 2, is told by actor Mark Ruffalo. From Seven Avengers movies to the 2024 Academy Award-winning Poor Things, Mark has shown his

remarkable range as an actor. Here, he demonstrates his commitment to democracy by sharing the story of a guard at the camp, soldier Jake Caldwell. Chapter 6. Capital Monthly. Jake Caldwell by Kelvin Stegman. West Texas. Another runner two days ago! Jake Caldwell dreaded every morning roll call speech.

It was already obvious that the wheels were coming off the place. Hell, the wheels were rolling halfway across the desert by now. Hubcaps spinning off in every direction. So Sergeant Waters' angry rants provided a needless reminder of how fucked up things were. The short, stout sergeant with a shaved head and high voice was no more than five years older than Jake and his fellow reservists, and he was younger than most of the private contractors who kept rotating through. But Sarge talked to them all like they were wayward teenagers. Another fucking kid! And he was now yelling at the top of his lungs. One of the newer contractors

shuddered in front of Jake, but no one else budged. They got yelled at every morning. They were used to it. And you know how I know? Sarge asked, his face pinkish-red under his brown, bushy eyebrows. No one answered. I know, because the kid was caught stealing from a grocery store in Pecos. That's right, I got another call from another sheriff asking what the fuck we're doing letting so many kids walk away from this place and right into their towns. Sarge paced back and forth in front of the room while the immense old prison stood at the center of the deportation camp the guards met in a rickety pre-fabricated structure they called the

rv they entered every morning for roll call and to hear their pre-shift orders stopped back in for two meal breaks then one last time to sign out at day's end. And do you know what I had to tell him? Sarge asked, raising his hands to his sides. I had to tell him I had no fucking clue. Back in school, this is when Jake would have blurted out something landing him in detention. But now he didn't utter a word. He restrained from even shaking his head because what he wanted to say was simple. Well, I have a fucking clue. It was really fucking obvious why the place was falling apart. From day one, they were deluged by numbers they couldn't come close to handling.

And every day that went by, with busload after busload dropping off more women and children, made it worse. They didn't have enough room. They didn't have enough guards or staff or nurses. They didn't have enough food or medicine or nurses. They didn't have enough food or medicine. Hell, they didn't even have sunscreen or toothpaste. They didn't have enough cots, not even enough tents, as inhumane as they were. Before the first prisoners arrived, there had been talk of rudimentary classes for kids, organized activities for the women, and regular health checks. Planning for the first week, they'd been given strict schedules to follow to keep prisoners active, productive, and engaged.

But once the first wave of buses dumped more than a thousand people in their hands, all that was scrapped. The fallback plan was more rudimentary. Lights on, a meal. Doors open to let prisoners outside and crews disinfect the cavernous space. Doors close late in the day, Meal lights off. That was it. Their bare-bones routine led to general aimlessness at first, but at least there was a semblance of order, basic decorum and humanity. Within a week, it fell into chaos, then danger. Prisoners fought all the time, at least one stab every few weeks. Guards fought too,

largely the contractors. Women and kids grew dangerously sick from the most basic illnesses, ostracized for fear of infection. Some died. As the camp's population soared, new complications emerged. Adding the outdoor tent rotations triggered a new nightmare. In early May, a COVID outbreak forced them to move six kids and eight women out of the camp. Two of those women died. Flu and measles outbreaks hit both prisoners and guards. Kids are getting all sorts of rashes and sores, worrying guards that they might bring them home to their families. The onset of oppressive heat in the late spring and summer months added a new layer of hell. And amid a late May surge of arrivals, dozens of mothers screamed at the guards that they were there by mistake. They were American citizens, they insisted,

swept up by the profiling and bureaucratic snafus. Enough of them told the same story. Jake soon believed them. If you're deporting 15 million people with no due process, the government's gonna fuck up sometimes, right? But when he asked Sarge about it in a Friday roll call, he was told there was no way to confirm their status or send them back. Forget it. If they're getting off a black bus, there's no mistake. Finally, in recent weeks, another problem emerged. The focus of Sarge's morning tirade. Kids were escaping. Things were that bad, Jake explained to his live-in girlfriend, Mary Beth. The cause of the escalating nightmare was crystal clear. The sheer number of women and children at

the camp overwhelmed any capacity to handle them, and that created an environment that stripped the humanity away from every single person trapped there. Women, children, and the guards themselves. Which was exactly why a desperate kid dared escape the camp and was caught stealing in Pecos, Texas. Hell, Jake himself would have run long ago. You got something you want to say, Private? Jake heard the question, but was looking down. He was still answering that sheriff's question in his mind.

The worst part of the mess was that this was just a single camp in West Texas. Camp number 405. It turned out mass deporting 15 million people in a matter of months when the entire nation's prison population was a little more than one million, was a batshit crazy idea. It meant that there were hundreds more inhumane shitshows just like this camp across the country. Cots and tents and buses, cruel guards, sick mothers, and fleeing children. Death itself. Fittingly, many of these hellholes had actually been set up on the grounds of old

Japanese internment camps from World War II. But mass deportation also created all sorts of other shit shows along the way. The papers hardly talked about the camps because the government kept them walled off from view. But the government couldn't hide the reality that wiping millions out of the American workforce had dropped a bomb on America's economy. Businesses and entire industries were shutting down as a result, leading to a surge of unemployment. Shortages of food, goods, and services, combined with higher prices, were upending main streets across America.

Hell, Mary Beth had lost her job in April as a result of her restaurant closing down. Sarge's smallish boot suddenly appeared in front of Jake's chair. You got something you want to say, Private Caldwell? Jake looked up, Sarge's round face frozen in a half snarl, stared back from only a foot away. No, sir. Nothing, Sarge asked. That skull sure made it look like he got something to say. Jake sat up straighter, rolling his broad shoulders back. In another setting, he'd knocked this asshole to the floor with a single uppercut.

His 6'2 muscular frame and years of boxing meant that little shit wouldn't be getting up either. I want one thing, actually. We need to get to the bottom of why these prisoners are escaping, sir. Sarge took a step back. Damn right we do. He looked around the room, then back Jake's way. Private, I'm going to put you in charge of that mission, and you can pick one other person from this unit to help you get to the bottom of it. Yes, sir, Jake said.

You don't sound too happy about the assignment, Caldwell. Jake sat up even straighter, then rubbed his hand over his high and tight crew cut. Oh, we'll get to the bottom of it, sir. We'll figure out why anyone would want to leave this place, how they're doing it, and put a stop to it. His sarcastic tone would have guaranteed attention back in school. Sarge's already narrow eyes closed to mere slits. He stared Jake down for seconds. Then he clapped his hands together. Oh, we'll get to it. The rest of you stick to your slits. He stared Jake down for seconds. Then he clapped his hands together.

Uh, we'll get to it. The rest of you stick to your usual duties. Jake, you need to work on your poker face, Donnie Pebbles said as they both walked out of the RV together. Don't I know it? Jake laughed. And I was trying my best too. And congratulations, now we both get to do a shitty assignment because of my poor acting. And it was a shitty assignment. Prowling outside in the punishing heat, chasing down broken kids, understandably running from this nightmare. Just as bad the assignment would take him away from what he enjoyed most about a job he never signed up for. After observing comings and goings in the cafeteria for breakfast, Jake and Donnie walked to two double doors. At 9.30 on the nose, they held them open as women and children walked outside.

Minutes later, six buses entered the grounds. They approached the second bus and lined up the new families who exited. Let's check out the perimeter to find out where they're escaping, Jake said. Look for kids tracks on the other side and for places where the fence is loose enough for a kid to crawl underneath. Jake walked right while Donnie went left. A stiff breeze blew both warm desert air and dust into his face. He donned sunglasses to shield his eyes, but the wind also meant one other thing. Any footprints of boys escaping would have disappeared. So Jake simply focused on identifying any weak spots in the fence. He knelt down, tugged hard against the

bottom, took a few steps forward, then tugged again. Why so many boys were escaping became obvious in minutes. Every 20 feet or so, the bottom of the chain link fence would pull loose. Usually loose enough that even a large boy could fit underneath. Probably most of the moms too. Treading forward under the punishing sun, he counted up the loose sections he found. He stopped once he reached 15. Looking back, he could see Donnie doing the same thing. Walking, pulling, stopping. Walking, pulling, stopping. And every 20 feet or so, Donnie pulled the fence at least inches from the ground.

Jake jogged toward Donnie across the hot pavement, then whistled loudly. Donnie walked toward him, smirking. Well, it looks like MacGyver forgot an important detail when he reopened this place. Jake smiled back. Right, you'd think a secure fence would have been step one. Jake briefed Sergeant Waters after scarfing down his daily BLT sandwich and chips. Fine, but put an order in, Sarge said, but beginning tomorrow I want you two watching that fence like hawks. No more escapes.

But what if it's a big bus day? Forget the buses. I'm bringing in more contractors. You watch that fence. Yes, sir. But for the rest of the day, return your normal duties. Yes, sir. As he stood up, Jake plunged his hands into the pockets of his pale olive green pants. He had three pairs of them and wore one of them every day for one reason. As he ate his own lunch, their deep baggy pockets enabled him to sneak large slices of bread into them below the table. Even better, when he stood up with his hands in his pockets, no one noticed the bread, and the pants' large back pockets allowed him to take at least two more slices. With lunch done and his bounty in hand, he walked over to the old prison alone.

The building looked even more cavernous during the day, with hundreds of cots sitting empty. Beyond the cleaning crew trying to tamp down the stench, and nurses making the rounds, the only people who remained were women too sick to step outside, if they could walk at all. And that number had grown through May and early June. He walked four different routes, two each day. To keep things simple, the routes only varied as women came and went. When one woman was hauled away on a green bus, he'd find another to replace her. Route two was up today. He walked six rows into the sea of cots, then turned right. The first woman on route

two looked his way. Like her, the women along his route knew the schedule. They smiled up at him as he appeared twenty or so feet away then looked away as he approached no one on his routes wanted to be the reason he got caught getting fresh bread every other day was too valuable he dropped a piece of bread onto the first woman's cot she mouthed the words thank you as they always did some said gracias but she didn't look at him as she said it just as he didn't look down as he dropped bread. He ambled straight, turned another corner, and made his way to the next cot along Route 2, then the next. From a distance, it looked like he was making rounds any guard would make.

But as Mary Beth told him each night he was playing there, Robin Hood. The last stop of Route 2 was in the room's far left corner. The woman there appeared to be struggling more than anyone on his four routes. He would occasionally ask the nurses what ailed her. None knew. His heart broke whenever he approached her car. She usually was lying down, with her eyes open, clearly awaiting his arrival and not wanting to miss the delivery. Her hair, a mix of black and gray, was thin and falling out. Tangled strands usually lay on the blanket. Her face was gaunt and a yellowish pale.

Her high cheekbones strutted out. Most prominently, long scars crossed diagonally down each cheek. Another appeared just below her chin, and a fourth cut through part of her neck, dangerously close to her carotid artery. He guessed that, like a good number of the women here, she'd been in the country on a T visa, reserved for victims of human trafficking or victims of other crimes, but now eliminated as part of the nation's new mass deportation policy. So even women like her, having been saved from hell by the

United States, were being sent right back to the danger they'd escaped. Victimization should not be an invitation to being in our country, the talking heads repeated on television. I wish they could see the faces of the victims they're kicking out, Jake often said to Mary Beth. Jake approached the last woman're kicking out, Jake often said to Marybeth. Jake approached the last woman en route to, his longest standing customer. She raised her head and looked over. He reached into his pocket. Because of her condition and how long he'd served her, he always saved her the biggest and thickest piece. He dropped it on her blanket. Unlike the other, she didn't say thank you in either language. Instead, she smiled. She always smiled. And as it lifted her cheeks in a way that hit her scars

and narrowed her eyes into upside-down crescents, her smile was as beautiful as any he had ever seen. He nodded and walked away. Sergeant Waters was more subdued the next morning. No angry sheriffs had called, no escapees reported, and the entire defense would be secured the following week, including with new layers of barbed wire. In the meantime, he said, looking at Jake and Donnie, no one gets out.

Rather than going to the prison doors or to the buses, Jake and Donnie headed to the center's vehicle depot. Ten minutes later, they drove out on ultra-terrain vehicles. Even though they'd be stuck outside, the camouflaged UTVs reminded Jake of the ATVs he raced as a kid. Maybe this assignment would be a nice change of pace after all. Let's head to the far side, Jake yelled over the breeze. No one would try to escape near the front entrance with all those guards there. Donnie gave him a thumbs up, helmet and goggles on.

They sped around the outside of the fence. Even with the helmet on, the flying dust stung Jake's cheeks. Jake came to a stop at a far corner of the fence line, Donnie pulling up next to him. If they're going to run and be back here, well, all of us are looking the other way. Donnie nodded. Some bushes and boulders appeared in the distance. I said we split up but close enough to see each other. Post up behind some bushes or rocks and wait to see if a kid crawls under.

I'll head off to the far right. You go straight. Sounds like a plan. They separated, speeding off at an angle away from one another. Jake stopped after about a quarter of a mile, hiding the UTV behind a clump of large prickly pears. In the distance, Donnie pulled up behind a small rock formation and ducked down. Jake lowered himself to the ground and waited. For minutes, nothing stuck out. The first bus entered the camp, then the second. Groups of guards led one group of new detainees to the processing center, then headed back to guide the next. It was when the third bus entered that he first saw movement at the far left corner of the old prison building.

A small figure emerged from behind the building, alone, moving in Jake's direction. Like Jake the day before, the boy began tugging at the fence, testing for openings. He sidestepped a few feet, tried again, while looking back at the buses. After the fourth or fifth tug, the boy lay down. He must have found a loose spot. He pulled the fence hard and it bent upward. It was a tight fit, but he pulled himself under and through and stood up on the other side. Made it look easy. The boy looked around for a moment, then sprinted directly in Donnie's direction. Hidden from the boy but in Donnie's line of sight, Jake waved his hands in the air, then pointed. Donnie returned two thumbs up.

They remained down as the boy sprinted across the flat, dry surface of the West Texas desert. Two minutes later, the boy drew even with Donnie, passing about 30 feet to the right of the boulder shielding him. That's when Jake hopped on his UPV and sped Donnie's way. Donnie followed suit. Hearing the sound of Donnie's engine, the boy looked over his shoulder but kept running. Larger clumps of prickly pear lay 50 feet in front of him, surrounded by more clusters of rocks and boulders. He was clearly looking for cover.

With Donnie chasing behind, Jake beelined it to the other side of the rocks. A minute later, he came to a stop, huffing from the rush of the chase. Then he waited. Any second now, the boy would appear, Donnie right behind him. Seconds passed, but the boy didn't emerge. And beyond the breeze blowing past his ears, it was quiet. Donnie's engine was off. Then, above the breeze, came a scream.

Fuck! A high-pitched shriek of pain followed. Not a boy's voice, but Donnie's. Jake jumped back on his vehicle and drove around the boulders. Four thick black tires faced the sky, two of them spinning. The UTV was flipped upside down, pinning the lower part of Donnie's body underneath, and a skinny boy, looking about 10 or so, was pushing against the UTV. Donnie screamed out again. Jake pulled to

within feet of the overturned UTV. The little punk broke my leg, he yelled. The bone is sticking out of my fucking ankle. The boy looked at Jake, clearly unsure if he should run or stay. Jake ran up to the UTV, leaned his shoulder against it, and started pushing. The kid watched. Help me, he yelled to the boy. We need to get this off him. Okay, the boy said. He lined up next to Jake and pushed, too.

The UTV moved a few inches, but that was it. Donnie screamed again. Jake ducked lower to gain more leverage. Push harder, he yelled, powering through his legs. He and the boy groaned together. The UTV inched upward. Jake leaned in to hold it there. That's all we're gonna get, Donnie. Crawl out, now. With the grunt, Donnie pulled himself out from under the UTV and passed Jake. He flopped over, flat onto his back, crying out. Jake and the boy jumped away and the UTV crashed to the ground. Thank you, he said to the boy. The boy stepped

back. He put his hands in the air to show they were empty. Both his palms and his knees were badly scraped. Dust covered the lower half of his face. He must have fallen as he ran, somehow triggering Donnie's crash. The boy eyed Jake, again weighing whether to run. His weight shifted side to side, but then he looked down to his right. Something lay on the ground. Jake looked to see what it was. It was hard to make out at first, but then he figured it out. A piece of bread, but not one in the scrawny pieces from the cafeteria. No, it was one of the pieces from the RV. One of the pieces from his route. It still looked fresh and was a big piece too, besides he saved up for the coroners, the women who'd been there the longest.

The fuck are you doing, Caldwell? Grab that little punk, he broke my fucking leg. Jake did a double take as he looked at the boy. He resembled the woman in the far left corner of Route 2, the scarred woman with the smile, the one he helped the longest. The kid's eyes looked exactly like hers, and Jake had given her a big piece yesterday afternoon. Oh, hold on, Jake yelled out to Donnie as he did a quick calculus. The chances this boy would actually escape capture overall were small. He may not even make it out of the desert alive. But now that his escape had broken Donnie's leg, there'd be hell to pay back in camp.

No doubt sent to a tent, if not a far harsher detention center somewhere else. Charged with an actual crime and separated from his mother either way. And once they connected him back to his mother, her fate would go downhill as well. Sarge insisted that families be punished together. The other factor in his calculus was that the boy was carrying a piece of Jake's bread with him. This risked ending Jake's routes, his favorite part of an awful job. But that's not really what weighed on him. What did was that ill as she was, his mother wanted her son to have it. And that settled it. Her wish would be respected. He glanced at the bread, nodded, and winked. He mouthed the word, in both languages, in a way

only the boy could see. Vete. Go. The boy looked at him quizzically. He mouthed it again. Vete. The boy crouched down, grabbed the piece of bread and sprinted the other way. Stop him, Donnie yelled out. Get him! Jake turned toward Donnie and grimaced at the sight of the sharp end of white bone sticking out of Donnie's bleeding ankle. I'm more worried about your leg right now than some kid. Someone will pick him up. Donnie shrieked out in pain again. Someone will probably pick him up, Jake thought to himself, pulling his phone out of his pocket

to call for help. But it's not going to be me, not Robin Hood. And if he got sent to detention for bringing a trace of humanity to this fucking catastrophe, so be it. Now, while the stories in this podcast episode are over, we're not done with Trump's Project 2025. In a moment, the author, David David Pepper will tie what you've heard to the specific policies in Project 2025 and Trump's own words. First, we want you to know in the next episode of Trump's Project 2025, Up Close and Personal, Chapter 7, you'll hear the story of a community and the people in it devastated by new work rules in Project 2025. Protections for workers and child laborers are out.

And aggressive corporate tactics that prioritize profit over worker safety and worker rights are in. A few years back, a private company took charge of all the nursing jobs to save money. Then in February, new workplace rules empowered those companies and the private equity firms that owned them to cut back far more aggressively than before. The company slashed salaries, ripped away benefits, and required far more hours, unpredictable hours. And since the last draconian bill in Washington, those added hours didn't even come with overtime. A sheriff's deputy in the town, DeAndre McCollum, comforts his oldest friend, union electrician Turk Foster. New rules from Washington are destroying the life Turk and his nurse wife Valerie have built. DeAndre put his arm around his friend.

Turk's upper body tremored, and he turned his face the other way. D, I feel like such a failure, he said, close to a sob. The union's collapsing. Guys I've worked with for years are giving up summer looking for retail jobs or doing Uber or DoorDash on the side. And the hospital's fucking around with Valerie's hours so much, we can't even plan the most basic things as a family anymore. Turk, you're not a failure. You were kicking ass.

This is bigger than you and me. The country is failing you, not the other way around. Well, it sure doesn't feel that way. I failed my family. The crushing blow to families and communities of the brutal assault on unions and workers in the next episode of Trump's Project 2025, Up Close and Personal. Available in your podcast app or 2025pod.com. Well, if you recognize the voice of the great actor Wendell Pierce, you're right. He narrates Chapter 7 in our series.

And by the way, if for any reason you think this fictional future is far-fetched, here's Donald Trump himself just last week talking about his personal feelings about overtime. Overtime. I used to hate to pay overtime. When I was in the private sectors, they say, oh, I don't want to have time and a half. Trump's Project 2025 Upclose and Personal is available on all the podcast apps and at 2025pod.com. And again, we ask you to please subscribe, review, and most importantly, as I said at the outset, please share with your friends and relatives this podcast series. Those who may not know just how dangerous a second Trump term and Project 2025

would prove to be. An important program note, if this is your first episode, you don't have to go back to the beginning as all the episodes are self-contained. You can find the first five chapters in your podcast app. And while the people and the stories in the series are fictional, the policies that bring chaos and tragedy to each of their lives and to the entire country are all too real. As author David Pepper will explain, laying out the connections between our stories and Trump's own promises. I know a lot of cops, and they get asked all the time, have you ever had to shoot your gun?

Sometimes the answer is yes. But there's a company dedicated to a future where the answer will always be no. Across the country, cops called this taser the revolution. But not everyone was convinced it was that simple. Cops believed everything that taser told them. From Lava for Good and the team that brought you Bone Valley comes a story about what happened when a multi-billion dollar company dedicated itself to one visionary mission. This is Absolute Season 1, Taser Incorporated. I get right back there and it's bad.

It's really, really, really bad. Listen to new episodes of Absolute Season 1, Taser Incorporated on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Binge episodes 1, 2, and 3 on May 21st, and episodes 4, 5, and 6 on June 4th. Ad-free at Lava for Good Plus on Apple Podcasts. I'm Clayton English. I'm Greg Lott. And this is Season 2 of the War on Drugs podcast.

We are back. In a big way. In a very big way. Real people, real perspectives. This is kind of star-studded a little bit, man. We got Ricky Williams, NFL player, Heisman Trophy winner. It's just a compassionate choice to allow players all reasonable means to care for themselves. Music stars Marcus King, John Osborne from Brothers Osborne.

We have this misunderstanding of what this quote-unquote drug thing is. Benny the Butcher. Brent Smith from Shinedown. We got B-Real from Cypress Hill. NHL enforcer Riley Cote. Marine Corvette. MMA fighter Liz Caramouch. What we're doing

now isn't working and we need to change things. Stories matter and it brings a face to them. It makes it real. It really does. It makes it real. Listen to new episodes of the War on Drugs podcast season two on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. And to hear episodes one week early and ad free with exclusive content, subscribe to Lava for Good Plus on Apple Podcasts. Again, while this story is fiction, it's based on actual policies contained in Project 2025 and in Trump's own words.

Here's author David Pepper with the specific links. Chapter 6, author's note, David Pepper. Trump, Project 2025, and mass deportation. Amid a brutal combination of anti-immigration measures wrapped in dangerous rhetoric about, quote, poisoning of blood, end quote. One of the clearest commitments being made by Donald Trump are sweeping raids and a mass deportation program, the largest in history, he says in his own stump speech. The only thing that changes is just how many people he plans to deport. Trump told Time magazine the number was between 15 and 20 million,

and he points to the infamous, quote, Operation Wetback, end quote, from the 1950s as his model. He also is explicit that he would assign the National Guard and or the military to accomplish his mass deportation plan. At the same time, Project 2025 pushes a wide range of anti-immigration policies that dovetail with Trump's plan, including that the U.S. should, quote, eliminate TNU visas, end quote, the visas that protect victims of human trafficking as well as crime within the United States. The plan says on page 141, quote, victimization should not be a basis for an immigration benefit.

Pending elimination of the TNU visas, the Secretary should significantly restrict eligibility for each visa to prevent fraud, end quote. Project 2025 also calls for ending policies that ensure minimal safeguards for detention camps, including the conditions for children, and calls for, quote, authority for low-level temporary capacity, for example, tents, once permanent space is full, end quote. That's on page 151. Tents are currently not permitted. In a lengthy New York Times article, Trump and his leading advisors on immigration, including Stephen Miller, explain details of their plan. Quote, Trump plans to scour the country for unauthorized immigrants and deport people by

the millions per year. To help speed mass deportations, Mr. Trump is preparing an enormous expansion of a form of removal that does not require due process hearings. To help immigration and customs enforcement carry out sweeping raids, he plans to reassign other federal agents and deputize local police officers and National Guard soldiers voluntarily contributed by Republican-run states. Mr. Trump wants to build huge camps to detain people while their cases are processed and they await deportation flights. And to get around any refusal by Congress to appropriate the necessary funds, Mr. Trump would redirect money in the military budget,

as he did in his first term to spend more on a border wall than Congress had authorized. Quote, following the Eisenhower model, we will carry out the largest domestic deportation operation in American history, end quote. The reference was to a 1954 campaign to round up and expel Mexican immigrants that was named for an ethnic slur, quote, Operation Wetback, end quote. Trump advisors' vision of abrupt mass deportations would be a recipe for social and economic turmoil, disrupting the housing market of major industries, including agriculture and the service sector. Because of the magnitude of arrests and deportations

being contemplated, they plan to build, quote, vast holding facilities that would function as staging centers, end quote, for immigrants as their cases progress and they await to be flown to other countries. Stephen Miller said the new camps would likely be built, quote, on open land in Texas near the border, end quote. He said the military would construct them under the authority and control of the Department of Homeland Security. Such camps could also enable the government to speed up the pace and volume of deportation of undocumented people who have lived in the United States for years and so are not subject to fast-track removal. If pursuing a long-shot effort to win permission to remain in the country would mean staying locked up in the interim, some may give up and voluntarily accept removal without

going through the full process. Quote, state National Guard troops and local police officers, at least from willing Republican-led states, would be deputized for immigration control efforts. Immigration efforts warn that together, these policies, their scale and justification, risk returning to some of the darkest days in American history. In Newsweek, one explained, quote, Trump's advisers have already laid out plans to loosen migrant detention standards to enable the creation of sprawling detention camps in a haunting reimagining of the World War II internment camps that held Japanese Americans, end quote. And in Scientific American, one expert explained, quote, unleashed on anything close to the scale under discussion, the project Trump and his henchmen are proposing will be lethal to the targeted groups, catastrophic to the stability of the country, and extremely difficult to undo.

Bottom line, Trump's massive deportation plan is an absolute nightmare. Trump's Project 2025 Up Close and Personal is available on all the podcast apps and at 2025pod.com. Now, we'd like to thank all the artists who volunteered their time to make this episode, Mark Ruffalo and Andrea Guidry, who read Chapter 6, and others who contributed character voices. Sound design by Marilis Ernst and John Moser. Trump's Project 2025, a close and personal, is written by David Pepper and produced by Pepper, Melissa Jo Peltier, and Jay Feldman, and is a production of Ovington Avenue Productions and the Bill Press

Pod. This is an iHeart Podcast.