If you think the new $1.776 billion anti-weaponization fund is merely a slush fund for January 6 defendants, you are missing the bigger story. And if you are tempted to roll your eyes because of your politics, let me introduce you to my family — and to many other American families whose names you have never heard.

The truth is this: Department of Justice weaponization is rarely about politics. It is almost never about a president. It is about power — who has it, who lacks it, and which private citizens have built warm enough relationships with federal prosecutors to pick up the phone and ask for a favor.

The very existence of a publicly funded process that acknowledges the government can ruin innocent Americans marks a step the country has needed for a very long time.

I learned that the hard way.

In 2020, a former federal prosecutor then working for Amazon Web Services called his old colleagues at the U.S. attorney’s office for the Eastern District of Virginia and asked them to criminally investigate my husband, a former Amazon employee. He did not pitch a murder case. He did not allege a Ponzi scheme. He claimed my husband had violated the terms of his Amazon employment agreement.

Read that again. A private company hired a lawyer to ask the federal government to put my husband in prison over an alleged breach of a corporate HR document.

And it worked.

The Eastern District of Virginia opened an investigation. FBI agents pounded on my door one pandemic morning while my baby sat on my hip in a diaper. Federal prosecutors used civil forfeiture to seize every dollar in our bank accounts. We sold our house, sold our car, and emptied my husband’s retirement account to pay lawyers.

My husband was never charged with a crime. A federal judge later ruled that he had complied with the “explicit terms” of his Amazon contract. The government eventually returned 85% of what it had taken, with no apology and no explanation.

Why did this happen?

The answer has nothing to do with Joe Biden or Donald Trump. Federal prosecutors almost all leave the Justice Department for private practice. The value they bring to big firms lies in their relationships and their institutional know-how. To make partner, you need a book of business. To build that book, you cultivate corporate relationships before you leave government service. Future clients need to know you can call your old colleagues and get movement. That is the currency. That is the game.

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The lawyer who pushed for the investigation of my husband had spent years as a line prosecutor in the Eastern District of Virginia. He called the sitting U.S. attorney, his former colleague. The U.S. attorney looped in the criminal chief, who had also worked with Amazon’s lawyer in that same office. In later civil discovery, we obtained an email in which the criminal chief reassured Amazon’s lawyer that she had “specifically selected” her “two best prosecutors” for his client’s “important matter.”

The important matter was a private employment dispute.

Two of the best prosecutors in a major federal district were assigned by name to a corporate HR grievance because the corporation’s lawyer used to work down the hall. Bill Barr once warned that the investigation itself is the punishment: “People facing federal investigations incur ruinous legal costs and often see their lives reduced to rubble before a charge is even filed.” He was right.

And this does not happen once in a blue moon. It happens every day in the 93 U.S. attorney’s offices across the country. It has almost nothing to do with who occupies the White House.

We are not the only ones.

If prosecutors now face some real consequence for promising their ‘best’ people as a favor to old work friends ... maybe a few of them will pause before making the call.

Ask Nevin Shetty, the former chief financial officer of a Seattle start-up. His company hired a former federal prosecutor to bring a criminal case over an investment that lost money. Shetty had moved corporate cash into a stablecoin platform he believed was safe enough to entrust with his own life savings. Then the stablecoin collapsed, erasing $60 billion in four days, and the platform’s founder later pleaded guilty to fraud.

The National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers called Shetty’s prosecution an “improper attempt ... to stretch the wire-fraud statute beyond its breaking point.” Shetty was convicted anyway and sentenced to two years in federal prison. At bottom, his “crime” was violating company investment policy. The start-up, by the way, had billionaire investors on its board.

Ask Michael Kail, the former Netflix executive. Netflix hired another firm thick with former federal prosecutors to pursue criminal charges over a violation of its “culture deck,” which barred outside advisory work for vendors. He is in federal prison today, separated from his wife and two teenage sons. The start-up founders who supposedly paid him were never prosecuted. Netflix, of course, was founded and run by a billionaire.

Ask Ryan Bloom, the former construction company CEO charged with bank fraud over allegedly false bank invoices. Agents arrested Bloom in front of his young child, who was left alone when they hauled his father away in handcuffs. Later, the judge learned that the prosecutor’s wife worked for the University of Oklahoma, whose president founded and sat on the board of the alleged victim bank. Under that president, her salary had doubled to $310,000, with a $100,000 raise arriving two months before the superseding indictment, even as the university cut costs elsewhere. The court disqualified the prosecutor.

After 18 months of hell, the charges were dismissed. No billionaire required. Just a prosecutor with a personal stake and enough power to wreck a family before anyone checked his work.

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Now flip it.

Take billionaire Robert Smith. After a four-year investigation, the government’s top tax prosecutor was prepared to indict him in one of the largest individual tax-fraud cases in American history. Smith had allegedly hidden more than $200 million in income through offshore structures. Instead, he got a non-prosecution agreement. He paid $139 million, admitted to “an illegal scheme,” and walked away a free man, still running his firm, still worth billions.

Compare those ledgers and tell me what you see.

I see a justice system weaponized not mainly by presidents, but by access — by titans of business, by corporations rich enough to hire the right former prosecutors, and sometimes by prosecutors themselves. It is a quiet, daily message to the rest of us: Get in line, or we can ruin you.

And while we are being honest, ask yourself why federal prosecutors did not exactly race to take down Larry Nassar before Olympic gymnasts forced the issue. Or why Jeffrey Epstein secured a sweetheart non-prosecution deal in 2008, even as dozens of women came forward. My theory is simple. No future law firm partnership is built on prosecuting a gymnastics doctor or a sex trafficker. No lucrative book of business waits on the other side. Prosecutors are human. They respond to incentives. Regular American families pay the price.

So no, the anti-weaponization fund is not just for railroaded January 6 defendants. Read the government’s announcement. It contains no partisan requirement for filing a claim. The fund exists, in Acting Attorney General Todd Blanche’s words, to redress “victims of lawfare and weaponization.” That category includes far more Americans than cable news will admit.

It includes the family that lost their home to civil forfeiture even though no charges were ever filed. It includes the CEO arrested in front of his child over a case later dismissed. It includes all of us who do not have a billionaire’s lawyer on speed dial.

I do not know yet whether this fund will be administered fairly. But the very existence of a publicly funded process that acknowledges the government can ruin innocent Americans marks a step the country has needed for a very long time.

And here is the part that gives me hope. If prosecutors now face some real consequence for promising their “best” people as a favor to old work friends, or for running a case while their own families cash in, maybe a few of them will pause before making the call. Maybe the next family will get to keep their house.

That is worth $1.776 billion of the federal budget. It is worth much more than that.

Ask anyone who has lived it.