Imagine it's 8 o'clock at night on October 1st, 1851 in Syracuse, New York.

You and your fellow federal marshals are guarding a fugitive slave named Jerry in the local police station.

But a large mob of people intent on rescuing him have just stormed the building,

and now you're hiding with the other marshals and Jerry in a darkened back room behind the police

commissioner's office.

You hear that? They've breached the outside office.

You tighten your grip on the handle of your pistol and look at your colleague Marshall Swift.

His face has turned ashen.

This is madness. I say we release Jerry to the crowd.

You can't be serious. Do I need to remind you that it's our job to keep this fugitive in custody?

We can't do our job if we're dead. The flimsy wall dividing the back room from the main office starts to tremble.

Is that a battering ram?

He walked toward the door, glancing a Jerry who's sitting on the floor.

He stares defiantly back at you but says nothing.

Next to him, crouches Marshall Swift.

Looks like he's going to be sick.

Come on, we have every right to let the fugitive go if it means saving our own skin.

No, I'm going to face down the crowd.

Teach him a lesson about what happens when you break federal law.

You hold your pistol and your right arm as you unlock the door with you left.

You slowly open the door to find a sea of angry faces staring back at you.

You point your pistol at a black man amongst them. But before you can

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