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| Joan Baez's Portrait of Fanone Later Gifted to Fanone's Mother |
This is my reality,” said Michael Fanone.
The bearded, tattooed ex-cop and I were walking to his pickup truck from federal court in D.C., where he’d just watched the sentencing of a member of the mob that beat him with a Blue Lives Matter flagpole, tased him repeatedly at the base of his skull, and nearly killed him on Jan. 6, 2021. The courthouse was a hive of supporters of Jan. 6 defendants, one of whom cursed Fanone in the courtroom, another of whom shouted at him about a conspiracy theory as he stepped away from the building. As we made our way down Pennsylvania Avenue, a man followed us, videotaping from his phone the entire time...Read More of article by Politico...
Prologue June, 2021. When I worked undercover as a vice officer in the projects, I developed certain core survival skills. I learned how to read a room. I learned how to cut through lies and get a suspect to incriminate himself on tape. I learned how to enter a room without a weapon, armed only with my wits, and exit alive. These skills extended from the streets to the courtroom. There’s no substitute for preparation. Whenever I had a case go to trial, I slipped into the courthouse a few days early to scout the judge and defense attorney. Before taking the witness stand, I studied the case file and mastered the facts. When you command the truth, it’s hard to lose. I was a street cop in Washington, D.C., for nearly twenty years, and good habits die hard.
So while still on the city force in June 2021, I prepped for a meeting with Kevin McCarthy, the Republican leader of the U.S. House, the same way I would before meeting a meth kingpin in Dupont Circle or a crack dealer on North Capitol Street: I studied the man. In McCarthy’s case, that meant days reading speeches, tweets, profiles, and interviews. It had been six months since January 6, 2021. By then, McCarthy’s initial public support of the officers who responded to the Capitol riot had vanished.
I was one of the 850 Metropolitan Police Department officers who rushed to help the Capitol Police that day, to defend the seat of our American democracy. Vastly outnumbered, we beat back a mob of crazed and violent Trump supporters engaged in medieval, hand-to-hand combat. During the coup attempt, scores of MPD and Capitol officers were seriously injured. Five died, including four by suicide.
I’m the MPD cop in that famous picture from January 6th, the one with the beard and black helmet with fear etched across my face, surrounded by the Trump mob, about to be tased at the base of my skull and beaten with a Blue Lives Matter flagpole. During the riot, I suffered a traumatic brain injury and a heart attack. As a result of the electric shocks, I have three large scars between my neck and shoulders, scalded flesh that may never heal. I have been diagnosed with PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder.
By June 2021, I felt fucking lucky just to be alive. Since the insurrection, I’d called out Republicans like McCarthy who’d tried to downplay the severity of the attack. I’d written open letters to Congress, appeared on national TV, and shown riot footage from my body-worn camera to anyone willing to watch. In a month, I would testify before Congress with three of my fellow officers.
But on this day in late June, I was set to meet privately with McCarthy, alongside U.S. Capitol Police Officer Harry Dunn and Gladys Sicknick, the mother of U.S. Capitol Police Officer Brian Sicknick, who died of wounds sustained on January 6th. For weeks, the three of us had made the rounds on the Hill, urging support for a congressional investigation, pushing back against Republicans trying to rewrite history. We also tried to meet with the twenty-one Republicans who voted against a bill to award the Congressional Gold Medal to every police officer who defended the Capitol. Several of these Republicans, including Andrew Clyde, refused to even shake my hand.
Now, McCarthy was backing off on a pledge to appoint Republicans to the special January 6th Committee. The only reason McCarthy had agreed to meet with us was because he’d been getting heat for refusing to see me. When I first called to make an appointment, one of his staffers hung up on me. When I told Speaker Nancy Pelosi about this, she issued a press release titled, “Ask McCarthy: Why Won’t He Shake Officer Fanone’s Hand?” A week later, she issued another statement: “Despite claiming to ‘Back the Blue,’ McCarthy and his Conference have made a habit of disrespecting the officers who protected them from January’s insurrection.” The pressure worked. McCarthy agreed to meet with us for an hour. Our goal was simple: convince the House minority leader to publicly condemn the twenty-one Republicans who voted against the Congressional Gold Medal bill, and commit to a serious insurrection investigation.
Before I met McCarthy, I went through the same clear-my-head rituals I did before I went undercover to buy meth, heroin, or crack: I listened to Sturgill Simpson in my truck while doing breathing exercises to lower my blood pressure. As I entered the Capitol, I did what I always did when I went on a risky op: I hit the record button on my iPhone and stuffed it in my pocket. “Hello, I’m Kevin,” McCarthy said, extending a hand as we entered his Capitol office, a room oddly anchored by impressionist portraits of Lincoln and Reagan. “Sit wherever you like.” I sized up which chair might be McCarthy’s favorite and planted myself there. Officer Dunn and Mrs. Sicknick took the couch. McCarthy pulled up a side chair. Dunn is a passionate man and a gentle giant—he played offensive line in the Canadian pro football league.
The Hill was Dunn’s turf, so he spoke first. He began diplomatically, noting that McCarthy claimed to be the first to alert Trump about the Capitol riot on the afternoon of January 6th. McCarthy took the cue and took credit for getting Trump to make a late-afternoon public statement urging his seditious supporters to “go home.”
Mrs. Sicknick scowled and challenged the Republican leader. “He already knew what was going on,” she said of Trump. “People were fighting for hours and hours and hours. This doesn’t make any sense to me.”
McCarthy was quick to defend Trump, “I’m just telling you from my phone call that he didn’t know that.”
I’d heard enough. “Not to interrupt you, Mrs. Sicknick,” I said, doing exactly that. Turning to McCarthy, I said, “My experience that day was pretty damn horrifying. I’m not sure if you’ve seen any of my body-worn camera footage.”
“Were you here all day or did they call you up?” McCarthy asked. “I self-deployed,” I said, noting that I was working an undercover heroin case that day. “What I heard on the radio was what really inspired me to respond: officers screaming for their lives.” I told McCarthy that I’d been a cop for two decades. I thought I’d experienced everything inner city policing could throw at you: resentment, anger, racism, poverty, violence—and worse, a searing and cruel indifference to the value of a human life. I’d tussled with people so jacked up on PCP that they split my skull. I’d flown through a car windshield in pursuit of a killer and faced the wrong end of a gun held by a fourteen-year-old. I told McCarthy that none of that compared to the hatred I saw in the eyes of the people who tried to kill me on January 6th. McCarthy said, “Did you go report to somebody or, you know, run into the fire?”
I repeated that I responded to radio distress calls from fellow officers. I paused and looked McCarthy in the eye. I saw where this was going. He seemed eager to eat up time and deflect from the point of the meeting. He probably hoped I would launch into a long, blow-by-blow account: how I’d been yanked out of the Capitol’s Lower West End Tunnel by Trump rioters; how I’d been punched, dragged, spit on and stomped, electrocuted by taser; how I’d begged for my life, suffered cardiac arrest and a fucking traumatic brain injury, then blacked out…
Yeah, well, I hadn’t come here to recount my story. McCarthy knew the details of my assault. So I pivoted and said, “Post-January 6th for me and for hundreds of my fellow officers, what I found most distressing—especially as a lifelong Republican, myself—are comments made by Republican lawmakers about January 6th, which were not just shocking but disgraceful. Referring to January 6th as a regular ‘tour day’ at the Capitol?” I told McCarthy I felt betrayed by the way some Republicans were twisting a riotous assault on law enforcement officers into a fundraising grift. “It’s crap,” I said. “It’s disgraceful.” McCarthy offered no response. I continued, recorder still rolling: “What I’ve experienced since then has been horrific. It’s hell on earth. I am not a political person. I do not enjoy my time here on Capitol Hill. I’d much rather be sitting at home with my daughters drinking a cold beer, but instead I feel an extension of my service on January 6th is to be up here righting this wrong.” I asked McCarthy to condemn the twenty-one Republicans who voted against the Gold Medal bill. “A lot of officers almost lost their lives and Mrs. Sicknick lost her son.”
Mrs. Sicknick, her face contorting with pain, said, “I just don’t understand why people like you won’t denounce these people.” (Many, many months later it would be revealed that, shortly after January 6th, McCarthy did suggest privately that Trump resign, but then quickly abandoned the idea.) Squirming in his tiny chair, McCarthy insisted that he was not to blame and made a clumsy attempt at empathy. “My father was a firefighter. It’s not an occupation, it’s a way of life.” We nodded politely. “A calling,” I agreed. McCarthy promised to “get to the bottom of this where it never happens again.”
As he spoke, I caught a glimpse of the spray-on tan line just above his shirt collar. The manicured Republican leader threw up his palms and told us there were “political factors” beyond his control.
“Kevin, I agree with you,” I said, using his first name to show I wouldn’t be bullied. “It is political, because it happened here on Capitol Hill and it involved a political movement. It involved a group of extremist, white nationalist elements of our American society, which were mobilized by politicians. And that’s just a fact.” I said everyone knows that 99 percent of the nearly 800 rioters arrested were Trump supporters. “So calling it Antifa or Black Lives Matter or all these other things, it’s not disingenuous,” I said. “It’s a lie.”
“I understand the passion everyone has,” McCarthy said. “I think we’re all headed towards the same place.” I winced. I told him that if he were serious, he would appoint serious people to the January 6th Committee, not obstructionists or fools. “In law enforcement,” I said, “when we get involved in an investigation we don’t care about, we assign the biggest humps to participate.” McCarthy feigned insult and said he enjoyed a good reputation on appointments. I pushed back. “You’re an intelligent man, Mr. McCarthy. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Dunn and I described for him the blunt rudeness we encountered when we’d tried to meet with GOP members who’d voted against the Gold Medal bill. Most didn’t even return our calls or respond to our visits. I reminded him that others wouldn’t even fucking shake our hands.
Here’s an idea, I said: “Let’s get all the House Republicans together, put me in a room with them, and allow them to watch my body-worn camera footage so that they can experience that. I’m not here to change people’s hearts and minds. I just want them to shut the hell up and know the truth. And stop spewing bullshit because I can’t even begin to tell you how traumatic that is.” Silence filled the room. I broke it.
“And I’m not going to go away. For whatever reason—God only knows why—I’ve been afforded a hell of a platform, and I’m going to continue to use it for the sole purpose of making people stop describing January 6th as anything other than what it was: a horrific day in which a lot of police officers almost died. I’m here because you’re the leader of the House Republicans.” McCarthy leaned closer, as if to confide a secret. “I’ll share something with you. My job is trying to get all the information we can, but also provide it to my members.” In other words, What do you want from me? I can’t control my fringe members.
I struggled to keep a straight face. McCarthy either didn’t get it or didn’t care. He didn’t see how the Big Lie was growing like a weed, slowly strangling truth and democracy. Until recently, I’d followed politics like the Olympics—I only paid close attention every four years. I thought about telling McCarthy that I’d voted for both Barack Obama and Trump, that I considered myself a moderate conservative. But by this point, I realized that would be a waste of fucking time. McCarthy didn’t give a shit about moderates. He only cared about power.
So I told him that I’m proud to consider myself a redneck cop, that I’m a walking cliché. On the rear of my truck, I have a hunter’s specialty license plate and a Second Amendment bumper sticker. I listen to country music and drink beer from the can. “It’s people like me you’re stoking,” I told McCarthy. My people. I told him about my place in Highland County, Virginia, along the West Virginia border: “I like to refer to it as the land that time forgot. When I go out there to my hunting property and interact with the people that I’ve known for almost two decades, they have no idea January 6th happened. They source their news from Newsmax and Fox News. They listen to elected leaders who go back to these rural communities and tell them January 6th was a fabrication. So people that I’ve known and loved—people I still know and love—think I’m full of shit. I show them my body-worn camera footage and they think it was created in a Hollywood studio. There are people on social media that say I’m a paid actor.”
McCarthy’s response? He asked me if I hunted deer or bear in Highland County. Dude, I thought, who fucking cares? Thankfully, Mrs. Sicknick jumped in and again asked McCarthy to condemn his twenty-one colleagues. Again, the Republican leader said he couldn’t control his fellow Republicans. “People are held accountable by their constituents. I try to lead in certain directions—”
I interrupted, “You’ve got a platform to call out the BS.” I bore my eyes into the career politician’s face and let loose. “While you were on the phone with Trump, I was getting the shit kicked out of me!” I asked McCarthy why he would take credit for Trump’s pathetic, halfhearted late-afternoon video address to his followers. I said, “Trump says to his people, ‘This is what happens when you steal an election. Go home. I love you.’ What the fuck is that? That came from the president of the United States.” “How can you defend this man?” Mrs. Sicknick asked. “It’s mind boggling.”
McCarthy said his members wanted a broader mandate for any January 6th Commission, one that would also study riots that occurred during the Black Lives Matter protests. I’m a white cop, and I guess he assumed I would help him link BLM with January 6th, creating a false equivalency.
I didn’t take the bait. Instead, I laid a trap of my own. I told him that my MPD partner, Jeff Leslie, narrowly escaped during a BLM protest after someone placed a Molotov cocktail under his squad car. McCarthy nodded sympathetically and enthusiastically as I explained how the politically charged BLM protests created incredibly difficult and violent challenges for the police. Then I reminded him that no one from BLM engaged in sedition. “Trying to overthrow the U.S. Capitol and trying to overthrow a CVS are two very different things,” I told McCarthy. “My partner understands that, and most police officers, and most Americans understand that, too.”
Incredibly, I told the Republican leader, we were now six months past January 6th and neither the city, the mayor, nor Congress had bothered to do anything to recognize the brave work of law enforcement defending the Capitol. “These officers feel abandoned,” I said. “Law enforcement is in a dire, dire place.” Republicans claim to be the party of law enforcement, I said, except when it’s politically inconvenient. “I may only have a GED,” I told McCarthy. “But I know exactly what that is. It’s bullshit and it’s disrespectful to police officers.” I told the Republican leader that since January 6th, I’d received dozens of calls from fellow officers in absolute despair about attempts to whitewash history and ignore their trauma. “How we’ve avoided an epidemic of law enforcement suicides in this city is a miracle,” I said. At the MPD, I told him, a dozen officers had voluntarily turned in their weapons, fearful they might take their own lives. I certainly knew that feeling.
McCarthy finally spoke, but he just repeated himself. The Republican leader said he didn’t think he could lead his fringe members back to reality—and worse, he didn’t think it was even worth trying. “I don’t think it’s productive,” he said. “It might make you feel good but I don’t think—”
“No, no,” I said, straining not to completely lose my shit. “No, no. Don’t address it on an individual level.” All we ask, I said, is that he put out a statement affirming the following: “January 6th was horrible. Officers almost lost their lives. I denounce anyone who would utilize language that diminishes that experience for those officers, staff members, and their families.”
McCarthy filibustered, throwing out non sequiturs and bullshit platitudes. “Justice is my goal,” he said. “The government is made up of individuals, people who make mistakes.” And so on. What the fuck. I couldn’t listen to him ramble and interrupted. “I mean, they’re raising money off the backs of dead and brutalized police officers!”
McCarthy threw out another false equivalency. “There are people on both sides of the aisle who just want attention.” He wasn’t wrong. But so what? He was the Republican leader. What are leaders for?
I left McCarthy’s office in need of a stiff drink. With rare exception, he was just like all the other Republicans I met. In public, McCarthy praised the police. Behind closed doors, he didn’t really give a shit. I never expected to write a book. For two decades before January 6, 2021, I was just a street cop, head down, focused on serving the people of my precinct, trying to keep violence at bay, keeping my own ass safe, and training the next generation of officers.
My life changed forever in a single afternoon. I lost my dream job, my anonymity, and my comfort zone—and sadly, many people I considered close friends.
(Don Lemon had reached out to Michael and they became friends. Later it was to Don that this exclusive interview was given.)
Many of you may recognize the face of Michael Fanone... But the face that you see above in, first, the close-up horror-filled man that was captured by Joan Baez, and then the aerial shot captured by Politico's photographer, showing one man lost in a sea of domestic terrorists who were there because Donald Trump called on them to be there, cannot easily be forgotten, can it?
I want you to remember those closeup shots--because it could have been you, me, or millions of Americans who walk the streets of our nation, who, have come to be afraid. Afraid to be attacked when we go to vote, attacked when we go to church, attacked when we shop for groceries, attacked within our schools, attacked at entertainment events, attacked at work...
Let's face it, we are not safe anywhere in America if we allow what happened to this one man, and others, to continue to happen! We cannot be safe to send our children to school, where they may be gunned down by somebody who had a military-style rifle, and more, and have been incited by lies, misinformation, and understand they have the approval of their cult leader, Donald Trump, to commit violence to anybody that is not loyal to that leader.
Not even a police officer, trained to handle violence and criminals... was/is safem because each of us stand alone, wherever we are, don't we? Look again at the Politico picture and see that Michael Fanone was totally captured by the bodies of the MAGA cult--alone...and, as he willingly states, afraid for his life.
However, enough is enough! Isn't It? What Trump has brought out of some, is now being carried forward by people running for office to be elected NEXT WEEK.
Think long and hard if you still haven't voted! Which candidates have no program other than to blame the other party... Let's all realize that neither party can help inflation except a day at a time! We KNOW that Biden has passed an inflationary plan of action. We know that many corporations are charging more than they should, taking advantage of the world-wide situation, caused by the pandemic, the Ukraine War and loss of grain from that country, and by all those who care nothing about all of us but care for their greed and need to make a ridiculous profit when there is "a chance..." And, we know that Biden will continue to work toward decreasing daily costs!
I decided to talk about this book over a few days leading up to the election. For one, we know that Michael Fanone has had to resign his job and is facing the same issues that we now are ON TOP OF DEALING WITH THE MEDICAL ISSUES CREATED by the mob ON JANUARY 6TH!
Fanone is one of us--the common man or woman who daily does a job and tries to do it as best as he can, hoping that he will be paid sufficiently to take care of his family... And just like, many of us, he has faced those in America who place pride, greed, and politics over the general good of all who live in America...
Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would become an advocate for fellow officers who responded to the insurrection. Then again, I never expected the president of the United States to incite a mob to attack the U.S. Capitol as part of a coup to overturn a legitimate election. Nor did I expect that a third of the country would believe him when he said it never happened. But here we are.
VOTE BLUE
VOTE AGAINST ELECTION DENIERS
BE CAREFUL, BUT VOTE!
God Bless
Gabbie!
Watch for Part II
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