Unthinkable: Trauma, Truth, and the Trials of American Democracy by Jamie Raskin

Author:Jamie Raskin [Raskin, Jamie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780063209787
Google: c0NAEAAAQBAJ
Amazon: 0063209780
Published: 2022-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

An All-American Defense of Democracy

A little patience, and we shall see the reign of witches pass over, their spells dissolve, and the people, recovering their true sight, restore their government to its true principles.

—THOMAS JEFFERSON, “LETTER TO JOHN TAYLOR,” JUNE 4, 1798

On Wednesday, January 13, at 4:32 p.m., one week after Trump’s insurrection blew the doors off the hinges of American politics, and one week before Joe Biden’s eagerly awaited inauguration arrived, the House of Representatives voted to impeach Donald John Trump.

It was surreal to see members gathering for this historic vote on the very floor where we had taken cover behind desks and chairs, awkwardly donned gas masks, listened as our doors were barreled into and pounded by the mob, and ultimately fled for our lives—just a week before. Many Members and staffers still avoided the west steps of the Capitol where the stench and sting of tear gas, bear mace, and the insurrectionists’ cocktail of chemical weapons still hung acrid in the air. Rumor had it there were bloodstains right outside the chamber in the Speaker’s Lounge, where rioter Ashli Babbitt was shot. Julie told me that our friend Jason in the Sergeant at Arms Office, an officer’s officer who had helped move Tabitha and Hank around on January 6, was just feet away from Babbitt when she tried to break into the House chamber and was gunned down. He apparently was the last officer who tried to save her life, with a desperate chest press, an experience I could now relate to.

Given the savagery we had experienced just days before, I was surprised to find, when I came down to the floor to debate and vote, a slightly festive atmosphere on the Democratic side. Members were still traumatized and angry, but there was palpable catharsis in the air as we mobilized. We had been through a Trump impeachment vote once before, and during that first round, everyone was careful to strike a pose of solemn regret about having to render such a grave and momentous constitutional judgment. Now, with Trump having blown up every basic constitutional norm and value, he had substantially loosened our inhibitions and unleashed a jaunty, devil-may-care, the-guy’s-getting-his-just-rewards attitude on the floor.

Because the Speaker had announced her appointment of the impeachment managers (with me as lead) the night before, my colleagues, news junkies all, wanted to talk to me when I arrived on the House floor, which is like the congressional water cooler. The first person who approached me when I got there was Rashida Tlaib, the pride of Detroit, the firstborn of fourteen children who knows how to take care of people and of business. Strategic, funny, and comfortable in her own skin, Rashida gave me a mixed high five/hug and told me she was thinking of me and Sarah and the girls, and then she said enthusiastically, as if reading my mind, “Raskin, we’re going to impeach the—”

“Distinguished gentleman!” I interjected, completing her sentence for her.

“And you’re going to go over there and try and convict the—!”

“The fellow!” I interrupted.

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