In a republic founded on equal justice, the ancient power of presidential clemency has quietly transformed into something resembling a marketplace, where access to mercy is priced in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Lawyers and lobbyists now openly sell proximity to power, routing pardon applications around the Justice Department and toward Mar-a-Lago fundraisers and congressional phone calls. The shift raises a question as old as governance itself: when the machinery of forgiveness becomes available only to those who can afford it, what remains of the principle that justice is blind?
Inside Trump's Pardon Marketplace: Brokers Charge Millions for Access
Indigent felons seeking pardons are effectively locked out of the system, unable to compete with wealthy clients who can afford broker fees.
If that's how the game's played, then that's how the game's played.
Mark
So what we're really looking at here is a two-tier clemency system—one for people who can pay, one for everyone else?
Mimi
That's exactly it. The brokers are charging $300,000 to $3 million and claiming they can get you in front of the president. Meanwhile, 16,000 applications are sitting in the DOJ waiting for review, and the people who filed them can't afford a broker.
Luke
But wait—are we certain the brokers actually deliver? Boosie paid $600,000 and didn't get a pardon. How many of their clients actually succeed?
Mimi
That's the thing. We don't have a full accounting. The brokers brag about their wins, but there's no transparency. Boosie is suing because they won't refund his money.
Mark
And the White House just says the president has constitutional authority to pardon whoever he wants. Is that a legal defense?
Luke
It's a constitutional defense, yes. The president's pardon power is plenary—he doesn't need a reason. But that doesn't answer whether the *process* is corrupt. If someone pays $1 million to attend a fundraiser and then gets a pardon, that's a different question than whether he *can* pardon them.
Mimi
The brokers are explicit about it. They tell clients to frame themselves as victims of a weaponized DOJ, not to show remorse. That's the opposite of how the system used to work.
Mark
So the brokers are essentially coaching people on what narrative will work with this president?
Mimi
Yes. And they're charging enormous sums for access to Mar-a-Lago events, congressional calls, and people they claim are close to the president.
Luke
But here's what I need to know: Did any of the people they claimed to recruit—Laura Loomer, Mike Johnson, Natalie Harp—actually confirm they were involved? Because if they didn't, then the brokers might just be taking money and lying about their connections.
Mimi
They denied involvement. All of them.
Luke
So we have evidence that the brokers are at minimum misrepresenting their access. Whether that's fraud or just aggressive salesmanship is a legal question.
Mark
And the people paying—they know they're taking a risk?
Mimi
Some do. The Covinos said it feels unfair. But they're also considering paying it anyway, because that's what they've been told works.
Il Polso
- A shadow clemency industry has emerged in plain sight — brokers charging up to $3 million promise to hand-deliver pardon applications to Trump's inner circle, bypassing the Justice Department entirely.
- Undercover footage captures brokers boasting of 'pincer movements' involving congressional members, White House staff, and Mar-a-Lago insiders — while one client, rapper Boosie Badazz, paid $600,000 and received nothing, now suing to recover his money.
- The numbers tell a structural story: 92% of Trump's clemencies in his second term have bypassed DOJ review, with several pardons appearing to follow million-dollar donations or business arrangements that benefited Trump-aligned ventures.
- Legal experts warn the new winning formula — framing convictions as political persecution rather than demonstrating remorse — has inverted the traditional clemency standard, rewarding defiance over accountability.
- While the White House insists the president acts with constitutional integrity and DOJ officials dismiss brokers as 'snake oil salesmen,' the market continues to operate openly, leaving indigent applicants with 16,000 unreviewed petitions and no path forward.
In a republic founded on equal justice, the ancient power of presidential clemency has quietly transformed into something resembling a marketplace, where access to mercy is priced in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Lawyers and lobbyists now openly sell proximity to power, routing pardon applications around the Justice Department and toward Mar-a-Lago fundraisers and congressional phone calls. The shift raises a question as old as governance itself: when the machinery of forgiveness becomes available only to those who can afford it, what remains of the principle that justice is blind?
Ammon Covino, convicted of illegal wildlife trafficking and now co-running a network of zoos with his wife Crystal, tried the traditional route to a presidential pardon — a three-page DOJ form and a postage stamp. He ended up on the rejection list. So the Covinos entered a different world entirely: the world of pardon brokers.
These are lawyers and lobbyists who claim direct lines to President Trump's inner circle, charging between $300,000 and $3 million to move applications past the Justice Department and into the president's hands. The Covinos agreed to let cameras follow them as they engaged with two such brokers — Trump loyalists Jack Burkman and Jacob Wohl — to see how the system actually works. Within seven minutes of an initial email, the brokers responded. Their method: mobilize members of Congress to call the president, deploy 'influencers' with White House access, and create what Burkman called a 'pincer movement.' Price: $300,000 — much of it earmarked for Mar-a-Lago fundraiser tickets and contractor fees.
The Covinos were not alone in being pitched this way. Rapper Boosie Badazz paid $600,000 upfront after brokers sent his lawyer a list of recruited allies — including the Speaker of the House and a presidential executive assistant said to personally hand applications to Trump. Boosie never received his pardon. When he sought a refund, the brokers refused and denied sending the texts at all. He is now suing.
The broader pattern is difficult to ignore. Roughly 92% of Trump's clemencies in his second term — including the January 6 cases — have bypassed DOJ review. Several pardons appear to have followed well-timed donations: a fraud conviction cleared after nearly $2 million in pro-Trump contributions, a crypto executive pardoned after his company boosted a Trump family venture, a health care executive granted clemency after his mother paid $1 million to attend a Mar-a-Lago event.
Law professor Mark Osler, who has spent 15 years helping indigent felons navigate the clemency process, says the system has been turned inside out. Where remorse once opened doors, the new currency is victimhood — framing convictions as politically motivated prosecutions. Burkman and Wohl told the Covinos explicitly to cast Ammon's case as an 'Obama prosecution that never should have happened.'
Officials pushed back. The DOJ's former pardon office head called brokers 'snake oil salesmen,' and the White House insisted anyone paying for pardon access is 'foolishly wasting their money.' The brokers, for their part, argued that charging for Washington navigation is as old as lobbying itself. What has changed, Osler notes, is the price — from thousands of dollars to hundreds of thousands or millions — and with it, the effective exclusion of anyone without the means to compete.
Ammon Covino put it simply: the system feels unfair. But if that's how the game is played, he said, then that's how the game is played.
A decade ago, Ammon Covino was convicted of illegal wildlife trafficking and served 23 months in prison. He and his wife Crystal run several zoos and aquariums. Last year, they tried to get him a pardon the traditional way—filling out a three-page form and submitting it through the Department of Justice. When the pardons came out, they were on the rejection list.
So they tried again, this time through what has become a thriving marketplace: pardon brokers. These are lawyers and lobbyists who claim direct access to President Trump's inner circle and charge anywhere from $300,000 to $3 million to shepherd applications past the Justice Department and into the president's hands. The Covinos agreed to let cameras follow them as they engaged with two of these brokers—Jack Burkman and Jacob Wohl, Trump loyalists with a long history of political operations—to see how the system actually works.
Within seven minutes of Ammon's initial email, Burkman and Wohl responded. They told him the regular route doesn't work. What they do instead is mobilize members of Congress to call the president, deploy what they call "influencers" who have regular access to White House staff, and create what Burkman described as a "pincer movement" to force the president's hand. The cost: $300,000. That money, they explained, would go toward buying tickets to Mar-a-Lago fundraisers, hiring contractors, and paying for access to people who could get the Covinos in front of decision-makers. The contrast was stark. Crystal pointed out that the DOJ route had cost them a postage stamp.
The brokers' pitch to the Covinos mirrors what they told others. A rapper named Boosie Badazz, convicted on a gun charge, paid them $600,000 upfront after they texted his lawyer a list of influential people they claimed to have recruited—including Laura Loomer, Mike Johnson (the Speaker of the House), and Natalie Harp, described as the president's executive assistant who would personally hand his application to Trump. Boosie didn't get his pardon. When he asked for his money back, the brokers refused, claiming the contract was invalid and denying they ever sent the texts. He is now suing.
The scale of this shift is significant. About 70 percent of President Trump's clemencies in his second term have bypassed the Justice Department entirely. If you include the January 6 rioters, that number rises to 92 percent. Some pardons have followed well-timed donations or business deals: a businessman convicted of fraud was pardoned after he and his wife donated nearly $2 million to support Trump's re-election; a crypto exchange CEO was pardoned after his company boosted a Trump family venture; a health care executive convicted of tax crimes received clemency after his mother paid $1 million to attend a Mar-a-Lago fundraiser.
Mark Osler, a law professor at the University of St. Thomas who has spent 15 years helping indigent felons apply for pardons, says the system has fundamentally changed. Traditionally, the Justice Department screened applicants and typically recommended only those who showed remorse. Now, Osler observes, the winning tactic appears to be the opposite: claiming victimhood, arguing that prosecutors weaponized the justice system. Burkman and Wohl explicitly told the Covinos to frame Ammon's case as an "Obama prosecution that never should have happened." The brokers explained that Trump makes his own decisions and relies very little on the DOJ—it's an afterthought.
When confronted with evidence of this parallel system, Ed Martin, who until recently ran the pardon office at the DOJ where 16,000 applications await decisions, rejected the characterization. He said he had not seen evidence of corrupt brokers and described them as "snake oil salesmen" and "swamp salesmen." When pressed on whether people going to Mar-a-Lago fundraisers and then receiving pardons constituted pay-to-play, he said he didn't know about those examples but emphasized the president's constitutional prerogative. Burkman and Wohl, when confronted with the hidden-camera operation, defended their work. They argued there is nothing corrupt or improper about charging for access and navigation of Washington, noting that lobbyists have been hired for clemency work for centuries. What has changed, Osler says, is the amount of money being charged—it has moved from thousands of dollars to hundreds of thousands or millions.
The White House responded to inquiries by stating that anyone spending money to lobby for pardons is "foolishly wasting their money" and that the president performs his constitutional duties "in an ethically sound manner." Yet the brokers continue to operate openly, and the Covinos face a choice: pay $300,000 to people who promise access they may or may not have, or remain on the outside of a system that has effectively locked out anyone who cannot afford the price of entry. Ammon said it plainly: the system feels unfair. But if that's how the game is played, he added, then that's how the game is played.
Citazioni salienti
With this particular White House, you have to put pressure on the president from all directions in a consistent way to force his hand.— Jack Burkman, pardon broker, explaining his strategy to the Covinos
People think, 'Well, if I can get to this person who can find the president at Mar-a-Lago,' 'If I can pay a million dollars to this friend of a White House counsel then I will have a shot.' And that is not a system. That's something different entirely. It's anarchy.— Mark Osler, law professor, on the new pardon marketplace
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Politics & Governance