Antifa's Fall: The Trial of a Thousand Shadows
- dkclements
- Sep 28
- 11 min read
I SIT IN MY GARAGE STUDY, nursing a cold. It’s September 28th, 2025, past midnight. I don’t dream often, but I’ve had a few fever dreams of late. At the direction of Donald Trump, Secretary of War, Pete Hegseth, sends military troops to combat Antifa in Portland, and other ICE facilities ravaged by the terrorists. My mind races at how Posse Comitatus can be circumvented. Military forces can’t be used domestically. Unless we are at war.
My mind is drawn to the echo of a promise made eight years ago. In 2017, when Trump stood sworn on the Capitol steps, his hand firm on the Bible, he had won against the odds, an inexplicable victory, and a vow to give the country back to its people.
He later promised he caught them all—the hands that picked politicians with machines and money, that hid in NGOs and foreign servers, that turned elections into shadows. As a former law professor and prosecutor, I had war-gamed that vow for years, dissecting it like a case I couldn’t close. It was the measure of his presidency, the fire that would judge him.
Now, I pictured a man in the West Wing, perhaps the President, perhaps another, cloaked in power, tracing the vow’s path. I saw him executing the greatest white hat sting in history—a plan to prosecute thousands of souls, from judges to radicals, vendors to kingpins, in a legal, constitutional reckoning that faced an inordinate host of enemies, a number so vast it seemed unconquerable, yet stirred memories of ancient stories where outnumbered men brought giants to their knees.
And that’s the topic for today.
"Antifa's Fall: The Trial of a Thousand Shadows"
I imagine the man in the West Wing sitting alone, the hour late, his office a vault of polished oak and resolve. His desk held a file, its pages creased from nights of study, open to two executive orders that cut like blades. The first, signed September 22, 2025, named Antifa a domestic terrorist organization. Its words were stark: Antifa, a militarist, anarchist enterprise, sought to overthrow the government, law enforcement, and the rule of law itself.
It waged a campaign of violence—armed standoffs, riots, assaults on ICE officers, doxxing of political figures—recruiting and radicalizing youth, shielding its operatives and funds to frustrate justice, coordinating with others to spread chaos and silence speech. It was terrorism, built to coerce with fear. The order directed all agencies to dismantle its operations, probe its funders, and pursue every legal tool—RICO, material support, conspiracy.
The second, from January 2025, struck abroad, designating Venezuelan narco-terrorists like Tren de Aragua as foreign terrorist organizations, sinking their drug boats in Caribbean dawn raids, killing eleven, and exposing their ties to Maduro’s regime, which birthed Smartmatic, the voting firm whose Caracas roots and 2004 recall rigging cast shadows on American elections through Sequoia’s systems, backed by sworn testimony of direct U.S. rigging. These orders were the opening moves, signals to the people that the swamp would drain, despite enemies so numerous they seemed a flood. Now consider the figure, Eric Coomer of Dominion Voting, an Antifa confederate, and former Chief Software Architect at Sequoia Voting Systems. So many threads come together.
The file held more: Yehuda Miller, an investigative journalist, fought for Detroit’s 2020 election documents—envelopes, mismatched signatures, lying timestamps. Ed Martin demanded Fulton County’s 148,000 ballots, the ones from the night suitcases slid out at State Farm Arena. In Arizona, retired Colonel Phil Waldron’s audit logs showed servers touched by foreign hands. Others sang—sheriffs, retired national security experts, clerks—each with evidence of a system where politicians were not elected but installed, their thrones bought with laundered cash and globalist strings, from Venezuelan narco webs to Antifa’s hidden vaults.
I leaned back, the garage’s concrete rough beneath my feet, a slight chill seeping through my jacket. The whispers of four hundred thousand indictments, born in the fever of online forums, had been cast aside—not for impossibility, but for improbability. I couldn’t validate four hundred thousand. It was speculative, possible if the military ran a separate system, hidden from public eyes. Fifteen thousand, though, that anchor we could grasp. Ninety thousand was a distant peak, but fifteen thousand was the mountain we faced, a goal to drain the swamp without collapse. The federal system, with its hundred thousand annual indictments, could not hide such a mass, even in sealed dockets; the logistics—prisons, prosecutors, trials—would collapse, a fifty-year grind no nation could bear.
Yet the military, with its veiled courts and classified ledgers, could track cases beyond civilian eyes, beyond PACER’s reach, in systems I had never touched as a professor.
I settled on a number. Fifteen thousand. Could be more. Far more. It could be less, but I doubted it.
I sought a legal problem, vast enough to break my mind, yet not so vast my audience would flee its truth.
Now before you blow a gasket, there are approximately twenty-three million government jobs spread throughout 3,144 counties. Don’t tell me we don’t have 15,000 traitors making up “the swamp,” or we wouldn’t have the name to begin with. After all, 1,500 innocent American patriots were convicted by a weaponized government for protesting on January 6th. Mass prosecution just happened. But now the shoe is on the other foot.
Fifteen thousand is no small number—a Herculean endeavor, a mountain of justice that faces an enemy so vast it dwarfs conception. It brought to mind Gideon, who faced Midian’s thousands, a shadow over the land, yet with three hundred men, his torches and trumpets a cunning fire in the night, broke their camp.
Or Daniel, standing in Babylon’s court, where the government itself was infiltrated, its princes and satraps plotting against the law, yet their schemes crumbled when the lions spared him, and the king’s own decree turned on the corrupt. These stories whispered of victory against the many, against the infiltrated, where the righteous few brought empires to their knees.
I had taught the civilian system—its gavels, its robes, RICO’s power to bind cells and conduits across the country. The law had broken giants before: in the 1870s, the Whiskey Ring fell, a cabal of treasury men and distillers who siphoned taxes, yielding one hundred ten convictions across states, three million dollars seized, the government’s own ranks purged. In the 1980s, operation Abscam snared seven congressmen and twelve officials, their bribes caught on FBI tapes, a nationwide sting that toppled legislators; and in Chicago, Operation Greylord brought down ninety-two judges, lawyers, and cops, their courtroom fixes exposed by a single bug, a lesson in rooting out judicial rot.
It could be done. It has been done. But never at this scale.
RICO, the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, was a net woven to catch enterprises, not just men—a statute that could name Antifa’s cells, NGOs, and vendors as a single racketeering web, their acts of wire fraud, computer fraud, and violence a pattern spanning decades. RICO demanded a single enterprise, a web of intent tying Antifa’s riots to vendors’ servers, provable through shared funds and coordinated acts. The law could seize millions from FTX shells, USAID grants, and fronts like the Atlantic Council, tying them to $1-2 billion in damages, to Coomer’s manifesto of sabotage. RICO’s reach stretched from Portland’s streets to Miami’s docks, its indictments uniting disparate threads.
But the civilian courts buckled—too slow, too bound by motions, by judges who might be named in the very indictments. How do you try fifteen thousand in halls built for a trickle? The juries, the appeals, the years bleeding out—RICO was a tool, but the swamp was an ocean. What if the system, rotten at its core, shielded the guilty? The military, I saw, was the only shore.
The man in the West Wing, I pictured, faced the same shadow, his resolve tested in the hush. Fifteen thousand souls: three thousand judges and legislators, tainted by bribery and fraud; two thousand election officials, secretaries of state who oversaw rigged counts; four thousand Antifa operatives, their riots and doxxings a pattern of terror; one thousand vendors, one thousand corporations, their wires and servers linked to Caracas and Belgrade; three thousand high names—Soros, Obama, Clinton, Brennan, Clapper, Comey—whose hands, some said, pulled the deepest strings. Another one thousand media accomplices to aid and abet the traitor’s narrative. The civilian courts could grind the low-hanging fruit—Antifa’s cells, vendors like Smartmatic, charged with RICO and wire fraud.
RICO’s utility was its breadth, its ability to unify defendants across states under one enterprise, its predicates—arson, fraud, conspiracy—stacking years on the guilty. Pleas would take most—ninety percent, history showed—leaving trials for the few who fought. But the high ones, the architects, needed more. Treason, seditious conspiracy, aiding enemies through foreign servers—these demanded tribunals, swift and unyielding, under the Military Commissions Act.
The Act was the military’s strongest tool for mass prosecution, allowing trials of “unlawful enemy belligerents” in chambers free of civilian delays, admitting classified evidence without objection, delivering verdicts in months, not years. Its sentences—life or death for treason—cut deeper than any civilian penalty, a sword to break the infiltrated government, like Daniel’s truth felling Babylon’s corrupt.
I recognize what I’m about to say is a hope and a prayer. To whisper it, is to see it blow away in the wind. Feel free to accuse of me of putting hopium into my pipe. But I believe the JAG officers, six hundred sworn across the states, trained in military justice, are no mere clerks. The twenty JAG sworn in DC, honed for high-stakes cases, are not in DC for petty crime.
The mainstream narrative had them as immigration judges, easing a lawyer shortage for deportations, but they are a poor fit—specialists in courts-martial and constitutional law, not visa hearings or asylum claims. Immigration could fall to civilian attorneys, bar-certified in the field, or DHS hires with targeted training. In DC, recent law school graduates could handle the misdemeanor docket, petty crimes needing no battlefield edge. These six hundred and twenty are built for deeper cuts, not border disputes or street scraps. As you read this article, the Secretary of War, Pete Hegseth, has ordered hundreds of military commanders to convene at the Pentagon for an unprecedented meeting this week. And apparently none of them know why. Former FBI director James Comey was just indicted. John Bolton and John Brennan are believed to be next.
I’ve overseen six law enforcement agencies. Kid’s play compared to what is transpiring with those with eyes to see. My imagination starts to cast visions as solid as the desk I sit at. With no direct connection to the West Wing man, I feel myself tuning an old radio to a station that represents his mind. Listening for a voice, thoughts clamoring. The radio needle picks up what can only be described as an old-time military video reel you would have witnessed during a matinee during World War II.
I imagine a plan starting with a thousand convictions—shock and awe, a signal to the nation and the fourteen thousand left. Antifa’s leaders, election riggers, corporate heads—tried as belligerents, their trials swift, their fates sealed in windowless rooms. The twenty in DC would orchestrate, coordinating with DOJ, weaving military and civilian threads, while the six hundred fanned out, streamlining pleas in every district. Plea in a civilian court, face RICO’s twenty years, avoid the death penalty. Push back, and another thousand would face tribunals, their due process rights—Miranda, appeals—faded in the military’s shadow, until the rest got the picture.
The JAGs, trained in the Code, could process a thousand in months, their expertise turning the Act into a lever that cracked defiance. If resistance held, another thousand would follow, the tribunals’ speed a warning to the rest, a fire to burn through the infiltrated ranks. The Dakota trials, flawed by due process shortfalls in 1862, judged 392 men in thirty-seven days, a single tribunal averaging ten cases a day—hasty, criticized for skimping on rights. Today, we couldn’t push ten a day without echo; stricter law demanded balance.
Yet technology and resources outpace the 1860s, like mass-producing automobiles on an assembly line—AI case management, secure servers, plea streams halving the load. Scaled to fifteen thousand, twenty tribunals at five cases daily could finish in under six months, using secure bases and bargains to honor process. Two to four venues, three hundred core staff—judges, prosecutors, clerks—plus a thousand for security, would move the mountain, legally, with translators and observers to guard the line. To prosecute ten times this number? Scale the operation, or simply keep going—fifteen thousand every six months, and four hundred thousand could fall in time, if the hidden system willed it.
The plan as I imagine it is clear, a three-year path, legal and constitutional, to convict fifteen thousand or more. It begins now, in late 2025, with grand juries greenlighting the fifteen thousand across ninety-four districts, task forces examining evidence. Special counsels would take the high names, building cases from declassified cables, like Gabbard’s July 2025 haul, and foreign treaties for Venezuelan ties.
By 2026, the first wave—five thousand low-level Antifa and vendors—would face RICO in civilian courts, its nationwide reach binding them, their pleas piling up. The second wave, five thousand officials, would follow, charged with bribery and fraud, their trials clogging dockets but moving steady.
The high ones—Soros, the former presidents, the intelligence chiefs—would go last, their treason and conspiracy aired in tribunals, the JAGs’ plea mill churning. The Insurrection Act, if it hadn’t been called already, would silence Posse Comitatus, letting tribunals try three thousand as belligerents, their sentences final—life or worse for waging war on the vote.
By 2028, ten thousand convictions would stand, the rest in appeals, the swamp drained by guilty pleas and seized assets.
The obstacles were steep. In civilian courts, judges might obstruct. The Supreme Court forced to wrestle immunity for figures like Obama, shielded by official acts. Treason’s bar—two witnesses or confession—was high, though Serbian servers, Venezuelan narco funds, and Soros’s grants offered paths.
Logistically, the DOJ’s five thousand prosecutors needed a surge—hire a thousand more, as in past scandals. Prisons, stretched at one hundred fifty thousand capacity, would strain, but forfeiture of corporate and NGO assets would ease the load. The public, fed lies by a captured media, might cry foul, their trust hard to win.
Would the nation see the military’s hand—tribunals in the night, JAGs moving like ghosts—and call it too far? The media, ensnared by the same thieves, would scream of tyranny, of boots on free soil, painting the sting as a grab for power. The man in the West Wing would feel this, the need for a dance so subtle it barely broke the surface. How faint must the steps be? Too quiet, and the people miss it, lost in lies. Too loud, and they recoil, naming him despot. The scale pressed on me too, the black pill rising, the dots—Detroit’s envelopes, Fulton’s ballots, Serbian pings, Venezuelan code—unspooling so slow that faith wavered. What if the weary, seeing the truth but bruised by time, surrendered to despair? What if my own belief, forged in courtrooms and classrooms, cracked under the vastness?
The man in the West Wing, I knew, would hold fast. The civilian courts would grind the cells, Antifa’s rioters and vendors facing RICO in sunlit chambers, juries weighing damages and doxxings. The tribunals would take the architects—Coomer, Soros, Obama, the high names—their treason aired in sealed bases, verdicts etched under the Act’s shadow, the JAGs’ plea mill breaking their will.
The civilian path granted due process, a bow to the founders, yet chained the pursuit; the military, its hidden vaults beyond my charts, freed it.
The man in the West Wing carried the 2017 oath—to restore the government, to catch them all. It was a sting without peer, a purging of the mire, a battle against a host so vast it seemed invincible, yet fated to fall like Midian’s thousands or Babylon’s princes. I, schooled in civilian wars, grasped at last that only the military’s hidden forge, with its thousand-tribunal shock, could keep it—a Herculean task, fifteen thousand strong, but one the truth demanded. The symphony swelled, and the dawn would come, if we held the line.
Is this article a delusion? Perhaps. But I can tell you this: If there isn’t a version of this plan in existence, with promises made of giving me back my country, that “we caught them all,” then I stand before you all like Paul. He clung to the cross, saying there is no greater fool than I, if I’m wrong about Christ.
The weight of Christianity’s truth has vindicated Paul. He is no fool.
But my faith that Donald J. Trump is who I think he is begs the same question. That God spared his life for such a time as this. Will history judge me a fool for daring to hope he truly “caught them all?”
History may prove the author of this article to be clinically insane. But… perhaps my coffee fueled musings will serve as a place-mark to one of the greatest epochs in human history. I pray it’s the latter.
David K. Clements is a seasoned attorney, former law professor, filmmaker and dedicated advocate for election integrity and constitutional rights. If you think he's on to something, consider being a monthly sponsor of his independent journalism at:
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