Speaker
Ayesha Rascoe
Appearances over time
2 episodes
Episodes
2
Podcasts
Quotes & moments
Antonio Mays Jr.'s murder at CHOP remains unsolved six years after the shooting, with no arrests made.
The Illinois separation referendum has been placed on the ballot in 33 counties and passed in favor of secession every single time, with some counties hitting 80–83% yes.
Sydney Brownstone lived blocks from CHOP and was sent to report on the shooting the morning of June 29, 2020. Crossing onto 12th Avenue, the ordinary Capitol Hill neighborhood gave way to screaming protesters, blood-smeared cars, and clergy praying in the street — a crime scene dressed up as a protest.
CHOP had its own armed security patrolling the zone. Their authority rested on nothing but the fact they had guns. Antonio Mays Sr. put it plainly: it's common knowledge that it's not legal to allow vigilantes to police their own zone. Understanding how that security apparatus formed is key to understanding who killed his son.
Antonio Mays Jr. was 16 years old when he traveled from Southern California to Seattle to join the racial justice movement. He arrived at CHOP — the Capitol Hill Occupied Protest — and was shot dead less than a week later by the protest's own armed security. Six years on, nobody has been charged.
Within hours of the shooting, a clear narrative had solidified among CHOP protesters: the white Jeep attacked them, and they defended themselves. But Brownstone, on the ground amid total chaos, was disturbed by how certain everyone seemed before the facts were established. That narrative would go unchallenged for years.
Three years after his son was killed, Antonio Mays Sr. sued the city of Seattle. His version of events was the opposite of the protesters' narrative: Antonio Jr. had not attacked CHOP — he had come to join the movement. The lawsuit reignited questions reporters had never stopped asking.
Antonio Mays Sr. last heard from Seattle Police about his son's murder in 2020. After that, phones went silent. He was told the case was reassigned, then that it was closed. Reporters discovered Seattle Police claimed the investigation was still 'open and active' — but had never told the father.
In the aftermath of the shooting, Ashley Durellis's camera caught a man — work boots, cargo pants, leather jacket, plastic bag — walking the scene. He said aloud he was picking up his shell casings to take home. Ashley appeared to thank him. Researchers believe this is the shooter.
Ashley Durellis livestreamed the aftermath of Antonio Mays Jr.'s shooting, including the apparent shooter collecting shell casings. A week later she was arrested for rendering criminal assistance. She says she was documenting, not helping. When police interrogated her, they asked more about protesters than the shooter.
After George Floyd's murder, thousands flooded Seattle's streets. Police deployed crowd control weapons, a standoff formed outside a precinct — and then police simply walked away, abandoning it. The 8-block autonomous zone that rose up in their wake had its own medical teams, its own art, and its own armed security.
Three livestreams captured the fatal shooting of Antonio Mays Jr. in real time. One shows the white Jeep driving through the park. Another records the sounds of the fatal gunshots but is blocked by a tree. A third catches the apparent shooter collecting his shell casings on camera — yet six years later, no arrest.
When reporters asked Ashley Durellis about the man picking up shells, she invoked Fight Club: what happens at CHOP stays at CHOP. Reporters say they are confident people out there know who fired the fatal shots — but a deliberate wall of silence has held for six years.
Antonio Jr. carried thick R.A. Salvatore fantasy novels in his pocket to work at his father's BBQ stand. He studied julienne knife cuts and helped sell handcrafted sauce at farmers markets. His father raised him on Black history — and that education, Antonio Sr. now agonizes, may have set him on the road to Seattle.
Chicago's massive population gives it a veto-proof Democratic supermajority in the state legislature, leaving rural conservative counties politically powerless. Rural Illinoisans don't just feel outvoted — they feel colonized by a city with a totally different history, economy, and culture.
G.H. Merritt didn't want to leave Illinois — she wanted Illinois to leave her alone. Standing in her father's house, she had a simple, powerful realization: high taxes and corrupt governance were pushing her out of her own home, and she refused to let that happen.
Rural Illinois counties receive more than $2 in state services for every $1 they pay in taxes — subsidized by Chicago. Secessionists say they'll build their own economic engines through lower taxes and fewer regulations, but the math of leaving that subsidy behind is stark.
Analysis
What they talk about
- History 100%
Connections
Shows they appear on and people they share episodes with. Drag to explore.
