Inside the New Yorker film humanizing the Jan. 6 defendants

Filmmaker Andrea Kalin set out to repair the nation after the Capitol attack. I had doubts.

(Illustration of lawyer Heather Shaner by Kristian Hammerstad)

Months after the Jan. 6 insurrection, filmmaker Andrea Kalin got in touch to say she was making a documentary about a progressive Washington, DC lawyer representing men and women who'd attacked the U.S. Capitol. She wanted to humanize the political divide and wondered if I'd help. As a journalist, I was in the middle of the violent mob that destabilized democracy and traumatized the nation. I was curious but concerned. I joined the project, “Public Defender,” as a producer with a warning: Don’t go too easy on the mob.

Kalin doesn’t look through rose-colored glasses, but she does use a multi-dimensional lens. Plenty of stories have been told about the extremist, racist, misogynist, right-wing White supremacists bent on tearing up the Constitution and remaking America into a Christian fundamentalist state. Fewer have been told about the vulnerable people manipulated by a dishonest president who exploited fear and pain to try to unlawfully stay in power. Their stories were interesting to Kalin, and as I recovered from the psychological wounds of Jan. 6, they became important lessons for me. What’s beautiful about Kalin’s work is that it is healing, not just for the people involved in the production, but for audiences, too.

This short film, three years in the making, is now part of the New Yorker magazine’s family of documentary films. It will premiere on U.S. television for the first time at 8 p.m. ET, Sunday, November 3, on Scripps News, which also streams on major platforms, such as Roku and Apple TV. Offline, the “Public Defender” festival run has turned into a traveling reflection on how we heal a divided nation, born from the fractures of a divided self. The answer that’s emerged? One relationship at a time.

I recently chatted with Kalin about the process of telling the story of Heather Shaner, a blue-haired septuagenarian who can’t stand Donald Trump, as she defended Trump supporters Annie Howell and Jack Griffith, two of the more than 1,500 Americans charged in the largest criminal investigation in U.S. history.

The is the first of two interviews I’ll be sharing with behind-the-scenes insights from “Public Defender.” The next one is with Shaner, discussing the wellbeing of her clients before and after the insurrection, and what we all can learn about the power of love and education. I’d encourage you to watch the film to help put these conversations into context.

Kate Woodsome: The film’s tagline is “restoring humanity, one relationship at a time.” How were you affected by the Jan. 6 attack, and why did you tell this history the way you did?

Andrea Kalin: As a former Capitol Hill reporter and a DC native, the January 6 attack had a profound personal impact on me. Living just blocks from where the violence unfolded, it all felt immediate and deeply personal. The tension was visceral. I witnessed barricades going up, curfews being enforced and armed patrols taking over the streets I call home. It wasn’t just the physical upheaval; it was an emotional reckoning. This wasn’t something I could cover from a distance — it was happening right here, in my community.

Through this trauma, I had to dig deep to find a sense of humanity, not only for myself but also for the people featured in Public Defender. In many ways, this film became an antidote to despair. Telling this story gave me an outlet to explore the complexity and nuance in a world that’s increasingly polarized, where people are often reduced to the worst versions of themselves. I wanted to go beyond the noise and remind us all that there are real lives within the mob, and that empathy and connection — relationship by relationship — can restore our shared humanity.

KW: What strategies or tools did you use to maintain a sense of objectivity or compassion when working with individuals who contributed to the trauma of Jan. 6? How important was establishing a sense of safety and trust with them? What did this softening allow them — and you — to open to?

AK: Trust was the foundation of everything. It gave both the film's participants and us the freedom to be vulnerable, allowing us to move past that "us vs. them" mentality. We learned to embrace the idea that agreement wasn’t a requirement for meaningful conversation. By really listening, we could see the layers of their experience —their missteps, their fears, and ultimately, their humanity. Heather’s relationships with her clients showed us what resilience looks like in the face of deep political polarization. As Annie and Jack expanded their worldviews, we were forced to question and challenge our own assumptions, too.

Of course, there were moments where empathy felt almost impossible to reach. Some of the ideological divides were just so stark, and witnessing those extreme beliefs was emotionally draining. But we reminded ourselves to keep listening, even when we disagreed. Heather had a mantra she often repeated: “You don’t have to approve of the crime, but you do have to listen.” That was our guiding principle, helping us walk that delicate line between holding people accountable and recognizing their humanity.

I won’t pretend it was easy, or that it didn’t come with pushback. Some of my allies in justice were critical. They accused me of “humanizing monsters,” of wasting time trying to bridge a divide that they felt wasn’t worth bridging. I understand where they’re coming from, but I just don’t agree. As Bryan Stevenson often says, we have to be willing to see beyond the worst thing a person has ever done. That’s not being Pollyannaish — it’s survival. If we aren’t willing to give people the chance to change, then how can we ever hope to move forward?

“If we keep thinking in terms of ‘us vs. them,’ we’ll stay trapped in this cycle of conflict. It’s not just about electing the right leaders — it’s about equipping everyday citizens to be engaged, thoughtful participants in democracy.” — Filmmaker Andrea Kalin

KW: How has this experience shaped your understanding of justice, empathy, and the role of law in moments of national crisis? How important is compassion and community in preventing recidivism? 

AK: The experience of telling this story, especially shadowing Heather, has dramatically changed how I think about justice, empathy, and the law — particularly during a crisis like January 6. Directing Public Defender made me realize that justice, especially in volatile times, isn’t just about consequences. It’s about understanding why people act the way they do and bringing empathy into the process. It’s about seeing them as more than their mistakes.

If we only shame and isolate people, we miss the chance to help them change. We need empathy, and we need tough conversations, even when they’re uncomfortable. It’s not about excusing bad behavior — it’s about understanding where it came from and helping people move forward. Empathy isn’t a weakness; it’s a powerful tool for justice and healing. It’s how we begin to heal the divides that have fractured our country.”

KW: A lot of people are hoping the election saves America from a downward spiral, yet everyone I talk to is worried there will be violence, no matter who wins. What’s the long game people should be playing here? 

AK: The long game here isn’t about placing all our hopes on a single election — it’s about addressing the deeper issues that have been pulling our country apart for years. An election can’t solve everything, especially when people are more divided than ever, living in separate realities shaped by polarized media and social media bubbles.

We need to find ways to coexist, rather than constantly fight over who’s right. If we keep thinking in terms of “us vs. them,” we’ll stay trapped in this cycle of conflict. It’s not just about electing the right leaders — it’s about equipping everyday citizens to be engaged, thoughtful participants in democracy.

As I think about the path forward, a word a rabbi recently introduced to me comes to mind: “respair.” It’s an old term from the 14th century, both a noun and a verb, meaning "the return of hope after a time of despair." This is where I choose to place my faith—that we will lift each other up, not just experiencing "respair" ourselves, but actively working together to bring it into the world.

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Hi, I’m Kate…

I’m a journalist, filmmaker and reformer focused on the relationship between mental health and democracy. At The Washington Post, I won the Pulitzer Prize for Public Service with colleagues covering the Jan. 6 U.S. Capitol attack. I also pioneered a mental health column and led a film unit. But this year, after 20 years in newsrooms, I opted out of the corporate media tumult to create Invisible Threads, a storytelling venture committed to wellbeing through narrative transformation. I examine the individual, communal and systemic forces — and stories — that keep people isolated and unwell in order to illuminate paths to repair. I’m also a fellow at Georgetown University’s research and design unit, The Red House, focused on work to transform cycles of intergenerational trauma into intergenerational wellbeing. This chapter deepens work I’ve pursued for two decades, from reporting on an authoritarian regime in post-genocide Cambodia, to the decline of democracy in Hong Kong, to the 2021 U.S. insurrection. By subscribing to this newsletter, you’ll receive new columns, interviews and resources every couple weeks.