The most telling detail about this weekend’s viral video from McKinney, Texas, is the part you can’t see: the race of the man behind the camera, the one who’s holding the phone.

Brandon Brooks, the man who took the video, casually walks around from place to place filming Officer Eric Casebolt performing a tuck-and-roll, as though dodging imaginary gunfire, before grabbing a 15-year-old girl in a bikini, shoving her face into the dirt, and pulling a gun on bystanders.

None of that too-forceful police work—like being forced to sit on his hands, being shoved to the grass on his face, having a gun brandished at him—happened to the guy holding the camera. Brooks says Casebolt “didn’t even look at me. It was kind of like I was invisible.”

That’s one of the definitions of “privilege.” Sometimes it means being visible when it’s time to hand out awards or make the movie. And sometimes it means suddenly becoming invisible when the shit hits the fan.

The “bystanders” at a protest I attended in Cleveland two weeks ago seemed perfectly calm and certain they weren’t about to suddenly be targeted by cops, forced face-down onto the ground and be taken to jail to wait 48 hours before hearing from a lawyer. But that’s exactly what happened to 71 protesters marching in objection to the acquittal of Officer Michael Brelo, who is a free man after firing 49 shots at two unarmed people.

One of the bystanders in Cleveland even called out “Thank you, officers!” as men in riot gear marched past him. It mirrors the people who are now putting up signs at the pool in McKinney thanking police officers. The ever-ethical journalists at Breitbart wasted no time smearing the victims by pointing out they used black slang on their social media accounts, which apparently is evidence they were acting unlawfully.

Privilege means being invisible when the police sense trouble. It means feeling like the bullets and batons will never be used against you. It means feeling safe.

It means that when disruptive harassment from uninvited guests at a planned event leads to fights breaking out, the white harassers will be ignored while the black guests will be the ones assaulted. Regardless of who initiated the dustup, being black and belligerent makes you, in Casebolt’s words, “part of the mob.”

It means that you can call the cops on any random black dude holding a fake gun—even if he’s 12 years old—and instantly get him killed.

Dave Chappelle once joked that the worst part of being black and wealthy was that if he were robbed, he couldn’t even call the cops. When they saw him in his house, he said, they’d instantly assume he was the burglar and shoot him. It was painful to laugh at then; it’s even harder to laugh at now, after we’ve witnessed the ridiculous spectacle of a Harvard professor arrested for trying to open his own front door.

Privilege means, basically, that if I go to someone else’s party, insult the guests, call them racial slurs, and start a brawl—I can then call the cops and get them arrested.

Police apologists often make the argument that cops have to make decisions in the “heat of the moment”—that when called to an incident in progress, they have to make split-second judgments to protect people, and we should hesitate to second-guess them. One veteran cop and Ph.D. even posted a scary op-ed in The Washington Post saying police have the right to do anything they want to us—especially if we don’t instantly comply with any police officer’s demands.

In other words, we all have to accept that we are living in a climate of fear. In this line of thinking, when some cop decides to abuse his power, we all must trust that the system will eventually take care of it. After all, in the actual moment a police officer pulls out a gun and threatens you, that Ph.D. veteran cop has a point—you have no rights. (This is exactly what we use the pejorative “police state” for—to prove we live in a “free country” that would never share traits with one.)

OK, but how universal is that rule, really? We’ve seen story after story of certain people who are able to get away with brandishing weapons at police officers and not get killed. We’ve seen stories of certain people who can create organizations dedicated to armed resistance against government authority and not get killed. We’ve seen stories of people who committed actual mass murders and were still taken into custody peacefully and with dignity.

In the “heat of the moment,” when cops come to assess a potentially dangerous situation, they’ll target whomever seems disruptive or out of place. And when you’re the privileged race, you’re never the one who’s out of place.

Privilege means getting arrested is a matter of choice.

You can get arrested if you stand up and confront cops who are arresting the protesters—or the 14-year-old partygoers—next to you. But, otherwise, you can wander around as you please, observing events as a “bystander” at your leisure.

Privilege means being presumed not dangerous until proven harmful, not innocent until proven guilty, and not shoved down to the ground and restrained, in Casebolt’s words, “until we get this figured out.”

We like to give speeches full of high rhetoric about our nation being one of freedom and equality, a place where everyone is judged only on the content of their character, a place where the vicious racial caste system has long been defeated and buried.

In the heat of the moment, we know that this is a fiction. In the heat of the moment, the truth comes out.

The killer assured his pole-dancing sweetheart that he wasn’t a “bad person”—things just got “out of hand.”

To the world, he was ex-con Richard Matt, on the run after murdering and chopping up his elderly boss in 1997. She called him Ricky.

At Matt’s 2008 murder trial, stripper Johanna Capretto testified against her former beau, saying he smoked a Marlboro as he confessed to breaking the businessman’s neck. She listened to him in the bathroom of the Fort Erie, Ontario, motel where she lived. He said it was an accident.

“Ricky [would] dominate,” recalled Capretto, adding that Lee Bates, Matt’s accomplice who was also convicted in the killing, “was pretty much [a] follower.”

Now Matt and another partner-in-crime, convicted murderer David Sweat, are on the lam after busting out of the Clinton Correctional Facility, an escape fit for the Hollywood treatment. It was Matt’s second prison break, but his first at the state’s largest maximum-security prison, called “Little Siberia” for its isolated location.

Authorities say the criminals used power tools to cut through the cells’ steel walls and fled through a series of tunnels leading to a manhole outside. From the get-go, Governor Andrew Cuomo questioned how guards didn’t hear the jailbirds. “I’d be shocked if a correction guard was involved in this, but they definitely had help,” he said.

As the manhunt entered its third day on Tuesday, ABC News revealed police were investigating a female prison worker’s possible connection to their elaborate bust: Joyce Mitchell, 51, an industrial-training supervisor who has worked at Clinton Correctional since 2008 and makes $55,000 a year, state records show.

Mitchell, who lives an hour from the Dannemora prison, looks nothing like a criminal collaborator. Her Facebook page shows off photos of her family and baby granddaughter, along with patriotic sentiments (she’s an Air Force mom). In 2013, she shared a photo post for National Correctional Officers Week that read: “It takes balls to work behind the walls. No guns... just pure guts.”

She has remained silent since her name made headlines Tuesday afternoon. But lawmen who’ve faced Matt, 49, have painted a disturbing narrative of his sociopathic charms.

“He has a way with the ladies,” a prison source told the New York Post. 

Retired detective David Bentley, who testified against Matt in 2008, added, “When [Matt’s] cleaned up, he’s very handsome and, in all frankness, very well-endowed. He gets girlfriends any place he goes.”

The murderer’s own public defender, Matthew P. Pynn, testified in court, “I can’t explain it. I can see him as a guy who would have a lot of friends... Rick Matt was a fun but dangerous guy to hang around with.”

Still, Pynn’s secretary told The Daily Beast he is declining media interviews.

Matt was convicted in 2008 of kidnapping, murder, and robbery in the 1997 death of his former employer William Rickerson, 76. After he committed the deed, Matt stole his half-brother’s van and reportedly abandoned it in Texas. Then he fled to Mexico, where he was arrested for a fatal stabbing not long after.

He was extradited to New York’s Niagara County nearly a decade later, and during trial, the court installed snipers outside in case he got away. Authorities also put electrodes under his suit to shock him if he was unruly.

Before Matt was sentenced to 25 years to life, prosecutors warned they received reports that the con was masterminding a plot to spring from the county jail and would kill anyone who stood in his way. (In 1986, Matt escaped another jail by climbing over a fence, the Buffalo News reported.)

His conviction was sealed in part thanks to testimony from Capretto, who met Matt at the now-shuttered jiggle joint Pure Platinum in Canada. “It was getting serious,” Capretto said on the stand, according to court transcripts. “We were planning to get married.”

She conceded that Matt once stole her tips from a night at the club, and that he ordered her to get rid of a diamond ring stolen from Rickerson. She flushed it down her toilet, according to court records.

“The last conversation me and Ricky would have is when he told me about the ring,” Capretto told the courtroom.

When reached by phone Tuesday, the onetime exotic dancer changed her tune, claiming she was never in love with him. “I’m shocked, I’m speechless,” she told The Daily Beast of his breakout. “That chapter of my life is over. I don’t want nothing to do with it.”

Matt’s half-brother, Wayne Schimpf, also testified against him. He said the killer was in and out of his life since they met in the early 1990s.

The day before Rickerson was reported missing in December 1997, Schimpf, Matt, and the accomplice Bates downed vodka at Schimpf’s Buffalo apartment, according to Schimpf’s testimony.

Matt and Bates announced they were going to see a cousin’s boyfriend, who owed them money for vitamins from Rickerson’s food brokerage. Schimpf gave the pair batting gloves and packing tape, he testified. Matt said he planned to use the gloves to hit the boyfriend and force him to pay up.

Weeks later, Matt showed his brother a newspaper story on police finding Rickerson’s torso in the Niagara River.

“He said that he was in a lot of trouble,” Schimpf testified, adding, “that he thought he might have killed Mr. Rickerson on accident.”

“He said they hacked him up,” the half-brother continued. “I remember when he showed me the article, I just kind of looked at him like, ‘Are you for real?’”

“And I just says—I mean, I couldn’t believe that he did it. I says, ‘How did you do it? How did you hack him up, with a chainsaw or something?’

“He turned and looked at me, and with a grin that I won’t forget, he said, ‘With a hacksaw.’ This whole time I’m still thinking he’s full of crap, he’s just trying to sound big. You know, I really didn’t want to believe it.”

In January 1998, Matt told Schimpf he was in trouble and needed to leave Buffalo. “I remember his words,” Schimpf testified. “I can do another seven years, but I can’t do life.”

When Schimpf refused to let Matt use his car to get out of town, Matt warned, “You’re my brother, you’re my blood. I love you but I’ll kill you.”

Shortly after Schimpf made copies of his car keys, his vehicle was gone. Eventually Texas authorities found it, he said.

Schimpf could not be reached by The Daily Beast. Posts to his Facebook page show he’s had frequent visits to the hospital because of health issues.

One family acquaintance, who is terrified of Matt, said the con’s relationship with his long-lost sibling was short-lived.

“They kept in touch a little bit,” the insider said. “Richard Matt was wacky. He was in and out of jail all the time. We wanted nothing to do with him.”

Please say they went out partying together.

Please say they are still out partying together.

Sometimes faces in the pop-cultural firmament collide—deliciously. And so it was in London last night when Lady Gaga met Prince Harry at a concert at the Royal Albert Hall for WellChild, a charity that supports sick children, which Harry is patron of.

Rounding out the “I would love to have been a fly on that champagne bottle” picture was Elton John and Tony Bennett. (Bennett and Gaga are currently on their ‘Cheek To Cheek Tour.)

Gaga’s stage outfit was, apparently, a see-through dress, lots of feathers, and glitter. Another picture, taken before the event, shows Harry looking down on Gaga, wearing a low-cut dress, and trying—as Page Six put it—to keep his eyes off her “tatas.”

The AP reported that Bennett told Harry: “Your mum [Princess Diana] was a good friend of mine. I did many benefits with her.”

“That’s fantastic,” Harry replied.

Harry told Bennett that he didn’t know how he had the energy to do the concerts, to which Gaga joked: “He runs circles round me. Wait until we get on stage!”

The GagaDaily website reported that the pop star told the prince: “We are so happy to be here tonight and be of any help, we think you are fantastic. And thank you for bringing it here so we can support you.”

GagaDaily reports that Gaga dedicated Edith Piaf’s ‘La Vie En Rose’ to WellChild and Prince Harry. “Together they are raising awareness and money for children and it takes care of them for a very long period of time making sure they’re looked after. I think if you have a voice and you choose to use it for good things, that is something to be applauded.

“So tonight, let’s cheers to them, to doing good things. Because if anyone can afford a ticket to be here tonight, you’re doing pretty fucking good.”

The charity, which reportedly raised around $154,000 on the night, posted more pictures of the event here.

Fortunately, if you consider the photographs of Gaga too dressed-down and modest for her royal audience, she was back on reassuringly outrageous form dressed up in a mesh dress, sequined nipple pasties, and with a black, all-consuming feathery Philip Treacy fascinator headpiece when she went out later in the evening.

Seemingly pursued by a small European country-sized contingent of paparazzo, Gaga, Treacy, and her amazing headpiece went partying at the Box nightclub in Soho. We can only hope Harry sneaked in too.

We might need to change John Oliver’s name to Cassandra.

Last June, the batty Brit’s HBO program Last Week Tonight aired a segment blasting soccer’s international governing body, FIFA, and its overlord, president Sepp Blatter, for perceived corruption. Oliver branded it a “comically grotesque organization” that should answer for its sins. And during last week’s episode, the host doubled down on FIFA and Blatter, pledging “the ultimate sacrifice” if some of the big-name brands that back FIFA pulled out and demanded Blatter’s resignation:

“Adidas, I will wear one of your ugly shoes. One of these shoes that make me look like the Greek god of aspiring DJs. McDonald’s, I will take a bite out of every item on your Dollar Menu—which tastes like normal food that was cursed by a vindictive wizard. And I will even make the ultimate sacrifice: Budweiser, if you pull your support and help get rid of Blatter, I will put my mouth where my mouth is, and I will personally drink one of your disgusting items. I’m serious. It could be a Bud Light. I will even drink a Bud Light Lime, despite the fact that all the lime in the world cannot disguise the fact that this tastes like a puddle beneath a Long John Silver’s Dumpster. But I will do it. I will drink one maintaining eye contact with the camera and say it’s delicious, because if you get rid of the Swiss demon who has ruined the sport I love, this stuff will taste like fucking Champagne!”

And sure enough, on Tuesday, Blatter announced his intention to resign from his post as president of FIFA—a position he’d held for a staggering 17 years.

“Oh my god! He’s leaving! He’s actually leaving!” Oliver exclaimed Sunday night. “I feel like a Greenpeace volunteer who actually got someone’s attention! I didn’t think this would happen, and now I don’t know what to do.”

Yes, Oliver was understandably ecstatic. The sport that he loves had finally rid itself of what he called its “Swizz lizard” of a president.

“The timing of Blatter’s announcement was notable for two reasons: First, it was only four days after being reelected president. That’s like being elected pope and immediately announcing, ‘Judaism makes some good points…I think I may have got this wrong,’” joked Oliver. “And secondly, Blatter stepped down just days before the U.S. release of United Passions—a suspiciously glowing movie history of FIFA.”

“The reviews so far have been phenomenal,” he continued. “The Guardian said that, ‘As cinema it is excrement,’ and The New York Times called it ‘…one of the most unwatchable films in recent memory.’ And remember, this is the same week the Entourage movie came out. #THEBOYSAREBACK”—taking a jab at his own network’s show. 

He then aimed his ire at former FIFA vice president Jack Warner, who stands accused of facilitating up to $10 million in bribes. This past week, Warner purchased time on Trinidadian television to air a 7-minute clearing of the air that he comically dubbed Jack Warner: The Gloves Are Off. In it, he claimed he’d “compiled a series of documents, including checks and corroborated statements,” and placed them in “unexpected hands,” putting all his alleged FIFA co-conspirators on watch.

Cue Oliver. “We had more to say to Jack Warner than we had room for here, so we bought five minutes of airtime on Trinidad’s TV 6 at 9:01 pm on Tuesday,” he announced. “We will be preempting the first five of minutes of—and this is true—Mike & Molly, and we’ll be doing it with John Oliver: The Mittens of Disapproval Are On.”

This was apparently not a joke.

Then Oliver got down to the “unfinished business” portion of the telecast. He upheld his end of the bet by donning ridiculous Hermès-esque gold Adidas sneakers and taking a bite out of every item on the McDonald’s Dollar Menu.

Next came the moment we’d all been waiting for. Oliver, ever the showman, erected a ridiculous beach set filled with beach balls, buff dudes, and bikini-clad babes—something straight out of, well, Entourage. He shimmied over to the set and got down to it.

“Bud Lite Lime may taste like your tongue is angry with you but, after seeing Sepp Blatter leaving, to me, it tastes…”—Oliver popped the bottle and chugged it dry—“…delicious!”

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John Oliver, ladies and gentlemen. #BlatterOut

3:40 AM - 8 Jun 2015 · Manhattan, NY, United States

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John Oliver: A man of his word.

Today is the first day of the rest of Denny Hastert’s life.

From here on out it will be like this: Hordes of reporters posted up near courtrooms, waiting for a glimpse of that favorite media stock character—a powerful man fallen from grace.

That was the case today at the Everett M. Dirksen Federal Courthouse, where the former Speaker of the House was arraigned on charges that he purposely avoided federal reporting requirements when he pulled gobs of cash out his bank account to allegedly pay off someone he had a sexual relationship during his time as a high school wrestling coach. His time in court today was short, a legal formality turned media circus, and Hastert’s appearances came in humbling snippets as cameras clicked and questions were hurled.

In Judge Thomas Durkin’s chambers, Hastert joined scores of other alleged criminals in being witness to the power of the federal government as it exists in impressive courtrooms. The wood panels, the Great Seal, the judge’s orders. After entering with a haunch that has recently come back into the memory of many Americans, Hastert took a seat and eventually pleaded not guilty to the charges he faces.

It was quiet enough to hear the gears turning the hands of a brass clock, purposeful silence that aids in making decisions about the rest of people’s lives.

Hastert has now come out of hiding, forced into the public eye by the long arm of the law which has the unique ability to reach up and grab even those on high. Tuesday marked the first time Hastert was required to come back down to earth.

He probably thought he had gotten away with it when, in 2007, he gave a farewell speech that like a lot of other politicians’ words has come back to haunt him.

“It’s popular these days to ask political figures what mistakes they’ve made, where they have failed,” he said back then. “As a former history teacher, I know such analysis is best tempered by time and reflection. And that it is best left to others.”

The others are here. And the time is now.

But it almost didn’t happen. With cash flowing to a still-unnamed person, Hastert’s secret was safe.

His alleged relationship with the man—whatever it entailed—was apparently dangerous enough to require the payments, which totalled $1.7 million over the several years.

Even though his secret is out, his life remained relatively intact on Tuesday—with a few exceptions.

He’ll now have to give a sample of his DNA, remove his sons’ firearms from his home, hand over his passport to the U.S. Marshall’s and agree to abide by the other routine conditions of release that every criminal from the lowly purse-snatcher to the arrogant crime lord has had to submit themselves to.

Hastert entered through the main door of the courtroom after walking through a hallway that had just minutes before been cleared of reporters.

He is accused, but he is still protected, still privileged.

Now—rightfully or not—he is viewed through a lens of guilt, and every reporter in the wood pews of Durkin’s court was peering for a glimpse it on his face. Sitting on the business side of the bar in a court of law has a tendency to make people look more nefarious than they perhaps are, and Hastert didn’t exactly look like the gentle politician he spent a career building. Whatever yesses and nos he spoke Tuesday were barely audible.

Mumbles, really.

He may still be powerful, but he certainly didn’t come off as proud.

The majority of the comments made in court came from the judge himself, who addressed Hastert not with as “Speaker Hastert,” as Thomas Green, the accused’s attorney did, but as “the defendant.”

Durkin laid out every possible conflict of interest that could affect his required impartiality.

From his $1,500 in campaign contributions a decade ago, to an email sent in the mid-90s to an attorney representing the feds in their prosecution of Hastert.

“I am not naive enough to think that a reasonable person would not question my impartiality,” he said.

So, he gave both sides until June 11 to decide for themselves whether Durkin should preside over the case.

In the meantime, the spectacle will continue.

Hastert’s political career—and indeed his life—have been reduced to avoiding a crowd of media vultures in downtown Chicago.

As Hastert prepared to leave the courtroom, the U.S. Marshalls again cleared the hallway of anyone who might bother the former hometown hero—allowing him to be alone, if only for a moment.