The following article, Big Tish’s Boomerang – Mortgage Witch Whacked With Her Own Spell, was first published on The Black Sphere.
Letitia James showed up as the black storm cloud that loomed over the Manhattan skyline. Ironically, she ended up raining on her own parade.
For years this woman resided in the same city as one of New York’s most dazzling citizens.
Donald Trump built magnificent buildings, running a successful real-estate company. He then segued into a new career in entertainment, where he excelled equally before finally getting into politics.
The billionaire mogul didn’t settle for mayor of New York City, a logical first step. Nor did he opt for governor of New York. No, the super model-marrying playboy went straight for the gusto and opted for president.
Had Trump run as a Democrat, two things are certain: (1) he would have lost, and (2) he wouldn’t have been prosecuted. But Trump made the mistake of declaring himself a Republican, then winning.
And that’s what pissed off the powers that be who sicked Big Tish on Trump.
Black Storm Rising
Letitia James vowed to slay the golden-haired dragon who’s been scorching the political landscape. In her 2018 campaign New York Attorney General, James showed up with a grudge sharper than a Ginsu knife. She didn’t just whisper sweet nothings about accountability; she belted out a battle cry, promising to drag Donald J. Trump through the legal mud until he resembled a Times Square hot dog vendor after a rainstorm.
“We’re going to sue him,” she thundered in rally after rally, her voice a mix of gospel choir and garbage truck backup alarm. And for a hot minute, it worked. The left cheered, the media lapped it up like kittens at a creamery, and Trump became her personal piñata, stuffed with civil suits and subpoena confetti.
James hated Trump for more than political reasons, however. She hated that she no longer had a chance at him.
Big Tish would represent all Leftist women who lose the good men to their Right-side sisters. She would punish Trump for his politics, but more for going to the dark side–where all the good men are.
Indicted
Fast-forward to October 9, 2025, and the universe, that cheeky cosmic comedian, decides it’s time for the punchline. Big Tish, the self-appointed guardian of fiscal virtue, gets slapped with a federal indictment for—you guessed it—mortgage fraud. One count of bank fraud and another for false statements to a financial institution, courtesy of a grand jury in the Eastern District of Virginia.
She’s accused of puffing up her own assets like a bad Tinder bio, allegedly lowballing the value of her Virginia home to snag a sweeter loan rate while her office was busy inflating Trump’s numbers into stratospheric nonsense. What’s good for the golden goose, apparently, is a bitter pill for the Brooklyn gander. The irony here isn’t just thick; it’s armored, plated in hypocrisy, and rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue straight from the Trump DOJ.
Let’s rewind the tape, because no good stand-up bit skips the setup.
James didn’t stumble into the Trump tango; she breakdanced into it. During her 2018 run, she wasn’t subtle about her target. In campaign videos that now play like deleted scenes from a bad revenge flick, she straight-up declared war: “Donald Trump, you want to play games with the law? We’re going to impound those golf courses,” she crowed, eyes gleaming like a kid who’d just found the cheat codes to Grand Theft Auto.
One clip, unearthed from the digital crypt, shows her at a Brooklyn rally, fist pumping the air: “We’re coming for you, Mr. President!”
It wasn’t hyperbole; it was her entire platform, a seven-figure ad buy built on one man’s mugshot potential. She won by a landslide, and by 2019, her office was knee-deep in investigations, subpoenaing Trump Organization records like they were Black Friday deals at Macy’s. The result? A 2022 civil fraud trial where a judge—handpicked from the Empire State’s bench of progressive darlings—slapped Trump with a $454 million penalty for supposedly cooking his books.
Conservatives saw it for what it was: a shakedown dressed in judicial robes, a weaponized witch hunt funded by taxpayer dollars and fueled by partisan spite.
What if Big Tish’s crusade wasn’t just ambition run amok, but a mirror reflecting the left’s favorite parlor game—using black faces as battering rams while pale hands pull the strings? James, a trailblazing African American woman who could bench-press a Buick, became the perfect avatar for the Democratic machine. White progressive enablers in Albany and D.C. whispered in her ear: “Go get him, Tish. Shine that spotlight on the bigot-in-chief.”
They toasted her victories at fundraisers. But when the confetti settles and the subpoenas fly back like boomerangs, who’s left holding the bag? Not the silver-spoon socialists sipping chardonnay in Georgetown brownstones. No, it’s the minority foot soldiers, the ones who bought the “diversity hire” narrative hook, line, and felony sinker.
Consider the data.
Under James’ watch, New York pursued over 100 high-profile cases against corporations and power players. Not one garnered a fraction of the attention she got when tormenting Trump. He was the glittering prize–the one that got her on every cable news chyron from here to HBO. Her office’s fraud conviction rate hovered around 65% for financial crimes—solid, but hardly the scorched-earth efficiency she peddled.
Meanwhile, conservative watchdogs like the Heritage Foundation tallied up the “lawfare” ledger: Since 2016, Trump faced 91 indictments across four jurisdictions, a barrage that dwarfed any political prosecution in modern American history.
It wasn’t justice; it was a circus act, with James as the ringmaster cracking the whip on an elephant she couldn’t control. And now? That elephant’s stomping back, courtesy of a DOJ that’s finally remembered its spine under Trump’s second act.
What must it feel like, I wonder, to wake up as the hunter and realize you’ve become the fox?
Big Tish’s first response was a video statement, posted faster than a TikTok thirst trap—defiant, vowing to fight “these baseless charges” like she fought for “the little guy.”
Oh, the poetry! The woman who branded Trump a “con man” and “carnival barker” now cries foul over her own financial sleight-of-hand. Her Virginia pad, bought in 2023 for $750,000, was allegedly undervalued by $200,000 on loan docs, a “mistake” her lawyers are already spinning like a DJ at a bar mitzvah.
But mistakes don’t indict; patterns do. And Big Tish’s pattern? A career built on bending rules for the blue team, from her days as NYC Public Advocate dodging ethics probes to her AG tenure, where she sued the NRA into submission while turning a blind eye to sanctuary city slush funds.
Behind the bravado, though, you can almost smell the fear as she soils her big-girl undergarments. It’s only a matter of time before the real sh*t hits the fan.
Court date’s set for October 24, and the feds aren’t playing. This isn’t some rubber-stamp state beef; it’s federal firepower, litigated in a district known for chewing up corruption like bubble gum.
The minions are already squirming
Associates from her mortgage broker to old campaign donors, fielding FBI knocks like unwanted Jehova’s Witnesses. Remember James Comey? The tall tale-spinner who leaked memos to kneecap Trump, only to plead not guilty last week to lying to Congress and obstruction charges? He leads the way with what comes next for James and the dozens more Leftist scumbags sure to follow.
Comey and James make great appetizers. But the main dishes are yet to be served. As one DOJ insider quipped (off-record, naturally),
“The ladder-climbers are lawyering up, and the dime-droppers are dialing 1-800-SNITCH.”
And oh, the abandonment phase—pure Jimmy Kimmel gold, but with felony stakes.
Kimmel, that late-night lemming, built a career on Trump-bashing monologues that aged like milk in a microwave. One season of “smug and snarky,” and poof—viewers fled faster than rats from a sinking sitcom. Big Tish’s “show” gets no renewal; her audience of coastal elites will pivot to the next outrage du jour, muttering “systemic bias” while scrolling Zillow for their next pied-à-terre. White leftists, those masters of the plausible deniability shuffle, will scatter like confetti in a wind tunnel. “We never told her to go full scorched-earth,” they’ll coo from Beltway bunkers. “Tish went rogue!” As if their emails, texts, and donor checks weren’t the roadmap to Mar-a-Lago Armageddon.
But let’s zoom out, because the real knee-slapper isn’t just one indictment—it’s the domino cascade.
Jack Smith’s special counsel circus, that $50 million taxpayer-funded farce chasing Trump phantoms, is unraveling like a cheap sweater.
His minions, from paralegals to potted plants, are hiring defense attorneys quicker than you can say “classified docs.” Each guilty plea, each flipped witness, climbs that ladder higher, exposing the code red from on high—maybe a certain VP’s mansion, or a harried handler in the West Wing.
Conservatives have screamed this from the rooftops since 2016: The deep state isn’t a conspiracy; it’s a Rolodex of resume-padders who weaponize the law like a toddler with a Sharpie. Data backs it—FBI whistleblowers documented over 7,000 politicized referrals under Biden’s DOJ, a 300% spike from the Obama era. Only now, this DOJ will act on them.
This isn’t vengeance; it’s velocity—Newton’s third law.
Big Tish thought she could sling mud without getting splattered, but physics, like Trump voters, doesn’t negotiate. Her fall isn’t schadenfreude; it’s a syllabus for the sorcery of selective prosecution. In a nation where 80% of Americans now distrust the justice system (per Gallup’s latest grim poll), James embodies the rot: a prosecutor who preached purity while pocketing perks.
The left fears this most because it humanizes the hunt—turns their caped crusaders into capering clowns. What if every badge-wearing bully faced the barrel they aimed? The hypocrisy would echo like a bad laugh track, exposing the empire of empty suits.
As Big Tish shuffles into court, camera flashes popping like judgment-day fireworks, remember: Comedy’s purpose is clarity, and this punchline’s crystal. The woman who vowed to “take on” Trump will soon beg for mercy from the machine she oiled.
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