- Kelly pushed back—“If he doesn’t testify, how will the jury hear the truth about Becca and Geoff?” He insisted there was enough reasonable enough without me testifying. It didn’t feel right. Kelly knew it too. In addition to Becca, the State called two witnesses—her friend, and her co-worker. Neither of them saw anything. They only repeated that she showed up upset and said I assaulted her. Both had no idea where she had come from, who she was living with, or where she lived at the time (that's in the trial transcript). The co-worker took the photo that became State’s Exhibit 1 and then forced her to go to the police station; she testified Becca didn’t want to go but she "gave her no choice". When the first photo appeared on the screen, it was the first time I had ever seen it. No swelling, no bruising, no marks—just an unsmiling face. The other photos showed marks under her arms and a lump on her forehead, but they didn’t line up with her description of being beaten repeatedly in the face. I assumed the jury would notice that disconnect. To me, the photos raised questions—not about her feelings, but about whether the narrative matched the evidence. There were obvious alternative explanations my attorney could have explored or presented. Instead, he accepted her version wholesale and never gave the jury another way to interpret what they were seeing. My mom testified, but the prosecutor confused her on dates. She’d had a stroke months earlier, and even though she lived with me during the time in question, he made it sound uncertain. She still her month of February paid for at her apartment, so she was slowly moving things out and into my place. I kept thinking: if only the detective had come to my home in 2020, he would have spoken to her and cleared all of this up. On Day Two, the prosecutor offered Facebook messages. My attorney objected outside the jury’s presence and even made a forged set in real time to show how easily they could be faked. They looked exactly like what Becca presented. The screenshots included my Facebook profile photo from Christmas 2023—three weeks before trial. The judge and both attorneys admitted they weren’t confident how Facebook messaging and data actually works. They said time and again that because I was a “party” to the messages, I had to prove they were false. One, I had deleted my Amarillo contacts years earlier—I couldn’t produce any of our old messages. Two, I couldn't produce messages I didn’t write. A lot of those messages were not written by me, even though none of the messages referenced any assault. I tried to explain this to my attorney, but he wasn't getting it, so he then didn't relay this to the judge. Then my attorney, after demonstrating how easily FB messages could be fabricated -- said to the judge that he would never accuse Becca of impropriety, that would be inappropriate. Huh? That's exactly what he was supposed to be arguing. He completely abandoned his own argument. The judge, with the only argument now abandoned, allowed them in with no metadata, no deletion logs—just her screenshots and an in-camera look at her phone. My attorney could have requested a continuance for forensic review. He should have. He didn’t. Before my defense counsel rested his case, I asked again if I should testify. He repeated that the prosecutor would “turn me into a pedophile” and promised his closing would be enough. It wasn’t. The judge cut him off for running out of time. He wasn’t malicious—just ineffective. His mistakes changed my entire trial. The jury deliberated two and a half hours. When the foreman said “Guilty,” it felt like my spirit left my body. Kelly later told me I collapsed. Officers carried me out. All I could think was: Not again. Not after twenty-two years of rebuilding my life. The next day I could barely stand. I had never experienced a trial before, so when my attorney said now we have the sentencing hearing, I thought it would be a matter of the jury recommending punishment. No. At the sentencing hearing, the prosecutor got to really hammer home just what I terrible, awful person I was. When he began, his first words were: “This guy has messed up before. He’s been in prison—for sexual assault of a child.” He handed them the Penitentiary Packet with my mugshot, no exemption attached. The disgust in the room was immediate. My attorney had assured me the 2003 case could never be mentioned if I didn’t testify. Kelly confronted him. He shrugged: “Only during trial. Sentencing is different.” “If we’d known that,” she said, “he would have testified.” Becca took the stand again and asked for the maximum ten years. She told the jury I ruined her entire life, even blaming me for her recent drunk-driving crash into a telephone pole. The prosecutor echoed it. It was beyond the pale. It's all in the sentencing transcript. Their core message was that I was responsible for every one of Becca's poor decisions for the last four years; she will never recover, and I should pay that price with 10 years in prison. Worse, my attorney told Kelly and my mom, who came up to speak on my behalf, that they could not let the jury know that they disagreed with the verdict. He said the prosecutor is going to ask you to agree to certain things that you won't agree with, but you have to. If you don't, the jury will get angry and give him more prison time. So when the prosecutor asked Kelly and my mom if my success and good deeds justified me ruining Becca's life, Kelly and my mom choked out the words, "No," even though they wanted to stand up and yell something else. My attorney didn't even ask my mom or Kelly about my 2003 exemption - he made it seem like he couldn't. Because of the old exempted charge, I faced mandatory prison time. My attorney never told the jury, who had the Pen Pack now in their hands to take back to the jury room, that the charge was exempted. I now know he had a duty to me to explain it in arguing for leniency. He never did. They gave me five years. That night in the tank, I cried quietly. How was I going to get through this. What had just happened? Somewhere from a dark corner, an inmate spoke to me, “You should motion the court for bond pending appeal.” Minutes later he was moved—another angel, maybe. I filed the motion. After 31 days, Judge Dee Johnson granted it. While on bond, I poured everything into faith and service—Bible study, volunteering with the homeless, starting a recovery nonprofit, studying to be a chaplain. I was allowed to move to New Jersey in August 2024 and continued everything there. On January 29, 2025, I lost my first appeal. The PTSD hit hard. After years of perfect compliance, I froze in sheer panic and anxiety -- and couldn’t bring myself to check in with my bondsman. My bond was revoked while waiting for my second appeal. I was sure somebody in the higher courts would see what happened and grant a new trial. I lost that one too. But by then, multiple Texas defense attorneys had reviewed my case--I had called many and asked for help. And I finally learned what I should’ve known from the start: my trial counsel made egregious errors. None of this should have happened the way it did. If I’m ever retried, it will be an entirely different trial. (Note to reader: Edward could not argue ineffective assistance of counsel in an appeal; only in a Habeas Corpus. That's why we believe his Habeas Corpus stands a good chance.)