#RolandMartinUnfiltered - The Insurrection Act | Project 2025: Up Close and Personal. Episode 9-

Episode Date: November 5, 2024

The story follows fictional Private Troy Marquis, who attends a tense early morning briefing at a military reserve base in Philadelphia. Troy is told that a radical group, Antifa, has invaded the city, prompting a second-term President Trump to invoke the Insurrection Act.   US law currently prohibits the military from operating on US soil. However, the Insurrection Act of 1807 gives the president broad and sweeping authority to use the military to quell domestic violence or conspiracy that the president thinks is a domestic rebellion or insurrection. Donald Trump tried use the Insurrection Act against Black Lives Matter protests in his first administration and has threatened use the U.S. Military to shut down protests against him if he is re-elected. As the soldiers in Troy Marquis company advance towards City Hall, tensions rise with the conflict between what the soldiers were told and what they see with their own eyes. In the midst of a peaceful protest against police violence, the situation escalates when one soldier purposely makes up a perceived threat, leading to gunfire. The chaos results in the deaths of dozens and many injuries, including their own soldiers. Overcome with horror and guilt, Troy grapples with the aftermath of their actions and the brutal reality of their mission. In a view from the other side, the fictional Julie Brown joins that protest in Philadelphia calling for justice after the police killing of two Black students. Despite her parents' concerns about the increasing hostility towards protesters, she feels compelled to stand up for her beliefs. The protest initially unfolds peacefully, filled with songs and chants, until military forces arrive with orders to disperse the demonstrators. As the military's authoritative tone becomes increasingly menacing, panic ensues when gunfire breaks out, resulting in casualties among the protesters. Julie is injured in the chaos and wakes up in the hospital, facing a representative of military intelligence who informs her that the protest group is being investigated for allegedly attacking the military. Once again in a trump administration up is down and down is up.  We'd like to thank all the artists who volunteered their time to make this episode:Mark Hamill and Andrea Guidry who read the chapters and  others who contributed character voices.   Sound design by Jonathan Moser and Marilys Ernst.  This episode was jointly written by Daniel Miller—lawyer, writer and democracy advocate—and 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, friends. I'm Bill Press, host of the Bill Press Pod. And this is the next installment of Trump's Project 2025 Up Close and Personal, Chapter 9, the Insurrection Act. Now, what exactly is the Insurrection Act? Well, U.S. law currently prohibits the military from operating on U.S. soil. However, the Insurrection Act of 1807 gives the president broad and sweeping authority to use the military to quell any domestic violence or conspiracy that the president thinks amounts to a domestic rebellion or insurrection. And it's actually been invoked by presidents 30 times, most famously in recent times by presidents Dwight Eisenhower and John F. Kennedy to fight violence against African-Americans for entering previously all-white universities and schools. And Donald Trump actually, no surprise, tried to use the Insurrection Act against Black Lives Matter protesters in his administration

and has threatened to use the U.S. military to shut down protests against him if he were re-elected. This is no idle threat. People close to Trump are already making plans to use the Insurrection Act on day one if large protests are held once he's in office. Having the military shut down protests against the government is classic fascism. For today's episode, our fictional story is set in Philadelphia, where a protest against police brutality has led to an encampment of protesters near City Hall. The protest is peaceful, but that's not the word coming from Washington. The administration claims that the city's been overrun by Antifa. So we experience what happens next from the perspective of one of the protesters and from the perspective of a soldier, Troy Marquis.

Part one is read by actor Mark Hamill, whom we all know, of course, as Luke Skywalker. In Star Wars, Hamill plays an intergalactic freedom fighter. But in real life, here on Earth, he's also an outspoken and effective freedom fighter as well. Here is Mark Hamill. Capital Monthly. Troy Marquis. By Calvin Stegman. Outside Philadelphia.

Rise and shine, greenhorns. We have a situation. Form up in the courtyard in 15 minutes. Private Troy Marquis awoke, startled. He squinted to see the shadow of an immense man towering in the doorway of his closet-sized room. Only Staff Sergeant Sean Minkin, his squad leader, was that huge. Plus, Minkin loved to call them Greenhorns. Troy looked at his watch. 4.20 a.m., the earliest he'd been woken up since basic training. Still half asleep, he had no idea what was going on, but one thing was clear. This wasn't a drill. Troy sidled up to his closest friend, Sal Miller,

standing in the next doorway over. Fucking Minkin is such a drama queen, Sal muttered. Loves to make us miserable. Every day, Troy said back. Minutes later, Troy and Sal lined up in the reserve base's courtyard with the two-squad Sergeant Minkin led. Still dark, a stiff breeze blowing in their face. It was the coldest morning since they had arrived from their permanent base in Central Jersey two weeks before. Most of the 18 men and women shook as they awaited the next verbal barrage.

With a floodlight shining down on his large, bald head, Sergeant Minkin paced in front. The fierce look in his wide-set hooded eyes confirmed that this was not a drill. Three hours ago, 1,200 fresh members of Antifa invaded the center of Philadelphia. Businesses are being looted and destroyed. They've broken into an occupied city hall. Just an hour ago, the president invoked the Insurrection Act to put down this attack. D Company has been called up to lead the response. He was shouting as if they were heading into combat.

But given that he was talking about Troy's hometown and not an Afghan village, the words didn't seem real. This will be a long and unpredictable few days, gentlemen. Grab some chow, take a shit and shower if you need to, then get into your urban tactical gear and gather back with the entire company in the classroom at 0500 hours. As Troy wolfed down the cold ham and egg burrito from the MRE packet, adrenaline pulsed through his body. All year, they'd been told the president might order them to protect the nation from enemies, foreign and domestic. And echoing the president's own words, intel officers had briefed them that these domestic enemies included groups just like the one invading Philadelphia today. Antifa, anarchists, communists, socialists. They'd spent hours studying these groups, their ideology, propaganda,

membership, and tactics. But more than talking about them, they'd trained for them. They'd studied videos of the large protests on Inauguration Day or after the abortion ban protests or mass deportation riots where the president had also invoked the Insurrection Act. They'd reviewed footage of Black Lives Matter protests from a few years back. They'd conducted tabletop exercises followed by live drills. The president wants these groups to learn a hard and painful lesson, Staff Sergeant Mencken and other officers emphasized during every drill,

and you will all likely end up being their teachers. But despite all that preparation, Troy's stomach quivered. Tough talk and training were one thing. Reality, real Americans, real rounds in a real American city, was another. As Troy donned his gray, green, and white camouflage uniform, Sal walked over to him. I always thought Sergeant Mencken was hyping things so we'd train harder. But these Antifa assholes are actually invading a great American city, spreading their bullshit as they go. They are asking for it." Troy nodded. It definitely seemed like bullshit.

Sure there'd been flare-ups and protests all year, but nothing like the coverage he'd watched of Philadelphia in the past few weeks. It all started when Antifa leaders claimed that a cop had gunned down two black students outside their college dorm. But the Attorney General had quickly exposed that as blatant disinformation. Briefings and the news coverage aired at the base made it even more clear. The two students weren't students at all, but armed crooks caught in the act, part of a wave of violence that had gripped Philadelphia since a leftist DA stopped prosecuting criminals. And while the viral cell phone videos of the alleged shooting looked

bad, TV and radio commentators dismiss it as AI-generated deepfakes. Not real. It especially burns me that they're doing this to my hometown, Troy said. For now, at least, the violence was confined to Center City, miles from where his childhood friends and family lived. But what if it expanded beyond that? Either way, the global coverage was making the entire town look terrible. Let's go, gentlemen, Sergeant Minkin barked. Full briefing starts in three

minutes. Troy cinched his boots tight, then took one final look in the mirror. In Desert Storm, Dad had served in one of the tank units that raced across southern Iraq to trap Saddam's army. Troy's grandfather had served two tours in Vietnam, lucky to survive a bullet to the neck, and his great-grandfather had ridden in a tank in Patton's army. So when Troy graduated high school two years ago, he too enlisted. And from basic training to this recent deployment, he'd eaten it all up, especially the camaraderie with his fellow soldiers. From across the country, his Company D buddies varied in every way imaginable, including their politics.

But they were united by pride in their unit and patriotism for their country. And when they weren't training their asses off, they found time for fun. Only one platoon member gave Troy the creeps. His name was David Dreyer. From a small town in Maine, he mostly kept to himself, eerily quiet, with a lost look in his eyes. A tattoo on his right shoulder displayed the words, The Turner Diaries, in cursive. Troy googled the term to discover a violent

book about an armed race war. Freaky shit. Still, out of several hundred men and women, you'd expect a few bad apples. As far as Troy could tell, they only had one. At 0500, all four platoons of D Company took seats in the large meeting space they called the classroom. Captain Chuck Hilliard walked to the front of the room. The president is livid that we have lost control of a major American city. As your squad leaders informed you, he has invoked the Insurrection Act and assigned us to liberate Philadelphia City Hall and any surrounding buildings and property that Antifa has occupied.

The latest intelligence is that a number of terrorists are armed with Molotov cocktails, small arms, and AR-15s. And our intel unit picked up chatter that roads leading to City Hall may be lined with makeshift explosive devices. As dire as the threat is, this is an American city and these are American citizens. Media will likely gain access to the occupied zone, and TIFU will be filming and tweeting our every move, and civilians may also be in the area. So our goal is to take control of the zone with a minimum of violence. If it comes to it, only fire if fired upon, and only at my or a sergeant's command. Captain Hilliard was a square-jawed, by-the-book, West Point grad,

and a multiple-tour veteran of Afghanistan, one of the last to come home. The kind of soldier Troy aspired to be. Still, he never appeared so tightly wound as this morning. Action in an American city was new, even for him. Okay, gentlemen, assemble in formation and load up. Each Humvee already has riot shields and 5.56 ammo in back. Backpack slung over his shoulder, helmet in his right hand, Troy headed to the equipment room. He slipped 30 pounds of Kevlar into the front and back of his uniform, then grabbed a protective gas mask, concertina wire, and a heavy baton. In the armory, he picked up an M4. The squad crossed the base to the motor pool, where Sal and Troy were assigned to the same Humvee.

Their driver was a short kid from upstate New York named Mitch Kahn. I never thought I'd have to go to war on American soil, Kahn said as they rumbled out of the pool to join the long line of Humvees. Sal shrugged. Doesn't matter what soil it is, if the threat's aimed at American freedom, it's the same mission as always. Sure is, Kahn said, his voice halting as he said it. Minutes later, they raced down the highway's left lane behind a long line of variously outfitted Humvees, supply trucks, and an occasional Bradley fighting vehicle. Troy looked to his right to take in the surreal scene of civilians heading into town in the highway's slower lanes. Outside of the gawking stairs aimed their way, it looked like a typical commute.

While they got a few waves and thumbs up, the commuters largely spat venom their way. Middle fingers, thumbs down, and snarls of disgust. It reminded him of Grandpa's stories of returning from Vietnam, only to be looked down upon back home. Fuck those people, Sal said. What's happening to our country when there's no respect for those who keep the order? Oh, forget about it, Troy said, forcing a smile. This is how we treat all visitors around here. Why do you think they used to have a jail at the old Eagle Stadium? Fair enough, Sal said, laughing.

The convoy took the Broad Street exit off the Vine Street Expressway. He knew how close they were. Yet there'd been no signs of a major disturbance as they approached the city, no smoke amid the skyline, no one around but the usual commuters, who seemed perfectly at ease about the state of things in town, and the only traffic was of their own making. The first sign of Antifa activity only came when the convoy slowed to a crawl near the end of the exit. But even that

felt harmless. A chant. It was loud. Loud enough to break through the idling engine of the Humvee. But whatever they were saying was so muffled, Troy couldn't make out the words. The Humvees in front of them moved further forward. Khan eased behind them, now facing right down Broad Street. There they are, Sal said as he stood up in the turret. Stay focused, he yelled down. Troy leaned forward. A sea of people and tents appeared down Broad, with the grand tower and facade of City Hall looming behind.

The chant grew louder, now joined by a repeated clanging amid the voices. As Troy strained to hear the words, Sal blurted them out. Black lives matter! Jesus! The left thinks that phrase justifies any behavior on their part. But it doesn't make right what's happening here. Jesus, the left thinks that phrase justifies any behavior on their part. But it doesn't make right what's happening here. The good people of Philadelphia should not be locked out of their own city. As angry as Sal sounded, Troy's mood was shifting.

Tense, but not angry. And confused. The more he took in the scene, the more his stomach churned. This looked like a protest. A loud one, yes. Tense, but peaceful and contained to a limited zone. Less intense than the inauguration protests on the mall or the deportation riots that had broken out a few months back. No buildings looked damaged.

No flames or smoke or broken glass anywhere. City Hall appeared completely normal, just as the streets were as clean as he'd seen them. And there hadn't been a single report of explosive devices along the route. Plus, he'd been in high school when the Black Lives Matter protests had first boiled up. He'd never had a problem with the words nor the sentiment, especially given what the Minnesota cop did to George Floyd. Heck, he joined a few high school walkouts himself. As for the people gathered in front of them, not one looked like a terrorist, let alone armed.

They were mostly young people, his age or younger, holding placards and bullhorns and chanting the words Black Lives Matter or We Shall Overcome. He saw none of the insignias of the groups they'd studied. The scene looked like a protest. Just a protest. They inched down Broad Street, staying just far enough away from City Hall so as not to be flanked. Gentlemen, Captain Hilliard blared through Troy's headset. Broad Street, staying just far enough away from City Hall so as not to be flanked. Gentlemen, Captain Hilliard blared through Troy's headset, our orders are to surround and blockade them. Use your vehicles and sea wires to set up an airtight perimeter. We've got the north of Broad Street covered. Other arriving units are encircling them from all other directions. He paused. Once we've sealed them off, we will advance towards City Hall and actively clear Antifa out.

Troy's mind raced with more questions. What were they breaking up? How are they going to actively clear Antifa? Were they all Antifa? How would they identify who was Antifa? Wouldn't they be the ones instigating things? Troy looked around at his fellow soldiers, getting out of their Humvees and gearing up with M4s and riot shields. Further ahead, other lay rolls of sea wire at various spots along the wide road. But from their slumped shoulders and hangdog expressions, it was clear he wasn't the only one conflicted. In fact, uncertainty was spilling over into anger and outright arguments. Sergeant Minkin and two other squad leaders were standing alongside stopped Humvees,

yelling back and forth. Minkin's face was as red as he'd ever seen it. Sal saw them too. If I had to guess, someone's getting cold feet. More like insubordination, Conn, the driver muttered. Captain Hilliard finally walked up to the arguing officers, put his arms around both their shoulders, listened, then barked something back at them.

Then he picked up his radio. We will confirm our initial intelligence about the threat, he said, his voice crackling through the headset, and we will communicate with the crowd before taking any action. Troy breathed a sigh of relief. Cooler heads were prevailing. Hilliard walked past them, grabbed a bullhorn, and climbed on the back of the Humvee closest to the throng, holding himself against the turret. We are the United States military, he boomed. We have been ordered by the President of the United States to secure the city of Philadelphia from Antifa terrorists. We are authorized to use lethal force if necessary, but remain calm. We are not here about the protest. We are here to clear Antifa from the city and help local authorities regain control. If you cooperate, you will not be armed."

The chants from the crowd quieted. Hundreds of faces turned towards them all at once. Captain Hilliard peered through the crowd through binoculars, then barked out the words a second time. There was a slight movement at the center of the protesters. A young black woman, small, in a black and white tank top, a bandana in her hair, climbed on top of a makeshift wooden dais. She held up her own bullhorn, angling it straight in the air. None of this is Antifa!

She yelled in a high-pitched voice, sounding as young as she looked. The crowd roared its approval. We are all here to peacefully protest the murder of two innocent black teenagers, our friends, for some, our fellow students. We will not disperse because we have done nothing wrong. We have not occupied city hall. We have not destroyed anything. That is a lie.

Those around her cheered again before launching another round of Black Lives Matter chants, louder than before. Amplified by the megaphone, the young woman's voice cut through above the others. Troy ground his teeth. She sounded sincere, credible, not a terrorist. And the protesters stood in place as they chanted. No sign of hostility. To Troy, again, this was simply a large crowd of young people amid a whole lot of tents surrounded by undamaged buildings engaging in a protest. His stomach nodded. Were they acting on bad intel?

Captain Hilliard stood quietly on the Humvee, his mouth frozen open for a few seconds. He peered through the binoculars again. Troy guessed that he was questioning the entire operation. Thank God he had real battle experience. Seconds later, the captain lifted his bullhorn, preparing to respond. But at that moment, from the other side of Broad, a deep voice yelled out, there's a guy with a Molotov cocktail. Troy whirled to his left. It was David Dreyer, the company's one bad apple. Dreyer was standing next to his Humvee, pointing his M4 towards the crowd. Molotov cocktail! he yelled again. Twelve o'clock! He's getting ready to throw! Troy squinted forward, but couldn't make anything out.

Captain Hilliard peered toward the crowd, then spun back toward Dreyer. But his next words were drowned out by the ear-splitting crackle of semi-automatic fire. A second gun began firing as well. A football field away, three figures fell to the ground. The leader on the dais also toppled over. The sound of the gunfire and the sight of bodies falling sparked immediate panic in the crowd. High-pitched screams and yells replaced chants. Protests near the fallen bodies in the dais sprinted toward surrounding buildings and city hall.

But the area was so packed with people, there was little room to run. Others tried to escape broad for side streets, but those streets were blocked off by wire and vehicles. Obstructed in almost every direction, trapped by gunfire, the desperate young people had nowhere to go. Some ducked to the ground, and others leapt for cover behind tents. But others ran directly towards the convoy, some with their hands in the air, others pumping their arms to run faster. A few, failing to dodge the sea wire, tumbled hard to the ground. They're charging, a voice yelled out from behind Troy. More gunfire exploded around them.

One or two more soldiers started firing. More bodies fell in the distance. The distinct sound of tear gas canisters being fired popped all around Troy. Seconds later, streams of smoke snaked their way among the mass of protesters and tents, followed by the many explosions of flashbang grenades. More protesters scattered, with more running directly towards Troy and his squad. The targets were now closer, so Troy could see the gruesome impact of bullets mowing them down. Still, the panicked throng kept coming, most now dodging the rolls of wire laying in the way. Up until now, Troy had only observed the mayhem. But in the path of the charging mass, he and his squadmates suddenly found themselves at risk of being trampled, or worse if any were armed.

In a way they never had during drills, Troy's arms and legs began to quake violently. His heart beat so fast he started to feel dizzy. Emerging from the thicker smoke and having passed any remaining wire, the rampaging mob now spanned fully across Broad Street and closed to within 30 feet. The platoon was only seconds away from being overrun. Troy knelt down and squeezed the semi-automatic trigger five or six times in a matter of seconds. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sal firing M240 Bravo from the Humvee's turret, a devastating weapon that would do even more damage than his semi-automatic fire. Within seconds all of those who emerged from the smoke collapsed into eaps.

The voice sounded just over the roar of the gunfire. Troy took his finger off the trigger. Cease fire. It was Captain Hilliard yelling at the top of his lungs, hands high in the air. The gunfire stopped, but the sounds that replaced it were just as jarring. Wailing, screaming, moaning, coughing. A number of bodies lay sprawled near them, the closest about 25 feet away. Some victims lay on their back, choking and screaming from the tear gas or gunshot wounds. Some moved ever so slightly. Others lay flat and frozen as it glued to the pavement. As Troy focused, he could make out parts of bodies strewn around them. But that initial sight was just a preview.

The smoke dissipated to reveal the full horror wreaked by D Company's short volley of lethal fire. More dead, more injured, more blood and flesh. Troy scanned to his left and right to take stock of his fellow soldiers. Most were statues, frozen and wide-eyed, bewildered. Some buried their faces in their hands. Others shivered like it was still cold out. Some were crying, some yelling. Only then did Troy notice tears streaming down his own face. No briefing or drill had prepared them to see dead Americans at this scale. Young, dead Americans. Americans they had killed. Sal leaned forward in the turret, yelling out to nobody in particular. We had no choice! We had no choice! They were rushing us! Troy debated the same question in his mind.

Had he been right to fire? They were moments from being overrun. His own choice had been kill or be killed. Maybe Sal was right. But now look at how many they'd slaughtered. Nausea overcame Troy. He vomited up his MRE, then dry heaved three more times. He looked up to see David Dreyer leaning forward, his M4 still trained down Broad Street, like a sniper looking for more targets. Captain Hilliard rushed towards Dreyer

and ripped the M4 from his hand. Enough, he yelled directly at the private's face. The rest of you, get medics on the scene as fast as you can, he barked into his radio. Call every hospital, alert them of a mass casualty event. The men stared back at him, still in shock. Don't just stand there. Get in there and identify the injured. We have lives to save. Dreyer looked at him, scowling. But what about their weapons?

Private, have you seen a single weapon aimed at us? Get your ass in there and help the injured. Troy, Sal, and others rushed down Broad Street. The next two hours played out in slow motion, leaping from body to body, putting white sheets over the dead, while desperately trying to keep the injured from bleeding out. Troy whispered prayers to each of the victims as they awaited a medic. He absorbed every detail of their young, pained faces.

Faces and expressions he knew he'd never forget. Once help got to one body, he sprinted to the next. After enough medics arrived, they carried the injured to makeshift tents, then lifted others into ambulances that raced off to local hospitals. Then they circled back to retrieve the dead. Over the hellish morning, he kept account of what he and company D-mates found, the basic of what they had inflicted. 34 dead, including three privates,

downed by friendly fire as they raced back up broad. 72 injured, including six privates and one officer. And not a single Molotov cocktail. When we come back after a short break, we'll hear the story of a fictional protester caught up in the violence instigated by a rogue soldier following the orders of a rogue president. 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 One. 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. Add free at Lava for Good Plus on Apple Podcasts. I'm Clayton English. I'm Greg Glod. And this is season two 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 man. 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 ties each of the story elements back to Trump's own words and dangerous promises. But first, the second part of Trump's Project 2025, up close and personal, the Insurrection Act, where an innocent college student, Julie Brown, protesting police brutality,

faces the U.S. military on the streets of Philadelphia. Andrea Guidry tells her story. Capital Monthly, Julie Brown by Rose Cunningham. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Aren't you glad you ignored your parents and came? Beth Pritchard asked. Julie Brown looked sheepishly back at her college roommate. Glad wasn't the right word. It wasn't that she was happy to be there.

It was the right thing to be there. In front of Philadelphia's City Hall, calling for justice, making sure the world knew that the murder of two black students by a police officer weeks ago would not be forgotten, nor twisted by the government into something it was not. Julie's parents had urged her not to go. At first, their warnings had given her pause, since her parents had never objected before.

Not when Julie protested the Supreme Court overturning Roe v. Wade. Not when she'd protested the inauguration, nor the mass deportation. But this time, the president's words had been more ominous than ever. If there was an invasion of Philadelphia by Antifa terrorists, as he put it, he would invoke the Insurrection Act to put down the attack. Given the violence erupting from other protests, this presidential promise had spooked Julie's parents. So for days, she'd sat on the sidelines. But in the end, she couldn't stay away. And she came not just because friends and classmates like Beth were

protesting. It was the principle of it. Letting one man intimidate her from standing up for what she believed was giving away her own freedom, voluntarily, sacrificing her rights as an American. So she'd made her decision the night before. And this morning, she'd donned some old jeans and her Black Lives Matter t-shirt, pulled her hair back in a long ponytail, and grabbed an Uber down to the city center. I'm meant to be here, Beth, she said as late afternoon approached. We are meant to be here.

Cell phone in hand, Julie walked around the front of City Hall sharing everything she could with the wider world. The government account of what was happening was so misleading, as were the stories from a media eager to maintain its conditional access. So, using her Twitter and Instagram and TikTok accounts, she documented the real story of what was happening. First, the entire scene was non-violent and peaceful. There were no riots or looting. Offices and stores were all operating as usual.

Non-protesters watched them, but walked to and fro without any trouble. The protest organizers were disciplined, and everyone else was listening to them. They weren't going to let missteps sully their movement or give an excuse to a trigger-happy president. But more than being organized and orderly, the scene was inspiring. People were locking arms, hugging, chanting, and singing songs that spanned the latest hits to iconic civil rights hymns. The scene took on a communal atmosphere that felt both loving and powerful. Of course, there was anger, too. After all, they were protesting the murder of two students.

But the nearly continuous chants of Black Lives Matter didn't feel angry as much as determined and resilient. And the repeated singing of, we shall overcome, added a grace to it all. They were taking a stand against an oppressive government. They were standing up for the truth and against propaganda. And they were coming together to solve problems and forge a better future. In the early evening, Julie had helped lead a strategy session on how to engage city leaders to combat police violence.

She'd bonded with countless new activists and grassroots leaders on what else they could do going forward. Amid the whirlwind of activity, time flew by. It was dark, then midnight, in what felt like minutes. The rush of the activity had kept Julie going, but she ran out of gas around 2 a.m. Julie, look who I found, Beth yelled from a few tents away. Patrice from our dorm, and she's got plenty of space in. She recognized Patrice's face, even if everything from her kinky, curly hair to her grungy attire

was different than how Patrice looked sitting in class. Good to see you both here, Patrice said, opening up the flap of the tent. Too tired for small talk, the three were asleep within 20 minutes. The next morning, Julie woke to an empty tent. She crawled to the flap and exited. Even as the rising sun blinded her, a breeze chilled her to the bone. Fall was finally settling in. A crowd larger than even the night before was buzzing with energy. Some who were just waking up huddled in small circles, passing around cups of coffee. Others gathered in various sections of the tent zone, planning the day's activities. A large group was already standing

in front of City Hall, chanting Black Lives Matter and singing. And a smaller group sat in the grass, making new signs and placards for the day. Julie beamed. This wasn't easy, but it is where she was meant to be. Taking a stand, organizing for justice, defying oppression. She spotted Beth next to a table holding cups of coffee. She stepped in that direction when a man's voice bellowed through the encampment. Everyone, the army is here. The army is here.

Julie looked between two tents down Broad Street. A long convoy of military vehicles rumbled toward them. A wave of tension spread among the protesters, many scanning around, wide-eyed and visibly shaking. No doubt, some considered leaving. Others picked up their phones to call or text loved ones. Others instinctively walked away from the arriving troops and toward City Hall, as if the historic building would protect them. As she had the day before, Julie took out her phone and began recording the army's approach, zooming in on the leading vehicles.

On her right, a young woman she hadn't seen the night before, in a black and white tank top, sporting a bandana that held her long braids in place, picked up a bullhorn. Julie turned to record her as she began speaking in a firm, confident tone. You can look back on this day with shame that you left afraid, or you can stand your ground and be proud for the rest of your life that you stood up for what was right. She looked younger than Julie, but her words cut through. People stopped texting others and listened.

They no longer walked away. Instead, they all started chanting as loud as they could. As they did, more Humvees and trucks arrived, soon encircling City Hall. Soldiers climbed out and positioned themselves on the streets. Most held weapons. Some carried riot shields. Others began to lay large rolls of wire across the road. The crowd still chanted, but as with Julie's own mood, the tone morphed from determination to fear. Julie could feel her own legs weakening as her breathing sped up. A bullhorn blared from the convoy as one of the soldiers stood on the back of a hung V, but whatever he said was inaudible

over the voices and chants around him. We can't hear, Julie said out loud. Others shushed as well, and the crowd grew quiet. The soldier's voice returned, carrying far more clearly this time. We are the United States military. We have been ordered by the President of the United States to secure the city of Philadelphia from Antifa terrorists. We are authorized to use lethal force if necessary, but remain calm. We are not here about the protests. We are here to clear Antifa from

the city and help local authorities regain control. If you cooperate, you will not be Julie froze, her ear ringing with the soldier's words. Lethal force. Terrorists. Control. This was the rhetoric they heard from the president. They were used to that. To have it come from a man in uniform, in his business-like tone, with guns aimed their way, was far more jarring. The lead protester, the woman with the bandana, now looked as alarmed as they all did, the megaphone shaking in her hand. But she stepped onto the dais. Remembering that her phone was still recording, Julie aimed the lens her way.

None of us is Antifa! Hearing that truth, Julie couldn't help but yell out, Yeah! Hundreds of others reacted the same way. We are all here peacefully to protest the murder of two innocent black teenagers, our friends, for some, our fellow students. We will not disperse because we have done nothing wrong. We have not occupied City Hall. We have not destroyed anything. That is a lie. Moore cheered around her, some chanting Black Lives Matter again. But they did it standing in place.

No one moved. Those were real guns pointing their way. No reason to risk getting shot. This is the Unified Command Unit. Stray shouts rang out from the soldiers. Maybe only one, but it was a tone of alarm and aggression. Then came loud, sharp explosions. The rat-a-tat of a gun. At least one soldier was now firing at them. People around Julie fell to the ground, including Beth and the

woman on the daves. The megaphone bounced across the wooden boards and onto the ground. Julie's right arm felt warm. She twisted it up to see it red with blood, not spattered with droplets, but coated, as if someone had thrown a bucket of paint on her. Either she'd been hit, or this was someone else's blood. The pop-pop of more bangs exploded around her, then came whistling, followed by smoke billowing up from the ground. She recorded the smoke as it spread, but in seconds, her eyes stung with pain. She and others began screaming from the tear gas. Ducking down and squinting, she rushed over to where Beth had fallen. But after five steps, a large body knocked her down from behind.

She crashed to the pavement face-first, then lifted herself onto her hands and knees. Another body rammed into her right side, toppling over her to her left. Someone else's foot slammed down on her ankle. A full stampede was underway, and she was right in its path. She lay flat on her stomach, putting her hands over her head. Beth lay five feet away, eyes wide open but not moving. Then something struck Julie hard in the right temple. Everything went black.

A muffled sound triggered a throbbing pain from temple to temple. Julie opened her eyes. Blinding light caused even more pain, this time piercing the front of her skull. The sound came a second time. A blurred figure moved into her line of sight. Julie Brown? A young man came into focus. He looked down at her with pursed lips and eyes drooping from exhaustion.

She tried to turn her head, but it was locked into place by something. Your neck is badly bruised, Ms. Brown. Don't move, if you can help it. And keep your eyes focused on me. She took a deep breath, her chest aching as she did. She now recalled being on the ground near City Hall, stomped and stepped on and kicked amid the mayhem. And who are you?

She asked. Where am I? He smiled warmly. I'm Dr. Halsey. We're at Thomas Jefferson Hospital. You have sustained numerous contusions, a severe concussion, and a broken ankle. But you're going to be okay. The way he said it made it clear that others weren't okay. The image of Beth lying on the ground now flashed in her mind. The woman with the bandana toppling off the dais.

Her arm painted with blood. Doctor, what happened? Where's my friend Beth? The others? We were doing nothing wrong and they fired on us. I saw innocent protesters shot in cold blood. Dr. Halsey swallowed hard, then looked down. Ms. Brown, I'm sorry. I'm just here to treat you. He didn't look at her as he spoke, and he didn't answer her questions. Something terrible had happened.

He examined her eyes and head, then looked up and down her arms and legs. Her right ankle was wrapped in something. You're going to be okay. Once you get some rest, we'll review your condition and our plan to get you back on your feet. He walked out. Seconds passed, then two men in green fatigues knocked on her door. The first man pulled out a badge from his pants pocket. Military Intelligence Corps was written along the top.

Ms. Brown, we are from the Army. We have some questions about today's attack. Thank goodness. It was a totally peaceful protest. Then all of a sudden they opened fire. I will serve as a witness and I captured a lot of it on my phone. Where was her phone? She couldn't turn her head to look. The man frowned. I'm sorry, ma'am. I was not sufficiently clear. We are investigating your group's attack on the Army Company, leading to the death and injury of numerous soldiers. He held her phone up in his hand. Dried blood speckled across its back cover. And yes, we will be confiscating your phone as part of our investigation. Now, while the stories in this episode are over, we're not done with Trump's Project 2025. In a moment, the author David Pepper will link what's portrayed in these

two stories to Project 2025 and to Trump's own words and promises. But first, in the next episode of Trump's Project 2025, Upclose and Personal, we'll explore the practical life and death effects of Project 2025's campaign against people they call woke. Here's a preview of that next episode. 1,500 university and hospital presidents, deans, professors, provosts, scientists, doctors, business leaders, and other researchers gathered in Washington to hear firsthand how their world, and ours, was about to change. The new anti-woke czar lays it all out. As you know, the president is following through on the promises he made last year. We have scrutinized every budget, used AI to scan every policy, and examined all grant

programs the federal government oversees. What we found is that billions of dollars in federal research is being invested in pure racism. Billions spent to advance the woke DEI and sexual agenda in just about every way you can imagine. In who you've been hiring, in the research you've been doing, and articles you've been writing, in the art you've been commissioning, and in the socialist ideology you've been propagating. Beginning today, as promised, we are deleting the terms sexual orientation and gender identity, diversity, equity, and inclusion, gender, gender equality, gender equity, gender awareness, gender sensitive,

abortion, reproductive health, and reproductive rights from every federal rule, agency, regulation, contract, grant, regulation and piece of legislation that exists And to be clear, when I say equity and inclusion It means we are eliminating any reference to race in all the same areas Every Last One all the same areas. Every last one. All grants and contracts with references to any of those words or race or gender generally are immediately terminated. Not a penny more from the government will support any of your institutions doing such racist work. The federal government is out of the woke history, woke science, DEI, and gender

sensitivity business forever. This is not an extreme scenario. This is substantially what is already going on in Florida, the capital of the anti-woke agenda, an agenda that would spread to the rest of the country in a second Trump administration. That's the next episode of Trump's Project 2025 Up Close and Personal in your podcast app or at 2025pod.com. Now, just a reminder, Trump's Project 2025 Up Close and Personal is available on all the major podcast apps and at 2025pod.com. We ask you again to please subscribe, review, and most importantly, please share the podcast with friends and relatives who may not have decided yet how to vote or even whether they're going to vote at all. The choice in this election is sometimes described as

Kamala Harris or the couch. So that's why we're making this series, to encourage people to get off the couch by showing them what a second Trump term guided by Project 2025 would look like. Again, if you find these episodes frightening or inspiring, please share them with your less political friends and relatives. Ask them to listen and then make a plan to get out and vote. And by the way, if you've missed any episodes or if you want to share a previous episode, most likely to motivate a specific friend of yours, you'll find the first eight chapters

in your podcast app. And again, we remind you that while the people and the stories in this series are fiction, the policies that would bring total chaos and pain to the country are very real. After the break, the author of our series, David Pepper, will lay out the connections between our stories and Trump's own promises and Project 2025. 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. 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. As we noted earlier, while this story is fiction, it is based on actual policies contained in Project 2025 and in Trump's own words. Here now is author David Pepper with the specific links. Chapter 9, author's note, David Pepper. In the United States, federal law ensures that U.S. military forces are not to be used as part of domestic law enforcement. But an old law, the Insurrection Act of 1807, allows the President of the United

States to remove that bar and order National Guard or active duty military to quell unrest, quote, domestic violence, quote, or conspiracy that the President deems a domestic rebellion or insurrection. The Act's language is so open-ended, quote, bafflingly broad, unquote, according to Brennan Center. It gives the president, quote, almost limitless discretion, end quote, to determine what meets the Act's standards. And an old Supreme Court decision ruled that it is, quote, exclusively, unquote, the president's decision to make. No surprise, experts call for the Insurrection Act to be reformed. Here's the problem. It is well documented that in his first term, Donald Trump pressed to invoke the Insurrection Act in wake of the Black Lives Matter protests in June of 2020. That's when he

infamously asked military leaders, quote, can't you just shoot them? Just shoot them in the legs or something, end quote. He even had an order drafted to that effect. Even worse, it is equally well documented that Trump associates are, quote, drafting plans to potentially invoke the Insurrection Act on his first day in office to allow him to deploy the military against civil demonstrations, end quote. On the campaign trail, Trump himself suggests he would, quote, unilaterally send troops into Democratic run cities, end quote. Bottom line, in his first term, Donald Trump wanted to invoke the Insurrection Act, but was stopped. Do not give him a second chance. Trump's Project 2025 Up Close and Personal is available on all the podcast apps and at 2025pod.com.

And now we'd like to thank all the artists who volunteered their time to make this episode, starting with Mark Hamill and Andrea Guidry, who read the chapter, and others who contributed character voices. Sound design by Jonathan Mosier and Marilis Ernst. This episode was jointly written by Daniel Miller, lawyer, writer, and democracy advocate, and 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.