Tom Steyer paid $100,000 to Texas-based Latino influencer for California governor's race

Progressive billionaire Tom Steyer funneled $100,000 this election cycle to a 27-year-old social media influencer based in Houston, not California, to promote his campaign for governor, the New York Post reported. The payment, now under scrutiny from state election regulators, raises pointed questions about disclosure, authenticity, and what exactly a six-figure check buys when the person cashing it doesn't live in the state whose voters he's courting.

Carlos Eduardo Espina, a Uruguayan-American activist and content creator with more than 22 million followers, received the money for what campaign records describe as "strategic advice and campaign surrogacy." He produced dozens of posts and reels promoting Steyer. But Espina lives in Houston, Texas, roughly 1,500 miles from the California electorate he was supposedly connecting with on Steyer's behalf.

The arrangement drew backlash after state election regulators opened an investigation into whether online creators failed to properly disclose sponsored political content. Steyer, racing toward a June 2 primary, is now defending his campaign's influencer strategy while trying to unseat Democratic frontrunner Xavier Becerra, who previously served as secretary of the federal Health and Human Services department.

The disclosure question

At the center of the controversy is whether Espina's promotional posts required explicit disclosure under state law. Espina told The New York Times he did not need to disclose the arrangement because the posting "was done on his own and not part of any payment." That claim sits uneasily alongside the $100,000 figure recorded in campaign filings.

Campaign spokesperson Kevin Liao pushed back on the allegations in a statement to The California Post:

"Consistent with state law, payments for creator content are disclosed in campaign finance reports, and we notify creators we directly work with of their disclosure requirements. As a result, we are confident the complaint is baseless."

The gap between Espina's claim, that the content was unpaid and voluntary, and the campaign's own position, that payments were disclosed in compliance with state law, is hard to square. Either the posts were connected to the $100,000, or they weren't. Both sides can't be right at the same time.

That kind of contradiction is familiar territory in Democratic political circles in California, where creative accounting and fuzzy explanations have become a recurring feature of insider dealings.

A 'trusted ambassador' from another state

Back in April, Steyer described Espina as a "trusted ambassador" who would connect with California Latinos on issues affecting Latinos nationwide. The framing was broad enough to justify hiring someone outside the state, but it also raises the obvious question: if the goal was to reach California Latino voters, why not hire a California-based creator who actually lives with the policies, costs, and consequences those voters face?

Espina, for his part, told The Bulwark he has "relevance" in California and that many of his followers are from the state. He also said he advised Steyer to make more stops in the Latino-heavy Central Valley and crowdsourced from California followers to help inform the campaign's policy platform.

He framed his role as more than content creation. In his own words:

"People see me as a content creator, and they think all I do is content. What I do is more of the advising side of things."

That description, "advising", aligns more closely with the campaign record's language of "strategic advice and campaign surrogacy" than with Espina's separate claim to The New York Times that his promotional posts were independent of any payment. The two stories don't match.

The influencer economy meets campaign finance

Espina is no minor player. A Pew Research Center survey last year ranked him in the top five influencers for news, placing him alongside names like Tucker Carlson and Joe Rogan. He has reportedly been courted by potential 2028 Democratic presidential contenders. His reach is real.

But reach and residency are different things. Critics have zeroed in on the fact that a man living in Houston collected a six-figure sum to shape opinion in a state where he does not vote, does not pay state taxes, and does not live with the results of the election he was paid to influence.

One social media user aligned with the Becerra camp captured the mood bluntly, calling Espina a "sellout" and adding: "He got hella paid to promote Tom Steyer when he's not even from California. Mind your own dumpster fire of a state, dude."

The anger isn't subtle. And it isn't coming from Republicans. It's coming from inside the Democratic primary itself, a sign that Steyer's influencer spending has become a liability even among his own party's voters. That kind of intra-party conflict over Steyer's tactics is not new, but the dollar figure and the out-of-state angle give it fresh fuel.

Steyer's broader strategy under the microscope

Steyer's use of paid influencers reflects a broader trend in Democratic campaign strategy: bypassing traditional media and pouring money into social media creators who can deliver curated messages to targeted audiences. The appeal is obvious. Younger voters, and Latino voters in particular, increasingly get political information from influencers rather than newspapers or cable news.

But the strategy carries a risk that traditional advertising does not. When a campaign runs a TV ad, the sponsorship is disclosed on screen. When an influencer posts a reel that looks organic but was funded by a campaign, the line between authentic endorsement and paid promotion blurs, and voters may not know the difference.

That blurring is precisely what state election regulators appear to be investigating. The question is whether Espina's dozens of posts and reels should have carried explicit disclosure that they were connected to a paid campaign relationship. Some legal observers argue state law requires it.

Espina himself described Steyer as a "friend" and said he was swayed by Congressman Ro Khanna's endorsement of the billionaire candidate. Whether that friendship predated or followed the $100,000 payment is a detail the public record does not yet clarify.

The broader pattern of Democrats leveraging media relationships and financial pressure to shape narratives is well documented. Steyer's influencer payments fit neatly into that pattern, using money to manufacture the appearance of grassroots enthusiasm.

What voters deserve to know

California voters heading into the June 2 primary deserve straight answers. Was Espina paid $100,000 for advice, for content, or for both? If for content, why did he tell The New York Times the posts were independent of payment? If for advice, what exactly did a 27-year-old in Houston advise a billionaire running for governor of the nation's most populous state?

The campaign's own records say "strategic advice and campaign surrogacy." Espina says he's an adviser. He also made dozens of promotional posts. The regulators are investigating. And the campaign insists everything was disclosed properly.

Meanwhile, the man who collected the check doesn't live in the state, can't vote in the election, and won't have to live with the results. That's a detail California voters can evaluate for themselves.

Steyer built his political brand on the idea that big money corrupts politics. He spent years demanding accountability from wealthy donors and corporate interests. Now he's writing six-figure checks to out-of-state influencers and defending the arrangement through a spokesman. The familiar gap between what prominent Democrats say about money in politics and what they actually do with it is on full display.

California's governor's race already features no shortage of controversy among the state's Democratic leadership. Steyer's influencer spending adds another chapter to a story voters in the Golden State know by heart: the rules are for everyone else.

When the man who made his name railing against the influence of money in politics pays $100,000 to an out-of-state influencer and then sends a spokesman to explain why it's all perfectly fine, that tells you everything you need to know about the sincerity of the sermon.