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I love being in the House or Senate on great days. There is just something about being in the room where this is happening. It’s more than just a story. It’s history, and it’s a privilege to tell people about it.
Even in the midst of a pandemic – I have an 18-month-old son – I jumped at the chance to watch the Electoral College vote count. It is normally a moment of ceremony, a sort of epilogue to the long campaign. But this time it was different. There would be objections from President Trump’s allies to attempt to overturn an election the president lost. It promised to be dramatic, this consolidation of the victory of President-elect Joe Biden.
But my husband was worried. Trump had encouraged the protests and he feared it would turn violent.
After putting the baby to bed on Tuesday night, he kindly asked me to be careful. “Wear street clothes that allow you to blend in with the crowd,” he told me. “Jeans and a t-shirt.”
I arrived around 11:15 am Wednesday, almost two hours before things started. I didn’t want to miss 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 President’s dais, and began to watch the joint session of Congress.
Senators and members of Parliament did not go very far. They counted the votes in alphabetical order of states. First came Alabama, then Alaska. When they arrived in Arizona, Sen. Ted Cruz (R-Texas) and Rep. Paul Gosar (R-Ariz.) Opposed the recording of the state’s 11 electoral votes. Each chamber retired to its own chamber to discuss their objections.
I stayed in the gallery of the house. Only half a dozen lawmakers had finished speaking when I heard that there might be problems. I was taking notes on my laptop when my phone rang at 1:41 p.m. It was a text message from a member of the house staff giving me an alert from the Capitol Police.
“The Cannon building is in the process of performing an internal relocation due to police activity,” the alert said. “All other staff are to remain inside their building until further guidance is received from the USCP. If you are outside a building on Capitol Hill, follow the instructions from law enforcement officers … Additional information will be provided as it becomes available. “
I had been following the events on Twitter and knew the protesters were outside the Capitol. The alert pissed me off, but it’s Capitol Hill, and threats are common.
Thirty minutes later, I headed up the stairs and into the press offices to see if I could find out more. The office emergency radio came to life. Then came the voice of a woman, who sounded panicked: “Due to an external security threat located on the western front of the US Capitol, no entry or exit is permitted at this time. You can walk around the whole building, but stay away from windows and exterior doors. If you are outside, seek shelter.
I knew what I had to do. I walked down the stairs to my laptop. It was 2:15 p.m. After typing an update for my editors, I looked over the bedroom railing and noticed that House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-San Francisco ), second after the presidency, had left. It was obvious that her security service had put her to safety.
I heard a ruckus behind me and turned and saw a dozen reporters being ushered into the gallery from the press offices. Then the police closed and locked the doors. Police interrupted proceedings to announce that tear gas had been deployed in the rotunda.
A member of staff handed me an exhaust hood, a bulky plastic bag that filters tear gas and chemicals. She told me to pass it and others in the row until everyone had one. Journalists weren’t the only ones in the gallery. Staff members followed the proceedings. More than a dozen lawmakers had also taken their places in the public galleries overlooking the floor of the House. Now we were locked in the room together.
On the ground, Representative Ruben Gallego (D-Ariz.), A former combat sailor, held his escape hood and instructed the other members how to use it. There were around 150 lawmakers there, and Gallego was screaming for their attention.
“Open the first package!” He shouted.
“Then open the second!”
“The hood will then inflate above your head!”
Minutes later, police escorted Gallego and other lawmakers out of the room through a side door. A few lawmakers helped plainclothes officers grappling with a huge library and pushed it past the main double doors of the chamber, the same as the President enters for the State of the Union address.
The knocking on the door began. The officers drew their rifles.
One of them looked up and saw reporters and about two dozen representatives and staff climbing the upper gallery railings to the doors.
“Crouch on the ground!” He shouted. “Get as low as possible!”
I crawled behind a row of chairs and looked up when a representative began to pray. Another member was talking loudly into his cell phone, offering game by game. Several lawmakers were crying.
I heard the glass on the main bedroom door crack. I glanced around the bedroom as Rep. Markwayne Mullin (R-Okla.) Tried to reason with those trying to make their way inside.
A loud creak cut through the air. It looked like a gunshot. And then it became calm.
The officers shouted for the gallery lawmakers to leave, but none of those present had the key to the door. Lawmakers and police got into a fight to open the door and escape. Police wanted lawmakers to race for it.
Members disagreed. “Don’t open that door!” shouted a representative as an officer in the hallway fumbled with the door. “We don’t know who is behind this!”
I crawled over to where Rep Norma Torres (D-Pomona) was kneeling. She gave me a hug and asked me about my baby, and I told her he was fine.
She took my photo on her phone and posted on Twitter, tagging @latimes to alert my coworkers that I was fine.
“Can I do the most difficult part of my job and ask you what you are thinking right now?” I asked.
It took him a second to compose his thoughts. “It’s horrible that it’s America, the United States of America and this is what we have to go through because Trump called on local terrorists to come to Capitol Hill and invalidate people’s votes,” he said. she declared.
Moments later, Capitol Police opened the doors to the gallery. They told us to get out quickly. They took us to a safe place. As we made our way to the stairs to the third floor, I could see several policemen standing over half a dozen rioters lying face down on the marble floor with their hands behind their heads.
It hit me suddenly – I realized I had not yet told my husband that I was safe.
“I’m fine. Be evacuated,” I texted him at 2:57 pm, too overwhelmed to go into detail.
“Great exhale,” he replied. “Okay. Keep me posted. I love you.”
The police told us to follow them. We walked for several minutes, down a maze towards corridors and a spiral staircase. I have been working at the Capitol for eight years and I cannot tell you which route we have taken. As lawmakers, reporters and staff continued to move forward, I slowed down so I could speak with a visibly shaken representative. Jimmy Gomez (D-Los Angeles). He was furious. I pulled out my phone and hit the record. He took a second to find his words.
“This shouldn’t happen in the United States,” he said, his eyes rimmed with tears.
We have reached a secure room. That’s all I can say about it at the moment. It was big and filled with leather chairs and walnut tables, and you saw it on TV. It was already packed with lawmakers, staff and other journalists. As members tapped their phones and were briefed by security officials on the state of the rioting, staff handed out Goldfish crackers, fruit snacks and small bottles of water.
A member led a prayer. Another, a former ER doctor, reminded me to stay hydrated. A group of Democrats complained that Republicans did not wear masks.
I went looking for California lawmakers and started interviewing them. After each, I uploaded the audio to my colleagues in my office to add to the stories on our website.
One member pleaded with his colleagues not to interview journalists. They feared that we would accidentally betray our position.
Kimbriell Kelly, my boss, messaged me asking for a first person video of what it was in the room. I said I couldn’t. Lawmakers were “in a panic that I might inadvertently disclose their location,” I told him. “I’ll do it in writing if it’s okay?”
This detail “hit me in the stomach,” she replied.
An hour passed. My husband sent me a photo of my smiling baby. It tore me apart.
Just after 5:30 p.m., the Sergeant-at-Arms, the House’s top security official, announced that the Capitol had been secured, but urged members to stay put. He wanted a little more time, he said, to keep them safe. Ninety minutes later, Pelosi came to speak to the other members (some had returned to their offices). The speaker criticized the “crowds desecrating the halls of the United States Capitol” and said the House and Senate would return immediately to complete their work. The speaker said she didn’t want the rioters to think they won.
Forty-five minutes later, more than four hours after being locked inside, I was allowed to leave. There was only one place for me.
I went back upstairs to the gallery – to tell the story.
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