The World Is On Fire And Nobody In Washington Is Telling You Why

A Man Showed Up to Protect Protesters. He Killed an Innocent One Instead.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit michaelfanone.substack.com [https://michaelfanone.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_7] Let me tell you about Afa Ah Loo. Thirty-nine years old, born in Samoa, the youngest of five. He learned to sew from the women in his family, and that skill carried him to a fashion showcase inside Buckingham Palace and onto Project Runway. He became a U.S. citizen in September of 2024 and voted for the first time that November. After that, his friends say, politics got personal. He looked at where the country was headed and told his business partner, “I’m scared for my kids.” He walked into a No Kings march in downtown Salt Lake City — ten thousand people, one of the biggest demonstrations that city had ever seen — wearing a tan hat his friends could spot from a block away, holding a sign with four words on it. The world is watching. A few minutes later he was on the ground with a bullet in his temple. Here’s the part that refuses to fit the clean story. The man who shot him wasn’t a counterprotester. Wasn’t some MAGA agitator hunting for blood. He was a volunteer. He’d signed up to keep the marchers safe, and in that moment he believed he was stopping a mass shooting. That’s what makes this harder than the tidy political-violence narrative everybody reaches for. Three men ended up on that street who’d never met. All came to the same protest. All sympathetic to the same cause. On any other day they might’ve been standing shoulder to shoulder. The first was Arturo Gamboa, twenty-four, born and raised in Salt Lake. He was openly carrying a rifle — legal in Utah — dressed in black with a mask and hood. He stepped behind a column to assemble the rifle so he wouldn’t alarm the crowd, and says the barrel stayed pointed down the whole time, the magazine in his backpack. The second was a safety volunteer the court papers just call A.F. He’d been watching Gamboa for several minutes, read it as a threat, and got on his radio. Gun, gun, gun. The third was Matthew Alder, forty-three, an Army veteran and home contractor. A friend had asked him the day before to join the volunteer safety team — no training required, just a yellow vest, a radio, a first aid kit, and a warning that there were credible threats against the march. When that radio call went out, Alder came running, drew his pistol, and says he saw a man hunched against a wall psyching himself up to “mag dump into a crowd.” So he fired. Three shots, about a second apart. The first hit Gamboa in the side. The second hit his rifle. In those seconds Gamboa was moving, rounding the corner of the building, and video from a balcony appears to show that barrel pointed down the entire time. By the third shot, prosecutors say, Gamboa had already turned the corner — the threat, whatever it was, had moved away. That third bullet traveled roughly a hundred and sixty feet down a crowded street and hit Afa Ah Loo in the head. He was near a parked car, nowhere close to the man Alder was aiming at. And there’s one detail in here that should haunt everybody. There was a second volunteer standing right next to Alder — A.F., gun already drawn. Same man in his sights. Same radio call. He didn’t fire. His reason, to investigators: “There’s no way I can shoot him when he’s running toward a crowd. I’m accountable for every bullet that comes out of my gun.” Same threat. Same second. Same street. One man pulled the trigger and one man didn’t, and the distance between those two choices is a father of two bleeding out on the asphalt while a doctor from the crowd does chest compressions and begs him to keep fighting. In twenty years on the job, that was the first thing they drilled into us about a firearm. You own every round. You don’t get to fire into a crowd and call the people you hit an accident. The man standing right next to Alder understood that with a gun already in his hand. That’s not hindsight. That’s the basic standard — and one of the two shooters met it. The legal fight only gets thornier. In Utah, like most states, you can use deadly force against a danger you reasonably believe is real, even if you turn out to be wrong. That law exists to protect someone who genuinely fears for his life. But it had nothing to say about what happens when your bullet kills an innocent bystander who was never part of the fight. So the DA, Sim Gill, went looking and found his answer in a Massachusetts ruling: self-defense doesn’t shield a shooter whose force is reckless. A man who picks a fight assumes the risk of getting shot. A bystander never signed up for it. So Gill is focusing on that third shot alone — conceding the first two might’ve been justified, arguing the last one, sent down a crowded street after the threat had moved off, was its own separate, reckless decision. He charged Alder with manslaughter. Up to fifteen years. I’ll be fair: this isn’t a man who set out to hurt anybody. His lawyer says he believed he was stopping a massacre, and until there’s reason to think otherwise, you take the motive at face value. But this points to something bigger than one shooting gone wrong. A Duke law professor put it best — the only thing separating that feeling of fear from a homicide is five pounds of pressure on a trigger. Five pounds. That’s what we’ve built. We’ve flooded our streets and public squares with guns and then told ourselves the answer to a man with a gun is more men with guns. Researchers who track this found the obvious thing: protests where guns show up are far more likely to turn violent. Since 2020 they’ve counted a dozen American protests where a bystander — somebody with no part in any fight — got hit by a stray round. A dozen. And we keep going. Think about how many people had to be armed and afraid for this to happen. Gamboa felt he needed a rifle to feel safe. The safety team felt they needed pistols to protect the crowd. Everybody was carrying. Everybody was scared. And a tailor in a tan hat holding a piece of cardboard walked into the middle of all that fear. After the shooting, the national No Kings organization cut ties with the Utah chapter for breaking its no-weapons policy. When the marches came back, nobody was allowed to carry — not the crowd, not the volunteers, nobody. That’s not radical. That’s just sane. It’s the bare minimum. And I say this as a responsible gun owner: when you live in a country where you can’t hold a sign on a public street without somebody’s stray bullet finding your skull, that country has lost the plot. The right to bear arms was never the right to fire blind into a crowd and walk away calling it a tragedy. Afa Ah Loo’s kids were seen after his death singing a Samoan song he loved — about a father telling his child to go forth across deep water, to be brave, that he’ll be there on every path. They know the words by heart. They just don’t have him anymore to show them what those words mean. He showed up because he believed the world was watching, and he wanted to be heard. So let’s watch. Let’s actually look at what happened on that street and refuse to file it under bad luck. 🟧 Paid subscribers get 15% off your next merch order🟧 Founding Members get 20% off for life You’ll get the link in your welcome email. GET DISCOUNTS BELOW! ENJOY!

They Couldn't Pin Anything on Newsom. So They Went After His Wife.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit michaelfanone.substack.com [https://michaelfanone.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_7] The Trump administration is investigating Gavin Newsom. Not one investigation — multiple, according to the New York Times, aimed at the sitting governor of the largest state in the country and a man most of America expects to run for president in two years. Newsom went on camera this week to say so himself, because he’s convinced the President is running the Justice Department like a personal vendetta machine and he’s the latest name in the crosshairs. What makes that worth taking seriously isn’t the governor’s outrage. It’s where the agents have actually been going. Not to Newsom’s door. To his friends’ doors. His former staffers’ doors. The doors of people who work at his wife’s nonprofit. Subpoenas for records, sit-down interviews. And when the FBI starts questioning a man’s wife’s colleagues and pulling her finances apart, you naturally assume the story is going to be about something she did. Nobody can tell you what that is. Let me give you the strongest version of the government’s case before I take it apart. Two sources told CBS one investigation centers on Jennifer Siebel Newsom’s taxes — a possible tax fraud and evasion case run out of the federal prosecutor’s office in Sacramento with the DOJ’s public integrity section. And there’s a second thread: Newsom’s former chief of staff, Dana Williamson, was indicted last year on nearly two dozen federal charges over a scheme to funnel money out of a dormant campaign account, and last month pleaded guilty to three of them, including lying to an FBI agent. That’s not a technicality, and I won’t pretend it is. When someone who sat that close to a governor admits under oath she lied to federal agents, you pay attention. So if you want to believe this is just career investigators following evidence wherever it leads, I can’t reach into the grand jury room and prove otherwise. Nobody outside that room can. Here’s what I can tell you. I spent twenty years building cases from the ground up, and that work teaches you what a real investigation looks like. You start with a crime, and you work outward from the crime toward whoever committed it. Evidence first, suspect second — always in that order. The moment you flip it, the moment you pick the person and then go looking for something to charge them with, you’ve stopped investigating a case and started building one against a human being. On the job we had a word for that. A fishing expedition. It’s the exact thing the Fourth Amendment was written to stop. Look at which way this one runs. Nobody found a crime and traced it back to the Newsoms. They started with the Newsoms and went door to door hunting for an offense they still can’t name. The whole thing is built backwards. And then there’s the wife. Investigating a sitting governor is fair game. He’s a public official; his record belongs to the public. But when none of it sticks to him and the next move is to take apart the finances of the woman he’s married to, the investigation has told on itself. I watched this exact play in narcotics. When you can’t lay a glove on your target, you squeeze the people around him — the ones who love him or owe him — until somebody hands you a thread. That’s legitimate when you already have a crime and you’re climbing toward the man at the top. It’s a very different thing when you have no crime at all and you’re climbing down into a man’s marriage hoping to manufacture one. And if you follow this show, you know it isn’t a one-off. It’s the pattern. Trump points the DOJ at the people who threaten him, with no crime in hand and no evidence one exists, and lets the investigation itself do the damage — the legal bills, the bad press, the years of your life spent answering for nothing. Look at the list. Newsom, weighing a 2028 run. Mark Kelly, the Arizona senator who landed in the crosshairs the moment he reminded service members they aren’t required to obey an illegal order — also eyeing 2028. James Comey, who ran the FBI’s investigation into the Trump campaign and got fired for it — and who, for the “this is just partisan” crowd, spent most of his career as a Republican and was a Republican appointee. Letitia James, the New York AG who took Trump to trial for business fraud and won. Adam Schiff, lead manager of Trump’s first impeachment. Ask what a list like that has in common. It isn’t a type of crime. It isn’t a state. It isn’t even one party. Every name either investigated this president, sued him, charged him, or stands between him and the next election. Once you see it, this stops being a story about Gavin Newsom and becomes a story about a list — and about how normal it’s gotten to make someone’s life hell for the crime of getting in the way. Here’s what moves it from suspicious to deliberate. Earlier this year the DOJ sent Newsom’s office questions about a state lawyer he’d fired back in 2022. His office answered. Then silence — until Trump installed Todd Blanche to run the department, and the inquiries into Newsom’s world came roaring back, now aimed at his wife’s colleagues. You know who Todd Blanche is. Not a career prosecutor who came up through the ranks — the lawyer who personally defended Donald Trump in three of his four criminal cases, now acting Attorney General, running the department combing through Jennifer Siebel Newsom’s bank records. The same Blanche who signed off on a deal handing Trump and his companies a lifetime exemption from tax audits to settle a lawsuit the President had filed against his own government. A prosecutor is supposed to be neutral. No thumb on the scale, no answer handed to them in advance to go confirm. The minute one picks the suspect first and hunts for a crime to hang on them, they’ve stopped enforcing the law and started fishing for a result that pleases the boss. And when the boss is the man you used to defend in court, that’s not the careful, evidence-first work I was trained to respect. It’s a search for anything that’ll stick. So no, I don’t believe prosecutors in California woke up on their own and decided to dismantle the governor’s wife’s finances with no signal from above, right as the President’s former defense attorney took command of the DOJ. I can’t prove what was said in that grand jury room. But I swore the same oath to the same Constitution every one of those prosecutors swore to uphold, and everything my years on the job taught me says an investigation built backwards — reaching into a man’s marriage, landing again and again on the exact people standing between one politician and his next campaign — is not an investigation. It’s a hit list with a case number stapled to it. Newsom put it about as plainly as it can be put: subpoena his records, investigate him, harass him, put his name on every enemies list they keep — but leave his wife and kids out of it. And he’s fighting back, filing a public records demand for every communication DOJ leadership has exchanged about him or his wife since this administration began. Good. That’s exactly what you do. Because the law is not a weapon you point at people for the offense of being your enemy. So if they ever come for you that way — no charge, no evidence, just a fishing pole and a grudge — don’t cave. Tell them to kick rocks. And ask yourself one thing before you move on with your day. If they’ll do this to a sitting governor and his wife in the open, with the whole country watching, what’s already being done to the people nobody’s watching at all? 🟧 Paid subscribers get 15% off your next merch order🟧 Founding Members get 20% off for life You’ll get the link in your welcome email. GET DISCOUNTS BELOW! ENJOY!

Albanians Are Doing What Americans Won't

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit michaelfanone.substack.com [https://michaelfanone.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_7] There’s a peninsula on the Adriatic coast called Zvernec. A thousand acres of flamingos, pelicans, and wetlands that have been there longer than any of us have been alive. And right now there are people standing on that sand, in front of barbed wire, refusing to move. They’ve been there two weeks. They aren’t leaving. And they’ve given the protest a name. The Flamingo Revolution. Here’s what they’re standing against: a $1.4 billion luxury resort. Six thousand hotel rooms and villas planned for that coastline, plus a second complex on an island called Sazan that used to be a secret submarine base. And one of the investors behind it is Jared Kushner — the President’s son-in-law. The easy version of this story is “Kushner bad” — the Trump family leveraging government connections into lucrative real estate while Kushner plays envoy for the United States. Sure, that’s part of it. But that’s not why I wanted to talk about it. I’m covering this because of what it says about us. First, the deal. Kushner runs a fund called Affinity Partners, and most of its money comes from the Saudi government. So follow the line: Saudi money flows into a fund controlled by the President’s son-in-law, that fund invests in a foreign development, and the government signing off on that development is led by a prime minister with every incentive to stay on the President’s good side. Each link looks ordinary by itself. End to end, you’ve got private business, foreign capital, and the President’s own family braided so tightly nobody can tell you where one ends and the next begins. And you have to wonder where Kushner finds the hours. He’s supposed to be a Middle East envoy brokering agreements between nations on our behalf, and somewhere in there he’s also overseeing luxury villas going up on protected wetlands an ocean away. When the same man negotiates for the country and enriches his own family at the same time, the honest question stops being whether there’s a conflict of interest and becomes which job is the side hustle. The Albanian prime minister, Edi Rama, insists nothing was improper — that Kushner got no special treatment, that this is just tourism and opportunity. Maybe he believes it. But here’s the detail that should stop you: a project this size is normally required by law to publish an environmental impact report for the public. That report has never been released. So the Albanian people are being told to accept a $1.4 billion development carved into protected wetlands without ever seeing the most basic document explaining what it’ll do to their land. So they showed up. It started with the people you’d expect — conservationists and birdwatchers who noticed bulldozer tracks in the sand and dunes torn open. Then the fencing went up, wrapped in barbed wire, and something shifted. The protest stopped being about birds. Listen to how the head of the Albanian Ornithological Society describes the crowd now: left and right, different faiths, different politics, all planted on the same stretch of sand. He says it isn’t really about environmental law anymore. It’s about transparency — about whether anyone holding power still has to answer to the people they hold it over. It’s about democracy. And that’s the part I can’t stop turning over. Albania is one of the poorest countries in Europe, a nation that only crawled out from under decades of Communist rule in 1991. That’s not ancient history. There are people on that coastline right now who remember exactly what it felt like to have no voice at all. So when they watched a deal move through in the dark — foreign money, no public accounting — they didn’t wait for permission, and they didn’t wait for some leader to assure them their anger was justified. They walked to the coast and stood there, and they’ve held that ground for two weeks and counting. So let me ask the uncomfortable question. What are we doing? Here in the United States we can barely hold a protest together for an afternoon. We show up, get the photo, go home, and we’ve moved on to the next outrage before dinner. We have every advantage they don’t — the wealth, the institutions, a free press, a Constitution written to make exactly this kind of resistance easier than almost anywhere on earth. And a country a fraction of our size, working with a fraction of our resources, is out-organizing us over a wetland while we can’t hold the line on democracy itself. I’m not saying this to make you feel small. I’m saying it because I think we’ve got the story backwards. We’ve convinced ourselves nothing we do matters, that the machine is too big, that the money always wins. The people on that peninsula are running the experiment in real time, and the early returns point the other way. They dragged this thing into the open. They took a real estate transaction and turned it into a national reckoning over who their country actually belongs to. And here’s what should land hardest. By any measure this is a small deal in a small country — one development on one coastline — and it’s produced two unbroken weeks of resistance with a name attached to it. If that’s what people will do over a single stretch of sand, sit for a second with what might be possible back home the day we decide something matters enough. The question was never whether ordinary people can make life difficult for the powerful. Albania is answering that every single day. They named their fight after a bird that plants itself in shallow water and simply refuses to be moved. So here’s mine, for all of us: this administration is tearing apart our institutions, our culture, and our Constitution — why aren’t we willing to do the same? 🟧 Paid subscribers get 15% off your next merch order🟧 Founding Members get 20% off for life You’ll get the link in your welcome email. GET DISCOUNTS BELOW! ENJOY!

Trump's Loyalty Hires Are Blowing Up Cases in Court

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit michaelfanone.substack.com [https://michaelfanone.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_7] Here’s something that doesn’t get said enough: when you put unqualified people in powerful jobs, they don’t suddenly become qualified. They just fail in more expensive and more public ways. That’s exactly what’s happening inside Donald Trump’s Justice Department. Politico reported that at least a dozen times in Trump’s second term, he handed control of an entire office of federal prosecutors to someone who has never tried a single case in federal court. Let that sink in. A U.S. attorney is the most powerful prosecutorial post in the country — the person who decides which investigations move forward, who gets charged, and who has to stand against the full weight of the federal government in a courtroom. Trump gave that power, over and over, to people who’d never done the job. I worked with a lot of prosecutors in my years with DC Police. The good ones knew the difference between a case you can win and a case you want to win. The bad ones learned that difference the hard way, in front of a judge, with everyone watching. Now picture putting someone in charge who’s never learned it at all. The results are exactly what you’d expect. Start in Wyoming. A panel of three judges threw out nine indictments. Nine. Why? Because the U.S. attorney there, Darin Smith, stood in front of a grand jury and called the defendants “bad guys” and “murderers” who “did what you are going to hear about.” That’s not how it works. A grand jury is supposed to be an independent body that decides whether there’s enough evidence to charge someone — you don’t walk in and hand them the verdict before they’ve heard a shred of evidence. It gets dumber: the judges found Smith passed out his business cards to the grand jurors and invited them to reach out. They wrote that he “impaired the grand jury’s integrity as an independent body.” Any first-year prosecutor knows not to do that. Smith didn’t, because Smith had never done this job. Now New York. A committee of the state appellate court found that John Sarcone, running the Northern District, committed professional misconduct. They were vague on the details, but when the court system itself is sanctioning the top federal prosecutor in a district, that’s not a small problem. Nevada. Sigal Chattah is running that office — but only as a first assistant, because a federal judge already disqualified her from holding the top job. What did she do? Canceled a plea deal at the last minute, one her own criminal division supervisor had already approved. The defendant is now trying to get her kicked off entirely, and she’s already been disqualified from supervising four other prosecutions. Say that again — four other prosecutions. This isn’t one bad day. It’s a clusterfuck of incompetence happening over and over. The DOJ’s response? A spokesperson said prior federal prosecution experience “is not the only qualification that makes someone a good U.S. Attorney.” Sure. It’s not the only one. But it might be a useful one when the job is, you know, prosecuting cases in federal court. Then North Carolina, where the U.S. attorney is Dan Bishop — a former Republican congressman who voted against certifying that Joe Biden won in 2020. Bishop also got named a special prosecutor to chase election fraud, and his early move was reportedly leaning on the FBI to reopen inquiries it had already closed because they went nowhere. So a guy who denied the last election result is now in charge of hunting election fraud. You can’t make it up. Here’s why experience actually matters, and it’s not just about following rules. A former federal prosecutor, Mimi Rocah, put it well: someone who’s never worked as a line prosecutor has nothing to compare a case to. They can’t look at an investigation and say, this one’s weak, we pass. And they’re far more likely to ignore the career people who do know better. So you get offices that chase bad cases, cut corners, and get embarrassed in court. We’ve already watched three of these picks flame out. Lindsey Halligan got disqualified, and a judge tossed her indictments against James Comey and Letitia James. Alina Habba, another former personal lawyer for Trump, got dinged by a judge over the “hasty arrest” of the mayor of Newark. And Ed Martin, who ran the Washington office, is facing disciplinary charges from the D.C. Bar — including for threatening to withhold funding from Georgetown’s Law Center to punish the school over its diversity practices, which the Bar called a First Amendment violation. So where did Ed Martin land after all that? Pardon attorney for the Justice Department. Failing upward — the official sport of this administration. Here’s the bottom line. We were told this was about being tough on crime. Law and order. But you don’t get law and order by handing the most serious prosecutorial power in the country to loyalists who’ve never set foot in the arena. You get tossed indictments. Sanctioned lawyers. Cases that collapse and defendants who walk because the person in charge didn’t know what they were doing. This is what happens when loyalty is the only qualification that counts. The work suffers, the public pays for it, and the people who actually wanted accountability watch it slip away because the person holding the gavel was picked for the wrong reasons. The one small mercy: when it comes to the cases where this administration is trying to shred the Constitution, they’ve got the D-list on the job. 🟧 Paid subscribers get 15% off your next merch order🟧 Founding Members get 20% off for life You’ll get the link in your welcome email. GET DISCOUNTS BELOW! ENJOY!

Trump Pardoned Him on Monday. By Sunday He Was Dead.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit michaelfanone.substack.com [https://michaelfanone.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_7] A sheriff’s deputy in rural Indiana pulls over a speeder on a Sunday afternoon. Routine. Nothing about a stop like that should make the news, and nothing about it should end with a body on the shoulder of the road. Except the driver had been a free man for exactly six days. His name was Matthew Huttle. Forty-two, from Hobart, Indiana. On January 6th, 2021, he and his uncle Dale drove to Washington for Trump’s Stop the Steal rally — and didn’t stop at the rally. They marched on the Capitol with the rest of the mob. Dale beat two police officers with a wooden flagpole; one of them went down on the steps and slipped a disc in his back. Matthew went inside the building. Twice. The second time he stayed more than ten minutes, wandering through congressional offices and the crypt — the same restricted corridors where my brothers and sisters in uniform were getting the hell beaten out of them. Both men were arrested. Both convicted. And in twenty years carrying a badge, I never once had to wonder whether that was the end of the story. You assault a cop, you walk into a building you helped overrun, you do your time. That used to be the floor in this country. The bare minimum. Then Trump signed a stack of pardons that wiped out the convictions of roughly fifteen hundred January 6th defendants in a single afternoon. Cop beaters. Cop tasers. The men who dragged me down the Capitol steps, tased me in the neck, beat me unconscious, and sent me to the hospital with a heart attack and a brain injury. All of it, erased. Matthew Huttle was in that pile. Six days later, he’s doing seventy in a fifty-five in Jasper County. A deputy lights him up. And almost immediately, Huttle starts volunteering things he has no reason to volunteer. He tells the deputy about January 6th. About the conviction. About the pardon. And more than once, that he can’t afford to get in any more trouble. That’s not the voice of a man who thinks he got away with something. That’s a man doing math in his head about whether a pardon for one crime covers whatever he’s about to do next. The deputy tells him he’s under arrest as a habitual traffic violator. Standard. And Huttle makes the same call he made on the Capitol steps years earlier — that the rules are for other people. He bolts back to his van, starts screaming he’s going to shoot himself, and raises a loaded nine millimeter in the middle of a struggle. The deputy backs up and fires. A special prosecutor reviewed the body cam and the dash cam and ruled the shooting justified. As it should be. That deputy did exactly what he was trained to do, and he made it home to his family because of it. Barely. Hold onto that word. A deputy in rural Indiana nearly didn’t come home from a traffic stop. Not because of a cartel. Not because of a fugitive. Because of a man who’d spent four years marinating in the idea that he was a political prisoner — and six days earlier had been told by the President of the United States that everything he did inside the Capitol was just fine. *This is the kind of story the national press keeps filing under “local news.” Subscribe so you don’t miss the ones that connect. It’s free, and it keeps this independent.* That’s what the pardons actually did. They didn’t just spring fifteen hundred people from prison. They sent every one of them home with a message: the cops who arrested you were the bad guys. The prosecutors were the bad guys. The judges were the bad guys. Which means I was the enemy — and so was every officer who did their job that day. Hand a stable person that message and you get a quiet life and a chip on the shoulder. Hand it to Matthew Huttle and you get a loaded handgun on a roadside. And here’s the rot underneath all of it. The same movement that branded itself the party of Law and Order pardoned the people who tried to murder cops on live television. The same crowd that called protesters domestic terrorists cheered when Trump walked the men who tased me out of federal prison. There is no Blue Lives Matter movement in this country. There’s the MAGA cult, and the MAGA cult alone. It protects its own as long as you kiss the ring — and everybody else, cop or not, can go f**k themselves. The deputy in Jasper County learned that on a Sunday afternoon. And Huttle wasn’t the only violent offender who walked out and went right back to it. There are roughly fifteen hundred pardoned January 6th defendants out there right now, a serious share of them convicted of violence against police officers — including against me. The domestic violence calls, the DUIs, the weapons charges, the standoffs: the list keeps growing, and the press keeps treating each one as a small local story instead of the same story repeating itself in a new zip code. The next armed standoff with a pardoned insurrectionist has already happened by the time you read this. It will keep happening. And so far, this country has decided to do nothing about it. 🟧 Paid subscribers get 15% off your next merch order🟧 Founding Members get 20% off for life You’ll get the link in your welcome email. GET DISCOUNTS BELOW! ENJOY!