EL CAJON, CA— Accusations of “irresponsible,” “reckless,” “malicious,” and “infactual” reporting are easy to write on letterhead. The harder work is showing what responsible journalism looks like when the cameras are off. This is a story about restraint: one investigation I did not publish, and several items I declined to print because the evidence didn’t meet the standard the public deserves.
During routine federal records sweeps, I searched the exclusions database on SAM.gov, the federal System for Award Management. Exclusions are serious: they reflect actions by agencies such as the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) and the Office of Personnel Management (OPM) restricting individuals or entities from federal awards. In that database, two names appeared—Public Official Number One and Public Official Number Two. Those names matched.
A lesser standard would have stopped there. I did not. I began the only process that matters in this line of work: verification.
First, the surface picture appeared to cooperate. The exclusion trail pointed to Florida. Public records show Public Official Number One with property interests in Florida, including multiple properties. The agency action window overlapped a one-year gap in their education and work history. Read quickly, the alignment looked tidy enough to encourage a headline.
I read more. Here’s what it says, and here’s what I found out.
I pulled every accessible field on the SAM.gov entries and looked for unique identifiers that convert a name match into an identity match: middle names, dates, agency case numbers, addresses, UEI/CAGE data. I searched PACER for cases that would logically sit behind the federal actions and checked whether any docket history intersected with our local officials’ timelines. I reviewed HHS and OPM notices for companion records that sometimes include employer names, locations, or other linking details. I compared those materials to Florida property and corporate records and to the local officials’ public résumés.
At each pass, one fact continued to resist the narrative: age. For the federal actions suggested by the entries, the official would have been very young—roughly 20—at the time the underlying conduct would have needed to occur. That inconsistency warranted more than a raised eyebrow; it warranted documentation.
I filed federal records requests to the relevant components seeking materials sufficient to establish identity behind the exclusions. I continued the docket and registry work while those requests were pending. The process took roughly six to eight weeks. When the responses and cross-checks were complete, the conclusion was straightforward and not subject to spin:
- The listed individual in the relevant SAM.gov exclusions is not Public Official Number One, a high-ranking official in a public institution.
- The listed individual is not Public Official Number Two, an elected official serving elementary-school children in a public institution.
- The exclusions belong to different individuals who share the same names. While the timelines do reconcile, the basic identifiers do match, ultimately, the final FOIA exclusion records point to two entirely different people—an odd coincidence, but a coincidence nonetheless. That is not speculation; that is what the documents show.
There were other items I chose not to run, even though I have public records sufficient to substantiate them, along with multiple witness statements. They arrived as tips from various corners—some earnest, some performative—all demanding to be weighed the same way: against evidence and relevance to public duties.
One recurring claim centered on a local figure who routinely presents themselves as an attorney—telling people they can “represent” clients, overturn old charges, and assist vulnerable or homeless populations. The portrayal doesn’t stop at conversation; they also advertise the title publicly, using the post-nominal “JD,” shorthand for Juris Doctor—a law degree typically held by licensed attorneys, minus the crucial step of Bar admission.
I searched the California State Bar rolls under every plausible spelling of the name and checked for reciprocity or limited-practice permissions that could legitimize the claim. None existed. I requested any documentation that might turn the story from rumor to fact—court filings, retainer agreements, or letters of representation—but nothing was produced. Public records confirm there is no license to practice law in California.
Even so, publicly holding a law degree while implying licensure is more than exaggeration; it can constitute the unauthorized practice of law, an offense the State Bar treats seriously and may pursue through enforcement action. Listing “JD” on a résumé or LinkedIn profile is permissible. But asserting, beyond the academic credential, that one is an attorney—especially while advising or representing others—crosses a bright legal line. It isn’t just unethical; prima facie, it is illegal.
Why would an elected official assert such a credential? Perhaps they took an online law course or hold an unaccredited degree, but they have never passed the California Bar Examination and have never undergone the moral-character review required of admitted attorneys. Whether the embellishment was ambition or deceit, the effect is the same: a public official misrepresenting expertise in a field that demands both truth and ethics.
People who misstate their qualifications—particularly those who transact with public funds meant for children—undermine public trust. It’s a form of stolen valor, not for military service but for professional standing. Maybe not always criminal, but always reprehensible. It raises a clear ethical question: why would any governing board tolerate it? The silence surrounding it feels less like oversight and more like mutual protection, the kind of quiet understanding that ensures no one talks because everyone has something to lose. When accountability depends on who keeps whose secrets, integrity stops being part of the equation.
I also received multiple, consistent accounts describing apparent intoxication at public events and meetings. Allegations of this kind are common—and often difficult to prove after the fact—but in this instance, public records support the concern. Arrest and incident reports from several jurisdictions reference allegations of drug or alcohol use, documenting a pattern that spans years and venues. The related court files show how each case was ultimately resolved: charges reduced, diverted, or dismissed. Skilled attorneys can make that happen.
The record becomes more complicated because certain jurisdictions maintain formal agreements with the San Diego County District Attorney, allowing those entities to manage criminal matters internally when the accused falls under their authority. These arrangements are lawful and longstanding, yet they can fragment the public paper trail, leaving pieces of the same story scattered across agencies.
Despite having contemporaneous documentation, multiple first-hand witness statements, official incident reports, and corresponding arrest records, I have not published these findings—at least not yet. Additional state and federal records requests remain pending to ensure every document is accounted for. The record will ultimately speak for itself.
Even so, the underlying issue should disturb anyone who values student welfare and professional integrity. The mere suggestion that a public official might attend school-related events, board meetings, or community functions while intoxicated reflects a disregard for the students and families such offices are meant to serve. More pointedly: why would any governing board permit an individual with a documented history of substance-related arrests to hold office at all?
We don’t even need to wade deeply into the liens for unpaid property taxes or mortgage defaults to understand what they suggest. That level of personal financial disorder inevitably calls into question an elected official’s capacity to transact public business responsibly and to exercise the fiscal judgment the role demands. When an official entrusted with managing public funds cannot manage their own obligations, it reflects a breakdown of credibility that extends beyond private matters. For a person serving in public education—where oversight involves state and federal tax dollars intended for children—the contradiction is striking. Leadership by example should be the baseline, not the exception.
Public filings also document a turbulent marital history among certain officials: a divorce petition, a sudden reconciliation, overlapping living arrangements that blur the residency line required for office, and arguments witnessed in professional settings. Residency matters because the law requires board members to live within district boundaries, and the state and local records I reviewed support scrutiny of this issue.
The divorce filing, the withdrawal of that filing immediately before an election, and the financial disclosures tied to both are all part of the public record. The sequence raises obvious questions about motivation. The stipend for school-board service is modest, but the health-care benefits attached to the role are not. It’s fair to wonder whether the timing of reconciliation reflected renewed affection or simply the continuation of coverage.
Whether that pattern rises to the level of a full story remains to be seen. I’ve chosen not to publish the complete documentation—yet. Additional records are still pending, and when the picture is complete, the reporting will speak for itself. For now, the lesson is simple: personal instability has a way of spilling into public responsibility, and voters deserve to know when that line is crossed.
Public divorce filings also show that the husband requested spousal support from his wife. That is a matter of public record, and in my opinion, it speaks volumes. I have spoken with many men who share the belief that taking spousal support from one’s wife is not what a man does. To them—and to me—it contradicts the traditional role of a husband as the provider, the one who shoulders responsibility rather than passes it along. Every single man I spoke with laughed at the idea, saying they would rather live in a van down by the river than take spousal support from their wife. They are men, not dependents, not Kevin Federlines, not kept men. They are providers. Seeing a man, especially one in public life, seek support from his wife instead of standing on his own two feet is disappointing. In my view, it reflects weakness, not leadership. The filings show it plainly: he wanted a payday, and “mommy” would have had to pay. In the end, perhaps she dodged a bullet when they reconciled.
Other reports point to what some have described as a lavender marriage—a partnership that looks ideal on paper but feels curiously hollow in practice. On the surface, there are two solid résumés, no children, and no visible signs of affection; it appears almost antiseptic. One partner comes across as genuinely warm and outgoing, someone who seems to have everything going for them—a true bright spot who adores their four-legged companions. From a distance, it all looks picture-perfect. But is it? Is it truly a lavender marriage, or simply a couple who have quietly grown apart? Maybe, just maybe, one of them is sending out a quiet signal for help. If so, blink three times—slowly—to say you’re lonely.
Readers may wonder why detail the work behind stories that never ran. Because method matters. When officials characterize reporting as malicious or reckless, they are not only disputing conclusions; they are attacking the process. The process here is consistent and transparent:
I begin with public records and treat every tip as intake, not publication. I look for documents and independent first-hand corroboration. I test whether a fact is material to public duties, taxpayer money, or legal obligations. If those conditions are met, I write with precision and context and publish what the evidence supports. If they are not, the note stays in the file. Sometimes that means declining stories that would draw traffic. Often, it means waiting—patiently—until the record is sufficient to end speculation rather than feed it.
The SAM.gov episode is instructive because it was both tempting and wrong. It presented two familiar names on a federal restrictions list, a Florida thread, and a clean-looking gap in a résumé. It also presented a stubborn variable—age—that required more than a glance. The deeper I read, the clearer it became. And when the federal responses arrived, they settled it: same names, different people.
When you step back and consider all of these accounts together, the obvious question arises: how is any of this allowed? Do none of them hold themselves to even a basic moral or ethical standard? It seems unlikely that so many questionable decisions could coexist without a system of quiet leverage holding it all in place. Each appears to possess information about the others—personal, professional, or both—and that mutual knowledge functions like insurance. It’s reminiscent of the Epstein Files: a circle where everyone has something to lose, and silence becomes the currency of protection. Once one canary sings, they all might have to.
The only real question is when this house of cards finally collapses, who will take the fall? Experience suggests it won’t be any of the officials at the top. All signs point instead to the little guys—the employees and staff who cycle through the revolving door, quietly absorbing the fallout while the decision-makers remain untouched. The pattern has repeated often enough to feel less like coincidence and more like design.
If I were reckless, I would have already published names. I would have turned each of these accounts into a headline and every rumor into a full-blown story. I have the public records, the exhibits, and the unflattering details to do it. But rushing to publish doesn’t build a mountain of evidence—it builds sandcastles that wash away under scrutiny. So instead, I wait. I keep collecting, documenting, and mapping timelines. Because when the time is right—when the weight of the record is too heavy to ignore—that house of cards will fall.
That is what responsibility looks like. It is not dramatic. It does not reward impatience. It keeps faith with readers by moving at the speed of proof. And it answers accusations not with adjectives, but with exhibits.
If you have documents—contracts, directives, attendance artifacts, emails—relevant to public duties, send them. If you have a story but no records, know that it will be treated as a lead to be tested, not as a conclusion to be printed. That is the standard, and it applies in every direction.
The work above never became a headline. It became something else: a record of what did not clear the bar, and why. In a moment when it would have been easy to choose spectacle, the choice was to choose accuracy. That is not a slogan. It is the job.
