As you were finishing your finals at the beginning of this summer, you may remember that there was one story that seemed to draw the collective beady eyes of our most esteemed news organizations. This story was, of course, the criminal trial of former president Donald Trump. Many aspects of this trial were newsworthy: it being the first criminal trial of a former president, the salacious events at the center of the case, and the possible implications a conviction might have on the outcome of Trump’s current campaign for the presidency. These elements would draw the attention of anyone, but this particular event drew me in for a unique reason: I do mock trial. If you weren’t already aware, Clark’s mock trial team prepares to represent both sides of a fictitious court case to gain non-fictitious legal experience (and just have loads of fun). Given this, perhaps it was inevitable that I would eventually find myself in lower Manhattan, trying to catch a glimpse of history. 

To set the scene, a quick logistics crash course. The courtroom where the trial took place prioritized giving space to journalists covering the trial. However, this “trial of the century” did have to save some spots for the public (thanks Ol’ Constitution). We knew that typically, only the first five people got a spot in the actual courtroom, while the next dozen or so had a shot at getting into an overflow room, where cameras would livestream the action directly from the actual courtroom. This was still more than you would see on the news, but not enough to satisfy our inner Aaron Burr. We wanted to be in the room where it happens. 

Sunday, May 19th

Given these premises, my brother and I wanted to ensure that we had a spot at the front of the line. Surely, arriving 24 hours in advance would put us first in line! However, when we arrived Sunday morning, we were extremely disappointed to find that there were already eleven people lined up ahead of us.

After talking with two people in front of us (a pro-Trump lady and an anti-Trump elderly man who described himself as a Hobbit), we started to get our first glimpses into the subtle nuances of The Line. The Line is an entity with norms and customs, much like a small country. Traditionally, whoever was lucky enough to be first in line started a paper list, putting their name down first. Whenever anyone else joined the line, the list keeper would add their name to the list, and write down the date and time they started waiting. Of course, this list had no official power. Therefore, the only way the list had any power was if people believed it was legitimate.

Through additional conversations with Trump Lady and The Hobbit, we learned that there were also customs surrounding what it meant to “count” as being in line. They both took the position that one could take time away from being physically in line to rest for a few hours or get food, as long as you had another person from your group there to hold your place. My brother and I broadly agreed with this and started taking alternating shifts. 

At this point, my brother and I had hatched a plan with Trump Lady and The Hobbit to start counting people waiting to get in on Tuesday. Since we didn’t have a separate place to form this line, we had to be ready when the Monday line finished to jump in and assert the legitimacy of our new Tuesday line.

However, late that night, our situation changed dramatically again, as a result of a man who I will simply refer to as The Chairman because of the expansive two person folding chair he brought with him for sleeping. While conversing with The Chairman while my brother was taking his turn to sleep, it became apparent that we had very different conceptions of what it meant to “count” as being in line. He believed that, while it was necessary to leave the line at some points, one should not physically leave the line for more than an hour at a time and certainly shouldn’t be sleeping in hotel rooms. Due to this, I decided that if my brother and I wanted to ensure that we were in the first few spots of the Tuesday line, we needed to adhere to the strictest definition of being in line. So, at around 1:40 am on Monday, I called my brother to come back from the hotel, and our official waiting began. 

Monday, May 20th

On Monday morning, the line grew as people waited for the court lieutenant to come out of the courthouse and distribute passes for the day – a dozen yellow overflow room passes, and a handful of the coveted green passes for the main courtroom itself. The press had also started setting up to broadcast from outside the courthouse. At the same time, a small group of us who were interested in forming a Tuesday line were sitting off to the side, patiently waiting for when the Monday line would end. For the Tuesday line, we had started a new list on a young gentlemen’s notebook. Since he lived in the city, I’ll call him The Local. 

The instant the Monday line subsided, we kicked into action to secure the new line. We made our way into the fenced area where the Monday line had previously been and organized ourselves according to the list as it was written. However, The Local had done some thinking and decided he was going to go home. Depending on how he felt, might come back tomorrow to try and snag a later spot in line, but agreed to leave the notebook so the list could be maintained.

This meant control over the Trump trial line list was passed to me.

Around the same time, people started coming out of the woodwork, claiming (sometimes quite aggressively) that they had been here longer than others and should be placed higher on the list. As the list holder, they all came to me for an answer to their demands. At first, I tried explaining to them that I didn’t really have any power because the list didn’t have power. Sure, I could move people’s names on the piece of paper, but I couldn’t physically move people unless they agreed to move themselves. So, I told them they would need to work out an agreement with that other person if they wished to move their place in line. Yet, the people kept coming with demands, so I had to broker compromises. 

I found ways to take one person aside and say: “look, I’m on your side, but the other people are being really unreasonable, so I can’t get you everything that I want, but I can move you a little,” and then I’d turn around and talk to the other person and say practically the same thing. I felt like the Speaker of the House trying to wrangle votes on a controversial bill. Although it was a little dishonest, I needed the majority of people in line to believe the list was a legitimate and accurate reflection of their place in line. That would ensure they would fight to preserve the list against any future attempts at cutting. After a couple of hours of negotiating and politicking, I finally had resolved most of the disputes, and The Line started to settle and become more fixed. Miraculously, my brother and I had managed to keep ourselves within the first four spots in line. So far, our plan seemed to be working. 

The person who was first in The Line was actually not planning on going in herself but was holding the spot for a relative arriving from out-of-town. When that relative arrived and took over the number one spot, I decided to pass control of the list over to her. I believed her assertive Mom energy would mean she could better stand up to the unreasonable demands that some people were likely to make of the list as opposed to my political science major vibes.

Tuesday, May 21st

As the sun rose on Tuesday, the officers started to lock in the line, and the anticipation continued to build. I was hesitant to believe we would actually make it inside. Yet, the line pushed up to the front, and after the media were sent in, it was time for the general public. First was The Mom, who flew in to take over the spot her relative had been holding. And then The Chairman, rushing to pack up his folding chair. Next, came my brother and I. An officer came out of the courthouse, handed all four of us green passes, and had us walk across the street to the courthouse. And that was it. Those four green passes meant we were the only members of the general public who would be allowed to sit in the actual courtroom that day. Somehow, against all odds, we had made it.

This article is getting fairly long, so I won’t go into the details of the court proceedings – though I’m planning on writing a separate piece about the experience in the courtroom that day. Instead, I will leave you with my main takeaway, which surprisingly enough, was that thoughtful and considerate political discussion is still alive in this country. Despite the general shouting-match-vibe of American politics, I experienced a lot of constructive and respectful dialogue across political differences. An event like the Trump Trial is likely to prompt very different responses and incite intense emotions, and we did witness one or two instances where people outside the courthouse had verbal confrontations. 

Yet, in line, I had many nuanced conversations about politics with people who I disagreed with. I spoke to a pro-Trump cop about having a fairer tax code and term limits for judges and legislators, and with many anti-Trump people like myself about Biden’s microchip production policy. The tone never reached anywhere close to a shouting match, and curiosity to understand where the other person was coming from moved discussions forward. In the end, I came away from the trial feeling somewhat hopeful because I saw firsthand that discourse isn’t dead in this country. If it can survive at the Trump trial, it can survive anywhere.