Sparks Fly Over Light Punishment for Pandemic Profiteering
Orange County has long battled a stubborn reputation for political scandal, but this spring the simmer boiled over. The Orange County Board of Supervisors, by a decisive 4-1 vote, passed a resolution demanding the U.S. Department of Justice (DOJ) reconsider the remarkably lenient plea deal offered to disgraced former Supervisor Andrew Do. It isn’t hyperbole to suggest the stakes for public trust in local government are on the line.
The facts, by their own gravity, are damning. Andrew Do, once a powerful county voice, pleaded guilty to accepting more than $550,000 in bribes for steering over $10 million in desperately needed federal COVID-19 relief funds to the Viet America Society — a nonprofit with direct ties to his daughter, Rhiannon Do. In return, Do faces no more than five years in prison and must forfeit over $2.4 million (with two lucrative properties included). Rhiannon, it turns out, will avoid immediate criminal penalties by entering a diversion program.
The board’s outrage echoes throughout Orange County, where local headlines and constituent calls have condemned the plea arrangement as a pat on the wrist for calculated, large-scale corruption while the region still reckons with pandemic hardship. “The sentence does not fit the crime,” declared Supervisor Janet Nguyen, who sponsored the resolution and has a long, complicated personal history with Do—she once employed him as chief of staff, a relationship that dissolved in acrimony. The board’s official letter to the DOJ calls the plea deal “rushed,” and asserts that it grants lighter consequences than other public officials have received for strikingly similar—if not lesser—offenses.
Pressure, Politics, and a Divided Board
Why, you might ask, would prosecutors strike such a deal when the public’s confidence rides on a show of accountability? According to federal guidelines, plea agreements are meant to streamline justice, save resources, and sometimes secure testimony against bigger fish. But A closer look reveals troubling signals of inequity, especially as progressive leaders and legal experts compare Do’s arrangement with longer, harsher sentences doled out to other officials nationwide for pandemic fraud and political bribery.
Supervisor Don Wagner, the lone dissent, injected a note of caution: “We understand from our DA’s Office that’s being done. And so we’re, you know, a little Johnny-come-lately to this.” His skepticism reflects concerns that the county supervisors are overstepping, using their public platform to pressure federal prosecutors and potentially complicate the judicial process. Do’s defense lawyer, Paul Meyer, echoed this criticism, labeling the board’s move “reprehensible.”
Yet, national precedent weighs heavily in the other direction. Consider Baltimore’s former mayor Catherine Pugh, who was sentenced to three years in prison for self-dealing in book sales—a far less elaborate scheme than Do’s. Or review the sentencing of former Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick: twenty-eight years for racketeering and bribery. Progressive advocates and good-government groups in California see these disparities as part of a familiar pattern—one in which white-collar, political crimes are quietly swept under the rug unless the community demands more.
Concerns about selective justice also surfaced in the board’s resolution, which referenced the Equal Protection Clause and “disparate treatment” compared to similar COVID fraud cases. That language evokes a deeper anxiety: that holding power in Orange County still confers an unfair level of immunity.
“The very foundation of our trust in government depends upon seeing justice applied evenly—regardless of who you are, who you know, or where you work.”
To progressive ears, these disparities aren’t accidental—they’re part of a status quo that enables corruption, discourages whistleblowers, and ultimately shortchanges ordinary citizens hit hardest by the pandemic’s fallout. Harvard Law Professor Danielle Allen emphasizes, “Public confidence requires more than just criminal accountability—it demands the perception of impartiality and transparency at every step.”
Why This Case Matters Beyond Orange County
Beyond that immediate courtroom drama, the Do scandal lands at a combustible moment for American democracy: the erosion of trust in local institutions, the specter of systemic corruption, and the political polarization that often follows. Orange County’s board, led by progressive voices, is taking a firm stand that resonates far beyond county lines—demanding not just stiffer punishment, but a new ethos of equal justice.
If you or your neighbors are wondering why this granular matter warrants national attention, recall the massive sums involved: These were CARES Act funds—lifelines for small businesses, renters, and families devastated by COVID-19, siphoned instead into a corrupt personal fiefdom. The fact that Do allegedly continued to access confidential legal information even after his guilty plea only underscores a culture of entitled impunity.
Progressives have long argued that realignment of the criminal justice system requires confronting not just mass incarceration, but the soft-glove treatment often reserved for political elites. A Pew Research study found that 66% of Americans lack confidence in the fairness of the justice system, citing political corruption as a leading reason. The Do case embodies why: ordinary people see leaders who break the public trust skate by with relative impunity, while marginalized individuals face the harshest consequences for even minor infractions.
For Orange County—and for every American community—the message is clear: true democracy stands or falls not just on elections, but on the integrity and transparency with which power is held to account. The upcoming sentencing, and the DOJ’s response, will test whether the public’s growing frustration with “two-tiered justice” will spark meaningful reform—or entrench old patterns.
