In recent years, progressive prosecutors have faced a relentless barrage of criticism. Every crime spike, every botched policy rollout, every perceived failure of decarceral reform has been seized upon—by media outlets, police unions, and political opponents—as proof that the entire progressive prosecutorial movement is a dangerous experiment gone wrong.
But where is the same level of scrutiny for the so-called “traditional” prosecutors?
When I recently wrote about Yolo County District Attorney Jeff Reisig’s rightward shift, one critic responded: “Progressive policies are demonstrable failures. When will progressives swallow their pride and admit their ideas did not work, period?”
That sentiment is echoed often—and loudly.
Anne Marie Schubert, former Sacramento DA and a staunch opponent of reform prosecutors, commented, calling Reisig “a true leader in public safety,” praising his programs to divert people from incarceration and bemoaning state legislation she claimed made California less safe.
There is certainly a debate to be had about the successes and challenges of reform-minded prosecutors. But that’s not what this piece is about. This is about the glaring double standard—the selective outrage and media attention that plagues progressive prosecutors while traditional prosecutors, even those with egregious ethical violations, largely escape sustained scrutiny.
Consider Jeff Reisig himself. In the last two years, not one but two high-profile wrongful convictions have been overturned under his watch. The 2023 exoneration of Justin Gonzalez was followed more recently by another case last month involving Ajay Dev, unraveling in court.
Yet Reisig continues to enjoy a reputation as a moderate, reform-minded prosecutor—despite his office’s documented history of prosecutorial overreach. Had a progressive DA presided over multiple wrongful convictions, it would have been national news. Editorial boards would be calling for resignations. But with Reisig, the silence is telling.
And Reisig is far from alone.
In Alameda County, newly-appointed District Attorney Ursula Jones-Dickson was appointed on a promise to depoliticize the office. What she’s done instead is reinstate the death penalty in a county that overwhelmingly opposes it and under a statewide moratorium declared by Governor Newsom. She has withdrawn petitions for resentencing in capital cases that had been filed by her reform-minded predecessor, Pamela Price—drawing swift backlash from death penalty opponents and civil rights advocates.
It’s not just a policy reversal. Jones-Dickson’s actions have real human consequences, including potentially reinstating death sentences for individuals previously deemed eligible for reduced punishment under new laws and shifting public opinion. Her moves represent a stark betrayal of the voters who were told her administration would focus on balance, justice, and transparency.
And yet, where is the outrage?
Meanwhile, in San Francisco, District Attorney Brooke Jenkins—elected in a heated recall campaign against Chesa Boudin—has quietly been disciplined by the State Bar of California. Jenkins is now undergoing an ethics diversion program after multiple complaints involving her handling of confidential information, a highly unusual move for an elected DA. The State Bar rarely takes action against prosecutors at all, let alone sitting district attorneys. While technically not formal discipline, this outcome is significant—and damning.
The media, however, barely covered it. There were no breathless opinion pieces. No calls from police associations demanding accountability. No television pundits questioning whether her administration was a failure. Instead, Jenkins continues to enjoy mainstream support despite ethical lapses that would’ve obliterated the careers of reformers.
And then there’s Todd Spitzer.
The Orange County District Attorney has racked up an almost encyclopedic list of controversies—each one more serious than the last.
Spitzer was found to have violated the California Racial Justice Act after making a racially charged comment during a death penalty deliberation. He faces an ongoing civil trial stemming from allegations by former Senior Assistant DA Tracey Miller, who says she was retaliated against for refusing to protect a friend of Spitzer’s who was accused of sexual harassment. That same lawsuit accuses Spitzer of mishandling two murder cases, engaging in bias, and interfering in the decision-making process for personal and political reasons.
Add to that the informant scandal that rocked Orange County, where prosecutors were accused of secretly using jailhouse informants in violation of defendants’ constitutional rights. Or the coercive DNA collection program. Or the ongoing litigation over racial bias in his charging decisions—lawsuits backed by data showing Spitzer’s office disproportionately targets Black and Latino defendants with sentencing enhancements.
Civil rights groups have called for his resignation. His own staff has described chaos and retaliation. And still, Spitzer remains in office, his political viability largely untouched.
But perhaps the most symbolic example of the lack of accountability for traditional prosecutors is Michael Ramos, the former San Bernardino County DA.
Ramos was, for years, a poster child for the tough-on-crime establishment in California. He led high-profile prosecutions and positioned himself as a crusader against corruption. And yet, this week, Ramos was suspended from the practice of law for six months after admitting to gross negligence. The misconduct stemmed from his handling of the infamous Colonies corruption case, where he deleted potentially critical evidence—after litigation had already begun.
That’s not just an ethical lapse. It’s a betrayal of basic prosecutorial responsibility.
It is hard to imagine a clearer act of misconduct. And yet, like the others, Ramos’ fall from grace barely registered in the broader media discourse.
So why the double standard?
Part of it is ideological. Progressive prosecutors are seen as disruptive. They challenge deeply entrenched norms of policing, punishment, and carceral thinking. That makes them easy targets for critics who equate decarceration with lawlessness and restorative justice with weakness. Meanwhile, traditional prosecutors—many of whom tout a “balanced” approach—are presumed competent by default, even when their records tell a different story.
Part of it is inertia. The media narrative around criminal justice reform has often focused on isolated failures rather than systemic inequities. It’s easier to report on a high-profile theft or an outlier tragedy than to dig into multi-year misconduct allegations or racial disparities buried in public records.
But we can’t let that continue.
We need to be just as aggressive in holding traditional prosecutors accountable as we are with reformers. That means demanding transparency, investigating misconduct, and following up on wrongful convictions—even when they don’t fit an easy narrative.
Because when prosecutors abuse their power—whether they wear the label “progressive” or “tough-on-crime”—the people who suffer most are those already marginalized by the system.
And that’s not justice. That’s corruption.
It’s time we paid attention.
