The MeidasTouch Podcast - Trump’s Project 2025: Up Close and Personal (Exclusive Sneak Peek)

Episode Date: September 21, 2024

Today, we are honored to introduce you to an important new podcast series called Trump’s Project 2025: Up Close and Personal and let you hear Chapter One in its entirety right here on the MeidasTouch Podcast. Chapter One of Trump’s Project 2025: Up Close and Personal depicts how the lives of everyday Americans would be impacted by the policies outlined in Trumps’s Project 2025 and the return of Donald Trump to power. The fictional story follows Ammon Maher, a college student and immigrant, as he is detained and deported without due process due to his involvement in past campus protests. This narrative directly reflects Trump's campaign promises to crack down on student protesters and his administration's policies that target undocumented immigrants, including so-called "dreamers." The author of the serialized “2025: A Novel” upon which this podcast series is based, David Pepper, highlights how these policies, if implemented, would violate civil liberties and human rights in an alarming and unjust manner. The podcast series aims to raise awareness of the very real dangers posed by Trump's extremist agenda and the disturbing implications of "Project 2025" for the American people. You can read  Chapter One of David Pepper’s “2025: A Novel” at davidpepper.substack.com/p/2025-a-novel Trump’s Project 2025: Up Close and Personal is available on all the podcast apps and at 2025pod.com. We'd also like to thank all the artists who volunteered their time to make this episode. Heather Thomas J. Smith Cameron Omid Abtahi, Kirk Acevedo and Bayo Akinfemi. Audio finishing by Marilys Ernst. This series is produced by David Pepper, Melissa, Jo Peltier and Jay Feldman. Trump’s Project 2025: Up Close and Personal is a production of Ovington Avenue Productions and the Bill Press Pod.  Subscribe and listen to more episodes by clicking here. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hey, Midas Mighty, we've got something very special for you today. We're giving you an exclusive preview of the first episode from an exciting new podcast series, Trump's Project 2025, Up Close and Personal. This gripping series takes you inside the lives of everyday Americans who could face devastating consequences under Trump's Project 2025 and a second term in office. Based on the novel 2025 by David Pepper, this podcast paints a vivid picture of how Trump's policies would shatter civil liberties and human rights in ways that are chillingly real. Each episode brings you a month-by-month look at what a second Trump term would look like, featuring some of the biggest names in Hollywood, J. Smith Cameron, Mark Ruffalo,

Mark Hamill, and many more. They'll be releasing one episode a week for the next two weeks, then ramping up to two a week as they approach the election. Trust us, you don't want to miss this series. Check out the link in this description to subscribe and get future episodes. But for now, here's a preview of the entire first episode of Trump's Project 2025, Up Close and Personal. Hello, I'm Bill Press, host of the Bill Press Pod, and I'm proud to present to you this very special podcast series on Trump's Project 2025, Up Close and Personal. This podcast anticipates what would happen to everyday Americans were Trump to return to power. Now, while the people and the stories in this series are fictional, the policies that upend each of their lives and the country

are all too real, and all of them drawn directly from the pages of Project 2025 and Trump's own words and promises. It's an adaptation of the serialized novel 2025 by former Democratic Ohio state chair and a smart and effective pro-democracy advocate, David Pepper. A link to his novel is in the episode notes. If you're as terrified of Project 2025 and a second Trump term as we are, please subscribe, share, and review this podcast series. 2025. Part 1. The November 2024 election demonstrated once again how evenly divided America was. The key states remained too close to call late on Election Day. But after a few days, margins that were mere slivers Tuesday grew wider.

The margin grew to 20,000 votes in Wisconsin, 5,000 in Georgia, 12,000 in Arizona, 20,000 in Pennsylvania. Out of range. And by Thursday, the result was clear. By those 57,000 votes, .017% of the nation's population, The man who'd been unseated in 2020

was elected president again. On Friday, my editor at the Capital Monthly pulled me into his office. He knew that the tiny percentage difference in the election result was misleading. Massive change was on its way, as every news outlet was already reporting. But rather than covering that change the way everyone else in D.C. does, he gave me a different assignment. A special assignment. You're going to spend some time in the field, he said. A lot of time. He told me I'd spend the next year depicting how the lives of everyday Americans

were impacted by the new regime. Not through surface-level stories quoting politicians, but deep reporting. Up close and on the ground. Real American lives. Go wherever you need to go. Spend whatever you need to spend. Talk to whomever you need to talk to.

Tell the story through their eyes. He paused. One month. One story. One life. Okay, I said, like a camera on their shoulder. Okay, I said, and I began searching the nation for stories to tell. Rose Cunningham, December 31st, 2024. Chapter One, January. Eamon Mayer, by Rose Cunningham. New York.

Yes, it was covered in grunge and grime, usually smelled of piss and pot, but Eamon Mayer loved the subway. Every day, the ride from the Bronx displayed something new, strange things, beautiful things, terrible things. The same all-too-human combination he'd experienced throughout his 23 years growing up in a rough part of Milwaukee. At 6'2", 220, he could hold his own. So on the subway, he largely handled those terrible things himself. He'd broken up three fights. He'd stopped a mugging. He waited

with two lost children as another good Samaritan tracked down their parents. He walked a battered woman to a local precinct to get the protection she needed. He'd only called the cops twice when the problem felt like too much for a muscular Egyptian immigrant to manage. But this morning, the ride-in was as uneventful as any in the seven months he'd taken the two-line into Manhattan from his closet-sized efficiency. Oddly quiet, perhaps because of what was happening in a world still roiling from November's election, this week especially. So, with much on his mind, but little he could do about it, Eamon leaned his head back, his long jet-black hair cascading over the top of the seat, and tried to relax.

Seconds later, his cell phone buzzed in his sport coat pocket. Ezra calling. Eamon picked up right away, knowing how dire things were for Ezra and a bunch of his other friends. Ez, how you holding up? I'm okay. His college roommate from the prior year said, He didn't sound okay. His faint high-pitched voice sounded

like it had after an all-nighter cramming for exams. Even with the makeshift holding cells, there wasn't enough room to keep all of us penned up. So me, Jaya, and Rana all got released. The others, the others are still locked up, Eamon. It's so awful in there. We're being treated like dirt, like we're not even humans. It's so much worse than up there. I'm so sorry, Ez. The guilt had been eating at him for days. He was supposed to be there too, but Ab, his father, had put his foot down far more strictly than last spring. Eamon, we're lucky you got your degree at all after your posse's protest in last year. Don't do this again to me or your mother. We've worked too hard for this.

And it had been a close call. Eamon, Ezra, Haya, and Rana had barely avoided expulsion from NYU following the weeks-long protests of the Israel-Gaza War the prior spring. Their relatively low-key activity didn't attract the attention that the Columbia students had, nor the non-student participants. So the campus police had been casual for most of it, but the small tent city on Union Square, yards from the Arch, had triggered a

response. On their second night there, just as the sun went down, city officers swept through their encampment and grabbed them all. They were cuffed and hauled off to a local precinct. Eamon hadn't resisted, but the purplish bruises had encircled his wrists for weeks. Fortunately, NYU's student-led disciplinary commission had convinced the university's president to let them graduate with their class as long as each spent weeks performing community service. Prosecutors had been equally lenient. But it was all far too dicey for Ab,

who'd worked long hours in a Wisconsin brewery all his life, mostly to give Amon a chance to go to a place like NYU in the first place. Expulsion would have been a family tragedy, especially as Amon's three younger siblings looked up to him so. So when national media first previewed the planned inauguration protests, knowing Amon remained close with what he disapprovingly called his NYU posse, Abb came down hard. Those others are rich and they don't face our issues. For Abb, rich was anyone who wasn't poor like them. And our issues was the unsubtle reminder that when his parents had arrived in Florida with two-year-old Amon, they had not done so legally. While they later found work visas, Amon's status was a mess.

He fit into the category the politicians called dreamers. But given American politics today, that happy term offered neither comfort nor certainty. Ab, they also have... They can get arrested again and escape it all. But with the new president and what they are promising to do, you already have a target on your back. Your siblings too. No more playing with fire.

The president. Ab was so scared of the new president. Of course, Eamon was offended by the man, but not scared of him. He'd been spewing his crazy shit for years. Sure, it served the purpose of motivating his supporters to vote. And yes, that led to occasional violence against people who looked like Eamon. But no one took the man's hot air seriously as policy. Just more politics. Still, the tone of Ab's voice, capped off by the invoking of his siblings, meant the discussion was over.

After hanging up, Amon had canceled his train trip south to join more than a million people who would go on to march on the mall the frigid morning of Inauguration Day. But he watched it all in horror, like January 6th the whole country did. At 11 a.m., live footage showed helmeted troops in black riot gear, but no badges or identifiers swoop in on the protesters from all sides of the mall. First came the smoke and tear gas, then batons and tasers, followed by mass arrests of as many as they could. Hundreds were injured in the rush to get away. None of his friends responded to his texts and calls the rest of the day. By yesterday morning, he'd learned secondhand that his friends had been caught up in it all. All were arrested and pepper sprayed and two had suffered broken bones in the melee. Tazed, Haya had suffered an asthma attack and

had to be rushed to the hospital before joining the others at the makeshift processing site. Ez's obvious strain now was making Eamon regret not being there even more. He'd been the group's unofficial captain, both the activist and the diplomat. And now they were all there, suffering and scared without him. Eamon, they say they're going to treat us just like the January 6th insurrectionists, the ones who received received long sentences. What? How can they even say that? I don't know. They say that we were planning to overturn the new administration.

That we were planning to commit violence. What a lie. The courts are going to see right through it. In all the reporting and footage Eamon had watched, there hadn't been any hint that the large crowd on the mall had done anything but protest peacefully. Angry, of course, loud, some angry signs, but peaceful. And they never left the damn mall where they had been told the protests would be allowed. Their good behavior was not an accident. Organizers had talked about it in advance.

Eamon had been in on the calls. As part of looking tough for his followers, the new president would be looking for an excuse to crack down publicly. So every organization involved had committed to the same approach. Noise, signs, but no trouble. And from everything Eamon had seen, they'd accomplished their collective goal. That's such bullshit. You guys were the most civil, pissed-off people I've ever seen. I know. But they're saying they have evidence that we were planning something.

That they stopped us in advance of violent actions. They're already separating us out for interrogations. Rana came back from hers, shaking, crying. Eamon gritted his teeth at the image. Rana and he had dated the first two years in college and had kept hooking up ever since. She was fierce in every way. A shaken Rana was a terrible sign.

Do you guys have lawyers? Did she? None, no. They say we're not entitled to any because this is a national security issue. Jesus. Eamon clenched his fist. Ez, I'm coming down there. No, no, no, don't. It's so bad here, Eamon. But he'd made up his mind, and Ab didn't need to know. Plus, he wouldn't be protesting just helping others. No, I am. I'll take the first train after work today. He had a major project he had to finish by the end of the week, and it was Friday.

What are you going to- Just be there. I'll figure it out when I get there. And I'm going to find some lawyers for you. His first cousin was a Harvard law grad at a big D.C. firm. He'd know some good defense attorneys down in D.C., just like he'd help them work through the NYU situation with minimal damage. As sighed audibly, he'd wanted help but hadn't wanted to ask for it directly. Thank you. Of course, my friend. Very fast, please. I don't square. The male voice on the subway's intercom bellowed out

Amon's stop. I'll call you later this afternoon. Eamon rose from his seat as the train squealed to a stop. And that was the first time he noticed the blonde man in the dark suit at the end of the car. He rose a second after Eamon did, shorter than he was, maybe six feet, but thicker. A few others stood up as well, but the man stuck out. Then again, maybe he was just being paranoid after hearing Ez's story. Knowing that running invited violence,

one of the mistakes they'd made on the mall, Eamon walked casually to the open car door and into the crowded station. A minute later, he emerged on the street and walked two blocks to get to the law firm where he worked as a paralegal and data specialist. The man followed, about 20 feet behind, calmly and not gaining, not trying to. Amon's paranoia now seemed justified. Amon swiped his ID on the ground floor and moved quickly through the turnstile

and then the open elevator door. With security there, Eamon assumed the man wouldn't be able to keep up, and he didn't. The elevator door closed without anyone else entering. Eamon let out a long breath. 55 floors up 55th floor he stepped out of the elevator his moment of relief disappeared standing to the left and right of an ashen Cindy, the law firm's receptionist, were two men dressed and built nearly identically to the man that followed him. Dark suits,

square jaws, thick. Reminded him of the bad guys in the Matrix. One was holding his phone to his mouth like a radio. He's here now. Come on up, he said in a deep, gravelly voice. Don't move again. Cindy's eyes were bugged wide, looking up as if Eamon had done something terrible. Mr. Maher, please come with us. The man gripped Eamon's bicep. I got it, Eamon said, but the grip tightened and the man tugged him forward. They walked to one of the firm's conference rooms where another man was already seated at the end of an oval table, older and bald. He looked up as they entered the room,

nodded slightly toward the man holding Eamon's arm, but didn't stand. Eamon sat in a wooden chair and only then realized just how fast his heart was thumping. He could both hear it and feel it in his chest. Something about these three scared him far more than the officers in the NYPD precinct last spring. Then a fourth entered.

The man from the subway stepped into the conference room, closed the door behind him, and sat in the chair on Amon's other side. The two men from the lobby stood like sentries on both sides of the closed door. Eamon, already tired of the silence, lifted his hands in the air while scanning the faces ogling him. Who are you? What in the world is going on? The bald man cleared his throat.

We're from the Department of Homeland Security. It's a new unit created by the President's Executive Order No. 7, signed the other day. Eamon had glossed over a summary of the new executive orders the afternoon of the inauguration. An outrageous, lawless list. Ending climate change policies. watered-down ethics rules, gutting protections of career federal government employees so they could be replaced by partisans, blanket amnesty for January 6 participants, another Muslim ban, complete border shutdown, and so on. On one hand, a predictable extension of the president's

deranged rhetoric on the campaign trail. On the other, crazy, not credible policy. Plus, there was no way they would survive in court, just more politics. Commentators on TV doubted most would take effect. Still, he was racking his brain about how any of what he remembered applied to him. The bald man read his mind. Disturbing the peace, he said gruffly, as if saying the words triple homicide. Without meaning to, Eamon tilted his head and scrunched one eye as he would with any friend who was bullshitting him. What do you mean? I stayed away the other day for a reason. I haven't disturbed a thing. He shot a quick look at the man who followed him from the subway.

Maybe he'd somehow listened in on the phone call with Ez, heard his offer to help. The bald man flashed a nasty grimace. Mr. Mayor, believe me, we have many colleagues dealing with the hoodlums from the other day, including those you consort with. He paused to let the words sink in.

The knowledge of his personal network. We know you were not down there. Eamon nodded, slight relief. This could be straightened out quickly. But this isn't about the other day. The man reached into his jacket pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. He laid out on the table then pulled a pair of small glasses from his other pocket and laid them on the tip of his nose. His thick head swiveled left to right as he scanned.

Be it ordered that all undocumented students engaging in disturbing the peace on or near campuses, which amounts to any level of criminal offense while undermining the national security, shall be treated as threats to national security, and said students shall be immediately deported back to their home country. Lifting only his eyes, he looked at Eamon over the top of his glasses. I'm afraid you fit the bill, Mr. Mayor. Deportation? Disturbing the peace? National security threat? The words sounded so absurd, Eamon let out a sarcastic chuckle.

Still couldn't be real. Just what on earth are you talking about? Did you not get arrested last year? Taken to the police precinct? Held for hours? You mean for the protest at NYU? Disturbing the peace, damaging public property, resisting arrest. Come on. Except for the tents at Union property, resisting arrests. Come on.

Except for the tents at Union Square, we barely did a thing. Other groups accused us of being too passive. Sellouts. Those were all overcharges. The prosecutor said as much, which is why we made our deal. They dropped almost all of them, and that's all in the paper. The deal had been that they pled no contest to criminal damaging, which was the hook that led to their community service and no expulsion. Criminal damaging while engaging in protests threatening national security is one of the offenses considered disturbing the peace under the executive order.

And the order also spells out explicitly that the protest you were engaged in were a threat to national security. How? We were protesting a conflict overseas. How? Because the president said so. That's how. It's as clear as can be. Protesting our allies threatens national security. Another echo of campaign rhetoric he dismissed as absurd. Oh, so you're going to detain everyone who was involved in the college protest from last year?

That's nuts. The bald man winked and looked over Eamon's shoulder. Not everyone. The man to his left shifted in his chair, laying another piece of paper down on the desk. The letters I-N-S were clear at the top. Mr. Mayor, I don't think you need any reminding of your immigration status. Eamon's stomach churned, an intense mix of butterflies and nausea. He didn't look at the paper as if any reaction to its content would be an admission of guilt in front of eight watchful eyes. The status his father had always warned him about. The situation he had for so long taken for granted as unproblematic was now being thrust in his face, his one Achilles heel

to living in America. Maybe these thugs were serious. Maybe all that political bullshit was actually happening. Maybe all that presidential hot air, which few people he knew took seriously, was actually going to be acted upon as American policy and law. Then it dawned on him, if it was, then he was in deep trouble. and that realization prompted the only sentence he could think of. I'd like to ask for a lawyer before I say anything else. The bald man now raised his hands in the air. Joe, I'm sorry to tell you, the executive order makes it clear. You have no right to an attorney.

This is a national security matter, and you are not a citizen of the United States. For the security of the nation, we are expediting these cases rapidly. We must, as the president made clear in his speech, the one your friends were interrupting. My friends were arrested before they could interrupt, Eamon thought, but didn't say. I need to at least call my parents. Another possible lifeline, anything to delay things. He reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve his phone,

but just as his fingers touched it, both arms were pulled back behind him. Don't move again, the first gravelly voice from the lobby said, inches from his left ear. Two large hands forced his forearms together behind him, then a sharp edge sliced into each of his wrists as they were cinched, bone pressed against bone, plastic zip ties. What the fuck? This is insane! Give me a fucking lawyer! The bald man stood up at least four inches short of Naaman, but his steel-eyed glare and jutting chin made it clear he wasn't intimidated. No need to get profane with us.

We've read you the rules. The law. No lawyer. No calls. The Order ensures that the next of kin will be informed of your status within 48 hours. Rest assured, we will follow it by the book. And where will I be? You will be returned to your nation of origin.

Well, each syllable came through clearly. The words couldn't be real. Egypt, correct? I haven't been to Egypt since I was two. I don't know a soul there. The man on his left still seated shook his head like a disappointed parent. Mr. Mayor, we know you have a large family in Cairo, both your mother and father's side. Eamon

closed his eyes. The amount of research they'd done on him becoming hauntingly clear. Right. He said now quietly. I've never met in my life. Family is family. Hopefully there's two in any country. Eamon couldn't help himself muttering. He used to be in this country as well. A hand reached around his chest and into his jacket pocket, plucking his phone away. We'll take that now. The other man squeezed his right tricep and pushed him forward out of the room.

A few lawyers watched from open office doorways, too stunned or afraid to speak, but they did nothing, just stared. Amon suddenly felt like a foreigner in the only country he'd ever known. Waiting back in the lobby, the one exception was the firm's managing partner, Chase Shepard, one of the most feared trial attorneys in the city. He also happened to be physically imposing. Once a linebacker at Stanford, later a DOJ lawyer, so he knew the government. Just what are you doing to our employee? Believe me, you don't want to interfere now or going forward.

The president is not fucking around, and neither are we. They brushed past him, one of the henchmen stepping into Shepard's personal space to keep him from doing anything. Don't worry, Eamon. We'll get on this immediately. The bald man grunted, sounding amused. Shepard and Cindy, the receptionist, gaped wide-eyed as the elevator doors closed and we'll be back with the rest of Eamon's story after a short break by the way any profits from the advertising in this series will be donated to the Democratic Legislative Campaign Committee the official organization that's dedicated to electing Democrats to state

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The rest played out at warp speed. Eamon kept thinking something would interrupt it, that someone would intervene, but nothing did. First came a 15-minute van ride, the two henchmen squeezing in on him from either side, and six hours stirring in an isolated square room, hunched forward on a stool to ease the pain from his shackled hands, which soon went numb. Nothing to see, but he could hear the noises of others being whisked in and out, the shuffling of feet, the opening and closing of doors, some shouts, questions, echoing the same disbelief he felt, an occasional spasm of crackling, followed by screams, at once, taser hits. Then a bus ride to an airbase, joining a line of five other buses. A ten minute wait, silence enforced. A dozen heads, largely down and leaning forward.

When he caught a glimpse of the eyes around him, he saw the same confusion he was feeling, that he was no doubt showing. Could this be real? Was there nothing in place to stop it? Where was Chase Shepherd? Other lawyers? Did people even know? His group was led into a dark gray plane with no markings.

Felt like a converted regional jet. They took off quickly and landed an hour later. Outside his window, a far larger airport. Military markings everywhere except on the airplanes themselves. Four more hours of waiting. Outside, a beehive of activity. Planes taking off and landing. Vans and buses on the move, a large, well-orchestrated operation. Inside, total silence. Again enforced by armed guards in dark uniforms Amon didn't recognize.

No badges. When they finally were ushered off the jet, they walked single file through a cold drizzle to a far larger military plane, windowless and gray. It looked like it was made for cargo as his words from earlier echoed in his ear we were being treated like dirt like like we're not even human we're not even human we're not even human amen looked around eight other identical planes were lined up in a row more lines of sagging subdued men snaking up to them, all leaning forward,

forearms zip-tied behind their backs like this. Same shocked eyes. This was actually happening. Political words from months ago, now turned into national action at a massive scale. Wearing the same clothes he'd worn to start the day, carrying no papers but those that remained in his wallet, Eamon and hundreds of others boarded the massive plane from the back. It opened into a cavernous space which felt more like a basketball gym than an airplane. They filled row after row of hard, upright metal chairs bolted to the floor. Jolts rocked much of the flight, mostly vertical, but some side to side.

Some near him vomited, adding to the pungent scent of body order that intensified over the course of the flight. A few rounds of water and bread. They each were given one bathroom visit. Any attempts at chatter were quickly subdued by angry words, followed by baton strikes and grunts of pain. The man next to him tried to whisper something to him, but he didn't respond. Eamon slept when he could. The plane descended quickly, the most violent turbulence of the entire flight. Several sharp turns preceded a hard landing, which prompted another round of grunts. The jolt of the ground clearly woke up some around him.

The rest were no doubt awakened when a woman's voice announced through the intercom, Welcome home. There were no windows to see outside. Minutes later, Eamon was led down a ramp onto a wide tarmac. A bright sun beamed down, the contrast from the dark plain blinding him at first. His eyes adjusted to the light. He was standing at the end of another long single file line, a sprawling air base all around him.

Desert. Beyond that, spanning all the way to the horizon, another giant plane landed from left to right. A third circled high in the air. Eamon trudged forward, back stiff and legs tight from the long flight. No feeling in his arms at all, as if they didn't exist, just shoulders. A stiff breeze blew warm air and specks of sand in his face, stinging his cheeks and neck. Through squinted eyes, he could see exhausted men in front and behind. Zombies, glazed over, beaten down. Guards, standing on both sides to keep them that

way. Between the long flight and all the hours waiting, he had no idea what time it was. Maybe was, maybe a day after the subway ride. His doubts about it all were now erased. The moments of hope as he dozed on the plane, that was a dream, dashed. The hell was all too real. Under the new laws of the new America, this was his home. The next episode of Trump's Project 2025, Up Close and Personal, tackles the loss of women's reproductive rights in a second Trump term. Eve Wallace is an emergency room nurse. She and her husband are trying to start a family using in vitro fertilization or IVF. She's at her doctor's office for a routine appointment. I'm afraid we have terrible news about your treatment.

Terrible? Neither she nor Dr. Bresi before her had ever used a word that dramatic before. That hopeless. So it didn't work, you've asked? Dr. Johnson shook her head. That's not clear yet. I'll live with that for now. So, what's so terrible?

What's terrible, another visible swallow, is that this is our last shot. And that we may even face jeopardy already. Jeopardy? Last shot? What in heavens are you talking about? Dr. Johnson's hands trembled as she reached for glasses in her front pocket. Yes, I'm afraid so. We can't do any more transfers. The sentence hit like a punch to the gut. I... I don't understand.

Dr. Johnson took out a piece of paper and mouthed words to herself. Whatever she was reading caused her to shake. Eve, it's all about politics that I, too, don't understand. I just got off a national conference call with specialists and lawyers from all over the country, and we have to stop our work. Today, eyes still shut, a decade of sacrifice flashed by. Bad news after bad news, and always the hope that the next time would work. You can hear the rest of Eve's tragic and all too predictable story on the next episode of Trump's Project 2025, up close and personal. That's in your podcast app or by going to 2025pod.com.

That's 2025pod.com. Please subscribe, review, and most importantly, share this podcast series with friends and relatives who need to know just how dangerous a second Trump term and Project 2025 would be. When we come back, the author, David Pepper, will tie the horrors of Amon's story to the specific policies written out in Project 2025 and found in Trump's own words. Now, while Amon's story is fiction, it's based on actual policies in Project 2025 and on Trump's own words. Here is the author, David Pepper, with the receipts. Author's note, David Pepper. On May 14th, 2024, Donald Trump said, One thing I do is, any student that protests, I throw them out of the country.

More broadly, newspapers have reported that Trump and his allies are considering invoking the Insurrection Act to crack down on protesters. The Insurrection Act is an old law that gives a president wide and unchecked powers to put down public protests, including using America's military as domestic police. The Supreme Court's recent decision grants Trump immunity in making such decisions. In addition to Trump's promise of mass deportations, Project 2025 labels the current approach to DREAMers, otherwise known as Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, under, quote, unlawful program, end quote, in mandates that immigration officials are, quote, not allowed, end quote, to work on it. According to an MSNBC analysis, deprioritizing staff work on DACA would erode it to the point that DREAMers, quote,

would be unable to renew those protections, end quote. Trump's Project 2025 Up Close and Personal is available on all the podcast apps and at 2025pod.com. We'd also like to thank all the artists who volunteered their time to make this episode. Heather Thomas, J. Smith Cameron, Omid Abtai, Kirk Azevedo, and Beyo Akinfami. Audio finishing by Marilis Ernst. This series is produced by David Pepper, Melissa Jo Peltier, and Jay Feldman. Trump's Project 2025 Up Close and Personal is a production of Ovington Avenue Productions and the Bill Press Pod.