There is an episode of The Sopranos in which Tony Soprano sends his men to rough up a group of Hasidic Jews who have refused to pay tribute.
They are not imposing figures.
They do not look like men who belong in a fight.
But no matter how badly they are beaten, they are not moved.
They refuse to be intimidated.
That scene has come back to mind watching Jerome Powell during Donald Trump’s second term.
Powell has become an unexpectedly lonely profile in courage. Over the past year, the administration has shown a remarkable ability to intimidate powerful people and institutions.
Courts.
Universities.
Media organizations.
Members of Congress.
Career attorneys within the Department of Justice.
Many have bent.
Some have complied eagerly.
Others have gone quiet.
Democrats, for the most part, have held firm—but that is also their role. Expectations matter when measuring courage. The more revealing test has been how nonpartisan institutions behave when pressure is applied from above.
Reducing interest rates would offer the administration an easy, short-term economic boost—one that might help with its persistent unpopularity among independents.
The longer-term costs of reckless monetary policy—renewed inflation, currency weakness, credit instability—would likely surface later, after accountability has faded or blame can be reassigned.
Immediate leverage now.
Consequences later.
Of course, loosening tariffs or moderating immigration policy would also give the Federal Reserve room to reduce rates responsibly. But those policies serve another function: they provide personal and political leverage.
And leverage, at the moment, appears to matter more than stewardship.
So the administration has turned to pressure.
It is now pursuing criminal charges against Powell over alleged overspending on renovations to the Federal Reserve. Leaving aside that such sums would barely register against the cost of a weekend at Mar-a-Lago, the intent is clear enough.
This is not about drywall.
It is about submission.
Powell did not submit.
He responded immediately, publicly, and with clarity—explaining both the facts of the renovations and the broader purpose behind the attack. Earlier, during a tour of the Fed, he calmly contradicted the president in real time.
In doing so, he became an unlikely folk hero.
This is a man who will not be moved.
History revisits moments like this.
Works like The Sorrow and the Pity, which examined life in Vichy France, remind us that later generations always ask the same question:
What did people do when pressure came?
Fear is real.
The cost of courage is unevenly distributed.
And the fewer people who resist, the riskier resistance becomes.
That is precisely why it matters when someone does.
Powell is not theatrical.
He is not ideological.
He is not trying to lead a movement.
He is simply refusing to be intimidated.
Sometimes that is all courage looks like.
And sometimes, that is enough.