By way of introduction, my name is Adam Johnson, but most people know me as “the guy on the lectern”. On January 6, 2021, I broke the internet after being photographed smiling and waving as he carried then-Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi’s podium around the Capitol rotunda. Suffice it to say that the authorities did not take a good look at what I did, and later arrested me.
I was finally brought into a courtroom after four days in solitary confinement to be met by Assistant United States Attorney Patrick Scruggs for my arraignment in Tampa. I got a chance to brush my teeth and shower for the first time in days that morning and I was hoping to make a good impression. His freshly pressed suit and the American flag pin attached to his lapel evoked a sense of respect. I was the criminal here today.
The magistrate read the complaint, while I sat contrite. Scruggs was adamant in his insistence that “everyone should be held accountable for their crimes.” It seemed reasonable enough to me. He had made the inexcusable decision to enter a building through open doors and carefully move furniture without permission. For these transgressions, Scruggs implored the magistrate to take notice conditions of my release to match my alleged crimes.
My firearms and passport were confiscated, I was given a night curfew and ordered to carry a ankle monitor, take a random drug test and not travel beyond a few select counties in my state.
At the time I wasn’t sure if it was excessive. I was happy to be back home with my family. He might even have been grateful. This man, Patrick Scruggs, had deemed me worthy to reside with my family and be among the public.
Must be one of the good ones, I thought.
But on September 26, 2023, Patrick Scruggs was arrested and charged with brutally attacking a motorcyclist with a deadly weapon during a road rage incident. He allegedly stabbed another motorist with a razor. Within 24 hours, Scruggs posted unconditional bail for his release.
These days, I can’t help but think a lot about Rome. For example, the personification of justice has historical roots dating back to the emperor Augustus in 27 BC. It manifested itself in sculpture.
She is our Lady of Justice, the Roman goddess Justitia, blindfolded to partiality, scales in balance to establish constancy to her duty and a double-edged sword to carry out swift justice.
His effigy is exhibited internationally, but its real meaning is the universal truth of what it represents; there is a moral contract by which we hold each other accountable. The details of the contract have been debated for a long time and have been reworked, replaced and repealed multiple revisions. And while most change provisions within the contract simply come from progress, there are moments in history that alter justice suddenly and irrevocably.
These facts seem to arise spontaneously, but the succinct response of Justitia’s captors paints a different story.
Most of us are likely familiar with the phrase “never forget,” probably in the context of 9/11. But I’ve always interpreted it to mean that if we want to preserve the idea of ​​America, maybe lines should be redrawn. Specifically, the lines where our rights and our safety meet.
It seemed like a fair trade; my civil liberties and guarantees would be restored once we had the bad guys. After all, we were all in this together.
The line between citizen and terrorist had become blurred and those who lamented from soapboxes who were not lucky enough to have a talking stick were ridiculed for their lack of patriotism and adorned with aluminum crowns.
So that you don’t think I’m hyperbolic, consider that the Patriot act approved only with a single vote against.
The canary in the coal mine fell on deaf ears and justice became malleable in the name of national security. Some rebuked the invasion, most didn’t care, and the rest flagrantly celebrated. The social credit score of knowing you are morally superior has its advantages, for a while.
We were the good ones. We spent our time in the sun, resigned to men acting like gods, forever in their favor. Call it naivety if you will, but we were never meant to dine on Olympus. “Never forget: The Sequel” would be released less than 20 years later.
But on January 6, 2021, a group of unarmed “terrorists” managed to shut down an entire nation by walking through corridors, praying in meeting spaces and moving furniture.
These new villains didn’t hide in caves or plant explosives in public spaces, with the exception of a shadowy figure who would adopt a Sasquatch-like legacy. Terrorism had a new face, and this time it brought Cabela’s and questioned a school board’s decisions to include pornography in children’s libraries. An inquisition would ensue, and the ivory tower that was once a beacon of light to all nations would turn its gaze upon the very citizens who strengthened the bricks of its foundation.
More than 1,000 people have been charged as a result of the events of January 6. Their homes were raided, their livelihoods destroyed, and their reputations dragged out like the entrails of a field-dressed dam. Bail was denied, they suffered months in solitary confinement and the Geneva Conventions were violated.
The inquisitors were hailed as heroes of democracy, despite the fact that most of the crimes committed were non-violent offenses that had historically resulted in fines and probation when prosecuted.
Protesting in DC was nothing new. In fact, it not only has a long history, it also has a contemporary one. Storming a building during a Supreme Court confirmation of justice to listen? It’s not a problem. joint fire in a churchto hurt Members of the Secret Service, and have the sitting president taken to a bunker for security? Why this is just democracy in action.
However, move a lectern 20 meters for a photo opportunity; well, that’s “terrorism” now.
Sentences from several decades were recommended and administered to some of the participants that day. Moving a fence turned into an insurrection, resulting in a 17-year sentence, while René Boucher, who broke several of Senator Rand Paul’s ribs during a turf dispute, received only nine months! Not even the powerful were immune to this new generation of power!
As complex and nuanced as the justice system is promoted, it is rudimentary at its core: you are either an enabler or a victim.
Three years ago, I didn’t want to believe this. My worldview was anything but nihilistic, and I believed that once I had a chance to be seen and heard, the misunderstanding would be laughed off.
But the plot thins. The veil slips. The shroud is lifted. We’ve seen the man behind the curtain and we’re at an impasse.
If we’ve learned anything over the past two decades, it’s this: Any power we’re willing to give up so our enemies can be beaten will inevitably be used against us, over a long enough timeline.
To restore our Lady of Justice, we must honor the principles she once stood for. Scruggs will have his day in court, but no case will restore balance.
As I said before, I think about Rome a lot. The fall of an empire cannot be attributed to a single event, much less to a single person. Nero was blamed for lighting the fire that reduced more than half of Rome to ashes, but the citizens were content with bread and circuses.
The crowd cheered as their neighbors were hunted down and slaughtered by Nero. Justice had become bloody retribution to entertain the masses. Sound familiar?
Our rulers and persecutors may be acting like Nero, but that doesn’t mean we have to be their crowd; we cannot meet injustice with more injustice.
Justice does not require us to process vindictively. She is blindfolded in narratives, balanced without prejudice and consistent in punishment. If the least of us accepts this moral contract and if we choose to believe in justice equal to the law, we can begin to restore our nation.
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