KUTV’s Jim Spiewak brings four strangers back to the scene they can’t forget: Utah Valley University on September 10.
They didn’t know each other then.
They do now – because of what they saw.
Spiewak frames it bluntly: a campus stop on Charlie Kirk’s tour turned into a public assassination in front of thousands. The cheers flipped to panic in a single second.
This report is built from Jim Spiewak’s interviews and the on-the-record recollections of Jason Behunin, Christian Overton, Kurt Liechty, and Carter Lloyd.
Where They Stood When the Crowd Was Still Just a Crowd
Jason Behunin tells Jim Spiewak he wasn’t a longtime follower. He grabbed a last-minute ticket, arrived early, and “worked” his way to the front row.
You can see him in a red hat near the stage.
Close enough to feel the rally energy.
Kurt Liechty says he stood “to Charlie’s right, maybe 30–40 feet up,” with one of his sons. A combat veteran and former law enforcement officer, he remembers the crowd’s excitement as “palpable.”
Christian Overton stood just off the stage with his son. He tells Spiewak they’d asked security if they could remain near the platform. They were thrilled – so close that Kirk personally handed his son a hat.
Carter Lloyd, just 15, came with her mom and sister. She tells Spiewak her family loves politics. They’d driven up after hearing Kirk would be at UVU.
She remembers little things – the kind your brain grabs during shock. Her mom smiling while recording. A book on the ground. People chanting “USA.”
The scene felt safe.
It felt normal.
Until it wasn’t.
The Pop at 2:23 p.m.
Jim Spiewak pins the moment: 2:23 p.m. One “pop.” The sound that split the day in half.
Kurt Liechty thought “mass shooter” first. He dropped to a knee with his son, scanning for a threat and expecting more shots. When none came, he concluded it was targeted – “specifically for Charlie.”
Christian Overton tells Spiewak the sound came from the left. At first he thought it was a firework. Then he looked back at the stage.
He says he saw the wound in Kirk’s neck. He grabbed his son and took him down. The goal shifted to escape – what path was safe with a stampede of people doing the same?
Jason Behunin describes going numb. He’d heard gunshots before, but not here, not like this. Confusion flooded the space where words usually live.
Carter Lloyd says her mind replayed minute details – the kind you wish you could unsee. She looked for confetti, still hoping it was a trick or a celebration. Then she looked at Kirk’s face and watched the life “go out of his eyes.”
She fell to the ground as her mom began to hyperventilate. A stranger jumped on her sister to shield her, yelling, “Stay down.”
Panic replaced applause.
The crowd became a wave.
The Chaos That Followed
Jim Spiewak captures the swirl: people running, shouting, searching for loved ones, phones failing at the worst time.
Kurt Liechty tells him he immediately tried to reach his other son across campus. He called the wrong number over and over.
As officers locked down the area, Liechty and his sons shifted from self-preservation to service – helping crying strangers, finding rides, telling people to call their parents. “Find the helpers,” he quotes Mr. Rogers – and decided to be one.
Christian Overton describes the emotional whiplash. One moment, pure excitement. The next, a tactical exit, trying to keep his child safe while a crowd fought to funnel through too few gaps.
Jason Behunin says he still can’t drive past UVU without seeing it again. He buried it at first. He tries not to look at the photos and videos on his phone.
Carter Lloyd says the first two weeks were brutal. Loud noises at school can still set her off. Fireworks are now out of the question at home. Things that were normal are not normal anymore.
The memory has its own gravity.
It pulls when you don’t expect it.
How They’re Holding On
Spiewak asks how recovery works when the whole world saw the same video.
For Liechty, sleep vanished at first. He stayed up late arguing with strangers online who were “saying stupid things” about his school and his city. He’s since traded arguing for helping – because healing beats posting.
Overton started a Facebook support group for those who were there. He tells Spiewak that helping others process became part of his therapy. His son is in therapy, too.
Overton says he’s giving him space and time, reminding him he’s ready to talk when his son is.
Behunin admits he mostly internalized it – keeping a tight circle of conversation with his wife and a few others. He says he thinks about it every time he passes the campus.
Lloyd did something different: she helped start a Turning Point USA chapter at her high school. She tells Spiewak it’s “therapeutic” – a way to see good again.
She deleted TikTok, joined clubs, and wants more face-to-face conversation. “Experience the world,” she says. “Talk to people more.”
The paths are not the same.
The goal is: don’t let fear win.
What Justice Should Look Like
Jim Spiewak doesn’t dodge the hardest question. Should this be a death-penalty case if convicted?
Liechty says yes. To him, capital punishment is about valuing life by imposing the most serious consequence on those who take it.
Behunin, a former Department of Corrections employee, has seen death row up close. He’s frustrated by the long delays and inmates who die of natural causes after a death sentence. Accountability, he says, can’t be endless waiting.
Lloyd calls it “harsh,” but says justice must exist, especially when the attack felt like a strike at free speech itself. Too much mercy means no justice. Too much justice means no mercy. She wants balance.
The answers are different, but all three point toward the same thing: consequences matter.
Choosing Courage Over Silence
Even after everything, none of them want fear to set the rules.
Overton tells Spiewak this won’t deter him. “Good will always outweigh evil,” he says. He refuses to live scared.
Liechty says he’s “choosing hope,” even while still reeling. There isn’t a painless option; there’s only forward.
Lloyd admits fear still wins some days. She wants to change that – “take my next steps in faith,” she says – because the support from others has shown her there’s still light in the room.
Behunin hopes for a national reset – less rage, more conversations that end with, “We disagree; let’s go fishing.”
That’s not naivete.
It’s strategy – because conversation is the only bridge that doesn’t burn on contact.
How to Talk to People You Disagree With
Spiewak asks each witness what they’d tell the rest of us.
Liechty points to questions. Ask people why they believe what they believe. Help them find alignment between words and actions. Learning beats lecturing.
Overton pushes love first. If people know your heart, the message has a chance.
Behunin reminds us we’re human first. Different goals, different views, same worth.
Lloyd says treat people like friends, even when they’re not. Ask genuine questions. Listen without exploding. We’re all trying to get through life strong.
That advice sounds simple.
It isn’t. But it’s the only thing that works.
What Witness Stories Do That News Clips Can’t
The power of Jim Spiewak’s reporting is the angle. He doesn’t just show the clip again.
He lets four ordinary people rebuild the day from the ground up – where they stood, what they heard, the first thought, the second thought, and the part that still wakes them up.
That matters. We argue about politics at 10,000 feet. Trauma always happens at six.
Hearing Jason Behunin talk about avoiding old photos, Christian Overton building a group so he won’t be alone, Kurt Liechty moving from combat instincts to comforting strangers, and Carter Lloyd choosing clubs over doomscrolling – each of those is a map for someone who needs one.
There’s a lesson tucked into their advice, too.
Questions calm rooms. Listening defuses fuses. Hope takes practice.
The Fragile Thread Between Speech and Safety
One more thing stands out. All four keep circling back to conversation – not as a luxury, but as a civic duty.
They could have walked away from public life. Instead, they doubled down on showing up.
That’s courageous. And contagious.
If a debate on a college quad can turn into a crime scene, then the answer can’t be fewer conversations. It has to be more – and better ones.
This story belongs to Jim Spiewak, who asked the questions, and to Jason Behunin, Christian Overton, Kurt Liechty, and Carter Lloyd, who answered them when it would have been easier not to.
They remember the rally energy.
They remember the pop.
They remember the faces, the fear, the scramble, and the silence after.
They don’t agree on everything.
They do agree on this: fear doesn’t get to win.
And that, more than anything, might be the most American part of their story.
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Ed spent his childhood in the backwoods of Maine, where harsh winters taught him the value of survival skills. With a background in bushcraft and off-grid living, Ed has honed his expertise in fire-making, hunting, and wild foraging. He writes from personal experience, sharing practical tips and hands-on techniques to thrive in any outdoor environment. Whether it’s primitive camping or full-scale survival, Ed’s advice is grounded in real-life challenges.