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.
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.