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There are a few names closely associated with the aftermath of January 6. Donald Trump, of course. The “QAnon Shaman,” for obvious reasons. And Ashli Babbitt. She was the only person shot by a Capitol Police officer that day, after she climbed through a broken glass panel. Almost immediately, rioters who witnessed her shooting recognized its symbolism. Myths began to spring up about her life. Trump began to mention her at rallies, and raised suspicion around the circumstances of her death.
Two years later, this mythologizing crashed into our mundane domestic reality when we, two journalists who are also partners, went on a dog walk and got into a verbal altercation with some neighbors. We soon realized that one of these neighbors was Babbitt’s mother. Her name is Micki Witthoeft, and she moved to Washington, D.C., in an attempt to restore her daughter’s reputation, and to help rewrite the history of January 6.
In this new six-part podcast series, we get to know Witthoeft and her mission. She is many things to many people—“Mama Micki” to the January 6 perpetrators, mother of a dead domestic terrorist to others. But to us, she’s something else; she’s our neighbor.
The following is a transcript of the episode:
Lauren Ober: When the neighbor incident first happened, it didn’t really feel much like anything. Or maybe we were both too stunned to take it all in.
Hanna Rosin: It wasn’t until we started telling other people the story and they reacted that it began to feel like maybe we’d discovered something.
Ober: I guess it started just like any other dog walk. Hanna and I leashed up our pups and set out from our house on our post-dinner stroll. It was early November of 2023, and I remember it was unseasonably warm. We headed off down the hill from our house, towards our neighborhood park.
[Music]
Rosin: A block past the park, Lauren spotted it: A black Chevy Equinox with Texas plates we’d seen parked around the neighborhood. Just a basic American SUV except for the stickers that covered the back windshield—
Ober: —stickers we’re very much not used to seeing in our mixed-race, mixed-income neighborhood. Our vibe is more like, Make D.C. the 51st state, and, No taxation without representation.
But these stickers were a combo platter of skulls and American flags. There was a Roman numeral for three—the symbol of a militia group called the Three Percenters—and the pièce de résistance: a giant decal in the center of the back window that read, free our patriots. j4j6, meaning, Justice for January 6.
Rosin: Lauren notices every new or different thing in the neighborhood, and this car was definitely different. As we walked past it, Lauren said what she always said when we saw this car.
Ober: “There’s that fucking militiamobile again!”
Right after I said that moderately unneighborly thing, the passenger-side window rolled down, cigarette smoke curled out of the car, and the person inside shouted, “Justice for J6!”
Rosin: To which Lauren said—
Ober: “You’re in the wrong neighborhood for that, honey.” And then the woman in the car said words I’m not going to forget anytime soon: “We live here now. So suck it, bitch.”
We’ll get to who that person is soon enough. But we’re not there yet. When we first encountered the woman from the car, we had no idea who we were dealing with. I just knew I was sufficiently put in my place. “Well, okay,” I remember saying to Hanna as we walked back home.
Rosin: I remember, after it happened, we walked away in total silence. That’s my memory—each of us looping in our own heads about something.
Ober: I remember being mad because I lost. (Laughs.)
Rosin: Right.
Ober: Because I didn’t get the final word, and because I just kept thinking, like, the whole combination of it felt bad to me. It’s like, Militia stickers. Justice for J6. We live here. You just called me a name. The whole thing was very out of place. And I felt it was a little destabilizing.
Rosin: Yeah, yeah. I walked home in a half hypervigilant-neighborhood-watch brain—like, Who lives here now? What are they doing here? Are we going to get into more of these confrontations?—and a half journalism brain, like, Who’s we? Where do they live? Why are there here now? Those were my two tracks when I was walking home.
[Music]
Ober: I’m Lauren Ober.
Rosin: And I’m Hanna Rosin.
Ober: And from The Atlantic, this is We Live Here Now.
Most of the country watched January 6 from a safe distance: something happening in their Twitter feeds or on their phone screens. But for those of us living in D.C., it was happening in our backyard.
Donald Trump: I know that everyone here will soon be marching over to the Capitol building to peacefully and patriotically make your voices heard.
Rioter: Start making a list. Put all those names down. And we start hunting them down one by one.
Person on bullhorn inside Congress: We had a disbursement of tear gas in the Rotunda. Please be advised there are masks under your seats. Please grab a mask.
[Music]
All Things Considered host Ailsa Chang: In Washington, D.C., a curfew has now taken effect from 6 p.m. Eastern tonight to 6 a.m. Thursday morning.
Ober: So we were actually left with the wreckage of that day. We were in a militarized city. We were living under a curfew. Streets were blocked off. The windows were all boarded up. And you felt like you were living, if not in a warzone, in a dangerous place.
Rosin: And there was National Guard everywhere. All the stores were closed, and there were very few regular people walking around doing regular things. And I was just thinking, Where am I? What city is this?
Ober: Right. I bought a baseball bat for protection.
Rosin: I remember that.
Ober: Which is why, two-plus years later, it felt like this whole period of time we’d rather forget was racing back. Donald Trump was looking like he’d be the Republican nominee, and a second Trump presidency seemed possible. Plus, we had a car with militia stickers lurking in our neighborhood.
Rosin: So no, we did not welcome January 6 supporters creeping back to the scene of the crime. But also, we wanted to know what they were up to.
[Music]
Ober: In the immediate aftermath of January 6, there were three names I associated with what happened at the Capitol: The QAnon Shaman, for obvious reasons; Oath Keepers founder Stewart Rhodes because he seemed really dangerous, and also he had an eye patch; and Ashli Babbitt, who has everything to do with our new neighbors’ arrival in D.C.
Four people died that day, but I only remember hearing about Ashli. Maybe that’s because she was the only rioter killed by law enforcement.
Ashli Babbitt was a Trump diehard, so it’s not surprising she made her way to D.C. for the rally. She was a Second Amendment–loving libertarian. She wholeheartedly believed in MAGA and QAnon. During the pandemic, she was hostile about mask mandates and refused to get vaccinated. When California issued a stay-at-home order, she tweeted, “This is that commie bullshit!”
Rosin: The day before her death, Ashli tweeted in QAnon speak: “Nothing will stop us….they can try and try and try but the storm is here and it is descending upon D.C. in less than 24 hours….dark to light!”
Ashli Babbitt: We are walking to the Capitol in a mob. There’s an estimated over 3 million people here today. So despite what the media tells you, boots on ground definitely say something different. There is a sea of nothing but red, white, and blue.
Ober: On the day of the riots, she seemed genuinely thrilled to be there.
Babbitt: And it was amazing to get to see the president talk. We are now walking down the inaugural path to the Capitol building, 3 million plus people. God bless America, patriots.
Rosin: More like 50,000 people, give or take. And a few thousand of them went into the Capitol—or, more accurately, broke in. When the mob of protestors breached the Capitol, busting windows and breaking down doors, Ashli was right there in the mix.
Rioter: There’s so many people. They’re going to push their way up here.
Rosin: There are four videos shot by rioters that capture this moment in its entirety: Ashli strides down a hallway like she knows where she’s going. She’s followed by other rioters, but they’re suddenly stopped when they come to a set of doors with large window panels. Through the windows, you can make out congresspeople being evacuated away from the growing mob. The crowd Ashli is with has accidentally landed at the bullseye, the actual place where these congresspeople were about to certify the election.
[Crowd noise]
Rosin: On the other side of the doors is a cop with a gun, although it’s unclear if Ashli can see him. She’s the only woman in a sea of men, and she’s small, and she seems to be yelling.
Ashli: It’s our fucking house. We’re allowed to be in here. You’re wrong.
Rosin: “It’s our fucking house. We’re allowed to be in here. You’re wrong.”
One of the rioters breaks a window, and then, out of nowhere, Ashli tries to climb through it.
[Crowd noise]
Rosin: The cop shoots.
Rioter: Oh! Oh, shit! Shots fired! Shots fired!
Rosin: She immediately falls backwards and lands on the floor. She jerks and convulses, and blood pours out of her mouth.
Rioter 1: She’s dead.
Rioter 2: She’s dead?
Rioter 1: She’s dead. I saw the light go out in her eyes. I saw the lights go out.
Rioter 2: What happened, bro? Tell the world.
Rosin: And then something happens right after she dies. It’s a detail I missed at first, but it turned out to be a spark for everything that would happen since that day. People around Ashli take out their cell phones and start filming.
Rioter 1: This individual says he actually saw her die. He actually saw her die.
Rioter 2: I’ll post that video. I have the video. I have the video of the guy with the gun, and they’re shooting her.
Rioter: Okay. I want to get with you. I’m with Infowars.com. I’m with Infowars.com.
Rioter 2: “Jayden X.” Have you ever heard of that?
Rosin: One person says he’s from Infowars and offers to buy footage from someone closer.
Rioter 1: I want to get your info right now if you got that shot.
Rioter 2: I have it all. I was right at the door.
Rioter 2: Okay. I need that footage, man. It’s going to go out to the world. It’s going to change so much.
Rosin: Even in the chaos they realize: A martyr was born.
Ober: Rumors spread immediately that the woman killed was 25, 21, a mere teenager. In actual fact, Ashli was 35. But the details didn’t matter. She was a young, white woman in the prime of her life shot dead by a Black officer. People were quick to point out that she was a veteran—a war hero, even—purportedly upholding her oath to defend the Constitution when she died.
On far-right, pro-Trump message boards post-January 6, Ashli was called a freedom fighter and the “first victim of the second Civil War.” One person wrote: “Your blood will not be in vain. We will avenge you.”
Rosin: People who came to January 6 thought they were saving our democracy from evil forces trying to steal an election.
Three years later, some of them still think that. And now, those same evil forces are keeping J6 “freedom fighters” in prison. Justice for January 6—that’s what those window stickers on the Chevy are about.
Ober: This conspiracy has gotten more elaborate over time: The insurrection was a setup, or, The prosecution of January 6 rioters represented gross government overreach, or, The government can turn on its own citizens, even kill them.
Rosin: A lot of the people who believe these things have taken their cues from one woman: Ashli’s mother. Her name is Micki Witthoeft.
Micki Witthoeft: Ashli was a beloved daughter, wife, sister, granddaughter, niece, and aunt. But beyond that, she was the single bravest person I have ever known. She was the quintessential American woman. Today is a dark day for our family and this country, for they have lost a true patriot. I would like to invite Donald J. Trump to say her name—
[Music]
Ober: It took us a minute, but with the help of some friends, we finally figured out that Micki was our new neighbor. I wasn’t sure what I thought about having Ashli Babbitt’s grieving mother come back to the place where her daughter was killed. Why was she here, in our D.C. neighborhood? What did she want? Was there some sort of future Jan. 6 on the horizon? It all felt just a little too close for comfort.
In the days after our run-in with the neighbor, I Googled ’til my eyeballs dried out. There were a lot of videos on social media that featured Micki but not a lot of solid information. I reported what I could find to Hanna.
Ober: Do you want to know what the house is called?
Rosin: What?
Ober: The Eagle’s Nest.
Rosin: Oh, stop. (Laughs.) What?
Ober: Yeah.
Rosin: No, we don’t have the Eagle’s Nest in our neighborhood.
Ober: What does the Eagle’s Nest mean to you?
Rosin: Some patriot thing.
Ober: No. Well, sure, one would think, Oh, it’s patriotic, right? American Eagle.
Rosin: Mm-hmm.
Ober: It’s where all the eagles go. But do you know who else had a very particular property called the Eagle’s Nest?
Rosin: No.
Ober: Well, I’ll tell you. It’s Adolf Hitler. However, to quote Micki, who explained to HuffPost why they called the house the Eagle’s Nest:
Ober: She said, We call our house the Eagle’s Nest, which some would say was Hitler’s hideout. But we’re American citizens, and we won that war, and we’re taking back the name. So this is absolutely not an ode to Hitler.
Ober: Here’s what else I found out: The online videos of Micki didn’t exactly make me want to bring over a tray of homemade, “Welcome to the neighborhood” brownies. Lots of shouting and scowling and general unpleasantness.
Witthoeft: Why are you all here if you’re going to let that happen? He said, Why the hell are you all here?
Person 2: He said that to you? That was very unprofessional!
Person 3: They’re fascists.
Ober: In one clip online, Micki is being arrested for “blocking and obstructing roadways.” She was at a march to honor the second anniversary of her daughter’s death, and she walked into the street one too many times. The D.C. cops did not appreciate that, and they let her know it.
It wasn’t the only time she got into it with the cops. A year later—
Witthoeft: I try to show y’all respect. I’ve been arrested twice, and I’ve done it peacefully. That’s bullshit. Your man is bullshit. That’s bullshit.
Officer: I wasn’t down here, so I can speak to how—
Ober: There were more than a few videos of Micki and her housemates getting into dustups with D.C. folks who didn’t seem to appreciate their presence in their city.
Person 1: Get the fuck outta here.
Person 2: Get the fuck off of me, bitch. Get the fuck off, the fuck off. Get the fuck off.
Person 3: Hey! We caught it on video.
Person 2: Stop fucking touching my shit.
Person 3: Get out of here, you pansy.
Ober: But later, in the same video, there’s this: Our new neighbors are getting harassed by anti-J6 protestors, folks who like to chalk the sidewalk with phrases like “Micki is a grifter.” There are a number of D.C. cops on the scene. I get tense just watching it. Finally, Micki snaps and screams at them.
Officer: I heard all the commotion. That’s why I got out. I can’t see—I didn’t see what happened out here.
Person 2: I had to beg him to get out of his car.
Witthoeft: You can tell your man that the reason I’m here is because three years ago today, y’all killed my kid. That’s why I’m here.
[Music]
Ober: Right. She’s a mom, and the police killed her kid. That’s why she’s here. She wants to make sure her dead daughter isn’t forgotten and that someone is held accountable for what happened.
And one way to do that is to maybe get yourself arrested, or at least show up everywhere—January 6 trials, congressional hearings, the Supreme Court, rallies, marches, my neighborhood.
Another way for people to take notice? A nightly vigil outside the D.C. jail, every single night for more than 700 nights.
Rosin: And we mean every night, in the rain or scorching heat. Without fail, Micki and a few supporters stand on what they call Freedom Corner and talk on the phone with the J6 defendants held inside the jail.
Ober: As I explained to Hanna:
Ober: Every night at 7 p.m., these apparently true patriots—
Rosin: Mm-hmm.
Ober: —come out, and they have a vigil for all of the January 6 defendants who are currently being held in the jail, either awaiting trial or awaiting sentencing.
Rosin: Mm-hmm.
Ober: And every night, they get a January 6 inmate on the phone, and they put them on the speaker, and then they join in singing, like, the national anthem or “America the Beautiful,” and they’re chanting, like, “Justice for Ashli.” And the evening ends, often, with “God Bless [the U.S.A.],” Lee Greenwood.
Rosin: Who’s the “they”?
Ober: So there’s a small cadre of true believers who believe that the people in the D.C. jail are political prisoners.
Rosin: Interesting.
[Music]
Rosin: Interesting is a boring thing to say. I get that. But I was only just starting to put this whole picture together, that Micki and her friends were not in D.C. just to cause chaos. They were here to push a narrative that these people—the same ones who turned our city upside down—were victims of a colossal injustice. And also, that January 6 was actually a totally appropriate exercise of freedom and liberty.
And their version of the story was getting traction with some important people—actually, the most important person.
Trump: I am the political prisoner of a failing nation, but I will soon be free on November 5, the most important day in the history of our country, and we will together make America great again. Thank you.
Rosin: If our interactions with our new neighbors had unfolded more like the typical neighborhood showdown—my MAGA hat versus your dump trump sign—things might have been easier because that would be just straight-up neighbor warfare, pure mutual hatred.
Ober: But it didn’t happen that way. Instead, two opposite dramas unfolded: (1) We got an up-close, intimate view of how history gets rewritten. Call it the lost-cause narrative for the 21st century: A group of Americans immediately sets to work retooling the history of an event through tweets and podcasts and viral video clips, in a way that distorts collective memory forever.
Rosin: But then, (2) our new neighbors became real people to us. We also got an up-close, intimate view of them, their monumental grief, their sleepless nights, their deep friendship—things that make it harder to purely hate on someone.
Ober: This woman, Micki Witthoeft, is many things to many people—Mama Micki to the January 6 defendants, mother of a dead domestic terrorist to others. But to us, she’s something else—she’s our neighbor.
Ober: Do you want to hear something rotten?
Micki: I don’t know if I do, but I will.
Ober: After months of getting to know Micki, I felt like I needed to confess something. She had been telling me how people in the neighborhood had generally been nice to them, except for this one time. One of her roommates, Nicole, had been sitting in the car, and these two women walked by and said something totally rude, and—I know, you’ve already heard the story before.
Ober: Nicole sitting in the car—that was me. And I’m fully disgusted with myself and embarrassed. Like, because that’s not how I want to be treated, and that’s not how I want to think about people. But I did it.
Micki: Oh, well, I’m surprised you—I’m impressed that you admitted that to me. I really am. That’s going to be interesting when I tell Nicole.
Ober: Since that incident, I’ve spent a lot of time with Micki trying to understand her cause, her politics, and her anger. I’ve had many moments where I thought: What the hell am I doing, getting all caught up in their revisionist history of January 6? But what I can tell you is that Micki is not who I thought she was.
She is every bit as fiery as she comes off in speeches and confrontations with people who want her out of this city. After nearly a year of knowing her, I’m still terrified of her. I have never before in my life met a person with such penetrating eyes, and she wields them to great effect. If she is staring you down, I promise you, you will find no relief.
Ober: So the window rolls down, and I guess Nicole said, you know, “Justice for J6!” Right? Reflexively, in two seconds, I go, “Well, you’re in the wrong neighborhood for that.” Right? Now, I feel like you would appreciate that because sometimes things pop out of your mouth that maybe you didn’t think about. I am a person who is very guilty of that, as my mouth runs away with me.
So, I said that, and she goes, “We live here now. So suck it, bitch.” (Laughs.)
Micki: That’s my Nicole. (Laughs.)
Ober: And I was like, Well, okay.
[Music]
Rosin: When we first ran into the militiamobile, we didn’t know anything about Micki and her crew. We thought anyone could be living in that house, with that car. Maybe it was an actual militia headquarters with a cache of weapons in the basement. Maybe it was just some wacko whose patriotism had gone totally sideways.
Ober: But now, after nearly a year of reporting this story, we know so much more. And in the rest of the series, we are going to take you through this upside-down world we landed in—where we found ourselves talking conspiracies.
Micki: I don’t know what I believe them capable of. Is it eating babies and drinking their blood? I don’t think so. But I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know what they’re up to.
Ober: How you can suddenly find yourself joking with January 6ers about militias?
Nicole: If you’re going to come down here, you’ve got to know your militias straight.
Ober: You know, I can’t—there are too many splinter groups and, you know.
Nicole: There’s factions. There’s levels. There’s color coding. (Laughs.)
Ober: Listen. When the gay militia happens, I’m there, okay? When that happens. Until then—
Nicole: Well, we’re a country of militias, you know.
Ober: And wondering, What could possibly be coming for us?
Rosin: Like, how long are you going to stay in D.C.?
Brandon Fellows: I plan to stay ’til, like, January 7. (Laughs.)
Rosin: That feels vaguely threatening.
Fellows: I could see why you would say that.
Rosin: That’s coming up on We Live Here Now.
Ober: We Live Here Now is a production of The Atlantic. The show was reported, written, and executive produced by me, Lauren Ober. Hanna Rosin reported, wrote, and edited the series. Our senior producer is Rider Alsop. Our producer is Ethan Brooks. Original scoring, sound design, and mix engineering by Brendan Baker.
This series was edited by Scott Stossel and Claudine Ebeid. Fact-checking by Michelle Ciarrocca. Art direction by Colin Hunter. Project management by Nancy DeVille.
Claudine Ebeid is the executive producer of Atlantic audio, and Andrea Valdez is our managing editor.
The Atlantic’s executive editor is Adrienne LaFrance. Jeffrey Goldberg is The Atlantic’s editor-in-chief.
Nicole. And then did I say something like, Well, bitch, I live here now, or something?
Ober: Very close to that. “We live here now, so—”
Nicole: Get used to it?
Ober: No.
Nicole: Suck it? Fuck it?
Ober: No. You’re right on the “suck it.”
Nicole: (Laughs.) I don’t know.
Ober: “Suck it,” what? “Suck it,” who?
Nicole: Suck it, fascist? (Laughs.) So much more fascist than me. Don’t tell me what I said.
Ober: You said, “Suck it, bitch.”
Nicole: Oh! Okay. Okay.