Anatomy Of A Soft Coup: McCabe’s Unprecedented Criminal Investigation Of A Sitting President
The election of Donald Trump in November 2016 was, for the entrenched political class, a thunderclap. It was not supposed to happen. The experts, the pollsters, the seasoned operatives had assured the country that Hillary Clinton’s victory was inevitable. Yet by the morning of November 9, the White House was preparing to receive a president unlike any in modern history: a political outsider with no government experience, an instinctive distrust of Washington, and a willingness to discard its conventions. For some in the outgoing administration and the permanent bureaucracy, this was not merely a surprise. It was a crisis to be managed, or better yet, undone.
That undoing began in earnest just four months into Trump’s presidency, when Acting FBI Director Andrew McCabe, with the approval of FBI Counterintelligence chief Bill Priestap and General Counsel James Baker, authorized a criminal investigation into the sitting president of the United States. This probe did not arise from fresh evidence of presidential misconduct. It rested on the same thin reeds that had underpinned the Russia collusion narrative since mid-2016: opposition research paid for by the Clinton campaign, laundered through the Steele dossier, and presented as intelligence. It was a case study in how partisan disinformation can metastasize into official action when it finds a willing audience inside the government.
To understand how extraordinary this was, one must appreciate the context. Intelligence reports later declassified in the Durham Annex revealed that, as early as March 2016, the Clinton campaign had hatched a plan to tie Trump to Russian operatives, not as a matter of national security, but as an electoral tactic. These plans were known to senior Obama administration officials, including John Brennan, James Comey, and Andrew McCabe, before the election. Yet when Trump won, the machinery they had assembled did not wind down. It shifted purpose: from preventing his election to destabilizing his presidency.
The first casualty in this internal campaign was Michael Flynn, Trump’s National Security Adviser and one of the few senior appointees with both loyalty to Trump and an understanding of the intelligence community’s inner workings. In late January 2017, Acting Attorney General Sally Yates, an Obama holdover, warned the White House that Flynn had misled them about conversations with the Russian ambassador. The FBI had already interviewed Flynn, in a meeting arranged by Comey that bypassed standard White House protocol. Even Peter Strzok, one of the interviewing agents, admitted they did not believe Flynn had lied. Nevertheless, the incident was used to force Flynn’s resignation on February 13, with Vice President Pence publicly citing dishonesty over sanctions discussions. In hindsight, it is clear this was less about Flynn’s conduct than about removing a man who might have quickly uncovered the flimsiness of the Russia allegations.
Next came Attorney General Jeff Sessions, a Trump loyalist but a DOJ outsider with no prior experience in its leadership. Under pressure over his own contacts with the same Russian ambassador, Sessions recused himself from any matters related to the 2016 campaign on March 2. This decision, encouraged by DOJ ethics officials from the Obama era and accepted without challenge by Pence and other advisers, effectively ceded control of any Trump-Russia inquiries to deep state officials and Obama holdovers. It was the opening the FBI needed.
By mid-May, after Trump fired Comey at the recommendation of Sessions and Deputy Attorney General Rod Rosenstein, the FBI’s leadership was in open revolt. McCabe, Priestap, and Baker, all veterans of the Obama years, debated whether Trump had acted at Moscow’s behest. They even discussed the 25th Amendment and the idea of Rosenstein surreptitiously recording the president. These were not jokes. On May 16, McCabe authorized a full counterintelligence and criminal investigation into Trump himself, premised on the possibility that he was an agent of a foreign power. This was the first such investigation of a sitting president in US history.
The evidentiary basis for this move was paper-thin, much of it drawn from the Steele dossier, a work of partisan fiction that its own author was unwilling to verify. Baker, the FBI’s top lawyer, was a personal friend of Michael Sussmann, the Clinton campaign attorney who had helped funnel the dossier to the Bureau. Priestap, who signed off on the investigation, had overseen its use in obtaining FISA warrants to surveil Trump associates. They knew the source was tainted and the allegations were fiction. They proceeded anyway.
The day after the investigation formally opened, Rosenstein appointed Robert Mueller as Special Counsel, locking the inquiry beyond Trump’s reach. Mueller’s team, stocked with Democratic donors and Obama DOJ and FBI veterans, inherited the case and its political overtones. For nearly two years, the president governed under a cloud of suspicion, his every move interpreted through the lens of an unfounded allegation.
The impact on Trump’s presidency was profound. Key legislative initiatives stalled. Allies in Congress, warned privately by Pence and others that the investigation was serious, kept their distance. Figures like John McCain, Paul Ryan, and Jeff Flake acted in ways that hampered Trump’s agenda, from blocking Obamacare repeal to threatening his judicial nominations. Inside the executive branch, FBI Director Christopher Wray, another newcomer with no institutional knowledge of the Bureau’s internal politics, declined to purge the officials who had driven the investigation, allowing them to operate until they were forced out by Inspector General findings.
By the time Mueller submitted his report in March 2019, concluding there was no evidence of collusion, the damage was done. Trump’s first term had been defined in large part by a manufactured scandal. The narrative of foreign compromise, though disproven, had justified a Special Counsel, sustained hostile media coverage, and ultimately greased the skids for an unfounded impeachment over Ukraine.
The Durham Annex, unearthed years later, stripped away any lingering doubt about intent. It documented that the Russia collusion story was conceived as a political hit, that it was known to be false by the time it was weaponized in 2017, and that senior intelligence and law enforcement officials chose to advance it rather than expose it. In Madison’s terms, the accumulation of legislative, executive, and judicial powers in the same hands, here, the unelected leadership of the FBI and DOJ, amounted to tyranny.
That Trump survived this onslaught is remarkable. Few presidents, faced with a hostile bureaucracy, disloyal appointees, and a media eager to amplify every leak, could have done so. That the plot failed to remove him does not make it less a coup. It makes it a failed coup, one whose near-success should alarm anyone who values electoral legitimacy.
The lesson is clear. The intelligence and law enforcement apparatus of the United States must never again be allowed to become an instrument of partisan warfare. The use of fabricated opposition research to justify surveillance, investigations, and the effective nullification of an election result is a violation not just of political norms but of the constitutional order. It took years for the facts to emerge. It will take far longer to repair the trust that was lost.
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George Santos Deserves Prison, Not A Pardon
George Santos did not stretch the truth. He did not fudge numbers. He did not run afoul of technicalities in campaign finance law. He stole, lied, and exploited vulnerable people for personal and political gain. These were not victimless crimes, nor were they victimless lies. They were part of an elaborate scheme to build a fraudulent political career on a foundation of stolen funds, fictitious wealth, and unearned trust. It is time conservatives stop equivocating. If George Santos were not a thief, he might have been a talented, even promising political figure. But he is a thief, and a spectacularly cynical one at that. He stole from the old and the sick, he stole from donors, he stole from the US taxpayer. He is not a misunderstood maverick or a casualty of overzealous prosecution. He is a con man, and a criminal.
Let us begin, as the law did, with the false image he built. Santos, through deliberate lies to the Federal Election Commission and his own party, fabricated a story of fundraising success. In early 2022, he claimed to have raised over $250,000 in a single quarter from third-party donors, including a personal loan of $500,000 to his own campaign. These were lies. He did not have the money. He did not receive these donations. But this mirage of financial viability was just enough to secure his acceptance into the National Republican Congressional Committee’s “Young Guns” program, granting him financial, logistical, and strategic support. The GOP, believing they were backing a legitimate, self-sustaining candidate, diverted valuable resources to a fraud.
But Santos did not merely fake donor support. He invented donors. Using the identities and financial information of real people, Santos charged their credit cards repeatedly, funneling the proceeds into his campaign, other political committees, and even his own bank account. Nearly a dozen people were victimized, including individuals least capable of defending themselves. One woman, suffering from brain damage, had thousands of dollars withdrawn without her consent. Two elderly men in their eighties, each suffering from dementia, had their identities stolen and their cards charged. These were not passive accounting errors or clerical mistakes. These were acts of intimate, cold exploitation. Santos knew these people, spoke with them, thanked them for their support, and then used their vulnerability against them.
In one egregious instance, a donor who had already given the legal maximum found his credit card charged an additional $15,800 without authorization. Santos disguised this theft by attributing the funds to fabricated family members in his FEC reports, a maneuver that allowed him to continue the ruse while avoiding contribution limits. In another, he charged $12,000 to a donor’s account and deposited the majority into his personal bank. From there, it funded clothing, cosmetics, credit card bills, and gambling trips. The campaign, the candidacy, the public service, all were secondary to a lifestyle of luxury paid for by other people’s money.
Perhaps the most hypocritical of Santos’s frauds involved the pandemic. In 2020, he applied for and received over $24,000 in unemployment benefits from the state of New York. At the time, he was gainfully employed as a regional director at a Florida-based investment firm, earning over $120,000 a year. He did not miss a paycheck. He was not laid off. He did not qualify. And yet, each week, he falsely certified his jobless status, drawing taxpayer-funded aid designed for those hit hardest by COVID-19, the unemployed, the underemployed, the financially desperate. In an act of gall that would be laughable if it were not so despicable, Santos later sponsored legislation in Congress to crack down on pandemic unemployment fraud. The man who stole from the system claimed he would reform it.
Nor did the deception stop there. Santos lied on his congressional financial disclosures, the forms meant to ensure transparency for public officials. He claimed to have earned $750,000 in salary from a private company that paid him nothing. He reported receiving $1 to $5 million in dividends that never existed. He declared hundreds of thousands in bank holdings, when in fact his accounts were often in the low thousands, if not lower. In reality, his only actual income came from the investment firm and the unemployment checks he falsely obtained. The lies were not incidental. They were comprehensive, deliberate, and aimed at creating an illusion of wealth and competence.
Even more brazenly, Santos fabricated an independent expenditure group, a supposed political action committee called RedStone Strategies. He solicited two donors for $25,000 each, promising that the funds would be used for media buys and campaign efforts. They were not. Santos transferred the money into accounts he controlled and spent it on Ferragamo, Hermes, Botox, and credit card bills. This was not merely unethical. It was embezzlement. It was theft. It was a fraud perpetrated with full knowledge and intent.
In total, Santos stole or misappropriated approximately $578,750. The court ordered him to pay $373,749.97 in restitution and to forfeit an additional $205,002.97. These numbers were not speculative. They were calculated against real losses to real people, individuals whose credit was damaged, whose money was siphoned away, whose trust was obliterated. Santos’s 87-month sentence, or just over seven years, was not an outlier in the federal system. It was a typical penalty for this kind of sprawling, malicious financial fraud. Defendants with no political profile, who defrauded the government or private individuals out of hundreds of thousands of dollars, routinely receive similar sentences. That Santos was a congressman did not result in his being singled out. If anything, it spared him scrutiny longer than he deserved.
There is no serious argument for clemency here. Clemency is for excess, for injustice, for punishment that outstrips wrongdoing. Clemency is not for grifters who fake their way into office by stealing from pensioners and pandemic relief funds. One does not defend George Santos by invoking freedom, fairness, or limited government. To the contrary, every dollar Santos stole weakened the legitimacy of our electoral system, diverted support from legitimate candidates, and degraded the moral clarity conservatives must offer in a dishonest age. The true conservative position is to say plainly: this man is a crook.
Yes, Santos was charismatic. Yes, he had a knack for commanding attention. And yes, in another life, with honesty and principle, he might have served well. But we do not excuse embezzlement because the embezzler is clever. We do not overlook theft because the thief is funny. Our movement has spent decades insisting that character matters. If that is still true, then George Santos is not a man to be platformed or pitied. He is a cautionary tale.
Some will argue that Santos’s sentence was harsh. Perhaps. But that is not a reason to pardon him. It is a reason to scrutinize sentencing guidelines for all non-violent financial offenders. Santos should be treated like any other fraudster, no worse, no better. And by that measure, he has been.
Others say we should forgive him because the media was against him. But the media is against every Republican. What makes our side different, or should, is our insistence on personal responsibility. George Santos did what he did. He admitted it. He pled guilty. He is being punished in accordance with the law. He is not a martyr. He is a criminal.
Those who now seek to rebrand Santos as a political prisoner or conservative folk hero are doing damage not only to the movement, but to the truth. And that matters. For if we cannot call theft what it is, if we cannot call fraud what it is, if we cannot reject the normalization of criminality in our own ranks, then we are not a movement of principle. We are just another racket.
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