I propped myself up against the headboard. As much as this disgusted me, I have to admit to some fascination. I was watching a televised hanging. This could have been taking place in Iran or North Korea or so many other places lacking a working legal system, but it wasn’t: This was here, in what had once been America. I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.

The president received an enthusiastic welcome. As he came onstage he pointed at someone in the audience, as if he had recognized them, and smiled, then waved to the audience. After basking in their applause, he held up his hands for quiet. “Thank you. Thank you, my friends.” He paused long enough to take a deep and meaningful breath, then looked up to the rafters and admitted, “I never thought I would say these words, but it is not a pleasure for myself or the first lady…” He pointed to her sitting in the front row and smiled reassuringly; as the audience cheered for her the camera caught her kissing her palm and blowing it to him. “… for us to be here with you. Unfortunately, it is absolutely necessary. It was a wise man who said, ‘Where the rule of law breaks down, there is chaos.’”

“He’s damn right about that,” Officer Stillman agreed loudly.

Wrightman reminded Americans that we could not relax our vigil because “there are evil people right in front of you, whose sole purpose is to bring harm to good and decent folks.” “You’re damn right!” Stillman said, indicating the TV.

As the camera dollied-in, he spoke directly “to those good people who might wonder why we are broadcasting this historic event. I understand your reticence. Let me assure you this is nothing new. This country has a long and proud history of public executions. Only recently have we begun hiding executions behind closed doors, as if we should be ashamed of defending the right of all Americans to live safely…”

As Wrightman continued, the director cut to different locales around the country, showing people of all ages gathered together in small groups, watching in awed reverence. From the headquarters of New Orleans’s Pete’s Pistols militia headquarters to a bus station in Aurora, North Carolina; from a high school gymnasium in Hopping, Arizona, where students filled the bleachers, to a bowling alley in Yukon, Oregon, the image was eerily similar: no one was talking, every eye transfixed on the broadcast.

“Let the word go out,” the president concluded, “that from this day forward, to friends and foes alike, wherever they may be, that the torch has been passed to a new and tougher generation of Americans. Ready to defend this country and its leaders, whatever it may take, whatever we have to give, no matter the cost.”

When the president left the stage, the entire audience rose in respect, cheering wildly. In our motel room Stillman once again popped up out of his chair, shaking his fist in support. I glanced at Hicker, still sitting comfortably in Mighty Chair, holding his Styrofoam cup in his hands. Our eyes met and he shook his head just slightly enough to make his point: I can’t believe this shit any more than you can.