At 4:02 a.m., three hours and five minutes before sunrise in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, the only thing Roger Stone could see without his circular-framed glasses, during his state-sanctioned eye exam, were the letters (stenciled in yellow) FBI.
At 4:03 a.m., after 29 FBI agents and 17 vehicles had surrounded Stone’s home, after two Black Hawk helicopters with swivel-mounted machine guns and grenade launchers created a downrush of air and 79 commandos (and a dog) rappelled from the choppers, after five combat divers rose above the surface wind of the waterway outside Stone’s home, after Rima the Jungle Girl whistled like an osprey and summoned a female panther from the Caloosahatchee River, after Charles Xavier wheeled himself to Stone’s driveway and coordinated (telepathically) with Special Counsel Robert Mueller—at 4:03 a.m., the FBI arrested Roger Stone.
It was an act of discretion, an exercise of restraint, a display of justice.
It was a testament to our men and women in blue windbreakers, with their tactical gear and semiautomatic weapons, who risked their lives to take a 66-year-old suspect into custody.
Years from now, after workers from the National Park Service will have washed the pigeon droppings from the bronze statue of Robert Mueller, people will still remember the FBI’s finest hour. The children of Dreamers will gather ’round that icon and listen to the Spanish translation about Mueller’s fidelity, bravery, and integrity.
The world will learn that Mueller got his man.