A detective grabbed my wrist and cuffed me. A gaggle of officers from multiple law enforcement agencies escorted me to a room near the atrium. A few chairs had Trump campaign materials plastered on them. Inside the room with me were more than 10 officers from the NYPD and the Secret Service.

Then the questions began, and they were bananas. A young woman from the Secret Service began the questioning; male NYPD officers tagged in and out. They never asked me whether I understood my rights, and I wasn’t actually sure at that moment what rights, if any, I had. I was focused on not getting put in a car and being whisked away.

It was clear right away that these officials wouldn’t see me the way I see myself: as a reasonably responsible, skilled nonviolent political operative who works on a mix of electoral and issues campaigns. To them, I was clearly a threat to national security. It felt like an interrogation on “Homeland.” Here are my favorite parts of the conversation, as I remember them.

NYPD: “Why would you come to the president’s home to do this?”

Me: “It was wrong for the president to support white supremacy.”

NYPD: “Don’t you respect the president?”

Me: “I don’t respect people who align with Nazis.”

Secret Service: “Do you have negative feelings toward the president?”

Me: “Yes.”

Secret Service: “Can you elaborate?”

Me: “He should be impeached and should not be president.”

They were concerned with who bought my train ticket, once they saw the receipt on my phone. The NYPD officers didn’t seem to believe me that some organizations work for justice and organize these legal protests. Each time they touched my phone, I said I don’t consent to the search of my phone. (They held my phone during the interview, and I can only hope they didn’t poke around it — alhough they wouldn’t have found much to interest them, unless they like Bernie GIFs.)

Secret Service: “Have you ever been inside the White House?

Me: “Yes.”

Secret Service: “How many times?”

Me: “Many. I was a volunteer holiday tour guide for the White House Visitors Center.”

Secret Service, eyes wide: “When was the last time you were there?”

Me: “December.” I explained that I probably wouldn’t be invited back until we have a new president.

The officers ran through a raft of predictable questions about firearms. (I don’t own any, and they seemed puzzled by my commitment to nonviolence as a philosophy.) They asked whether I wanted to hurt the president or anyone in his family. Obviously not. Then came the mental health questions.

[Where’s the best place to resist Trump? At work.]

Secret Service: “Do you have any mental health disorders?”

Me: “No.”

Secret Service: “Have you ever tried to commit suicide?”

Me: “No.”

Secret Service: “Have you ever had suicidal thoughts?”

Me: “No.”

I was trying very hard not to roll my eyes at the repeated questions when an NYPD detective suggested my protest could be charged as a felony. In the next second, the Secret Service agents asked me to sign Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act waivers so they could gather all my medical records. My mind was still focused on the f-word: felony. But I didn’t want to sign the waivers.

I meekly asked whether I should talk to a lawyer. I was told it was my prerogative but also that it might mean I’d be held longer. Being in a room with that many enforcement agents hurt my ability to reason dispassionately, and I was now looking at a criminal record from a basic, even banal, nonviolent protest. I signed the forms.