When federal prosecutors dropped a scorching 20-count indictment on Dana Williamson last week, accusing Gavin Newsom’s former Chief of Staff of siphoning off Xavier Becerra’s old campaign account for luxury hotels, designer wardrobes, and family getaways—most Californians assumed Newsom would sprint in the opposite direction. This is, after all, the same governor who never misses a chance to moralize about “accountability” and “public trust” when the cameras are rolling.
Wrong.
Not even two days after the indictment went public, a freshly minted SpotFund quietly appeared: “Dana Williamson Legal Defense Fund.” Goal: $100,000. Tone: dripping with Sacramento self-pity about “protracted battles” and “extremely expensive lawyers.” And the organizer? Steven Maviglio – Newsom’s longtime fixer, spin doctor, French-Laundry-tier insider, and the guy who’s been orbiting Newsom’s political universe since his Lieutenant Governor days.
But the real tell wasn’t the organizer. It was the very first donor – the moment the page went live.
A clean $1,000 from Mark Krausse.
Most voters couldn’t pick Krausse out of a crowd. Gavin Newsom, however, knows him very well. Because on June 21, 2024, while Dana Williamson was still sitting ten feet from Newsom’s desk running the Governor’s office, Newsom personally appointed Krausse to the powerful Public Employment Relations Board, a plush six-year gig with a $168,000 salary. The Senate rubber-stamped it instantly. No hearings. No sunlight. Just the sound of the Sacramento conveyor belt doing what it does best.
And Krausse wasn’t some neutral technocrat. He spent 17 years as PG&E’s top lobbyist, yes, that PG&E, the utility that received billion-dollar lifelines courtesy of Newsom’s pen. He overlapped with Williamson during her own PG&E stint before Jerry Brown elevated her to Cabinet Secretary. Same corporate orbit. Same power network. Same governor who later installed both of them in positions of enormous influence.
So the picture becomes painfully clear.
Dana Williamson gets indicted for allegedly treating a campaign account like her personal Neiman Marcus card. Within hours, Newsom’s old communications chief launches a legal defense fund. And the first big check comes from a man Newsom handpicked for a cushy state appointment while Williamson was still managing the building.
This isn’t “friends standing by a friend.” This is the Governor’s political clan circling the wagons, laundering reputational support through GoFundMe while pretending this is some grassroots act of compassion.
If a junior staffer were caught boosting a few bucks from an office petty-cash drawer, Newsom would be on the Capitol steps demanding their badge, their resignation, and probably their firstborn. But when the accused thief is his former right hand – the woman who has had a front-row seat to six years of backroom deals, campaign mechanics, and buried political bodies – suddenly it’s all “sending love” and “staying strong” while his appointees quietly toss money into the defense pot.
Californians can barely afford groceries, gas, or housing under Newsom’s tax-and-spin regime. But the Sacramento aristocracy has no issue crowd-sourcing six figures to protect one of their own from an indictment that would have ended any regular person’s career before lunchtime.
The message from the Governor’s mansion is unmistakable: rules are for the public, protection is for the insiders. When someone in the machine gets caught, the response is swift, disciplined, and impeccably choreographed, complete with a Venmo link.
And here’s the part they should worry about: if federal prosecutors start tugging on the Krausse thread, they’re not just going to find a $1,000 donation. They’re going to find the fingerprints of a Governor who keeps insisting he’s “cleaning up Sacramento,” while quietly coordinating the cleanup crew behind the scenes.
Stay tuned. The Krausse connection is the beginning – not the end – of this story.
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