On February 10, California Congressman Ro Khanna took to the House floor to name six men he claimed appeared in newly unredacted Epstein files. Three days later, the Justice Department confirmed: four of those men were completely random FBI lineup fillers with zero connection to Jeffrey Epstein. They were stock photos. Control images. The investigative equivalent of typing "generic businessman" into a search engine.

This is what happens when politicians get constitutional immunity without constitutional responsibility.

The timeline matters. Khanna named the six men in a floor speech, pushing for greater transparency into the Epstein files—a cause he's "championed" alongside Kentucky Republican Thomas Massie. When the DOJ released its correction on February 13, Khanna walked back the four names. But the damage was done.

These weren't public figures. These were private citizens whose names and faces are now permanently tied to Jeffrey Epstein in the Congressional Record and across the internet. Search their names today, and you'll find the association.

And here's the constitutional kicker: Khanna can't be sued. The Speech and Debate Clause shields members of Congress from defamation liability for anything said on the floor. Any journalist who did this would face career-ending lawsuits. Any citizen would be bankrupt. But a congressman? Protected.

The four men get no hearing, no recourse, no remedy. Their reputations were collateral damage in Khanna's crusade.

The Speech and Debate Clause exists for a reason. The Founders wanted legislators to debate freely without fear of civil liability or executive intimidation. It's a vital protection for democratic governance.

But it was never meant as a license for character assassination.

Khanna had access to the unredacted files. He looked at documents the FBI compiled for a criminal investigation. And somehow—through negligence, haste, or just carelessness—he confused random control photos with actual Epstein associates. Then he broadcast those names to the world, protected by legislative immunity.

This isn't a technical mistake. It's a due process violation wrapped in constitutional privilege. These four men had their names dragged through the worst kind of mud without evidence, without a hearing, and without any meaningful way to clear themselves. The Speech and Debate Clause might protect Khanna from lawsuits, but it doesn't make what he did any less reckless or any more forgivable.

If anything, the constitutional immunity should've triggered extra caution. When you're shielded from the normal consequences of being wrong, you owe the public—and your targets—heightened care. Khanna delivered the opposite.

The timing here isn't coincidental. For years, while Joe Biden sat in the White House, Khanna stayed largely quiet on the Epstein files. Now, in a Republican White House, he's suddenly the "point man" on Capitol Hill demanding answers.

What changed? His political fortunes back home, that's what.

Since late December, Khanna has been taking heavy fire from his own donor base—Silicon Valley tech elites furious over California's proposed wealth tax. The plan would slap a one-time 5% levy on the state's roughly 200 billionaires, hitting unrealized gains and applying retroactively to January 1, 2026. Venture capitalists who've funded Khanna's rise are now openly threatening to primary him.

So here comes Khanna, suddenly laser-focused on Epstein. It's the oldest play in politics: when you're drowning in one controversy, manufacture another. Distract, deflect, and hope the news cycle moves fast enough that nobody notices you just destroyed four innocent men's lives in the process.

If Khanna genuinely cared about Epstein accountability years ago, he had every opportunity to push this under Biden. He didn't. He cares now because his political survival depends on looking like he's fighting powerful interests—even if the "powerful interests" in this case were random men whose only crime was appearing in an FBI photo array.

Khanna even has a new target he could go after: North Carolina's governor let out a murders and rapists from jail. That seems an issue, but again, nothing from him or Democrats at large.

The wealth tax context matters because it shows what Khanna's willing to sacrifice when cornered. California's proposalisn't some carefully calibrated reform. It's a retroactive, asset-based tax on unrealized gains—the kind of policy France tried in the 1980s, only to abandon it after capital and talent fled the country.

Khanna knows this. He's a Stanford-educated lawyer representing Silicon Valley. He understands that wealth taxes don't work because wealth is mobile and tax enforcement is hard. But he backed it anyway.

That bet failed spectacularly. Now he's casting around for something—anything—to regain credibility. And if that means naming random men as Epstein associates under the protective cover of legislative immunity, so be it.

The Speech and Debate Clause immunity makes this worse, not better. When you're shielded from defamation liability, you don't get to be sloppier. You owe extra care precisely because your targets have no recourse. Khanna's defenders want to credit him for fighting secrecy while excusing him from the basic responsibility that comes with wielding unchecked power.

You can't have it both ways.

Ro Khanna wants to be seen as an accountability crusader—the congressman brave enough to name names and demand transparency from powerful institutions. But when it came time to exercise basic due diligence with material he knew could ruin lives, he failed.

Meanwhile, the four men he misidentified are left to explain to employers, neighbors, and family members why their names now appear in connection with Jeffrey Epstein. They can't sue. They can't demand retractions in any meaningful way. They're just casualties of Khanna's political theater.

When politicians get special protection under the Constitution, they owe us special care. Khanna delivered special recklessness instead. All to cover his other recklessness at home, trying to explain why he's trying to destroy the tech engine driving American innovation.