Pardon?

America loves the idea of a redemption story.

The land of second chances, of clean slates, of pulling oneself up by bootstraps that were — let’s be honest  — never laced the same for everyone. It is baked into our origin myths and echoed in our laws. Among the most extraordinary powers granted by the Constitution is the authority to pardon: the ability to forgive even the gravest of crimes in the name of justice, mercy, or both.

Clemency is sacred. Or, at least, it’s supposed to be.

But what happens when that sacred power is used to reward loyalty?

When it bypasses systems designed to protect fairness? When the mercy of the state is quietly extended to the well-connected, while those without wealth, favor, or proximity to power remain incarcerated — forgotten?

That’s not redemption. That’s a transaction.

The numbers don’t lie

The transformation is measurable. Under President Barack Obama, 98.5% of clemency actions went through the Department of Justice (DOJ)’s Office of the Pardon Attorney — the traditional review process designed to ensure fairness and consistency. Even President Joe Biden, despite concerns about his own clemency practices, still processed 26% of his grants through DOJ review.

President Donald Trump’s first term saw that figure plummet to just 10.5%. His second term has virtually eliminated institutional oversight entirely.

This isn’t just a statistical anomaly. It represents the systematic dismantling of the primary safeguard against clemency abuse. In March 2025, Trump dismissed Liz Oyer, the career official who headed the Office of the Pardon Attorney, replacing her with Ed Martin, a conservative activist and Trump loyalist. Under Martin’s leadership, the clemency process has shifted from legal review to political calculation.

Meanwhile, over 7,900 applications sit pending in the traditional system — real people waiting for justice while connected individuals skip the line entirely.

When process becomes personal

In recent weeks, several clemency grants — pardons and commutations alike — have been issued in ways that leave troubling questions in their wake. Recipients were not selected from the long and often heartbreaking list vetted by the DOJ’s Office of the Pardon Attorney. Instead, they had something else: political proximity, financial ties, or celebrity advocates who helped shepherd their names to the top of the list.

Consider the pattern: over 1,500 Jan. 6 participants were pardoned within hours of inauguration. Reality TV stars Todd and Julie Chrisley were convicted of defrauding banks of over $30 million. Former Congressman Michael Grimm, convicted of tax fraud. Rapper NBA YoungBoy on federal weapons charges. Each case bypassed the traditional review process entirely.

Thousands of ordinary people submit petitions for clemency each year. Most never get a response. Some die waiting. Many are serving time for nonviolent offenses, over-sentenced during eras of policy now widely regarded as unjust. They rely on process, not access. Their only lobbyist is the truth.

Contrast that with what we’ve seen: clemency seemingly granted to people whose real qualification isn’t innocence or rehabilitation but donation history, personal loyalty, or favor with elite gatekeepers. These aren’t hypotheticals. These are names pulled from the donor rolls of campaign committees. From inner circles. From private, unaccountable recommendation chains.

The safeguards that failed

The critical review of pardon applications has long been the role of the DOJ. Career attorneys evaluate each request, consider input from prosecutors and victims, and offer recommendations to the president. It’s not perfect, but it was built to ensure that mercy isn’t provided like tokens in a rigged game.

In recent cases, this process has been overlooked. The DOJ didn’t vet many of the names. Some prosecutors weren’t consulted. Victims weren’t notified. Instead, clemency moved through back channels, whispered into ears behind closed doors. It’s hard to know what criteria were used — if any. What we do know is that those with the most social capital or financial clout seemed to find the door wide open.

The deafening silence

So, where are the watchdogs?

Congress has the authority to investigate the abuse of power. Civil society prides itself on transparency and ethical consistency. Newsrooms have long served as the fourth estate, keeping an eye on executive overreach. But in this case, there has been a near-total absence of institutional outrage.

Imagine, for a moment, if another administration — led by a different figure, perhaps one who faced more racial scrutiny or who wasn’t shielded by a party apparatus — had acted similarly. Imagine the outrage if 90% of pardons bypassed DOJ review under a Democratic president. If the father of a senior advisor had his sentence wiped away. If celebrity friends helped leapfrog certain cases past the line of thousands.

The political class would erupt. The media would flood the airwaves. Oversight committees would draft subpoenas by morning. And, if history tells us anything, many of those defending clemency today would be first in line to condemn it.

The price of institutional collapse

That is the tragedy here — not only that power was misused, but that our response to misuse now depends entirely on who is doing it. The double standard isn’t just political — it’s moral. And it undermines public faith in the rule of law. The American public expects Congress, civil society and newsrooms to provide accountability.

The consequences of this are generational. When people see clemency traded like currency, it tells them the system is rigged. That justice is not impartial but bought. That law and order are less about accountability and more about allegiance. And for communities long devastated by unequal sentencing and mass incarceration, it confirms what they already knew: fairness is a fantasy sold to the powerless.

From Obama’s 98.5% institutional compliance to the current administration’s near-total abandonment of oversight, we can measure the degradation of democratic norms in real time. This isn’t just about individual pardons — it’s about the systematic capture of clemency itself.

What we’re really pardoning

The pardon power was never meant to be private. It was intended to be public, principled, and rare — a tool to correct excess—not extend it. To heal—not to reward. To open the gates for those who were shut out—not keep them locked for everyone but a chosen few.

And so we return to the question: what, exactly, are we pardoning?

The mistake — or the person? The crime — or the connection?

Mercy, at its best, reaffirms our shared humanity. But mercy without equity is not justice. It’s theater. And mercy without transparency isn’t mercy at all. It’s just power, unmasked.

While 7,900 Americans wait in the traditional clemency queue, individuals connected to those in power continue to skip the line. The numbers tell us everything we need to know about whose mercy matters — and whose justice can wait.

Tasha Jones is an award-winning journalist, poet, and cultural critic who explores language, liberation, identity, fashion, beauty, and Blackness. A TEDx Fellow and the Reginald L. Jones Fellow at the “Indianapolis Recorder,” she holds an MFA and an MS, balancing sensory artistry with scholarly insight. She lives in Indiana with her children, Shalom and Messiah, and their fur baby, Duke.