Editor's Note: Tuesday, one of the most incredible political stories in American history reached new, crazy heights, when Donald Trump surrendered to federal authorities for arraignment in Miami, an almost incomprehensible escalation in the clown war that has defined our country for close to eight years. The image was stark: a former president and current 2024 frontrunner booked, fingerprinted, and made to plead before court (not guilty on all 37 counts, he naturally insists).

Die-hard anti-Trumpers are mostly focused on the classified documents Orange Man Bad kept at his Floridian palace / gold-plated compound, finding new pivots and dodges almost every day to draw some distinction between Trump’s behavior and the behavior of President Biden, who also had classified documents, from the Obama era, in his home (oops!). Meanwhile, the sober minded among us are of course mostly just wondering if imprisoning political rivals is our new American normal.

But as important as these questions are, I think Tuesday’s real story took place outside, on the courthouse lawn. Pirate Wires is based in Miami, and I started receiving texts from downtown around 9AM. Donald’s circus had arrived, and those early morning hours whispered of a day for the history books. It was wild, the energy that Trump could summon still, on a whim, and I started to wonder… had any other major contender for the White House been indicted, what would it look like on the courthouse lawn? In the case of Biden and DeSantis, it’s easy to imagine a similar mob of reporters, with cameras, waiting for some comment. But who, from either party, could summon thousands, on a moment’s notice, for a Boomer tailgate party?

I called up River, still half asleep when I reached him but already vaping, and told him to get to the courthouse. The energy Trump commands from the public is unique, will likely have an impact on our next election, and is worth recording here for posterity. Enjoy, or don’t (the Trump deranged are welcome here along with everyone who thinks political arrests just do seem, in general, a little sus). A snapshot of the crowd.

-Solana

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It was half past noon on Tuesday when my Uber driver whipped, blinkerless, through traffic, and I felt a rush of adrenaline. But for once in a Miami Uber it wasn’t for fear of my life. I was on my way to Trump’s arraignment, an important event in American history, the news said, and I was excited. One day, I thought — as my driver nearly slammed into a BMW — I’d tell a bored nephew about it. He’d be checking me into a South Florida nursing home when I’d say, “You know, I was there when they took Trump in for that document thing,” and he’d say, “Oh wow, that’s really something.” Then he’d whisper to the West Indian lady at the front desk, “Call us when it's time.”

We came to a stop at the street ahead of the courthouse, and the driver said, “I can’t take you any further ‘cos of Donald Trump” in a thick Cuban accent. He seemed excited too. Or was that anxiety?

“No problem!” I said. I hopped out of the car and swung my backpack over my shoulders, still sunburned from my weekend. The straps hugged my raw skin as I wandered the next block, where I saw a Dodge Ram 2500 with “Political Persecution USA” scrawled across the back seat window. In front the truck, there was a Land Rover with an upside-down American flag hoisted through the sunroof. Together with dozens of others, the vehicles formed a parade, endlessly circling the courthouse, honking and waving at Trump’s supporters on the ground. I half expected someone to pelt me with a fistful of Hershey’s Kisses. Hours later, starved and disappointed, I would wish for it.

I followed the caravan until I spotted the sign: Wilkie D. Ferguson Jr. United States Courthouse. Behind it, a sea of people. Cops toting semi-automatics occupied the courthouse side of the yellow tape stretched around the courtyard of the building. On the other side, journalists erected a tent city around the perimeter of the tape, waiting — like the crowd meandering behind them — to catch a glimpse of the big man.

The first protestor to catch my eye was one of the few anti-Trump guys who bothered to show up, an eccentric black guy who’d scribbled “Trump Sucks” and “Fuck Trump” onto nearly every inch of his white suit, holding a sign that said “Pussy-Ass DeSantis.” He was in the middle of a heated argument with a woman in tie-die. A few feet away, a crowd gathered around a woman who was screaming “Get out of here, this is MAGA country!” To who she was screaming, exactly, I couldn’t tell, but I whipped my phone out to record. Without some evidence, who would ever believe I heard a little Cuban lady shouting, unironically, the exact same line Jussie Smollett paid those jacked Nigerian guys to say while they were pouring bleach on him in Chicago?

I had the impression I’d be spending the day walking through an extended brawl. Clearly, the police thought the same; in addition to boys in blue toting semi-automatic rifles and handing Dasani water bottles out across the yellow line, there was a cadre on bikes patrolling the crowd.

But luckily, arguments after that were much tamer and, like the first two, not physical — probably something to do with the proportionally small number of anti-Trump activists in attendance. And though this was nominally a protest, which Trump himself had called for, it felt more like a rally-in-waiting. They were all waiting. Everyone there, myself included, was waiting. Apart from it seeming like hosting an impromptu rally on the courthouse steps was something he would do, there was no reason to believe Trump would come out and deliver a speech after his arraignment. The anticipation was palpable. Would there be an address? A fight? A glimpse of the man walking out, a wave to the crowd, and his signature two thumbs-up?

In every direction, I saw and heard the sights so closely associated with the Trump fandom. Blacks for Trump were there, in far greater numbers than I expected, and the circling cars in the caravan blasted signature Trump jams like “YMCA” and “Tiny Dancer.” Red MAGA hats were ubiquitous, as were Trump 2024 flags in various colors. There were also banners, T-shirts, and yes, more flags, featuring the former president as Rambo and a gladiator, among other things. All of this stuff was for sale, and it wasn’t until I passed the merch mongers a few times that I realized how strange their presence was. There’s an entire Trump economy, so to speak, a cottage industry built around political support for the man, and it’s present wherever he is.

Virtually every Trump protestor I talked to was worried that, in one form or another, the arraignment was existential. They weren’t anxious about it, this was just a casual truth they seemed to feel some comfort in relaying. One woman I interviewed said the Trump charges were a witch hunt, adding “Of all elections, this is the most important election. If we don’t win in 2024, basically our country is over.” After that we chatted about all the rain we’ve been getting down here. It was a conversation I would have again and again: the country is ending, a quick shift to the weather, and then, finally, when is Trump showing up? Which door do you think he’ll be walking into? Someone mentioned an underground entrance — he’d probably go through there, that makes the most sense. Right? Should we walk over? But nobody seemed particularly stressed about the question. This was all just chit-chat. Despite the potentially existential political circumstances, and the heat, people seemed happy to be there. They were having a good time. 

By around 2PM, word spread that Trump was in the courthouse. I was drenched in sweat and vaping furiously, growing ever more frustrated at the uselessness of my phone (service in the area had been overloaded then for hours). I fanned myself with a flier one of the Blacks for Trump guys handed me, now limp in the humidity. It was a deeply schizophrenic document, a sort of Dr. Bronner’s soap bottle for black right wingers, an eclectic mix of screenshotted articles and legal documents, advanced hotep references, and Bible verses. There were references to the Rothschilds, UFOs, ancient Egypt, and the term “RHINO.” The main story, meaning the one with text large enough to read, was a long, largely punctuation-free defense of a Blacks for Trump guy named Jason Bembry, recently arrested in Tallahasee for the repeated rape of a 14-year-old girl. According to the flier, the rape charges were politically motivated and brought by a racist prosecutor who is “knowingly falsly [sic] accusing” Bembry “because he believes in God and Conservatism.” Attached to the headline about Bremby was a reference to Revelations 12:10-12:

And I heard a loud voice saying in heaven, Now is come salvation, and strength, and the kingdom of our God, and the power of his Christ: for the accuser of our brethren is cast down, which accused them before our God day and night.

I wandered about some more, and began to suspect, as similar as it was to a standard Trump rally, you could really only get this one here: the accented chants, the man with a Trump flag in one hand and a Nicaraguan flag in the other, the lively Spanish conversation (“¡es una desgracia!”). At one point, all I could see over the crowd was a pole with two flags: a blue Trump 2024 flag, and a flag for InfoWars. Beside them someone was holding a giant crucifix — that’s Miami.

Around 3:30PM, the TV news reporters with people on the inside started saying Trump had plead not guilty on all 37 counts. After that, they’d just have to set his bond and the whole thing would be over. I saw people, including photographers and camera crews, heading over to the tape in front of the courtyard, so I followed them. Somehow, I secured a spot where I could zoom past a cameraman’s head and get a full shot of Trump when and if he came out to address his supporters. While we waited for what felt like forever, I carried on vaping, of course, and one of the “real” journalists up front made a huge show of waving away the smoke. She was not a fan of vaping, I surmised, so I lit a cigarette and carried on.

Shortly after 4:00PM, journalists who’d been inside the courtroom started sprinting out — literally running — notepads in hand, to meet their colleagues across the other side of the yellow tape. An older white guy on the phone next to me said that his dad was inside and that Trump had just been released “without bond, travel restrictions, none of that shit.”

“I don’t know if he’s gonna come out here or over there or what? He could leave through the underground tunnel. I don't know,” the guy continued. A more optimistic, middle-aged Cuban guy took his place, and hoisted his kid up in the tree I was leaning against. Wearing a MAGA hat that was way too big for his head, the boy was seven or eight years old. His dad patted him on the back. “He’ll be out any minute. You’re gonna remember this for the rest of your life.”

As we waited, longer and longer, and the camera crews started peeling away, I wondered if he would.

I walked over to the blocked off street on the other side of the courthouse, hoping that perhaps I could catch the motorcade leaving. The caravan of Trump supporters circling the courthouse in their cars continued to circle the block. Like me, they probably didn’t realize Trump had already left. The cops must have known, but they still stood around, bicycles at their side. A pack of teenage boys started chanting “Pansexuals for Trump,” and I noticed another teenager with a sign that said “My cock doesn’t work but my mouth does. I’ll blow Trump!” On the other side of the sign was a crude rendering of the former president’s head on a snake’s body, and the words “Please Tread on Me.” I desperately wanted to get a picture of both sides of the sign (I only got one) and perhaps shake his hand, but I didn’t want to lose my spot at the front of the line. More specifically, I didn’t want to explain to Solana that I missed a historic shot of Trump leaving his arraignment, or better yet, rallying his supporters, because I was chasing down a teen with a funny sign. It’s my greatest regret of the event.

I sat on the ground, feeling like a disappointed child. My backpack had rubbed my sunburned shoulders raw, and they were stinging from my sweat. The cars in the caravan continued to honk; the boomers who walked past them smiled and waved. This was their neighborhood, and Trump or no Trump, it was good to be home. They continued shouting, and chanting, and honking.

By 5 PM, it was clear to me and everyone else that Trump had left without a word. I was starving, so I lit another cigarette to dull the pain in my stomach. “We’ve gotta get rid of this democracy,” I grumbled under the sound of the incessant honking, “it’s just too annoying.” It was, I realized as my phone hit two percent, time to go. Miraculously, I got an Uber, and as we drove away I thought of the little boy in the tree, and all the people in the crowd. There was something very Christian about the whole thing, all of them waiting for Trump like a messiah who never came. But they didn’t seem to mind. My mom and dad and all their friends always say they’re preparing themselves for the Second Coming, but the fact that it never seems to happen doesn’t shake them, because that isn’t really the purpose of congregation. All they actually want is to be with other people who think they’re gonna get raptured too. The waiting is the point.

-River Page