Kash Patel Just Blew a Live FBI Operation to Get a Headline

Kash Patel Just Blew a Live FBI Operation to Get a Headline

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit michaelfanone.substack.com [https://michaelfanone.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_7] According to the Justice Department, five men planned to fly explosive-laden drones over the UFC event on the White House lawn, panic the crowd into a stampede, and have snipers pick off high-value targets as people ran. They’d built an encrypted group chat, stockpiled rifles and thousands of rounds, scouted their launch points and their sniper nests, and written up a target list with members of Congress on it. So why didn’t they pull it off? On June 10, the FBI and the Secret Service learned about the threat. They interviewed a suspect, got search warrants, and made arrests across four states over the weekend. And the case was sealed — a judge ordered it kept out of public view, because the investigation wasn’t finished. That last part is the whole story. Roughly two dozen people had been plotting this thing in those chats, and only five were in custody. Five out of two dozen. So the two agencies made a plan: unseal the case and announce it together, Tuesday afternoon, once the rest of the pieces were in place. Kash Patel had a different plan. Tuesday morning, he beat his own team to the punch, posted the announcement himself, said multiple individuals were in custody, and took the credit for the Bureau — calling it “the best of investigative work” and “exactly what we did here.” Let me explain, for anyone who’s never worked a case, why a cop reads that and winces. When a case is sealed and the operation is still live, you keep your mouth shut. It has nothing to do with being humble. It’s because the people you haven’t arrested yet are watching the news right alongside everybody else. The minute you announce, anybody in that chat who isn’t already in cuffs knows the walls are closing in. So they run. They dump their phones. They wipe the Signal threads that are your evidence. And if one of them is sitting on a spare drone and a grudge, you just started his clock for him. This isn’t some obscure trick of the trade. They teach it to you in the first week. Any patrol cop who’s sat on a surveillance, any detective who’s built a conspiracy case, any rookie agent on day one of a task force could’ve told him you don’t broadcast a live operation just to feel good for an afternoon. The man running the entire FBI either didn’t know that, or didn’t care. And here’s the thing about a case like this. The whole reason you build it slow is that the conspiracy is bigger than the people you’ve already grabbed. You arrest the five you can prove out, and you keep it sealed so the other nineteen keep talking. They keep texting. They keep showing up where you can watch them. Every hour the operation stays quiet is another hour those people incriminate themselves and walk you toward the next arrest. The seal isn’t bureaucracy. It’s the engine of the whole investigation. The morning Kash hit post, he switched that engine off. Quick word before I keep going: if you want this kind of thing broken down by somebody who actually worked in law enforcement instead of somebody reading a press release, subscribe. We’re closing in on 2,000, and the day we hit it, one subscriber gets the 2K keychain on us. You don’t have to take it from me, though. Take it from the professional whose case it actually was. The Secret Service ran this investigation from the start and made a deliberate choice not to publicize it. Their deputy director, Matt Quinn, stood at a press conference and said it about as plainly as a man in his position can: don’t choke on your own smoke. Sit with that. Quinn didn’t say Kash’s name. He didn’t have to. He stood at a federal podium, in front of cameras, and reached for a line he learned coming up in the New York field office, because that was the most diplomatic way he had to tell the Director of the FBI that he fouled his own operation. That’s the language of a man biting his tongue. Read between it and you can hear exactly how the people who did the work feel about the man who took the credit. And think about who got stuck delivering that message. The Secret Service. The people who take bullets for presidents. They’re the ones who had to walk in front of cameras and gently explain that they were the grown-ups in the room who kept their mouths shut. That should never happen. The FBI Director is supposed to be the steady hand everybody else leans on. Instead, the other agencies spent the day mopping up behind him. He’s done versions of this before. This is the same Kash Patel whose habit of commandeering FBI jets for his own travel reportedly set the Charlie Kirk assassination investigation back a day, because the analysis team couldn’t get a plane. Let that land. A team that reconstructs how an assassination happened, grounded, because the Director needed the aircraft. It’s the same Patel whose flights, according to Senator Dick Durbin, left the Bureau’s shooting-reconstruction team stuck after a shooting at Brown University. This isn’t a one-time slip. It’s a pattern — a man who keeps putting his own convenience, his own travel, his own headline in front of the actual work of the agency. The cases change. The instinct doesn’t. For five years now I’ve listened to these people lecture the rest of us about backing the blue. They put it on their trucks. They scream it at anyone who dares criticize a cop. And then they handed the most important law enforcement agency on earth to a podcaster — a man whose first instinct, handed a sealed case and a live threat by his own agents, was to grab his phone. For them, badges are props, something to wave when it’s useful. The people who actually worked this case didn’t even get named in Kash’s version of it. Now remember what’s on the line. Drones. Explosives. Snipers. A target list with congressmen on it. And the ones who got away are still out there — that much harder to catch now, because the Director couldn’t wait a few hours. You run an operation quietly for exactly that reason, so nobody has to learn the hard way what jumping the gun costs. Here’s what gnaws at me as an ex-cop. Forget Trump for a second. Forget the politics entirely. This is a plain question of competence. Can the man at the top of the FBI handle the basics? Can he keep a secret? Can he let his own agents finish the job before he starts talking? A first-year detective clears that bar every single day. Patel keeps tripping over it in public, on the cases where there’s the least room to be wrong. And every American is counting on this man to foil the next plot. After a stunt like this, imagine being one of his agents — wondering, every time you walk into his office, whether the things you tell him in confidence are going to show up on your social feed by lunch. I spent twenty years carrying a badge, and I’ve lost track of how many times Kash Patel has shown us he has no business in that chair. 🟧 Paid subscribers get 15% off your next merch order🟧 Founding Members get 20% off for life You’ll get the link in your welcome email. GET DISCOUNTS BELOW! ENJOY!

Trump Donor Got a Secret $1.7M Contract. The Reflecting Pool Turned Green Anyway.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit michaelfanone.substack.com [https://michaelfanone.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_7] Look at the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool right now. It isn’t red, white, and blue. It’s green — a vivid, soupy, algae-bloom green. And the brand-new blue waterproofing on the bottom is already peeling up and floating to the surface. That pool just went through a $14.2 million repair. And the company brought in to keep the water clean — the one that was supposed to install the system that stops exactly this from happening — traces back to a man who lives down the street from Mar-a-Lago. His name is John J. Cafaro. Longtime Trump donor. The president once called him a “fantastic man” from a stage. And the firm hired to purify the water, Greenwater Services, is ultimately owned by Cafaro’s investment trust. Here’s how the contract worked. The National Park Service skipped competitive bidding. No open competition, no comparing offers — they handed Greenwater a $1.7 million contract directly. And by the Park Service’s own public filing, other firms had expressed interest in the work. They just never got the chance. The justification was urgency. The Park Service invoked an exemption meant for genuine emergencies, claiming there was no time to weigh other bids because the system had to be ready for the country’s 250th birthday events. But the document making that case never named a deadline. No date. Just the word “urgent” doing an enormous amount of heavy lifting. I spent twenty years watching how the “no time for process” argument gets used, and it’s almost always the tell. When somebody says the rules have to be suspended because the clock’s running, the next question is the same every time: who benefits from skipping the line? Here, the beneficiary’s address tells the story. Greenwater listed Cafaro’s Palm Beach mansion as its address in Florida corporate records. It listed his investment trust’s phone number and email in Ohio lobbying records. Same phone. Same email. A water-treatment company in Ohio and a Trump donor’s mansion in Palm Beach, sharing contact information. And before this, the company had exactly one other federal contract in its entire history. Founded in 2019. One prior federal job. Then suddenly it’s trusted with a high-profile installation at one of the most recognizable monuments in the country. Now, the Interior Department says the White House had nothing to do with picking the firm. A White House spokeswoman says the president wasn’t involved. Interior’s spokeswoman says they didn’t even know about Cafaro’s politics when they awarded it. Take that at face value if you want. But remember what the Times already reported: the general manager of Trump’s own golf club in Bedminster advised the Park Service on this project — and was in contact with Greenwater back in January. So the people who claim they had no idea who they were dealing with were being advised by a Trump employee who’d been talking to the contractor months before the deal was signed. The money isn’t subtle either. Campaign finance records show Cafaro has given more than $300,000 to political committees tied to Trump since 2016. His wife chaired the Red Cross Ball at Mar-a-Lago. This isn’t a stranger who happened to have the best bid. There was no bid. It’s worth knowing who Cafaro is. His family made its money developing shopping centers. He branched into aerospace. And in 2001 he pleaded guilty to conspiracy to bribe a sitting congressman, then testified against him. That’s the man whose company just got handed a no-bid federal contract at the Lincoln Memorial. And here’s the part that should bother you whether or not you care about the politics: it didn’t even work. The pool is green. The algae came back. Interior is now dumping hydrogen peroxide into the water and sending crews in with vacuums to suck the bloom out by hand. The permanent purification system the no-bid contract was supposed to deliver still wasn’t installed when reporters visited this week. And the Park Service won’t explain why it refilled the pool before that system was in place — the one decision that basically guaranteed it would cloud over again. So step back and look at what we’ve actually got. A monument repair running into the tens of millions. Two separate no-bid contracts, both justified by an urgency nobody will put a date on. One of them going to a company tied to a Trump donor with a bribery conviction in his past. Blue paint peeling off the bottom. Green water on top. And a federal agency that won’t answer basic questions about its own decisions. This is the pattern worth watching, because it’s bigger than one pool. When the bidding process gets waved away in the name of a deadline, the public stops getting the cheapest or the best work. It starts getting whatever’s most convenient for whoever’s connected. And we end up paying premium prices for results we can watch falling apart with our own eyes. The Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool is supposed to reflect the monument. Right now it’s reflecting something else. 🟧 Paid subscribers get 15% off your next merch order🟧 Founding Members get 20% off for life You’ll get the link in your welcome email. GET DISCOUNTS BELOW! ENJOY!

They're Building a Christian Nationalist Town in Tennessee. Here's Who's Paying for It.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit michaelfanone.substack.com [https://michaelfanone.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_7] Picture a guy standing in an empty field in central Tennessee, seeing a town that isn’t there yet. A church spire. English cottages. Cattle on the ridge. A farm store. Families gathering to worship. His name is Josh Abbotoy. Thirty-eight, a master’s in medieval history, and he runs a real estate company called RidgeRunner. That empty field outside Whitleyville is going to become something he calls Brewington Farms. On paper, a neighborhood like any other. In practice, the opposite. It’s the cornerstone of the Highland Rim Project, and the stated goal is to build conservative Christian communities all across Appalachia. Understand who’s behind it, because it isn’t a guy with a pickup and a dream. It’s backed by a venture-capital firm out of Dallas called New Founding — and New Founding is wired straight into the world people call the New Right, the same intellectual circles that produced the current Vice President. The billionaire Marc Andreessen came on as an early investor. So when you hear “Christian charter community,” don’t picture a bake sale. Picture a hedge-fund-backed development. Here’s what they’ve actually done. RidgeRunner has bought or contracted to buy more than four thousand acres, cut it into two hundred lots, and sold about half. Construction starts this summer. And they’ll tell you flat out who it’s for. Abbotoy has described his customers as “good, based people.” He expects most of the project’s leadership to come from Protestant Christians. He’s a practicing Southern Baptist, and he says faith woven into neighborhood design is “inextricably linked with the whole design process.” Legally, sure, these communities are open to anyone — anti-discrimination law requires it. But the man building them has already told reporters who he expects to actually live there: right-leaning Christians. Let’s not pretend there’s a mystery about the target market. Now, some conservatives have pitched Christians retreating into their own little enclaves as a way to check out of politics entirely. There’s a famous book about it, The Benedict Option — the culture’s lost, go build a monastery, ride it out. This is not that, and Abbotoy says so himself. He calls the project part of the New Right’s effort to “beat back progressivism, globalism and secular liberalism.” The national strategy is top-down: seize the institutions, abolish the ones you can’t seize. RidgeRunner is the bottom-up version. Build the towns first, let the politics follow. His line: “If conservatives win, this is what we want for America.” In other words, a working model. A proof of concept they can point at and say, look, this is the country we want. Here’s where it gets interesting, because the locals aren’t all on board. The project centers on Gainesboro, in Jackson County — twelve thousand people, country that went for Trump three times running, north of eighty percent last time. Deep red. These are not liberals. And yet the Jackson County Chamber of Commerce rejected RidgeRunner’s bid to join, saying public statements tied to the project were “incongruent with the mission, vision, and values of the chamber.” When the Chamber of Commerce in an eighty-percent-Trump county won’t let you in the door, that tells you something. Business owners started putting signs in their windows. “Gainesboro: You belong here.” “Hate has no home in Gainesboro.” That’s the response from their own neighbors. So why the pushback in a place this conservative? A lot of it traces to a couple of the personalities orbiting this thing. There’s a pastor named Andrew Isker, a friend of Abbotoy’s who moved to the area. Isker has publicly called himself a Christian nationalist, and he’s mused out loud about wanting to “dissolve Congress and the judiciary and vest all power into a sovereign ruler named Donald J. Trump.” Read that again. Dissolve Congress. Dissolve the courts. Hand all power to one man. I took an oath to the Constitution. Not to a man. The entire point of the country I swore to defend is that nobody gets to be a king. So when somebody connected to a four-thousand-acre development is openly fantasizing about abolishing two branches of government, I’m going to take him exactly as seriously as he takes himself. There’s another guy in the mix, a commentator named C. Jay Engel, who bought land there and pushes a slogan online called “heritage America” — a term for Americans who can trace their ancestry to the founding era. Sit with what that phrase is doing. It draws a line between real Americans and everybody else, and it draws it by bloodline. Engel calls the criticism “outrage porn” and says he’s just an old-school Pat Buchanan conservative. You can decide for yourself whether “heritage America” sounds like normal politics or coded white Christian nationalism. I know what I think it is. To be fair, Isker and Engel aren’t formally part of the company. They bought land, they’re friends with Abbotoy, and they promote the project on a podcast recorded in a studio they rent from him. Abbotoy himself is more careful — flies a Gadsden flag outside the office, talks about fitting into local culture rather than changing it. But here’s the tension even the local Republicans see. The chair of the county GOP, a seventh-generation Jackson County native, summed up the town’s mood in one phrase: “Good fences make good neighbors.” That’s the live-and-let-live conservatism that’s been in those hills for generations. The Highland Rim Project rejects it. Its entire stated purpose is to use power — public and private — to push one specific way of life. Those two things don’t fit together. You can’t say “leave me alone” and “we’re going to use every lever we can to remake the country” in the same breath. One of those is libertarian. The other one wants to run your town. And that’s the real story. This isn’t just a real estate play. It’s a test. The people behind it are betting they can prove the New Right vision works on a small scale, in one county, so they can sell it to the rest of the country. So here’s the question the locals are already asking. Does this become a thriving, revitalized region that lifts everybody up? Or a playground where wealthy, reactionary transplants act out a fantasy about saving the nation, while the families who’ve been in that county for seven generations are left holding the reality? The man building it called it “the high proof of concept.” He’s right that it’s a proof of concept. The only question left is what, exactly, it’s going to prove. 🟧 Paid subscribers get 15% off your next merch order🟧 Founding Members get 20% off for life You’ll get the link in your welcome email. GET DISCOUNTS BELOW! ENJOY!

A Man Showed Up to Protect Protesters. He Killed an Innocent One Instead.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit michaelfanone.substack.com [https://michaelfanone.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_7] Let me tell you about Afa Ah Loo. Thirty-nine years old, born in Samoa, the youngest of five. He learned to sew from the women in his family, and that skill carried him to a fashion showcase inside Buckingham Palace and onto Project Runway. He became a U.S. citizen in September of 2024 and voted for the first time that November. After that, his friends say, politics got personal. He looked at where the country was headed and told his business partner, “I’m scared for my kids.” He walked into a No Kings march in downtown Salt Lake City — ten thousand people, one of the biggest demonstrations that city had ever seen — wearing a tan hat his friends could spot from a block away, holding a sign with four words on it. The world is watching. A few minutes later he was on the ground with a bullet in his temple. Here’s the part that refuses to fit the clean story. The man who shot him wasn’t a counterprotester. Wasn’t some MAGA agitator hunting for blood. He was a volunteer. He’d signed up to keep the marchers safe, and in that moment he believed he was stopping a mass shooting. That’s what makes this harder than the tidy political-violence narrative everybody reaches for. Three men ended up on that street who’d never met. All came to the same protest. All sympathetic to the same cause. On any other day they might’ve been standing shoulder to shoulder. The first was Arturo Gamboa, twenty-four, born and raised in Salt Lake. He was openly carrying a rifle — legal in Utah — dressed in black with a mask and hood. He stepped behind a column to assemble the rifle so he wouldn’t alarm the crowd, and says the barrel stayed pointed down the whole time, the magazine in his backpack. The second was a safety volunteer the court papers just call A.F. He’d been watching Gamboa for several minutes, read it as a threat, and got on his radio. Gun, gun, gun. The third was Matthew Alder, forty-three, an Army veteran and home contractor. A friend had asked him the day before to join the volunteer safety team — no training required, just a yellow vest, a radio, a first aid kit, and a warning that there were credible threats against the march. When that radio call went out, Alder came running, drew his pistol, and says he saw a man hunched against a wall psyching himself up to “mag dump into a crowd.” So he fired. Three shots, about a second apart. The first hit Gamboa in the side. The second hit his rifle. In those seconds Gamboa was moving, rounding the corner of the building, and video from a balcony appears to show that barrel pointed down the entire time. By the third shot, prosecutors say, Gamboa had already turned the corner — the threat, whatever it was, had moved away. That third bullet traveled roughly a hundred and sixty feet down a crowded street and hit Afa Ah Loo in the head. He was near a parked car, nowhere close to the man Alder was aiming at. And there’s one detail in here that should haunt everybody. There was a second volunteer standing right next to Alder — A.F., gun already drawn. Same man in his sights. Same radio call. He didn’t fire. His reason, to investigators: “There’s no way I can shoot him when he’s running toward a crowd. I’m accountable for every bullet that comes out of my gun.” Same threat. Same second. Same street. One man pulled the trigger and one man didn’t, and the distance between those two choices is a father of two bleeding out on the asphalt while a doctor from the crowd does chest compressions and begs him to keep fighting. In twenty years on the job, that was the first thing they drilled into us about a firearm. You own every round. You don’t get to fire into a crowd and call the people you hit an accident. The man standing right next to Alder understood that with a gun already in his hand. That’s not hindsight. That’s the basic standard — and one of the two shooters met it. The legal fight only gets thornier. In Utah, like most states, you can use deadly force against a danger you reasonably believe is real, even if you turn out to be wrong. That law exists to protect someone who genuinely fears for his life. But it had nothing to say about what happens when your bullet kills an innocent bystander who was never part of the fight. So the DA, Sim Gill, went looking and found his answer in a Massachusetts ruling: self-defense doesn’t shield a shooter whose force is reckless. A man who picks a fight assumes the risk of getting shot. A bystander never signed up for it. So Gill is focusing on that third shot alone — conceding the first two might’ve been justified, arguing the last one, sent down a crowded street after the threat had moved off, was its own separate, reckless decision. He charged Alder with manslaughter. Up to fifteen years. I’ll be fair: this isn’t a man who set out to hurt anybody. His lawyer says he believed he was stopping a massacre, and until there’s reason to think otherwise, you take the motive at face value. But this points to something bigger than one shooting gone wrong. A Duke law professor put it best — the only thing separating that feeling of fear from a homicide is five pounds of pressure on a trigger. Five pounds. That’s what we’ve built. We’ve flooded our streets and public squares with guns and then told ourselves the answer to a man with a gun is more men with guns. Researchers who track this found the obvious thing: protests where guns show up are far more likely to turn violent. Since 2020 they’ve counted a dozen American protests where a bystander — somebody with no part in any fight — got hit by a stray round. A dozen. And we keep going. Think about how many people had to be armed and afraid for this to happen. Gamboa felt he needed a rifle to feel safe. The safety team felt they needed pistols to protect the crowd. Everybody was carrying. Everybody was scared. And a tailor in a tan hat holding a piece of cardboard walked into the middle of all that fear. After the shooting, the national No Kings organization cut ties with the Utah chapter for breaking its no-weapons policy. When the marches came back, nobody was allowed to carry — not the crowd, not the volunteers, nobody. That’s not radical. That’s just sane. It’s the bare minimum. And I say this as a responsible gun owner: when you live in a country where you can’t hold a sign on a public street without somebody’s stray bullet finding your skull, that country has lost the plot. The right to bear arms was never the right to fire blind into a crowd and walk away calling it a tragedy. Afa Ah Loo’s kids were seen after his death singing a Samoan song he loved — about a father telling his child to go forth across deep water, to be brave, that he’ll be there on every path. They know the words by heart. They just don’t have him anymore to show them what those words mean. He showed up because he believed the world was watching, and he wanted to be heard. So let’s watch. Let’s actually look at what happened on that street and refuse to file it under bad luck. 🟧 Paid subscribers get 15% off your next merch order🟧 Founding Members get 20% off for life You’ll get the link in your welcome email. GET DISCOUNTS BELOW! ENJOY!

They Couldn't Pin Anything on Newsom. So They Went After His Wife.

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit michaelfanone.substack.com [https://michaelfanone.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_7] The Trump administration is investigating Gavin Newsom. Not one investigation — multiple, according to the New York Times, aimed at the sitting governor of the largest state in the country and a man most of America expects to run for president in two years. Newsom went on camera this week to say so himself, because he’s convinced the President is running the Justice Department like a personal vendetta machine and he’s the latest name in the crosshairs. What makes that worth taking seriously isn’t the governor’s outrage. It’s where the agents have actually been going. Not to Newsom’s door. To his friends’ doors. His former staffers’ doors. The doors of people who work at his wife’s nonprofit. Subpoenas for records, sit-down interviews. And when the FBI starts questioning a man’s wife’s colleagues and pulling her finances apart, you naturally assume the story is going to be about something she did. Nobody can tell you what that is. Let me give you the strongest version of the government’s case before I take it apart. Two sources told CBS one investigation centers on Jennifer Siebel Newsom’s taxes — a possible tax fraud and evasion case run out of the federal prosecutor’s office in Sacramento with the DOJ’s public integrity section. And there’s a second thread: Newsom’s former chief of staff, Dana Williamson, was indicted last year on nearly two dozen federal charges over a scheme to funnel money out of a dormant campaign account, and last month pleaded guilty to three of them, including lying to an FBI agent. That’s not a technicality, and I won’t pretend it is. When someone who sat that close to a governor admits under oath she lied to federal agents, you pay attention. So if you want to believe this is just career investigators following evidence wherever it leads, I can’t reach into the grand jury room and prove otherwise. Nobody outside that room can. Here’s what I can tell you. I spent twenty years building cases from the ground up, and that work teaches you what a real investigation looks like. You start with a crime, and you work outward from the crime toward whoever committed it. Evidence first, suspect second — always in that order. The moment you flip it, the moment you pick the person and then go looking for something to charge them with, you’ve stopped investigating a case and started building one against a human being. On the job we had a word for that. A fishing expedition. It’s the exact thing the Fourth Amendment was written to stop. Look at which way this one runs. Nobody found a crime and traced it back to the Newsoms. They started with the Newsoms and went door to door hunting for an offense they still can’t name. The whole thing is built backwards. And then there’s the wife. Investigating a sitting governor is fair game. He’s a public official; his record belongs to the public. But when none of it sticks to him and the next move is to take apart the finances of the woman he’s married to, the investigation has told on itself. I watched this exact play in narcotics. When you can’t lay a glove on your target, you squeeze the people around him — the ones who love him or owe him — until somebody hands you a thread. That’s legitimate when you already have a crime and you’re climbing toward the man at the top. It’s a very different thing when you have no crime at all and you’re climbing down into a man’s marriage hoping to manufacture one. And if you follow this show, you know it isn’t a one-off. It’s the pattern. Trump points the DOJ at the people who threaten him, with no crime in hand and no evidence one exists, and lets the investigation itself do the damage — the legal bills, the bad press, the years of your life spent answering for nothing. Look at the list. Newsom, weighing a 2028 run. Mark Kelly, the Arizona senator who landed in the crosshairs the moment he reminded service members they aren’t required to obey an illegal order — also eyeing 2028. James Comey, who ran the FBI’s investigation into the Trump campaign and got fired for it — and who, for the “this is just partisan” crowd, spent most of his career as a Republican and was a Republican appointee. Letitia James, the New York AG who took Trump to trial for business fraud and won. Adam Schiff, lead manager of Trump’s first impeachment. Ask what a list like that has in common. It isn’t a type of crime. It isn’t a state. It isn’t even one party. Every name either investigated this president, sued him, charged him, or stands between him and the next election. Once you see it, this stops being a story about Gavin Newsom and becomes a story about a list — and about how normal it’s gotten to make someone’s life hell for the crime of getting in the way. Here’s what moves it from suspicious to deliberate. Earlier this year the DOJ sent Newsom’s office questions about a state lawyer he’d fired back in 2022. His office answered. Then silence — until Trump installed Todd Blanche to run the department, and the inquiries into Newsom’s world came roaring back, now aimed at his wife’s colleagues. You know who Todd Blanche is. Not a career prosecutor who came up through the ranks — the lawyer who personally defended Donald Trump in three of his four criminal cases, now acting Attorney General, running the department combing through Jennifer Siebel Newsom’s bank records. The same Blanche who signed off on a deal handing Trump and his companies a lifetime exemption from tax audits to settle a lawsuit the President had filed against his own government. A prosecutor is supposed to be neutral. No thumb on the scale, no answer handed to them in advance to go confirm. The minute one picks the suspect first and hunts for a crime to hang on them, they’ve stopped enforcing the law and started fishing for a result that pleases the boss. And when the boss is the man you used to defend in court, that’s not the careful, evidence-first work I was trained to respect. It’s a search for anything that’ll stick. So no, I don’t believe prosecutors in California woke up on their own and decided to dismantle the governor’s wife’s finances with no signal from above, right as the President’s former defense attorney took command of the DOJ. I can’t prove what was said in that grand jury room. But I swore the same oath to the same Constitution every one of those prosecutors swore to uphold, and everything my years on the job taught me says an investigation built backwards — reaching into a man’s marriage, landing again and again on the exact people standing between one politician and his next campaign — is not an investigation. It’s a hit list with a case number stapled to it. Newsom put it about as plainly as it can be put: subpoena his records, investigate him, harass him, put his name on every enemies list they keep — but leave his wife and kids out of it. And he’s fighting back, filing a public records demand for every communication DOJ leadership has exchanged about him or his wife since this administration began. Good. That’s exactly what you do. Because the law is not a weapon you point at people for the offense of being your enemy. So if they ever come for you that way — no charge, no evidence, just a fishing pole and a grudge — don’t cave. Tell them to kick rocks. And ask yourself one thing before you move on with your day. If they’ll do this to a sitting governor and his wife in the open, with the whole country watching, what’s already being done to the people nobody’s watching at all? 🟧 Paid subscribers get 15% off your next merch order🟧 Founding Members get 20% off for life You’ll get the link in your welcome email. GET DISCOUNTS BELOW! ENJOY!