I like to be in the House or Senate chamber on big days. It’s something about living in a room where it happens. It’s more than just a news story. It’s history, and it’s a privilege to tell people about it.
Even amid the epidemic – I have an 18-month-old son – I jumped at the chance to take part in the electoral college vote count. It’s usually a formal moment, which is kind of a long campaign. But this time was different. Objections will be filed by President Trump’s allies to overturn the lost presidential election. It promised to be dramatic, which was the cementing of President-elect Joe Biden’s victory.
But my husband was worried. Trump was encouraging protests, and he feared he could make violent progress.
After I put the baby to bed on Tuesday night, he told me to take care of him lightly. He told me, “Wear street clothes that will suit you in the crowd.” “Jeans and a t-shirt.”
I arrived at 11:15 a.m. Wednesday, about two hours before things started. I didn’t want to lose anything and wanted to make sure I had time to go through security. I settled into my seat in the press gallery, the seats above the speaker, and began to watch the joint session of Congress.
Senators and members of the House did not meet very far. They were counting the votes in alphabetical order of the states. First came Alabama, then came Alaska. Sen. when they arrived in Arizona. Ted Cruz (R-Texas) and Rep. Paul Gosser (R-Ariz.) Objected to the registration of 11 electoral votes in the state. Each house retired to its chambers to discuss their objections.
I stayed in the House Gallery. Only half a dozen legislators finished speaking when I realized there could be trouble. I was taking notes on my laptop when my phone rang at 1:41 p.m. It was a text message from the house staff who sent me a warning from the Capitol Police.
The warning states that “the Canon Building is undergoing an internal relocation due to police activity.” “All other staff should stay indoors until further guidance from the USCP. If you are outside the building on Capitol Hill, follow the directions of law enforcement officers …. more information will be provided as soon as it becomes available. “
I was following the events on Twitter and was informed that the protesters were outside the capital. The warning did not restrain me, but this is the Capitol and the threats are normal.
Thirty minutes later, I stepped off the stairs and went to the press offices to see if I could learn more. Office Fees Emergency Radio cracked into life. Then came the voice of a woman who was terrified: “The U.S. Due to the external security risk located on the west front of the Capitol building, entry or exit is not allowed at this time. You can walk all over the building but stay away from the exterior windows and doors. If you’re out, find a cover. “
I knew what I had to do. I pushed down the stairs of my laptop. It was 2:15 p.m., writing an update for my editors, when I looked at the railing in the chamber and saw House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-San Francisco) in the second line of the presidency. It was clear that her security detail had boosted her enthusiasm for safety.
I heard a voice behind me and turned again and saw a dozen journalists from the press office fees being admitted to the gallery. Police then closed the door and locked it. Police blocked the proceedings to reveal that tear gas had been arranged in Rotunda.
The staff member gave me an equation hood, a cumbersome plastic bag that filters tear gas and chemicals. She told me to pass her and the other in a row until everyone got there. The gallery was not just for journalists. Staff members were overseeing the proceedings. More than a dozen legislators also took seats in public galleries looking at the structure of the House. Now we were locked in a room together.
On the floor, rep. Reuben Gallego (de-z res.), A former Combat Marine, was holding his defense hood and explaining to other members how to use it. There were about 150 legislators down there, and Gallego was shouting to get their attention.
“Open the first package!” He screamed.
“Then open another!”
“Then the hood swells over your head!”
Moments later, police led Gallego and other legislators out of the room through a side door. A few lawmakers slammed the officers of the plaincloths with a huge bookcase and turned it in front of the main double door of the chamber, the same one the president enters for the address of the Union of States.
There was a knock on the door. Officers pulled out their guns.
One person glanced and saw the reporters and about two dozen delegates and staff rushed to the railing in the gallery above to get to the door.
“Crouch on the floor!” Boomed him. “Be as little as possible!”
I slipped behind a row of chairs and looked up as the female representative began to pray. Another member was talking loudly in his cellphone, providing a play-by-play. Many legislators were crying.
I heard the glass of the main door in the chamber crack. I rip. Markven peeked into the chamber like Mullin (R-Ocla.), Who was trying to push his way inside.
A loud crack cracked the air. It sounded like a gunshot. And then she calmed down.
Officials told legislators in the gallery to get out of there, but no one present there had a key to the door. Lawmakers and police officials argued to open the door and make a run for it. Police want legislators to do side effects for it.
Members disagreed. “Don’t open that door!” A representative knocked on the door as an officer in Hathaway. “We don’t know who’s behind it!”
I kept going where the rap. Norma Torres (D-Pomona) was on his knees. She hugged me and asked me about my baby, and I told her she was OK.
She took a photo of me with her phone and tagged 3 light times to warn my colleagues that I was OK.
“Can I do the hardest part of my job and ask you what you’re thinking right now?” I asked.
It took her a while to compose her thoughts. “It’s horrible that this is America, this is the United States of America and we have to go through this, because Trump has told domestic terrorists to come to the capital and disqualify the people.”
Moments later, Capitol police opened the gallery doors. They told us to get out quickly. They took us to a safe place. As we walked up the stairs to the third floor, I saw several police officers with about half a dozen rioters lying face down on the marble.
It hit me suddenly – it occurred to me that I had not yet told my husband that I was safe.
“I’m fine. Evacuating,” I texted him at 2:57 p.m., too overwhelmed to get into the details.
“Take a deep breath,” he replied. “Okay. Keep me updated. Love you.”
The police told us to follow them. We took a few minutes and walked down the winding stairs, keeping the run down. I’ve worked at Capitol for eight years, and I can’t tell you the path we took. As legislators, journalists and staff stepped forward, I slowed down so that I could apparently shake the rip. Talk to Jimmy Gomez (D-Los Angeles). It was a favorite. I pulled out my phone and hit the record. He took a second to find her words.
“This shouldn’t happen in the United States,” he said, his eyes watering with tears.
We arrived in a safe room. That’s all I can say about it at the moment. It was huge and full of leather chairs and nut tables, and you saw it on TV. It was already full of legislators, staff and other journalists. Members typed on their phones and employees were given goldfish fireworks, fruit snacks and a few bottles of water as security officials updated on the storm situation.
One member led a prayer. Another one, a former ER doctor, reminded me to stay hydrated. A group of Democrats made a fuss about Republicans not wearing masks.
I went in search of California legislators and started visiting them. After each, I uploaded audio dio to my colleagues in my bureau to add stories to my website.
One member urged colleagues not to meet with reporters. They were worried that we would accidentally betray our place.
Kimberly Kelly, my boss, sent me a message asking for a first-person video of how she was in the room. I said I can’t. I said, the legislators were “terrified that I could inadvertently give up their place.” “I’ll do it in writing if that’s okay?”
“Just hit me in the gut,” she wrote back in detail.
An hour passed. My husband sent me a photo of my baby smiling. It fed me.
After 5:30 p.m., the weapons sergeant, the House’s top security official, declared the Capitol safe, but urged members to remain in place. To guarantee his safety, he said he wants a little more time. Ninety minutes later, Pelosi came to address the rest of the members (some slipped back to his office). The speaker “criticized the mob for insulting the halls of the United States Capitol” and announced that the House and Senate would return immediately to complete their work. The speaker said she did not want the rioters to think they had won.
Fifty-five minutes later, more than four hours after being locked from the inside, I was allowed to leave. There was only one place for me to go.
I walked back to the gallery – to the history of history.
