Trooper Marcus Okafor, we need to discuss unauthorized database queries from your CJS access. >> Marcus Okafor operated without real oversight for 26 months as a state trooper in Idaho. 1,840 unauthorized database queries. Not one person checked until a woman in Nampa asked a single question. It would all come down to a pocket notebook. >> cops every shift for officer safety verification and traffic investigation follow-up. >> That's standard trooper procedure. Queries on info. >> lined college ruled tucked inside the center console of his personal pickup truck under a stack of fast food receipts and a tire pressure gauge. Inside 26 months of entries. First initials, full last names, dollar amounts, and dates. Every one of them crossed off in blue ballpoint pen. By the time FBI agents in Boise finished cross-referencing those entries against his Idaho State Police query history, the 11-year trooper in this footage would be facing 24 federal counts, two state counts, and the complete erasure of the career he had spent his entire adult life building. Quick question before we get into this one. Do you know what a police officer can find out about you in the time it takes to type your license plate into a computer? Drop your guess in the comments. And if you're new here, hit subscribe. We cover the cases where the badge stops protecting and starts profiting, and this channel doesn't let these stories get buried. Marcus Lawrence Okafor was born in October 1986 at Saint Alphonsus Regional Medical Center in Boise, Idaho. His father, Emmanuel Okafor, was a Nigerian immigrant who had come to the United States in 1979 on a student visa, finished a degree in mechanical engineering at Boise State, and stayed to work as a maintenance supervisor for a food processing plant out in Caldwell. His mother, Denise Okafor, born Denise Whitlock, was a third-generation Idahoan whose family had farmed sugar beets outside of Wilder since the 1940s. They met at a community college English literature class in 1983, married in 1985, and raised three children in a modest split-level house off Maple Grove Road on Boise's West Side. Marcus was the middle child. His older sister, Adaeze, went into nursing. His younger brother, Chibuzo, went into the Marines and then law school. Marcus was the quiet one, the one teachers wrote down as detail oriented and respectful, and the one his mother said never made her worry. He attended Borah High School, where he played defensive end on the junior varsity football team for two seasons and ran track for one. His yearbook quote, the year he graduated in 2005, read, "The work is the reward." His guidance counselor, in a recommendation letter later cited in his Air Force enlistment file, called him steady, deliberate, and {quote} "exceptionally reliable for a young man of his age." He enlisted in the United States Air Force in August 2005, 2 months after his 19th birthday. He scored a 78 on the ASVAB and qualified for security forces, the Air Force's military police. He completed basic military training at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, then technical training at the same installation. His first duty station was Mountain Home Air Force Base, about an hour southeast of Boise. He spent 4 years on the gate in the patrol vehicle, and once on a 6-month rotation to Al Udeid Air Base in Qatar, guarding flight lines and conducting vehicle inspections. He never deployed to a combat zone. His performance reports during the Air Force years used phrases like sharp military bearing, strong attention to procedural detail, and emerging leadership presence. He was honorably discharged in August 2009 at the rank of senior airman. He came home to Boise, used his GI Bill to take criminal justice classes at the College of Western Idaho, and applied to the Idaho State Police in the fall of 2012. He was 26 years old. His application essay said his goal was to serve the people of Idaho the same way his father's neighbors had welcomed his family when they were the only black household on the block. His background investigation, conducted by an ISP detective named Lawrence Tilden, returned what Tilden would later describe in a deposition as one of the cleanest files he had ever reviewed. No debts, no arrests, no civilian complaints from his Air Force years, a pastor's reference, a high school teacher's reference, a retired Air Force master sergeant's reference. All of them used the word integrity. Marcus entered the Idaho State Police Academy in Meridian in January 2013 as a member of class 53. He was one of 19 cadets and one of two black recruits. He graduated in June 2013, ranked sixth in his class academically, and second on the physical fitness assessment. His academy file noted he was exceptionally coachable, demonstrated mature judgment under simulated stress, and showed strong aptitude for traffic enforcement and crash investigation. He was assigned to District 3 patrol out of the Meridian post covering the I-84 corridor between Boise and Mountain Home, and the rural highways running south through Owyhee County. He married Yvette Murray Okafor, born Yvette Murray Joubert, in October 2014. She was a registered nurse at Saint Alphonsus. They had three children, a daughter, Imani, born in 2015, a son, Daniel, born in 2017, and a son, Joseph, born in 2020. They bought a four-bedroom ranch house in a subdivision off Linder Road in Northwest Boise in 2018. His mortgage was $1,840 a month. His base salary as a senior trooper, by 2022, was $71,200, plus overtime that typically added another 9 to 12,000 a year. He coached his son's flag football team through the youth athletics program at Vineyard Boise Church. He served as a volunteer mentor in the Idaho State Police's Cadet Explorer Program. He was, by every external measure, the picture of what a state trooper was supposed to be. Disciplined, family-oriented, community-anchored, soft-spoken, and trusted. In 2017, he received a unit citation for his role in the investigation of a fatal three-vehicle crash on I-84 near the Black Cat Road exit. In 2021, he received a second unit citation for his work reconstructing a hit-and-run involving a pedestrian on State Highway 55 outside Horseshoe Bend. His annual evaluations, year after year, used the same language. Detail-oriented, reliable, shows strong investigative mature judgment, strong leadership potential. His sergeant, a woman named Patrice Holcomb, recommended him for the corporal promotion list in 2022. He scored ninth on the written examination. He was, by then, considered one of the steadier hands in District 3. To understand what happened next, you have to understand the database. Every Idaho State Trooper, every county deputy, every municipal officer in the state of Idaho carries with them in the form of credentials and a pass code, access to two of the most sensitive information systems in American policing. The first is CJIS, the Criminal Justice Information System, run at the state level. The second is NCIC, the National Crime Information Center, run by the FBI. Together, they form the spine of American law enforcement intelligence. From a single query, an officer can pull a person's full driving history, their current address, every previous address, every vehicle they have ever owned, every traffic citation, every DUI, every protective order, every concealed weapons permit. A second query can pull the household, every other licensed driver registered at the same address, every vehicle registered to that address, every recent traffic stop logged by any agency in the state involving any of those vehicles. A third query can chain outward into criminal history, federal flags, terrorist watch list hits, immigration status, and outstanding warrants in any of the 50 states. The system exists because police work, at its operational core, requires fast access to identity. When a trooper pulls over a vehicle at 1:00 in the morning on a dark stretch of I-84, the trooper needs to know in 15 seconds whether the registered owner has a warrant for armed robbery, a record of resisting arrest, or a concealed carry permit. The query is a tool for officer safety. It is also a tool for criminal investigation. And it is built, every single byte of it, on the assumption that the officer running the query has a legitimate, articulable, professional reason to do so. The audit logs exist. Every query is time stamped. Every query is tagged to the credentials of the officer who ran it. Every query requires a justification field, a free text box where the officer types a short reason like traffic stop, officer safety, suspicious vehicle, or investigative follow-up. The logs are retained. The logs are searchable. But, here is what the 2022 Idaho State Audit Division report, cited by federal prosecutors in the charging documents, made clear. Those logs were almost never reviewed. They were reviewed only when a complaint was filed. They were reviewed only after the fact. Nobody in the Idaho State Police, in any unit, had the job of proactively flagging anomalous query patterns. Nobody compared query volume against dispatch records. Nobody flagged officers who ran queries on individuals with no corresponding traffic stop. The audit existed in theory. In practice, it was an honor system. And the audit report, when it was published in May of 2022, made one more observation that would, in hindsight, read like a prophecy. It noted that mobile data terminals in patrol vehicles, the laptops bolted to the dashboards from which troopers ran their queries, were unmonitored during the final hours of any given shift, when supervisor presence in the field was at its lowest. The report recommended changes. The recommendations were filed. Nothing happened. That trust was about to be tested. The first unauthorized query, the one that federal prosecutors would later identify as the start of the scheme, was run at 11:42 p.m. on June 14th, 2022. The target was a woman named Tessa Marie Aldridge, age 31, of Caldwell, Idaho. She had no traffic stop on her record that day. There was no dispatch log involving her vehicle. Trooper Marcus Okafor was on the back half of a swing shift parked at a turnaround on State Highway 44 near Star, and he ran her plate, her license, and her current address. The justification he typed into the system was officer safety, suspicious vehicle prior shift. There had been no suspicious vehicle. Within 72 hours, a prepaid Visa gift card with a value of $150 arrived at a PO Box in Caldwell, Idaho that Marcus Okafor had rented under a slight misspelling of his own surname, Okafor with a U. The card was activated within 24 hours of arrival. Investigators would later trace the purchase of the card to a private investigation firm operating out of a strip mall office on Ustick Road in Meridian. The firm's name was Bannock Investigations, and it was owned by a former Ada County Sheriff's Deputy named Reginald Soto. That was the first transaction. Over the next 26 months, there would be 1,840 more. The pricing structure was set quickly and held remarkably steady. $150 for a basic driver history query, date of birth, driver's license status, recent address, $400 for current vehicle and current address, including any updates to the registered address within the last 12 months, $750 for what the buyers, in their encrypted messages, came to call a full workup, the household, every other licensed driver at the address, every vehicle registered to the household, the dates and locations of every recent traffic stop conducted by any agency involving any of those vehicles. The full workups were the money makers. The communications all ran through a single encrypted messaging app installed on a prepaid Android phone that Okafor kept locked in the gun safe at at home, separate from his department-issued phone and his personal phone. The buyers knew him only as a six-digit username. He knew them only by their firm names: Bannock Investigations, Owyhee Discreet Services, and a third firm operating out of Nampa under the name Treasure Valley Confidential Solutions. The orders came in as text messages with names and dates of birth. The deliveries went out as text messages with screenshots of the query results, scrubbed of metadata. The payments came in as prepaid Visa cards mailed to the Caldwell PO box. The queries themselves were run from the patrol vehicle's mobile data terminal during slow shifts, almost always in the final 90 minutes before end of watch. He learned the rhythm. He learned that supervisor checks dropped off after 11:00 p.m. He learned that the most productive nights were Tuesdays and Wednesdays, when patrol traffic was light and the highways were empty. He learned to chain the unauthorized queries to legitimate traffic stops he had conducted earlier in the same shift, so that the justification fields traffic stop follow-up, vehicle of interest related to earlier stop, would appear consistent with his CAD log. He learned that nobody was looking. The first month brought in $2,400, the second month $4,100. By the end of 2022, 6 months in, he had banked just over $31,000 in prepaid Visa balances. By the end of 2023, the running total was just shy of $158,000. He used the money carefully. He paid down the credit card his wife knew about. He paid off a personal loan for a used boat trailer. He paid in cash for a $9,000 set of windows on the back of the house. He never made a single deposit larger than $3,000 into his shared bank account with Yvette. He spread the spending across grocery stores, gas stations, home improvement retailers, and Amazon. There was no Ferrari. There was no second house. There was no offshore account. There was a man slowly, patiently lifting his household out of paycheck-to-paycheck living and into something just barely comfortable. And nobody noticed because he was already supposed to be that man. The escalation came in the way these things always come, quietly, by increment. A request that began as a single driver history grew into a full workup. A buyer who started with one query a week ramped up to four. A new firm came online. The pace went from 12 queries a month to 45. By the summer of 2024, in the final stretch before the wheels came off, Marcus Akefor was running on average between 70 and 90 unauthorized queries per month, sometimes clearing $5,000 in a single two-week pay period from buyers alone. He started keeping the notebook in February of 2023. He told himself it was for memory. He told himself it was to make sure he never delivered a duplicate, never overcharged a buyer, never lost track of who was owed what. He wrote the entries in pencil first, then went over them in blue pen once the payment had cleared. First initial, full last name, dollar amount, date, a small slash through the line when the card was activated. The notebook lived in the center console of his personal pickup truck, a charcoal gray 2016 Ram 1500, because he did not trust himself to keep it in the house where Yvette might find it. Nobody noticed. No one checked. His sergeant, Patrice Holcomb, signed off on his shift reports without flagging the late shift query volume. His shift partners assumed his end-of-watch terminal activity was paperwork. The buyers, paying him in untraceable prepaid cards mailed to a PO box under a misspelled name, had no incentive to talk. The audit log sat in a server in Meridian, growing every shift, never reviewed. And Marcus Okafor, the 11-year veteran, the Air Force Security Forces alumnus, the two-time unit citation recipient, the flag football coach, the volunteer mentor, the steady hand, kept running the queries. He told himself, every time he typed the false justification into the system, that nobody was getting hurt, that a name and an address were just a name and an address. That whatever the private investigators did with the information was not, in any meaningful way, his responsibility. He was wrong about almost every part of that. It would all unravel because of one phone call. In early August of 2024, a woman named Renee Cassidy, age 34, of Nampa, Idaho, received a call from a number she did not recognize. She was a dental hygienist. She had a 5-year-old daughter named Quinn. She had spent the previous 14 months in a contentious custody dispute with her ex-husband, a man named Brent Cassidy, who had, twice in the previous 6 months, shown up at residences she believed he could not have known about. The first time was a rented duplex she had moved into after fleeing their marital home in Caldwell. The second time was an apartment in Nampa she had moved into after the duplex. Both times he had arrived in his pickup truck and parked across the street. Both times she had called the police. Both times the responding officers had told her that as long as he was on a public road, there was nothing they could do. The call she received that August afternoon was from a young woman who declined to give her last name. The young woman said she worked at a private investigation firm. She said she was about to quit because she could not, in good conscience, keep doing what they were doing. She said Renee should know that her ex-husband had been buying information about her, her current address, her vehicle, her recent traffic stops, the name of the man she was dating, from a man the firm referred to in messages and in conversation only as {quote} "a guy at the state police." The young woman said, "I don't know his name, but I know he exists, and I know your address came from him." Renee Cassidy hung up the phone. She sat in her kitchen for 45 minutes. Then she opened her laptop, found the contact information for the Idaho State Police Office of Professional Standards, and filed a formal complaint. The complaint was assigned a case number on August 8th, 2024. The complaint landed on the desk of an Office of Professional Standards investigator named Lieutenant Bernadette Halloran, a 22-year veteran of the Idaho State Police, who had herself spent 6 years on District 3 patrol before transferring into Internal Affairs. Halloran read the complaint twice. She made a note in her file. She requested, the same afternoon, the full CJIS query history for Renee Cassidy's driver record going back 24 months. The report came back the next morning. Renee Cassidy's driver record had been pulled on four separate occasions in the previous 8 months. Three of those queries had been run by troopers in other districts as part of documented dispatch responses. A fender bender in Nampa, a license check at a sobriety checkpoint, a routine traffic stop for a brake light. Each of those queries matched a CAD log entry. The fourth query, run on April 17th, 2024, at 10:54 p.m., had been logged by Trooper Marcus L. Okafor, badge number 4419, with the justification field reading, "Traffic stop follow-up, earlier shift." Lieutenant Halloran pulled Trooper Okafor's CAD log for April 17th, 2024. She read every traffic stop, every dispatch call, every officer-initiated contact he had made during that shift. There was no traffic stop involving Renee Cassidy. There was no traffic stop involving Renee Cassidy's vehicle. There was no contact of any kind between Trooper Okafor and the woman whose record he had pulled. Halloran picked up her phone and called the Boise Resident Agency of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The federal investigation moved with extraordinary speed. Special Agent Daniel Whitcomb, a 15-year FBI veteran specializing in public corruption, was assigned as the lead on August 14th, 2024. By August 16th, he had served administrative subpoenas on the encrypted messaging service Okafor had been using, on the prepaid Visa card processor whose transactions had been routing through the Caldwell P.O. box, and on the United States Postal Service for the P.O. box rental records. The metadata came back fast. The messaging app, while encrypted in content, retained logs of which six-digit usernames had contacted which six-digit usernames and at what times. Within 4 days, federal agents had identified three accounts that had communicated regularly with Okafor's burner account, and had matched two of those accounts to known principals at Bannock Investigations and Treasure Valley Confidential Solutions. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Halloran's team at the Office of Professional Standards was pulling the complete query history of Trooper Okafor for the previous 30 months. They cross-referenced every single query, every license plate, every driver's license, every address history against his computer-aided dispatch log. The pattern emerged in less than a week. 1,840 queries with no corresponding dispatch record, no traffic stop, no incident report, no officer-initiated contact. Just a name typed into a terminal late at night, a justification field filled in with a phrase like "officer safety" or "suspicious vehicle" or "traffic stop follow-up" and a record pulled. The search warrants were signed on the morning of September 4th, 2024. Federal agents and Idaho State Police Office of Professional Standards investigators executed simultaneous searches at Trooper Okafor's home on Linder Road and on his personal pickup truck, which was parked in the lot of the Meridian Post where he had reported for his afternoon shift. The home search recovered a prepaid Android phone and a locked gun safe in the master bedroom closet. Forensic extraction of the phone, completed within 72 hours, recovered 17 months of encrypted message history with three buyer firms, including detailed order requests, delivery receipts, and payment confirmations. The total dollar value of payments referenced in the messages alone, before any extrapolation, was $209,000. The vehicle search recovered something more damning. In the center console of the charcoal gray Ram 1500, beneath a stack of fast-food receipts and a tire pressure gauge, agents recovered a spiral-bound pocket notebook, college-ruled, 60 pages. The first page was dated February 14th, 2023. The last entry was dated August 29th, 2024. Six days before the search. Every page was filled with handwritten entries. First initial, full last name, dollar amount, date, a slash through the line in blue pen. There were 1,840 entries in the notebook. Investigators matched every single one of them by name and date to a corresponding unauthorized CJIS query on Marcus Okafor's trooper credentials. >> The agents also recovered in a Manila envelope tucked behind the truck's owner's manual $11,400 in unactivated prepaid Visa gift cards. Cards he had not yet had time to spend. The smoking gun was the notebook. The notebook was the only audit log that had mattered. The audit logs in the state's own system had been ignored for 26 months. The audit log Marcus Okafor kept on himself, in his own handwriting, in his own truck, was what the federal prosecutors would use to put a number on every count of the indictment. We're heading into the moment he gets caught. If you want to see exactly how the system handles a cop who weaponized his own access, stick around and subscribe. We break down every detail. And the part that comes after this is the part most channels won't cover. Marcus Okafor reported for his shift at the Meridian Post at 2:47 p.m. on September 5th, 2024. He was wearing his summer uniform, gray short-sleeve shirt, navy trousers, duty belt, polished boots. He had stopped at the Maverick on Eagle Road for a cup of coffee on the way in. The same stop he made before every afternoon shift. He clocked in at the front desk. He walked back to the patrol room. Lieutenant Bernadette Halloran was sitting at the patrol room conference table. Besides her was special agent Daniel Whitcomb of the FBI. Besides him was a second federal agent, a woman named Inez Cordero. Beside her was Captain Marcus Varine, the District 3 Commander. Marcus Okafor stopped in the doorway. He understood, in that moment, exactly what was about to happen. The cameras in the patrol room captured everything. Captain Varine spoke first. Varine. Trooper Okafor, please come in and have a seat. Okafor. Yes, sir. He sat down across from them. He placed his head on the table. He placed his hands flat on the surface in front of him, palms down, fingers spread. He did not say anything else. Whitcomb. Trooper Okafor, I'm Special Agent Whitcomb with the FBI. This is Special Agent Cordero. You know Lieutenant Halloran and Captain Varine. Do you understand why we're here? Okafor. I think I might. Whitcomb. We've executed search warrants this morning at your residence and on your personal vehicle in the parking lot of this post. We have recovered a device, a notebook, and a quantity of prepaid Visa gift cards. We have, additionally, a complete reconstruction of your CJIS query activity over the past 26 months cross-referenced against your CAD logs. We are placing you under arrest at this time on federal charges, including unauthorized access to a protected computer and wire fraud. You will also be facing state charges, including computer crime and bribery of a public servant. Do you understand? Okafor did not answer. His jaw tightened. His eyes did not leave the table. Halloran. Marcus, I want you to know that everything you have said and done up to this point is already documented. The notebook in your truck has 1,840 entries. We have matched every single one of them to a query on your credentials. We have the messages, we have the cards, we have the post office box. Do you understand the position you are in right now? Okafor. I understand. Whitcomb. Is there anything you want to say at this time? There was a long pause. Marcus Okafor closed his eyes. His shoulders, which had been squared and steady, dropped a quarter inch. His hands stayed flat on the table. Okafor. I want a lawyer. Whitcomb. That's your right. We're going to stand up now. Captain Vreen is going to take possession of your credentials, your duty weapon, and your badge. After that, Agent Cordero and I will be transporting you to the federal courthouse in Boise. Please stand up. He stood. He unclipped the holster from his belt and laid the sidearm flat on the table. He removed his badge from his shirt and placed it next to the weapon. He removed his credential wallet from his back pocket and placed it next to the badge. He did all of it slowly, in the same deliberate way he had done everything else for 11 years. Those were the last words he spoke as a member of the Idaho State Police. Marcus Okafor was terminated from the Idaho State Police effective September 5th, 2024, the same afternoon before the booking process at the federal courthouse was even complete. His post certification, the credential that allowed him to work as a peace officer anywhere in the state of Idaho, was suspended on September 6th and was placed under formal revocation proceedings by the Idaho POST Council within the same week. The federal indictment came down on October 8th, 2024 in the United States District Court for the District of Idaho. 24 federal counts in total. 14 counts of unauthorized access to a protected computer in violation of 18 USC par. 1030A 2. Nine counts of wire fraud in violation of 18 USC par. 1343. One count of violating the Driver's Privacy Protection Act under 18 USC par. 2721. The Ada County Prosecutor's Office filed parallel state charges within the same week. One felony count of computer crime under Idaho code par. 18-2202 and one felony count of bribery of a public servant under par. 18-13521. He was arraigned on October 11th, 2024 before United States Magistrate Judge Helena Vandermeer. He pleaded not guilty to all federal counts. He was released on a $50,000 unsecured bond with conditions that included the surrender of all firearms in the household, the surrender of his Idaho POST credentials, restrictions on travel outside the District of Idaho without prior court approval, and a prohibition on any contact, direct or indirect, with the three private investigation firms identified in the indictment. His defense attorney, a Boise criminal defense lawyer named Whitley Garrison, told reporters outside the courthouse only that her client maintained his innocence and would address the charges through the trial process. She declined further comment. Marcus Okafor, walking out of the courthouse beside her, said nothing to the four television cameras waiting on the courthouse steps. He kept his head down. He climbed into the passenger seat of his wife's SUV. He did not look back. The two private investigation firms that did not cooperate were also indicted. Reginald Soto, owner of Bannock Investigations, was charged with conspiracy to commit unauthorized access to a protected computer and conspiracy to violate the Driver's Privacy Protection Act. The principals of Treasure Valley Confidential Solutions, a married couple named Howard and Lenora Vickstrom, were charged on the same counts plus an additional count of wire fraud. The third firm, Owyhee District Services, had cooperated from the moment federal agents knocked on the door and its owner, a former Canyon County Sheriff's deputy, was named as an unindicted co-conspirator and a cooperating witness. The trial is pending. As of this filming, no verdict has been entered. But the federal sentencing exposure, if Marcus Okafor is convicted on every count of the federal indictment, runs to a statutory maximum well in excess of 100 years. The realistic exposure under the federal sentencing guidelines, given the volume of queries, the duration of the scheme, the abuse of a position of public trust, and the financial gain, is calculated by federal prosecutors in the range of 78 to 97 months. Somewhere between 6 and 1/2 and 8 years in federal prison. The state charges carry additional concurrent exposure. The most likely federal designation, given the nature of the offenses and the absence of any violent component, would be a low security federal correctional institution. Lompoc, Sheridan, Englewood. He has not been to work since September 5th, 2024. He has not held a firearm since the same date. He has not worn a badge since the same date. He spends his time, according to those who have spoken to his family, at home. He attends his son's flag football practices from the parking lot, not the sideline. He goes to court. He goes home. The victim, Renee Cassidy of Nampa, gave a single brief statement to a local television reporter in October 2024. She said this, "Quote, I just want people to know that when you go to the police because you think your ex is following you and they tell you they can't do anything, sometimes the reason he found you is because somebody at the police already sold you. That's what I want people to know. Unquote." The Idaho State Police, in response to the case, announced in November 2024 a new policy requiring quarterly proactive audits of CJIS query logs against CAD dispatch records, the implementation of automatic flags for queries with no corresponding dispatch entry within a 48-hour window, and the addition of two full-time auditors to the Office of Professional Standards. The 2022 audit report that had recommended exactly these measures 2 years before Marcus Okafor's arrest was finally, in the months after his indictment, dusted off and implemented. The notebook in the truck, 60 pages, 1,840 entries, every one of them in his own handwriting, sits in a federal evidence locker in Boise. It will be exhibit one at trial. The system that was supposed to audit him never did. The notebook that he kept on himself, alone in his own truck, was the only audit log that ever mattered. And somewhere in Nampa, a woman who used to call the police every time her ex-husband showed up across the street keeps her curtains closed, changes her routes home from work, and waits for the trial. This case was unsettling, but the case right here on your screen will leave you genuinely speechless. Click it now.