I Beg your Pardon

Trevor Milton and Elon Musk, though worlds apart in personality and polish, moved through remarkably similar arcs. Each founded a company—Nikola and Tesla—that promised to revolutionize transportation through bold innovation, radical showmanship, and an almost instinctive grasp of how to manipulate the structural blind spots of American trade and regulatory policy.

Milton was eventually brought down by scandal, convicted of fraud. Yet on March 27, 2025, he walked free—pardoned by Donald Trump. Musk, meanwhile, stood triumphant on the White House lawn, selling Cybertrucks like they were souvenirs of the American dream. The contrast in outcomes says less about character than it does about a nation that doesn’t just tolerate spectacle—it sanctifies those who master its mechanics.

To understand just how closely Milton’s trajectory mirrored Musk’s, start with the names. Nikola wasn’t a coincidence. It was a deliberate echo. Trevor Milton named his company after Nikola Tesla, whose name Musk had already made synonymous with electric innovation. While Tesla launched in 2003 and fought its way to credibility with years of volatility, bailout money, and ambitious launches, Nikola emerged in 2014—just as Tesla was cresting into myth. Milton didn’t just pay homage. He was positioning himself as the second coming—only this time, with hydrogen-powered trucks instead of electric sedans.

And Milton didn’t stop at branding. He borrowed the entire playbook. Grand reveals. Unverified tech. Viral videos. Online swagger. Promises of a transportation revolution that hadn’t yet materialized. Musk had done all of this—and survived. His Supercharger network eventually worked. The Model S eventually rolled off the line. The cult following became real. Milton, by contrast, crashed at the moment scrutiny arrived. That infamous video of a Nikola truck rolling downhill—filmed to appear self-propelled—was a moment of collapse. Yet it wasn’t fundamentally different from early suspicions around Tesla’s viability. The only difference was how the system responded. Musk got richer. Milton got indicted.

Still, both men benefited from the same invisible armor: the “chicken tax.” This obscure 25% tariff on imported trucks, born from a 1960s trade war, quietly reshaped American automotive strategy. It forced foreign manufacturers to either build on U.S. soil or give up the market altogether. Tesla understood this. The Cybertruck is being built in Austin, Texas, not just for optics or logistics—but to avoid the tariff entirely. Milton’s Nikola centered its production in Coolidge, Arizona, for the same reason. Neither had to lobby Congress. The system was already slanted in their favor.

What they built wasn’t just tech—it was dominance. They knew the rules, and more importantly, they knew how to bend them without breaking. Wrapped in the language of patriotism and sustainability, their strategies weren’t just savvy. They were protected.

The rewards came swiftly. Musk was painted as a nationalist disruptor—an icon of American manufacturing clawing back territory from global competition. His provocations were recast as vision. His recklessness, as charm. When he held product launches from the White House lawn, or received endorsements from lawmakers who once mocked him, it became clear: Musk had graduated from entrepreneur to mythmaker.

Milton, for a time, tasted the same applause. Nikola’s IPO vaulted its value higher than Ford, despite having delivered no vehicles. The media crowned him "the next Musk." Retail investors flooded in, hungry for another Cinderella story. But then Hindenburg Research peeled back the curtain. The lies were too plain, the promises too hollow. Milton was charged with fraud.

It should have ended there. And for a while, it looked like it had. Prosecutors asked for $680 million in restitution to shareholders and another $15 million to a defrauded investor. But then came the twist. On March 27, 2025, Trump issued a full and unconditional pardon. The slate was wiped clean. Milton owed nothing. His victims were abandoned.

This was not mercy. It was alignment.

Milton compared his case to Trump’s own legal battles, calling the similarities "striking." And he wasn’t wrong. Both men built their power on spectacle. Both blurred the lines between branding and deceit. And both discovered that in America, boldness can be mistaken for brilliance—and recklessness mistaken for leadership.

But this pardon wasn’t just about personal sympathy. It had infrastructure.

Milton’s appellate attorney, Brad Bondi, is the brother of Pam Bondi—Florida’s former Attorney General and one of Trump’s most loyal defenders during impeachment. After Trump’s 2024 re-election, he appointed her as U.S. Attorney General. From that seat, Pam Bondi shaped federal priorities to match Trump’s political ambitions—dismantling DEI policies, launching investigations into liberal strongholds, and aligning prosecutions with ideological agendas.

Her presence in the Justice Department gave her brother’s client a proximity to power that most defendants can’t even imagine. The legal system didn’t just forgive Milton—it welcomed him back into the fold. Loyalty, it seems, is its own currency.

Milton wasn’t just a failed CEO. He was someone the system had once lifted, then punished, then rescued. And that, too, mirrors Trump’s journey.

So yes—there are similarities between Milton and Trump. Both men exploited chaos. Both understood that American media and political culture reward the audacious. Musk may sell Cyber trucks from the White House. Milton may walk free from federal prison. But both are shielded by a culture that confuses size with significance.

This comparison isn’t superficial. It’s structural.

All three men—Milton, Musk, Trump—built brands that relied on American exceptionalism, regulatory loopholes, and the theater of disruption. They knew how to cast themselves as inevitable. They fed the public a steady diet of narrative and scale. And when challenged, they pointed to the scoreboard—the market cap, the crowd size, the headlines.

In a better system, perhaps truth would outrun myth. Maybe Milton’s deception would matter more than his charisma. Maybe Musk’s recklessness would raise red flags, not just capital. But we do not live in that system.

We live in a place where Trevor Milton gets a pardon, and Elon Musk gets a platform. One sold trucks that didn’t work. The other sells a future that’s always just out of reach. Both are rewarded for the illusion.

What they built wasn’t just a business. It was identity. It was spectacle. And it was protected—not in spite of the lies, but because of them.

In America, if you build it loud enough, long enough, and large enough, there will always be a hand ready to pull you from the fall. Or better yet, to pretend you never fell at all.