Washington (AFP) - Bundled against the winter cold, a dozen people outside Washington's jail pray, sing and shout their support for inmates held over the violent attack on the US Capitol three years ago that sought to overturn Donald Trump's election defeat.
Family members and supporters -- plus a few pet dogs -- meet nearly every night at a spot they dub "Freedom Corner," just beyond the jail's barbed wire fence in a quiet residential neighborhood.
The crowd share pizza and hot chocolate alongside jokes mocking the idea that any of their loved ones could really be a "big bad insurrectionist" or "domestic terrorist" over the January 6, 2021 assault.
Their defiant position, and many Americans' belief in Trump's false claim that he won the 2020 vote, point toward an incendiary 2024 election as the former president once again sets his sights on the White House.
Nicole Reffitt told AFP she keeps coming back to the vigil because "I feel it's important to show other Jan. 6 families that you can be strong and you're gonna be OK."
Her husband was the first person convicted at trial for storming the seat of the US government as Congress certified President Joe Biden's win.
Guy Reffitt, convicted on five counts including obstructing an official proceeding and entering a restricted building with a firearm, is now serving more than seven years at a prison in Oklahoma.
Prisoners phone in
Nearly 1,300 people have so far been charged in relation to January 6, with supporters estimating that about 40 are currently incarcerated at the jail in southeast Washington awaiting trial or sentencing.
The group began congregating regularly in 2022, including Micki Witthoeft, the mother of Ashli Babbitt, who was shot dead by a police officer during the 2021 attack.
Babbitt, a 35-year-old Air Force veteran, was among the first of hundreds of people to breach the Capitol building, as lawmakers and officials fled the angry mob.
"After Ashli was killed... I just wanted her to have a voice," Witthoeft told AFP outside the jail. "I do believe she would support the men inside."
Witthoeft, who was herself arrested for pushing a counter-protester near the facility in May -- though the charges were dropped -- said she is not for a "blanket pardon" for all defendants, but believes many of them have been judged too harshly.
This week, several police cars monitored the scene as attendees set up phones to livestream the nightly ritual on YouTube, where they often attract thousands of viewers.
After a short prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance, inmates from inside the jail, whom the group refer to as "political prisoners," began telephoning out.
Tamara Perryman, whose husband Brian Jackson is accused of assaulting a law enforcement officer on January 6, connected the calls to a large speaker.
Several defendants phoned on Wednesday night ahead of the January 6 third anniversary. Most spent their allotted time asking about the weather, trading right-wing opinions on the day's news and asking for donations.
At 9:00 pm, a final call came with multiple inmates on the line to join in the US national anthem.
As the evening ended, the group put their arms around each other to sing the country song often known as "Proud to be an American," popular among conservatives.
2024 election nears
For Reffitt, that solidarity is why she has come to Washington -- to be "boots on the ground" for January 6 defendants and their families. She accompanies them to court appearances and attends congressional hearings.
Biden is putting the violent mob at the center of his reelection campaign, warning of Trump's threat to the "sacred cause" of US democracy.
As for her own voting plans, Reffitt said Trump "is a true Jan Sixer" but that it is "time for a more youthful direction" for the country.
Perryman mused about the upcoming election over the phone with inmate Frank Rocco Giustino, who in February pleaded guilty to a misdemeanor charge for conduct at the Capitol on January 6.
Perryman said "Y'all are not really criminals," in contrast "to the rest of the population" at the jail.
"It's a facade, it's a farce," Giustino agreed, before the jail's automated reminder that the call was about to be cut off.
