When Eric Swalwell posted a defiant video to social media late Friday night — vowing to stay in the California governor’s race despite mounting sexual misconduct allegations — he was, in effect, speaking directly over the heads of an increasingly skeptical Democratic establishment and toward voters like the ones he has represented for years in the Tri-Valley. 

And indeed beyond the East Bay, as he hopes to convince California voters that he still has a purchase on the gubernatorial race.

Whether those voters are still listening is another question.

In Pleasanton, the suburban East Bay city at the heart of Swalwell’s congressional district, a dozen residents interviewed by The Standard reflected a community wrestling with competing instincts. Many have loyalty to a local figure they know, skepticism toward anonymous accusations, and a nagging sense that the threshold for stepping aside may already have been crossed.

For some, the calculus was simple. “Where there is smoke, there is fire,” said Tony V., 78, a retired Tracy resident.

Jim Ahern, 66, a retired Dublin resident, pointed to the Manhattan district attorney’s inquiry as the detail that tipped his assessment.

“He’s going to have to drop out, isn’t he?” Ahern said. “You have to believe women nowadays.”

Jason C., 53, a Pleasanton construction worker, framed it in terms of the office itself: “People in public life should be moral examples.”

But loyalty, especially local loyalty, proved stickier than the headlines might suggest.

Bill G., 91, a Dublin resident who has attended Swalwell events over the years, said flatly that he would not withdraw his support unless Swalwell himself admitted wrongdoing.

“Until he says he did it, he stays in,” Bill said. “We all have secrets, you know? I know him. He’s good.” 

Christine Sevier, 44, who works in senior living and has had professional dealings with Swalwell’s office, said the evidence presented so far — text messages, an STD test — fell short of convincing her.

“Politics is dirty,” she said. “Maybe she is being pressured.”

Others were less interested in guilt or innocence than in the practical damage the controversy was doing to Democratic prospects in November.

“If the noise is loud enough, it becomes the focus of the campaign,” said Mario Briones, 33, an Oakland resident who had come to Pleasanton to shop.

“That doesn’t help people.” Joe Cutcliffe, 83, who recently moved to the area, put it more dryly: “Somebody needs to drop out. It sounds like he might have a good excuse.”

What was striking, talking to residents in the district Swalwell has called home his entire life, was how few were willing to say, simply, that the allegations didn’t matter.

Even those who defended him did so carefully, conditionally, with an eye on the exit.

Rekisha Davis, 50, a human resources specialist who said she had tuned out the news since Trump returned to office, learned of the allegations mid-conversation. She was measured but clear.

“There are people who are good at what they do,” she said. “But that doesn’t negate what they did.”