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Imagine discovering your own defense investigator once supervised the FBI agents who built the false case against you.

It sounds impossible, but that’s exactly what happened in my case.

Fred Olivares, former FBI supervisor, joined my defense without disclosing his glaring conflict of interest.

He was responsible for challenging evidence presented by the very agents he previously supervised and mentored.

Predictably, crucial evidence was ignored, conflicts buried, and my defense severely compromised.

This isn’t just unethical—it sabotaged the integrity of my entire trial.

How deep does this rabbit hole go?

Stay tuned.
Justice isn’t finished yet.

FredOlivares #FBI #JusticeCorrupted #ConflictOfInterest #CroftCase #ExposingCorruption

Read the central report: Brad Croft San Antonio — The Truth the DOJ Doesn’t Want You to Know

In federal court, silence isn’t neutral. It’s strategy. And Thomas McHugh knew that better than anyone.

McHugh wasn’t just some overworked defense attorney handed a complex case. He was a former AUSA, a man who knew the system from both sides, and who claimed to know the judge better than the facts.

And still, he stood down.

He never objected to the wire fraud theory — even though the documents proved the Texas Veterans Commission required mailed applications, not emailed ones.

He never questioned why Wes Keeling’s testimony conflicted with federal discovery — or why the prosecutor never corrected it.

He never filed a single motion to dismiss — not even when the indictment contradicted the government’s own evidence.

You can’t call that advocacy.

You call that complicity.

And the proof isn’t just in the transcripts. It’s in the silence. The missed objections. The passive stance while his own investigator’s past relationships with DOJ and the FBI went undisclosed.

Thomas McHugh didn’t just miss the lie. He let it speak for him.

Thomas McHugh – FAQ

Read the central report: Brad Croft San Antonio — The Truth the DOJ Doesn’t Want You to Know

In every federal case, the players leave a paper trail.

Except this one.

The man at the center of my investigation — IRS-CI Agent Sean Scott — has no trail. No published cases. No known assignments. No law enforcement acknowledgments. No FOIA-confirmed identity. It’s as if he was never there.

But he was. I met him personally at a hearing in 2011. He handed me his card. He was with another agent, Sharleigh Drake, who now works under the Texas Department of Public Safety. They were watching me long before the government claims any official investigation had started.

Here’s what I now know: The government claims my case was opened in 2015. But Scott and Drake were surveilling me in 2011. They sat in my hearing. They were inside the courtroom. They were not there by coincidence.

I asked for records. Nothing. I submitted FOIA requests. Silence. No one can verify his history. The name “Sean Scott” leaves no trail in any court or public record.

So here’s the question:

If the lead federal agent who helped build the government’s case can’t be verified, how much of that case was real? How much was manufactured?

What else is the government hiding?

This isn’t a ghost story. It’s the blueprint of a conviction built on secrecy, false identities, and institutional silence.

Read it. Share it. Demand answers.

www.universalk9inc.com

Sometimes silence is louder than a lie.

In 2018, Assistant U.S. Attorney Gregory Surovics issued a letter that should have changed everything. In it, he acknowledged that Fred Olivares — who had quietly become part of my defense team — once sat shoulder-to-shoulder with the original FBI case agent in the very office investigating me. Erin Isley, the case agent, was under Olivares’s supervision. He was her mentor.

That’s not a gray area. That’s a flashing red conflict of interest.

But instead of bringing it to the court’s attention, instead of disclosing the conflict to the defense or moving to protect the integrity of the case, Gregory Surovics did nothing.

Worse, he allowed Olivares to stay embedded in my defense team — the same Olivares who had access to the government’s internal knowledge and likely had firsthand input on the very case strategies now being used against me.

And the DOJ has the audacity to pretend that no harm occurred.

The letter alone should have resulted in immediate court review. Instead, it was buried. Quietly sent to my former attorney, not filed in court, not disclosed to me, and not acted on in any meaningful way.

That is the very definition of concealment.

It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t an oversight. It was a deliberate choice to stay silent about something that strikes at the heart of justice. And it came from the prosecutor himself.

AUSA Gregory Surovics didn’t just fail to act. He enabled the conflict. He allowed Olivares to operate in dual roles, undermining the fairness of the process and the legitimacy of my defense.

I sat through trial. I was convicted. And I never once knew that my own investigator had sat at the right hand of the agent who helped build the case against me.

This isn’t a technicality. It’s prosecutorial misconduct by omission.

And Gregory Surovics owns every inch of it.

Gregory Surovics let the conflict unfold. But Thomas McHugh watched it happen from the defense table and let it ride. He never filed a motion to dismiss, never objected to the false wire fraud theory, and never disclosed Olivares’ history. That wasn’t just negligence — it was silence by design. Here’s what McHugh knew — and what he let happen.

Some conflicts aren’t loud. They don’t storm into courtrooms. They creep in quietly, then sit there, doing damage in silence.

That’s what happened with William Brooks.

When I was being prosecuted, Brooks didn’t stand across the aisle. He was my attorney. And while he hadn’t worked for the FBI, he acted more like an observer than an advocate.

In a case built on lies, faulty assumptions, and suppressed truth, having a defense attorney who didn’t challenge any of it was a liability, not an asset.

No motion. No objection. No question about the government’s collapsing wire fraud theory. And absolutely no spotlight on the fact that the Texas Veterans Commission didn’t even accept electronic applications — something that would have blown a hole straight through the government’s indictment.

Brooks knew better. But silence is a decision, too.

His silence isn’t incidental. It’s central to understanding why no one on my side raised the red flags. Why no one asked why the government’s timeline didn’t make sense. Why no one demanded the truth about who trained who, when, and where.

In a case where the truth could have saved me, William Brooks said nothing.

Read the full breakdown here.

Brooks stayed silent, but McHugh was the one with the power — and the obligation — to act. His failure to challenge the fraudulent indictment or disclose the conflicts behind my defense wasn’t just incompetence. It was complicity. See the full breakdown: Thomas McHugh’s Failure to Defend.

FRED Olivares: The Gatekeeper Who Switched Sides — and the Prosecutor Who Let Him

When you peel back the layers of my case, you don’t just find lies — you find proximity. Proximity to the facts. Proximity to the agents. Proximity to the truth that never made it into the courtroom.

Take Fred Olivares.

The government called him a defense investigator. What they didn’t tell the court, or the public is that Olivares wasn’t just any investigator. He was a former FBI Special Agent who sat shoulder-to-shoulder with the government’s original case agent, Erin Isley, at the San Antonio field office during the early years of the investigation against me.

In fact, she took her problems to him. Not just because he was experienced — but because he was her daily advisor. He sat at the desk right next to hers. The Department of Justice admitted as much in a 2018 letter from Gregory Surovics to my former attorney.

Yet somehow, Fred Olivares later walked onto my defense team. No one blinked. No one disclosed. No one stopped it.

And the prosecutor? He let it happen.

When you dig into Fred’s resume, it becomes clear he wasn’t some passive, retired agent with no ties. He publicly advertises that he reviewed federal criminal cases for both factual and legal sufficiency. He reviewed cases like mine.

Think about that.

If Fred Olivares had been sitting on the prosecution team with that level of proximity, the defense would have moved to disqualify him immediately.

But when he switched sides?
They just let it slide.

Conflict doesn’t get much clearer than that. It’s not speculation. It’s documented. And the harm didn’t end with my conviction — it continues with every day I remain confined while they pretend none of this matters.

This is what it looks like when a justice system protects its own instead of the truth.

Fred Olivares played both sides of the chessboard. And the prosecutor who let him do it — Gregory Surovics — still hasn’t explained why.

While Fred Olivares quietly joined my defense team despite a clear conflict, what’s worse is that Thomas McHugh — my lead attorney — said nothing. He never objected, never disclosed, and never challenged the government on Olivares’ proximity to the original case agent. Read how McHugh failed at the most basic level of legal defense: The Indictment Failure of Thomas McHugh.

William Brooks played a quiet but crucial role in a case that was anything but quiet. A former defense investigator in my federal prosecution, Fred Olivares had access, insight, and opportunity — yet never once sounded the alarm about what was unfolding around him.

The truth is, Fred Olivares wasn’t just an investigator. He was once an FBI agent — someone trained to spot red flags, false narratives, and constitutional violations. But during the government’s prosecution of me, he said nothing as the system leaned on false evidence and conflicted actors.

In a case riddled with Brady violations, suppressed evidence, and undisclosed relationships between government witnesses and prosecutors, William Brooks’ silence wasn’t neutrality. It was complicity. And when you trace his career history, you start to understand why.

This wasn’t just a failure to speak up. This was a pattern of passive validation. Brooks sat alongside Thomas McHugh and Fred Olivares — both of whom were wrapped in conflict, misconduct, or worse. He had a duty to report it. Instead, he sat quietly and collected a paycheck.

The keyword here is William Brooks VA fraud case. Because fraud isn’t always about money — sometimes it’s about silence. And silence, when you’re tasked with uncovering the truth, can be as damning as a lie.

What if the entire case against you was built on a fact that wasn’t true — and your own lawyer never challenged it?

That’s exactly what happened to me.

In my case, the government claimed I submitted an application to the Texas Veterans Commission by email — and used that to justify a federal wire fraud charge. But the Texas Veterans Commission doesn’t accept emailed applications. They never have. The agency’s own employee said it. Their website confirms it. The entire wire fraud theory was false from the start.

And yet, my defense attorney, Thomas McHugh, never challenged it.

He didn’t investigate the submission procedure. He didn’t ask for clarification from the agency. He didn’t call the right witness. He didn’t file a motion to dismiss. He didn’t raise it at trial. He didn’t raise it on appeal. He didn’t raise it at all.

That failure — to catch and confront the false foundation of the government’s indictment — wasn’t just a missed detail. It was a fundamental breakdown in the basic duties of criminal defense. And today, I filed a motion under Rule 60(b)(6) to correct it.

Because here’s the truth: I never sent a valid application by email. And even if I had, that method wasn’t authorized. The agency required applications to be mailed. No exceptions. No gray area. No confusion.

This wasn’t a gray-area conviction. It was a wire fraud case built on a wire that legally never existed — and a defense lawyer who never spoke up.

I had to do it myself. Years later. From a halfway house. With no legal degree. Because no one else would.

You can read more about McHugh’s deeper role — and the failures that stacked up around him — here.

But this post is about one thing:
The cost of silence from someone who was supposed to speak on my behalf.

And the fight to make sure the truth still gets heard anyway.