LaDonna Humphrey

There is a particular kind of arrogance that develops when someone spends years building a platform off publicly humiliating other people. Eventually, they begin believing they are the narrator instead of the subject. They convince themselves they are the one holding the flashlight, never the person standing inside its beam. But public records have a funny way of humbling people who build careers weaponizing the mistakes, allegations, arrests, lawsuits, and embarrassing moments of others while pretending their own history deserves privacy, nuance, or forgiveness.

That hypocrisy becomes impossible to ignore when the same podcast personalities who gleefully splash someone else’s mugshots across the internet suddenly grow very quiet about their own court records.

For years now, portions of the true crime podcast world have transformed into something far uglier than journalism. It is no longer enough to report facts. The modern formula requires humiliation. Mugshots are treated like trophies. Civil court disputes are deliberately framed to sound criminal because many audiences lack the legal literacy to understand the difference. Complex litigation becomes clickbait theater. And if the target is someone the creator personally dislikes? Even better. The audience gets rage bait while the podcaster gets downloads, attention, money, and the temporary thrill of playing digital executioner.

But here is the problem with building a platform around public records: eventually your own become public too.

According to publicly available records tied to Javier Jose Leiva, the host behind the “Pretend” podcast, those records include a North Carolina DWI conviction tied to Pitt County, along with additional traffic-related court entries and criminal filings. The records reflect charges including reckless driving to endanger, driving while impaired, speeding violations, and civil revocation proceedings connected to impaired driving allegations. One entry reflects a conviction for DWI Level 5.

Now let’s pause here for an important point, because unlike some podcasters, actual journalists should understand nuance. A person can absolutely make mistakes, get arrested, struggle, mature, and move forward with life. People survive addiction. People survive bad decisions. People survive ugly chapters. A decades-old DWI does not automatically define someone forever.

But that is exactly why the hypocrisy here matters so much.

Because the same people who expect understanding, growth, and context for their own records often show absolutely none of that grace to the people they publicly target.

When a podcaster digs up someone else’s mugshots from a civil contempt matter and blasts them across the internet while heavily implying criminality, corruption, dishonesty, or moral depravity, they are counting on the audience not understanding the legal distinctions involved. They know perfectly well that many listeners hear the phrase “went to jail” and immediately imagine felonies, theft, fraud, or violent crime. They understand the emotional power of a booking photograph. That is why they use them. Mugshots are not just informational in the modern internet economy; they are emotional weapons designed to trigger instant judgment before context ever has a chance to enter the conversation.

Yet suddenly, when their own records involve impaired driving charges, reckless driving allegations, or criminal court entries, the conversation changes completely. Then we are told people deserve understanding. Then context matters. Then old records should not define a person forever. Then nuance becomes sacred.

Interesting how that works.

Because apparently a civil contempt matter tied to litigation is fair game for endless public humiliation, but an actual DWI conviction should be viewed through a compassionate lens of personal growth and redemption.

Apparently one person’s mugshot is evidence of moral collapse while another person’s criminal record is merely “part of the past.”

Apparently one person deserves to be digitally branded forever while another deserves privacy, understanding, and the benefit of the doubt.

That double standard is not journalism. It is opportunism.

And frankly, the true crime industry has become saturated with it.

Far too many creators have figured out that outrage is profitable. They know audiences will click on scandal faster than substance. They know listeners rarely pull actual court records themselves. They know most people will never distinguish between civil contempt, criminal contempt, administrative sanctions, dismissed charges, allegations, convictions, or procedural disputes. So they intentionally flatten everything into the same narrative: “bad person exposed.” It is lazy storytelling disguised as investigative work.

The irony is almost painful. The same personalities who posture online as watchdogs of ethics and accountability often appear deeply uncomfortable when the microscope swings back toward their own history. Suddenly we are expected to remember that people are complicated. Suddenly we are reminded not to define human beings solely by court records. Suddenly we are told everyone deserves room to grow beyond their worst moments.

Exactly.

That principle should apply universally, not selectively based on who controls the microphone.

Because if someone wants to build a career publicly dissecting the legal histories, mugshots, court proceedings, and humiliations of others, they do not get to act shocked when audiences begin examining their own records with equal intensity. Public records are not toys to be weaponized only when convenient. Once a creator decides court filings are entertainment content, they lose the moral authority to complain when their own filings become part of the conversation too.

The internet never forgets.

And apparently, neither do public databases.