After the shots rang out. After someone shouted, “Get down!” After what seemed like an eternity staring at my colleagues’ shoes. After watching Trump’s cabinet rushed out—terror etched on many of their faces—by men with their fingers on their triggers. After a Capitol Police officer asked me if I’d seen the congresswoman he thought might have been at the next table. After being told to leave, and trooping up an elevator past men in ballistic helmets with long guns going down the other elevator. After gathering with my colleagues and trying to process what happened, I went to the elevator and pressed 10, because I wanted to go to my room.
When I walked down the darkened, sinuous corridor to room 10235, one door short of the very end, I was stopped by a polite man in a suit and an earpiece. “Sorry, sir, you can’t come through,” he said. And I saw that further down the turn of the corridor behind him were at least five men, one in an FBI bulletproof vest, another with a Secret Service Police windbreaker.
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