Former Capitol Police Chief Delivers Devastating Public Rebuke to Pelosi Over January
Former Capitol Police Chief Delivers Devastating Public Rebuke to Pelosi Over January
The Catalyst: Trump’s DC Crackdown Sparks Old Wounds
The confrontation began when former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi launched a sharp attack on President Trump’s comprehensive federal law enforcement initiative in Washington D.C., which included seizing direct control of the Metropolitan Police Department and activating the D.C. National Guard for street patrols. Pelosi’s criticism went beyond the immediate policy implications to draw direct parallels with Trump’s actions during the January 6 Capitol riot.
“Donald Trump delayed deploying the National Guard on January 6th when our Capitol was under violent attack and lives were at stake,” Pelosi declared in a statement that immediately garnered national attention. “Now, he’s activating the D.C. Guard to distract from his incompetent mishandling of tariffs, health care, education and immigration — just to name a few blunders.”
Pelosi’s statement represented more than routine political opposition; it was a deliberate attempt to frame Trump’s current law enforcement initiatives through the lens of his alleged failures during the Capitol riot. By invoking January 6, Pelosi sought to raise questions about Trump’s commitment to law enforcement and public safety, positioning herself as a defender of institutional security against presidential overreach.
The former Speaker’s decision to make this comparison proved to be a significant tactical error, as it provided an opening for someone with intimate knowledge of the January 6 security preparations to challenge her narrative directly and publicly.
Steven Sund’s Devastating Response: A Point-by-Point Rebuttal
Former U.S. Capitol Police Chief Steven Sund’s response to Pelosi was swift, comprehensive, and devastating in its specificity. Sund, who resigned in the immediate aftermath of January 6, used his unique position as the person responsible for Capitol security to systematically dismantle Pelosi’s characterization of events.
“Ma’am, it is long past time to be honest with the American people,” Sund began his statement, immediately establishing a tone of moral authority and calling into question Pelosi’s truthfulness. This opening salvo suggested that Sund viewed Pelosi’s comments not as mere political rhetoric, but as a fundamental misrepresentation of historical facts.
Sund’s statement revealed previously undisclosed details about his efforts to secure National Guard support in the days leading up to January 6. According to his account, on January 3, 2021—three full days before the riot—he formally requested National Guard assistance through proper channels. This timeline detail is crucial because it directly contradicts narratives that suggest security officials were caught off-guard by the potential for violence on January 6.
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The former chief’s revelation that his January 3 request was “shot down by Pelosi’s own Sergeant at Arms” represents perhaps the most explosive element of his statement. This claim suggests that the security failures of January 6 were not the result of poor planning or inadequate intelligence, but rather of deliberate decisions by officials operating under Pelosi’s authority to reject enhanced security measures.
Legal Constraints and Administrative Roadblocks
Sund’s explanation of the legal framework governing National Guard deployment reveals the complex bureaucratic structure that may have contributed to the January 6 security failures. His citation of federal law (2 U.S.C. §1970) provides specific legal grounding for his claim that he was “prohibited from calling them in without specific approval.”
This legal constraint is significant because it suggests that even if Sund had possessed perfect intelligence about the coming violence, he would have been powerless to act without authorization from congressional leadership. The law’s requirement for specific approval creates a chain of accountability that leads directly to House and Senate leadership, including Pelosi in her capacity as Speaker.
Sund’s account of Pentagon involvement adds another layer of complexity to the pre-January 6 security preparations. His claim that “Carol Corbin at the Pentagon offered National Guard support” on January 3, but that he was “forced to decline because I lacked the legal authority,” suggests that federal military officials were prepared to provide assistance but were prevented from doing so by congressional restrictions.
This revelation, if accurate, fundamentally alters the narrative about January 6 preparations by suggesting that adequate security resources were available and offered, but were rejected due to legal and administrative constraints imposed by congressional leadership.
Blackberries, Billionaire Bucks
Blackberries, Billionaire Bucks: The $40 Million Illegal Shipment That Landed a Career Criminal Back in Jail The sweet smell of fruit disguised a bitter, multi-million dollar secret. What started as a regular shipment of blackberries turned into one of the largest seizures of illegal substances this year. Authorities have indicted a previously convicted Mexican illegal immigrant—a man who already did hard time for 17 years on trafficking forbidden goods and a gun charge—after intercepting a mind-blowing cache. Hidden in plain sight, investigators pulled out an astonishing 1,600 pounds of highly restricted goods, with an estimated street value in the tens of millions of dollars. This incredible bust reveals the brazen lengths smugglers go to. See the shocking photos and learn how this ex-con was finally caught in the act. The details are a must-read.
The case was part of Trump’s Homeland Security Task Force initiative targeting drug trafficking operations
An illegal immigrant from Mexico who previously served nearly two decades in federal prison, was indicted Tuesday after allegedly conspiring to move tens of millions of dollars in methamphetamine in the Atlanta area, leading authorities to seize nearly 1,600 pounds of the stimulant drug hidden in blackberry shipments.
Gerardo Solorio-Alvarado, 44, of Mexico, was charged with conspiracy and possession with the intent to distribute methamphetamine.
He previously served 17 years in prison after being convicted of felony possession with the intent to distribute methamphetamine and possession of a gun in a drug trafficking crime.
Gerardo Solorio-Alvarado, 44, of Mexico, is charged with conspiracy and possession with the intent to distribute methamphetamine. (FOX 5 Atlanta)
Officials announced the arrests Wednesday in Georgia, showing off a massive amount of methamphetamine. (@FBIAtlanta via X)
His alleged accomplice, Nelson Enrique Sorto, 36, of Atlanta, was charged with possession with the intent to distribute methamphetamine. He is currently on probation after being convicted in 2024 of felony possession of methamphetamine.
While staking out a cold storage warehouse in Fulton County on Nov. 20, federal agents and Hall County sheriff’s deputies saw three refrigerated box trucks parked outside.
They followed one of the trucks to a gas station in Gainesville and watched as Solorio-Alvarado picked up the driver and left the abandoned box truck at the gas station, according to officials.
The drugs were allegedly found in box trucks transporting blackberries, according to officials. (@FBIAtlanta via X)
After a K-9 alerted officers to the odor of narcotics, agents searched the truck and recovered about 661 pounds of methamphetamine hidden among pallets of blackberries.
Solorio-Alvarado was later arrested while trying to escape out of the back of his Gainesville home, according to authorities. Inside the house, deputies found keys to the abandoned truck.
At the same time, another team of agents followed a second box truck as it traveled in tandem with an SUV, allegedly driven by Sorto, to a home in southeast Atlanta.
The two men arrested were previously convicted of drug-related offenses, according to authorities. (@FBIAtlanta via X)
Shortly after midnight, Sorto left in the SUV with two passengers, and Georgia State Patrol troopers stopped them, finding two guns and several containers of blackberries in the SUV, officials said.
During a subsequent search of the box truck parked outside the Atlanta home, Georgia Bureau of Investigation agents, assisted by the FBI, recovered about 924 pounds of methamphetamine concealed in pallets of blackberries.
Combined, the two seizures amounted to 1,585 pounds of methamphetamine.
Officials said the large amount of meth was worth tens of millions of dollars. (@FBIAtlanta via X)
During a news conference Wednesday, U.S. Attorney Theodore Hertzberg said the two seizures amounted to 1,585 pounds of methamphetamine, worth tens of millions of dollars.
“Solorio-Alvarado was convicted in federal court for drug trafficking and possessing a firearm in furtherance of drug trafficking, and he served nearly two decades in federal prison for those offenses. He was then, and he remains, an illegal alien, unlawfully present in the United States,” Hertzberg said.
“We’ve seen the cartels operate this way before. … We have seen massive methamphetamine seizures of drugs that were smuggled in with cucumbers, celery or jalapeño peppers. And now … blackberries.”
Both men remain in state custody but will be transferred to the U.S. Marshals Service.
After appearing in federal court, Hertzberg said his office will move for them to be held without bail until their cases have been resolved.
Solorio-Alvarado faces at least 15 years in prison because of his criminal history, and Sorto faces at least 10 years in prison. The maximum sentences are life in prison without parole.
The prosecutions are also part of the Homeland Security Task Force (HSTF) initiative established by President Donald Trump’s Jan. 20 executive order “Protecting the American People Against Invasion.”
I FOUND A TODDLER BESIDE HER UNCONSCIOUS MOTHER - THEN I READ THE NOTE IN HER HAND
The rain on Highway 9 took the heat out of Marcus’s engine block before the metal could even cool down on its own.
It was two in the morning, the kind of wet, black night where the asphalt turns into a mirror reflecting nothing back except the yellow line split down the center. Marcus kept his hands firm on the handlebars of his ’98 Harley Electra Glide. The rumble between his knees was the only sound for ten miles in any direction, deep and steady, like a heavy iron pulse. His leather jacket was soaked through at the shoulders, heavy with rain that smelled of wet pine needles, exhaust, and cold dirt.
He wasn't riding toward anything. That was the point. When a man spends five years behind state walls and comes out to find the house he grew up in sold off for back taxes, he stops paying attention to street signs. He just rides until the gas light comes on, fills the tank with crumpled twenties earned from wrenching on diesel rigs, and rides until the road runs out of dry land.
Then the headlight beam caught the glint.
It wasn’t a deer’s eye or a reflector on a mail pole. It was a sharp, jagged flash of red plastic—a broken tail-light lens sitting in the middle of the northbound lane.
Marcus let off the throttle, the engine braking down to a low, rhythmic thrum. He swung the heavy bike toward the shoulder, his high beam cutting through the rain. Fifty yards down the embankment, where the steel guardrail ended near a concrete culvert, a silver sedan sat wedged sideways into the ditch. The front end was crumpled up like a crushed beer can, the hood buckled into a sharp V against a willow tree. Steam hissed off the radiator, mixing with the fog rising off the mud.
“Damn it,” Marcus muttered into his collar.
He pulled the Harley onto the gravel shoulder, clicked the kickstand down, and killed the ignition. Silence swallowed the road instantly, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the drip of rainwater off his helmet visor and the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of his cooling exhaust pipes.
He grabbed a heavy flashlight from his saddlebag, clicked it on, and slid down the muddy slope, his boots sinking two inches into the muck.
The driver’s side window was shattered into a spiderweb of safety glass, half caved inward. Marcus shone the beam inside.
A young woman sat slumped over the steering wheel. Her dark hair was wet, plastered across her forehead and cheek. A thin stream of blood had dried along her jawline, running down from a nasty gash near her temple. Her chest was rising and falling, but the breaths were shallow, rattling softly in her throat.
“Hey,” Marcus called out, pounding his fist against the rear door frame. “Hey! Can you hear me?”
She didn't move. Her fingers were still locked around the rim of the steering wheel, her knuckles white and stiff. Marcus reached through the broken glass, feeling for the pulse at her neck. It was there—racing, weak, but steady.
Then he heard the sound.
It wasn't a cry or a scream. It was a tiny, wet hitch of breath coming from the tall grass six feet behind the rear bumper.
Marcus spun the flashlight around, the white beam cutting across the weeds.
Sitting in the mud, half-shielded by the rear wheel well, was a child.
She couldn't have been more than two years old. She wore a bright pink quilted jacket covered in mud splatters, little yellow rubber boots, and had tufts of fine blond hair sticking up in the rain. She wasn't crying. Her eyes were impossibly wide, dark brown, and completely fixed on the flashlight beam. She sat perfectly still in the freezing mud, shivering so hard her teeth clicked together like small stones.
“Jesus,” Marcus breathed.
He dropped to his knees in the mud, bringing himself down to her level. He killed the bright center beam of the flashlight, aiming it at the ground so he wouldn't blind her.
“Hey there, little bit,” Marcus said. His voice was low, gravelly, unused to talking softly. It sounded like two river rocks grinding together. “You okay?”
The little girl didn't shrink back. She didn't move at all. She just stared at him through the rain, her small chest heaving inside the pink coat.
In her right hand, pressed tight against her stomach, she was clutching a piece of paper. It was torn from a yellow legal pad, folded into a tight, damp square, her tiny mud-stained fingers locked around it like a vise.
Marcus reached out slowly, keeping his big, calloused hands where she could see them. He smelled of tobacco, wet leather, and old motor oil, but the girl didn't pull away.
“Let me see that, kiddo,” Marcus said softly.
He gently touched her fingers. They were ice cold. He pried them back carefully, taking the wet yellow paper from her grip. She let it go without a sound, her eyes never leaving his face.
Marcus unpinned his leather jacket, pulled the girl out of the mud, and tucked her straight inside against his wool-lined vest. She was so light she felt like a bundle of wet clothes. The moment her face hit the warmth of his chest, she buried her nose into his flannel shirt and stayed dead silent.
Holding her tight with his left arm, Marcus unfolded the wet paper with his thumb and forefinger. The ink was smeared by raindrops, written in a frantic, slanted hand that dug deep into the paper.
The first line made his heart hit his ribs like a hammer.
To whoever finds my daughter.
Marcus squinted through the drizzle, holding the paper under the beam of his light.
Her name is Lily. She is two years old. My name is Clara Mitchell. If you are reading this, I am either dead or they have found us. I have no family left. No mother, no father, no one to call. There is no one to protect her. Please do not give her to the state. Please do not let Thomas find her. I am begging you, stranger, whoever you are—keep her safe. Take the bag in the trunk. Take everything inside it. Just keep my baby safe.
Marcus read the lines twice. The ink bled into the yellow paper as the rain fell over his wrist.
He looked down at his chest. Lily’s small head was tucked under his chin now, her body trembling against his heartbeat.
From up on the highway, the distant whine of an engine cut through the night.
Marcus froze. He didn't turn his flashlight toward the road. He stayed down in the dark of the ditch, listening.
A heavy black pickup truck crested the hill, moving slowly. It didn't have its high beams on. It drifted along the shoulder, its engine idling low and greasy. As it passed the spot where Marcus’s Harley was parked, the truck slowed almost to a crawl. A spotlight mounted near the driver’s side mirror swept over the gravel, flicked down into the ditch for a second, and then moved on.
The truck didn't stop. It accelerated into the dark, its red tail-lights disappearing around the bend toward the state line.
Marcus looked back at the smashed silver sedan, then down at the yellow paper in his fist, and finally at the little girl trembling inside his coat.
The quiet on the highway felt different now. It didn't feel empty anymore. It felt like a trap.
