Inside the High‑Stakes World of Pardon Brokers

Picture a plush bar in the Ritz‑Carlton of Tysons Corner, Virginia, late August. The clink of glasses mixes with low‑key chatter, and at a corner table two familiar faces – Jack Burkman and Jacob Wohl – are laying out a new kind of sales pitch.

Across from them sits Ammon Covino, an aquarium operator who spent almost two years behind bars for illegally moving a shark and a stingray across state lines. Beside him is his wife, Crystal, looking hopeful but wary. Burkman leans in, lowers his voice, and says, “With this particular White House, you have to put pressure on the president from all directions, constantly, to force his hand.”

What follows is a snapshot of a fledgling yet lucrative cottage industry that has sprouted in the shadows of Washington: pardon brokers who promise to “apply pressure” on the president – for a price.

Covino had already filed the standard pardon request with the Justice Department, only to be turned down by President Trump in July. The rejection is not unusual; Trump’s administration has been churning through a massive backlog, denying thousands of applications while granting a flood of clemency to allies, donors and, notably, participants in the Jan. 6 insurrection.

Burkman and Wohl, long‑time right‑wing provocateurs turned lobbyists, offered Covino a different route. “It’s more energy and less process,” Burkman claimed, adding that their “contacts” could fast‑track a pardon as soon as October – for a cool $300,000.

What Covino didn’t know was that he was being used as a decoy. CBS News’ 60 Minutes had set up the whole meeting, hidden cameras rolling, to expose exactly how these brokers operate. The sting revealed a darker side of the clemency game: an industry where access to the president is treated like a commodity.

Historically, presidents have used pardons as a tool for mercy, political calculus, or even personal redemption. From Ford’s pardon of Nixon to Clinton’s controversial relief for financier Marc Rich, the practice has always been part of the constitutional toolbox. Yet the current climate feels more like a Wild West.

In the past, an applicant’s file would travel through the Justice Department, where a team of lawyers evaluated remorse, rehabilitation and the public interest before forwarding a recommendation to the president. Today, that structured gate‑keeping has largely been sidestepped. CBS analysis shows roughly 70 % of Trump’s second‑term clemency moves bypassed the Justice Department entirely – a figure that jumps to 92 % when the Jan. 6 cases are included.

Enter the brokers. Their product? Direct lines to White House insiders, influencers in the MAGA ecosystem, and sometimes, a friend who can pop a note onto a Mar‑a‑Lago napkin. The price tag varies, but sources say fees can climb to $3 million for a guaranteed “meeting” or a well‑placed nudge.

“There’s an industry built around helping people get access to a system that should be free,” says Mark Osler, a law professor who runs a pro‑bono clemency clinic. “If I can pay a million dollars to a friend of a White House counsel, I feel I have a shot.”

Some of these brokers operate in the open. Lobbyists file disclosure reports that list clients and fees, and Congress has seen the numbers rise steadily during Trump’s first two years. Yet the mechanics remain murky. When CBS reached out to several high‑profile brokers – Brett Tolman, Ches McDowell, Adam Katz and Stefan Passantino – most either declined or simply didn’t answer.

What we do know comes from a recorded August phone call between Covino and Tolman, a former U.S. attorney turned clemency consultant. Tolman explained that he never even sends applications to the Justice Department; instead, he “just sends the petition directly to the White House.” He added, “If you have the right connections, the president sees it, and that’s often enough.”

The strategy leans heavily on pressure tactics. Brokers claim they can marshal “MAGA influencers,” stage media campaigns, or quietly remind administration aides that a particular donor or political ally is watching. In essence, they try to turn the pardon process into a negotiation table where money, influence, and timing are the only currencies.

Critics argue this undermines the very purpose of clemency, turning a humanitarian tool into a marketplace. Prosecutors and defense attorneys alike note the unprecedented scale of the “pardon economy.” For ordinary citizens who lack deep pockets or a Rolodex of Washington insiders, the system feels increasingly out of reach.

Supporters, however, point out that the Justice Department’s bottleneck has left many deserving people stuck in limbo. For them, paying a broker is a pragmatic shortcut when the official pipeline drags on for years.

As the 2026 election cycle looms, the spotlight on these dealings is likely to intensify. Lawmakers are already drafting legislation that would require greater transparency around any money exchanged for presidential clemency. Whether those bills become law remains to be seen, but the conversation itself signals a growing unease with a practice that, until recently, existed mostly in whispers.

For now, the Ritz‑Carlton meeting in Virginia serves as a vivid illustration: a legal gray zone where ambition, desperation, and the promise of presidential mercy intersect – and where a $300,000 price tag can feel like the only ticket to freedom.