The street sign bearing the boy's name in a patch of yellow brick row houses are all that's left now.

Most of the five hundred and eighty six housing units, built originally for working class immigrants from Europe but quickly segregated into an all black slum, now stand boarded up behind an eight foot fence, condemned.

From what I can hear, a squadro or two still calls a few of the abandoned units home, but along North Cambridge between Oak and Chicago Avenue, the nearly one hundred and fifty units that are still occupied sit in stubborn defiance.

These are the last remaining residents, the holdouts who took the city to court and won the right to stay, their prize to live amid what's left of a seventy acre neighborhood that was and still is synonymous with the broken promises of American public housing, Guns, drugs, death to spare Cabrini Green.

Some say it was Dan Trell Davis's lost life, struck by a sniper's errant bullet meant for a rival gang in nineteen ninety two that finally set in motion the machinery that brought down Cabrini's infamous twenty three high rises.

Others, more cynically but no less truthfully believe it gave the city a perfect excuse to do what had long been desired.

Sees coveted north Side land from poor black folks and handed over to developers eager to transform it into another market rate enclave.

They ask why Dantrell and not the girl shot by a sniper two months earlier, or the other boy gunned down a few months before that.

All three lived in Cabrini.

All three went to General Elementary, why one life and not another?

But litigating why some tragedies gripped the public conscience while others fade is its own kind of fools errand we can't know.

It's beyond us.

Sometimes it's the timing of things.

Sometimes it's the little details that linger.

Maybe it was because Dantreell was just seven, because he was walking the few feet from his home to his school, because he was holding his mother's hand the whole time, and even that could not protect him.

Whatever the case, Dantrell Davis Way holds the residue of a neighborhood now vanishing beneath the tide of modern townhomes and luxury units rising where the towers once stood.

It's been thirty three years since the boy lost his life.

The city mourned and its leaders vowed accountability, and yet there are still so many questions, not about what happened to the boy, but whether, in the heat of public pressure, under the eyes of a nation and a presidential candidate on the campaign trail, Chicago police got the right man.

That's what drew me in of age in the nineties, when words like super predator and zero tolerance were shaped into slogans that justified harsh punishment for some and handslaps for others.

I might not have known Anthony Garrett, but I know the fear of that era.

I felt it from all angles.

I feared getting jumped, I feared getting shot, I feared the police.

Violence wasn't abstract.

It was always possible.

That era shaped how the world saw me and how I saw the world.

And I remember watching the country move swiftly and brutally to contain it.

And now I've lived long enough to see the damage that response left behind.

An entire generation of black men, of uncles and fathers and sons, erased from our neighborhoods disappeared into cells a lost generation, and now they're merging one by one with story that demand we take stock of the systems we built to keep ourselves safe.

I don't know if Anthony Garrett is innocent, but I've seen enough to wonder if this story is yet another example, and I believe that question could he be one more is worth asking.

But we will get to all of that.

I'm Dax Steblin Ross, and in this two part bonus series, I'm exploring a simple but urgent question.

Did they get the right man for the murder of Dan Treell Davis?

And if they didn't, what forces led a city to arrest convict and forget the wrong one?

And ultimately, what does it take to reckon with a legacy of torture not in some far off place, right here in our backyard.

Welcome to Crying Wolf in his episodes The Case against Anthony Garrett.

This is standing on the ruins.

Dan Trell's walk to school was no more than a minute or two, about as close a commute as one could expect.

Along the way, the parent patrol kept watch.

A pair of cops stood at the ready.

Teachers waited at the front door, and Dan Trell's mother, Annette Freeman, clutched his hand.

None of it was enough.

Seven year old Don Trell Davis was shot in the head as he walked hand in hand with his mother across the parking lot from his building to Jenner School.

It was a horrific scene, blotches of blood standing the sidewalk outside in elementary school, and it would capture the attention of a community, a city, a country that up until that point seemed intractably apathetic about its public housing crisis.

Within hours, more than three dozen detectives descended on the surrounding buildings, searching for a suspect, a witness, anyone who would tell them something.

By early afternoon, police believed they had their lead.

A cousin of Dan Trell's told investigators that a person known only as Hollywood had seen a gang member called Quabini and the stairwell of the near vacant high rise at eleven fifty seven North Cleveland.

According to this cousin, Quabini handed an AR fifteen to a quote shorty, who then took it away.

This thin thread would prove to be all the evidence police needed.

Quabini, whose real name was Anthony Garrett was outside one of the buildings with friends and his wife, Ana Thomas, when police approached nearly thirty three days later.

Aina still recalls that moment.

They walked down there where we were, and they asked him to come here good day, talk to him, and he didn't move it first, but then they said, we just want to talk to you.

So when he walked off a to him, they started putting the handcuffs on him.

Then something miraculous occurred, something that for a moment gave in a hope that this was all just a misunderstanding.

The security guard came running down there saying, you got the wrong guy, You got the wrong guy.

The guard's name was Alberto Borges.

Borges said that he had seen Garrett at eleven sixty North Sedgwick across Division Street from North Cleveland when the shots were fired.

An important detail that distance between the buildings is a four minute walk, physically possible to cover, yes, but meaningfully a part in the landscape of the complex.

Police invited Borges to come down and make a statement.

He agreed, He got into a squad car and disappeared.

Never send the security god anymore until he started till he testified he never came back.

His car stay parked there for a couple of months.

I think.

The Chicago police arrested Garrett that same day.

The man who would lead the investigation and interrogation stepped into the picture, Detective Richard Zuli, the same detective Zuli Lee Harris accused of orchestrating his arrest and conviction for Dana Feitler's murder.

But that was another case, another story for now Here was Zuli again, this time with Cabrini, Green's most wanted man in custody.

Meanwhile, the story of an innocent boy's murder overtook the city for the next seven days.

The Chicago Tribune ran the story on its front page, sometimes twice in a single edition.

And a city gripped by rising gun violence and on the cusp of a presidential election, Dantrelle's death became a political flashpoint.

It seemed that everyone sees the moment.

Bill Clinton, the Democrat's nominee for president, came to Chicago days after the shooting.

Speaking at a rally at Daily Plaza in the midst of the debate season, Clinton declared, we owe it to dantrelle.

The papers painted a haunting picture of Cabrini, a place where early death was normalized.

They called it the most awful place on Earth by design and by neglect, a modern echo of its earlier nickname Little Hell.

Vince Lane, head of the Chicago Housing Authority, called for the National Guard and suggested that Dantrell's murder might be the spark that would ultimately bring down Cabrini and public housing as it had come to be known.

Not to be outdone by his public housings are Mayor Richard M.

Daley, who was out of town when the shooting occurred, leveraged Dantrell's name to wage his own holy war against gangs.

He urged Chicagoans to vote for Clinton, pointing to the soon to be president promise to put one hundred thousand more police officers on the streets.

And when Daily returned to the city, he stood before cameras.

What we see is unfortunately they've want in violence, the total disregard of human life by gang and drug dealers, and it's almost to be clarin a war.

That's where we are believe the Cerner war against a gang dealers and drug dealers and gang bangers in our city are nation.

We have to We have a war here, and we have to go after him the same way they go after innocent people.

The next morning's Tribune front page captured the symbolism Daily himself holding a rifle seized in a gang raid, Underscoring both the city's rage and its intent, Daily ordered the city to lock down Cabrini.

Metal detectors were installed, Buildings were sealed, sweeps intensified, Residents were forced to show ID to enter or exit.

Outsiders were driven out.

Measures that would have been intolerable elsewhere were justified here, both by the horror of the crime and the powerlessness of those who lived within the narrative of Cabrini as a place of lawlessness metastasized.

What had been a housing complex now became, in the public imagination, an urban war zone.

Back then, I was just a kid myself, I'd yet to step foot in Chicago, and I don't remember the news coverage of Dantrell Davis's murder, But that very Friday, October sixteenth, Candyman opened nationwide.

As moviegoers like me consumed this fictional Cabrini and its spectral slasher Chicagoans believed they had found their real life counterpart.

The line between myth and reality was already starting to blur, and for now, the public was certain Anthony Garrett was the candyman, the face of Cabrini's violence, the embodiment of its menace.

But was it all a little too perfect?

Anthony Garrett checked all the boxes.

He'd been arrested dozens of times, mostly on weapons charges.

He had multiple convictions, including one that resulted in jail time in nineteen eighty seven.

In nineteen eighty one, he'd beaten a murder charge stemming from a shooting inside the building where Dantrell later lived.

He was the head of security for the Mickey Kobras, a gang with real clout and Kabrini green.

He'd served in the military, even had sniper training.

According to the media, Garrett was out on bond when Dan Treuelle Davis was murdered, and just a day later he confessed he hadn't meant to shoot the boy.

It was an accident.

He was remorseful, but that was what happened.

Then he took it all back.

The same day, Richard M.

Dally appeared on the Chicago Tribune front page, holding in Ar fifteen and vowing vengeance for Dantrell's death.

Tucked back on page fifty eight, almost an afterthought, was a much smaller story.

Garrett's attorney, Raymond Pruszak, accused the police of beating his client multiple times to get their confession, and of intimidating witnesses, including, as it turned out, Anthony Borges, the Kabrini security guard who had suddenly changed his story completely.

Chicago police responded with a photograph Garrett before and after the interrogation.

No bruises, no blood, no visible trauma, Open and shut.

Attorney Pruzac said that they didn't hit Anthony in the face, but in the legs, torso and other areas that wouldn't show.

Never mind that Commander John Burge, perhaps the most new Torreus cop in the city's history, had just been suspended the year before after a scathing internal report concluded that his interrogation methods weren't just violent, they were systemic and utterly sadistic.

He and his team tortured over one hundred black men using a combination of electro shocking genitals, suffocating with typewriter bags, and blunt force brutality, not to mention psychological and emotional terror.

Despite the emerging Bird story, Garrett's abuse claim never stood a chance, not in that city and not at that moment.

To the public.

Bird was a bad apple, Zulie a hero.

The confession gospel, the swirl of energy, news reports, articles, people whispering on the streets.

It was all too much for Anthony's family, especially his sister Cynthia Grant, from whom Anthony played a fatherly role for her two small boys.

I couldn't.

I didn't even like listening to it, you know, because now all I hear on the news is Anthony Garrett, Canthny Guarrett, Anthony Garrett killed Ontario?

Did this?

Did that?

You know what I'm saying.

They just making a monster out of my brother.

Mm hm, making a monster.

Out of him.

Garrett's statement laid it all out.

He'd been angry, it said, because members of a rival gang, the Vice Lords, had shot two elderly residents who lived in his building the night before.

He wanted revenge in Hollywood.

Whoever they were had already told police, through Dan Trell's cousin, that they saw Garrett in the stairwell at eleven fifty seven North Cleveland, handing off a rifle to a shortie.

Garrett's statement confirmed it.

It also claimed that Garrett threatened security guard Borgees, saying he'd better quote have his back or else.

Borgees, who had initially yelled at police that they had the wrong man, flipped, saying he owned only came running because Garrett forced him to.

Garrett's statement seemed to explain why.

But here's the thing that double shooting of the elderly residents.

Researched the archives, nothing in the tribune, nothing in the defender, not even a passing mention.

At trial.

The motive is never even mentioned.

It's as if it never happened.

A confession to a motive no one even bothered to corroborate.

That's the danger of a signed confession and a system that privileges closure over clarity.

From the very outset, it wasn't really about whether Garrett did it.

It was about whether he was close enough to have done it.

Garrett's attorney, Raymond Pruzac, married ironically to Shelby Prussac, who had just represented Lee Harris at his trial six months earlier, pressed on he believed in his client's innocence.

He also believed this will be the case that made it his career.

Pruzak had designs on writing a book that would make him famous, and to his credit, he put in the work on Garrett's case.

Pruzak filed a motion to quash the arrest and suppress the confession, arguing that Garrett had been shackled to a wall and beaten by two unidentified men in sports jerseys, while Zuli stepped out of the interrogation room, each time, returning after the fact with an offer to end the suffering if his client cooperated.

End quote took the case, a phrase in itself suggestive of the need for closure rather than justice.

The men allegedly targeted Garrett's leg that held a metal rod and screws from a previous shooting.

They allegedly beat him with a rubber hose on his injured leg, his chest, his torso, and his groin, all classic moves because the hose didn't scar.

Garrett also alleged that he was denied a phone call for twenty four hours.

At the suppression hearing, Judge Earl Strayhorn, whom Prusac had hoped would grant a fair and impartial hearing doesn't buy any of it.

The confession stood, and you can see why he was known and even referred to himself as judge son of a bitch.

On February first, nineteen ninety four, Anthony Garrett's trial finally begins.

Pruzac lays it out.

No fingerprints, no weapon, no gunshot residue on Garrett's jacket, no test done on his hands, no AR fifteen recovered.

He introduces evidence showing Garrett had loose screws in the bone witnesses place in blocks away.

The jury hears it all, but the story told by the state is cleaner simpler.

Hollywood's version that they saw Corbini aka Garrett hand the gun to a shorty and the sterwell is repeated without them ever being identified, let alone taking the stand.

Bord just testifies, though his own security partner contradicts him, saying that they were together all day and he never saw Anthony Garrett approach borges.

Garrett's witnesses, among them a coach who mentored him for years, portray him as a man on the men he was coaching softball and doing odd jobs to make ends meet, among them janitorial work at the nearby club where Borgeous work security.

The grueling nature of a high profile murder trial takes its toll on Cynthia and their mother.

My mama couldn't take it, so she stopped coming to me and her pelp come yeah, wow, yeah, and she kept saying, no matter what, I'm getting my son out of there, No matter what, I'm getting my son out of this.

My son didn't do this.

I'm gonna cry.

Yeah, my son's not gonna do this.

Isa and Cynthia, Garrett's wife and sister, carry on in her place.

They show up every day, both believing fiercely in his innocence and that justice would prevail.

And then comes the verdict.

I was there when they said guilty, and I was like, oh my god.

What at me is?

When they said that.

Many years Garrett's convicted a first degree murder and given one hundred years.

The bailiffs walked down Trell's family out to meet the media swarm gathered outside the courtroom.

They made Ana and Cynthia stay behind, eventually walking them out of separate door, one that spared them the torrent.

But once they were released, they were on their own to deal with the grief that so few could understand.

Anah took her and Anthony's two year old son and left Cabrini for good.

Cynthia had already moved to the South Side.

They foraged a fortress around Anthony, talking to him weekly, visiting him wherever he was housed, which was sometimes hundreds of miles away Anthony His mother joined those trips when she could, holding on to the belief that her son would come home.

When she died in twenty ten, Aina and Cynthia took up the mantle.

For three decades, they didn't talk to or tell anyone about Anthony.

I was the first reporter they'd ever agreed to speak with.

Anthony first went to Statesville.

There came a twist that sounds like fiction but isn't.

Dan Trelle's great uncle was Shorty Freeman, leader of the Black Disciples.

Freeman was already serving time for drug trafficking, but still ran his gang from the inside, and while officially Shorty put out the word not to seek revenge, Cynthia recalls how not long after garyt arrived, vengeance came and he was.

On his way to chatw as they called it.

He was on his way there, he had to walk through a town and wash't nobody supposed to walk through there with him, nobody but the guard.

But they let these other guys come in there, walk through the town.

And when they walked past and they stabbed him, the guard didn't do anything about it.

So Anthony had to fight his way.

Out of here.

M.

He had to fight, you know, from getting being killed.

Anthony recovered from his wounds and soon after started to fight his way to freedom.

He asked for help, got ignored again and again his case was either too complicated or too high profile, or not urgent enough because he wasn't facing the death penalty.

Even as time seemed to stand still for him, he had Aina, who never stopped believing in him, and his weekly calls with Cynthia, who answered her phone no matter what was going on, and visited him without fail, no matter where he was.

But what he didn't realize or perhaps appreciate, was that the world was changing and in some ways catching on to what people who grew up in places like Kabrini had known for a long time but had never been believed when they said it.

Over the winter and early spring of this year, I spoke with Anthony Garrett from Centralia Correctional Center, about three hundred miles south of Chicago and sixty miles east of Saint Louis.

We talked about the case, about the years he's spent trying to get people to see what he's always believed was true.

He was open, reflective, clear, and from the very beginning of our conversations he maintained a singular declaration.

Overall, I'm innocent, and I've been saying it ever since the day i got convicted, even before I got convicted.

When they first charged me, I told him I was endoson.

What we know for sure is that there was no overcovered gun, no fingerprints, no gunshot residue on his jacket, no residue test on his hands, no credible eyewitness, and there were questions raised a trial about the trajectory of the bullet.

The entry and exit wounds didn't match the angle of a sniper.

It was horizontal, not diagonal.

Through it all, Zuli denied any wrongdoing and did not respond to requests from this podcast about his interrogation techniques in any case, including Garrett's.

And beyond all that, Anthony Garrett insisted that he had solid alibis people that saw me.

From seven o'clock in the morning to nine.

Fifteen that morning, at nineteen.

I went upstairs, went in the house and that's when I saw.

Old Boyfree and Oprah Winfrey was on and he had Emmy Till's mother on there, Ammy Kill's mother as bogs.

I checked he was right.

Oprah ran a special entitled Witnesses of Murders during the Civil Wrights Era on October thirteenth, nineteen ninety two.

Maimie Till Mobley appeared on that episode.

I couldn't corroborate that she was wearing a blue dress.

But in a twist fitting the story, one of the editorials written about Dan Trell shortly after the murder e quated him with a modern day in the Till, the Chicago teenager brutally lynched in Mississippi in nineteen fifty five, whose death became a catalyst for the Civil rights movement.

Another curious wrinkle, one of the witnesses called to testify about Anthony's whereabouts the day of the shooting was an acquaintance named Melvin Cole.

Cole testified that he and Anthony smoked a joint outside of eleven fifty North Sedgwick that morning, not long before the shooting.

That's not the curious part.

Melvin Cole was a vice lord.

He said as much on the stand.

Get no One paused to ask why Anthony would be smoking a joint with a rival gang member if, as the story goes, he'd woken up so enraged at the vice lords that he set out to shoot one.

The logic just didn't hold for Anthony.

It also didn't make sense that he mistakenly shot a boy he coached.

And they say this was the RAR fifteen, so they had front and back sight and the same as the M sixteen.

I still know to set them sights up right now today, So how would I miss my target like that?

When I was shooting at some guys seventy seventy eight seveny five feet away, I'm shooting at them, but I hear the child that's closer to me.

No, I don't read it.

I could tell that he wanted me to understand the technical part the logic.

At trial, he'd even sought to subpoena his drill sergeant to testify to his skill.

It didn't happen, and then he grounded his appeal and the peculiar principle of a purpse.

If you look on my my red, you'll see all the one that I pleaded guilty to them.

I hear those had.

The guns, I would truspass and whatever.

You know, I did that.

But you'll see also on my rats he did if I had a casion and it wasn't my case or I didn't do it, I wasn't gonna play guilty to it.

That's any case.

I'm not eeeting guilty.

To somebody didn't do it.

He tried everything, legal motions, complaint letters, requests for his trial, transcripts, many of which didn't come for decades.

All the while he was learning the system from the inside.

He handwrote his own appeals.

I read a couple and they are astoundingly exact.

No smudgers or smears, impeccable penmanship, not a single word out of place.

Now, I was trying.

I was fighting to try to get somebody to help me.

That's all I was doing.

For decades.

That's where the story lived, a man inside insisting a system outside unmoved.

But history has its own rhythms, and slowly the world around Anthony Garrett began to shift.

A revolution was stirring, not in the streets, but in the science lab.

It began with a few strands of DNA, Microscopic material that had once seen irrelevant, became the key to unlocking decades of wrongful convictions.

First it was one man, Gary Dottson, in nineteen eighty nine, then another, then ten, then fifty.

All of them had served time, some were on death row.

All had been found guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, But when the DNA was tested, told a different story.

They had been innocent all along.

As the cases piled up, so did the questions.

How could so many innocent people end up behind bars?

How many of them had confessed?

And why?

The innocence movement took shape?

Lawyers, students, activists, journalists, each of us chipping away at the bedrock of certainty the system relied on.

I found myself pulled into that work too, First through a book I was writing about a young man on death row named Toronto Patterson.

His case forced me to confront the fragility of forensic science, the limits of DNA, and the devastating weight of reasonable doubt ignored.

Later, my reporting on jury bias deepened those questions even further.

We found patterns racial bias, chorus confessions, unchecked police misconduct, false eyewitness IDs.

Junk science in Chicago was home to many of the worst cases, but also the most radical reforms.

In two thousand and nine, after years of organizing by black Chicagoans, many of them survivors of police tortured themselves, the Illinois legislature created a new commission, the Torture Inquiry and Relief Commission TURK.

It was a small by with a narrow mandate to investigate claims of torture, tied to John Birch, yet it was historic.

Torture has always been something that happened outside of America.

We still don't talk about the abuses exacted upon black and brown bodies by those charged with protecting the community.

In that way, we prefer terms like brutality or abuse.

The term torture it raises the stakes ethically, legally, and emotionally.

Over the next few years, the TURK received hundreds of petitions, but initially, if Birds wasn't involved, the commission turned them away.

Anthony filed a torture claim in twenty twelve and didn't hear anything for years.

His was another rock in the ocean.

Meanwhile, the stories kept coming.

The New York Times sixty Minutes frontline in twenty thirteen, Sixty Minutes called Chicago the false confession capital of the United States, say The New Yorker published a long article questioning the legitimacy of the read technique, an interrogation style developed by a former Chicago police officer and adopted by departments across the country in twenty fifteen.

The same year, The Guardian published its sweeping investigation into Zuli and the interrogation methods he allegedly exported from Chicago's precincts to Quantanamo Bay.

The City of Chicago agreed to a reparations package for Burgess torture survivors.

It included financial payments, education, counseling, and a formal apology.

It was unprecedented.

It also threw the limitations of Turk into sharp relief, because for every man who qualified, there were many more who didn't, men who had been tortured by other cops and who still carried the weight of silence and disbelief.

Advocates called for an expanded definition of torture.

The law as written was too narrow.

It left out too many stories.

And in twenty sixteen, something final gave the Illinois General Assembly amended Turk's founding legislation.

From that point forward, any credible claim of police torture in Illinois, regardless of the officer, was eligible for review.

Zulie urge anyone.

The wall that kept Anthony from having the claim he'd been making for so long actually get a hearing was cracking.

Then came the pandemic.

Hearings were delayed, files, garrets among them sat idle.

But the drum beat for justice didn't stop.

If anything, it grew louder.

George Floyd, Breonna Taylor.

All that Anthony needed now was someone to really listen to what he was saying.

He found that someone in the prison yard, a man also interrogated by Detective Richard Zulei, A man also convicted on the basis of a false confession.

A man who also grew up in Cabrini Green.

His name Lee Harris.

Oh yeah, I mean we was freean but we talked when we saw each other, We you know, talked and whatnot and like we would do.

Did you ever talk about both being wrongfully convicted?

Oh yeah, we definitely talked about that.

Lee was the one who told Anthony about Zuli's other alleged victims and about the legal efforts underway.

And I didn't know.

I just knew that he was a crooked cop, and when I knew what he did to me, you know, but I never knew that he was that crooked.

As they talked, Anthony discovered that Lee had found someone special, someone he truly believed in, an attorney named Jennifer Black, who specialized in the most difficult wrongful conviction cases.

If Anthony wanted, Lee would make the introduction.

He had that opportunity.

And when he when he presented it to me, I, you know, I was like, okay.

Despite being turned away by lawyers for nearly thirty years, Anthony reached out.

Jennifer didn't make any promises.

She told him she moved slowly and had a long line of cases ahead of his, but he had one thing that stood out from the very beginning.

Within hours of giving that confession, Anthony insisted it wasn't real.

That early consistent claim of innocence hooked her.

The years she'd spent unraveling Lee Harris's case had had tuned her to look for specific Zuli tell tales altered General Progress reports.

The first thing I do in any Zuli case that I have now as I look at the general progress reports to see, do we have any proof that Zuli monkeyed around with the gprs.

And in Toni's case, we do.

As in Lee's case, she noticed white out, a possible indicator that they'd been tampered with.

There was also the witness in this case, Hollywood, but in the Dana Phitler case, Lee Harris himself.

But more than anything, it was the way Lee's and Anthony's reports read.

It's really written like a really bad detective novel where the detectives interrogating the suspect, and the suspects like, ugh, you got me, Dick, and he starts crying and like puts his head down and oh, you broke me.

Well, that's what happened in Lee's case, according to Zuli's gprs, and it's what happened in Tony's case as well.

Jennifer devised a plan.

If she could prove that Anthony's confession had been tortured out of him, the conviction would collapse.

But the system didn't just need a story, it needed a pattern, a precedent.

So She turned back to Anthony's dormant turk claim, hoping to bring it back to life.

But to do that she needed something undeniable.

She found it in a man who would face Zuli at the height of his power inside a wartime prison far from Chicago.

So when he came to me, he presented himself as Captain Collins and Navy captain.

I was nobody.

I was game.

You could do anything to me.

You could kill me, you could beat me, you could sexual l Sulton with no consequences whatsoever.

And he had like an envelope.

I read a name from Afar Richard Julie, and I kept that name.

It was printed in my head.

I could never forget that name.

That's next time on Crying Wolf.

The bonus episodes The Case of Anthony Gehret.

Crying Wolf is an iHeart and Clockwork Films podcast and association with Chalk and Blade.

I'm your host Dax Devlin Ross.

The series producer is Sarah Stollart's.

The senior producer is Laura Hyde.

The serious script is written by me and by Sarah Stolart's.

Bonus episodes are written and produced by me, Dax Devlin raws Our Executive producers are Christina Evertt for iHeart Podcasts, Naomi Harvey and Jamie Cohen for Clockwork Films, and Ruth Barnes and Jason Phipps for Chalk and Blade.

Thanks to Carolyn sher Levin from Reviewed and Cleared for her legal review and advice throughout the series, theme music by Kenny Kusiak and sound designer mix of the bonus episodes by Matt Nielson