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- [00:00]
Carter Roy
Today's story is about a murder that turned out to be much more than that. It was a match that lit a cultural powder cake. By 1997, tensions had been building. For years, the people of Argentina watched corruption take root in their government, seemingly propped up by powerful figures in the country's private and public sectors. Politicians, business leaders, law enforcement, mafia bosses. Many felt helpless, unsure how to change a society where those who made and enforced the rules weren't subject to them. Then one day, a photojournalist took a picture on a beach and everything exploded. As the pieces fell back to earth, real world conspiracies were exposed. But not all Argentines agree on the extent of the fallout. To this day, some suspect that a key figure in today's story never actually died. Like they said, he welcome to Conspiracy Theories, the Spotify Podcast. I'm Carter Roy. You can find us here every Wednesday. Be sure to check us out on Instagram heconspiracypod and we would love to hear from you. So if you're listening on the Spotify app, swipe up and give us your thoughts. This summer we're jet setting through history on a world tour of mystery and motives. Today we're stopping in South America for a little business, a little politics, and a whole lot of corruption. The episode includes discussions of murder, torture and suicide. Consider this when deciding how and when you'll listen. To get help on mental health issues, visit Spotify.com resources stay with us.
- [02:11]
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- [03:04]
Carter Roy
Each year, thousands of adults lose their shred. It's an epidemic simply known as shred loss. But it doesn't have to be this way, because rekindling your shred is as easy as playing the new Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 3 and 4. With new parks, cross platform multiplayer and sick new game modes, we can put an end to shred loss everywhere. Hit the new Tony hawk's Pro Skater 3 and 4 and show the world that the shred's not dead. Pre order Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 3 and 4 and play the Foundry demo. We're touching down in the year 1996 and heading to the coast of Argentina, to a seaside resort town called Pinamar. It's a popular vacation destination and what some consider a fashion mecca. Every summer it plays host to many of the country's wealthiest people, including this summer its current president, Carlos Menem. Journalist Gabriel Michi and photojournalist Jose Luis Cabezas are sent to Pienamar on assignment by their employer, Noticias magazine. It's said to be the most widely read publication in Argentina, and the investigative journalists at Noticias have caused quite the splash in the past. Miche and Cabezas are covering the summer season in Pinamar. It's pretty routine general stuff, but they also have a side project as well. They want to photograph the notorious businessman Alfredo Yibran. Some call him an enigma. Ebron's fortune is said to be worth more than $4 billion, but no one knows much about him. Few even know what he looks like. And that's by design. He's intentionally and famously private. He supposedly refers to himself as the invisible man. At one point he drove reporters off his property with gunfire. He apparently turns down any and all requests for photos. Once telling a journalist, quote, having my picture taken is like shooting myself in the head. Noticius was one of the first media outlets to drag Yibran's name into the public arena. They examined his ties to the military dictatorship that ruled Argentina in the late 70s early 80s on the same timeframe we covered in our death flights episode. And they questioned whether those ties helped explain his meteoric rise. Ebran started his career as a truck driver, the son of Syrian immigrants. But after the military regime ended and Argentina moved to free market economy, he found himself sitting on top of a business empire. He became a symbol of Argentina's so called new rich. And by 1996, some have expressed concern that his network of businesses give him extraordinary control over the country's most sensitive sectors. Most notably, he owns and operates Argentina's largest private mail courier company. But many suspect his reach extends far beyond that to customs services, duty free shops, storage facilities, the loading and unloading of cargo, business intelligence and personal security, even the printing of official government documents. His Critics claim he effectively runs a state within a state by controlling all aspects of how goods flow in, around and out of the country. Rumors have circulated about some illegal business practices. In 1995, on the floor of Congress, Argentina's Economy Minister, Domingo Cavallo not only accused Dubran of carving out a monopoly for himself, but of spearheading a criminal organization protected by politicians and judges. The biggest challenge has been proving those claims. His ties aren't necessarily clear on paper. Some of the companies he's been publicly linked to are technically registered to his close family members. And he outsources a lot of work and uses subcontractors, some would say creatively, to hide his influence. He also claims to have sold at least one of his businesses, which is all to say, if his influence and control is actually as expansive as his accusers say, he's found a way to skirt Argentina's regulatory laws. He's never been charged with any crimes, let alone convicted. In Pinamar, Miche and Cabezas, the two journalists from Noticias magazine, are desperate to uncover more of Yibran's story, starting with capturing his image on film. They want to finally show the world what the invisible man looks like. Then one day, they get a tip. It's from a source who is too afraid to even use Yubron's name in conversation. They use the codename uncle instead. They tell Miche and Cabezas they know where to find Uncle. Turns out Yubran's vacation home has been hiding in plain sight the whole time. There's a sign on his front lawn that says Narbe, which is his last name spelled backwards. He may be private, but it seems he has a sense of humor about it, almost like he's egging the media on. Armed with an address, Miche conducts a stakeout in his car. He sits for hours, waiting for Yibran to return. When the businessman finally pulls into his driveway, Miche hurriedly snaps some photos. But the results aren't ideal. He only manages to capture the back of Yibran's body as he enters the house. Nothing that could identify him. It's disheartening, but before long, another tip rolls in. The source says Yibran is a man of habit. If Miche and Cabezas go to the beach around 4pm and visit a specific set of cabanas, they should eventually run into Uncle. Sure enough, on their very first try, they do. With their sights on Yabran, they wait until he and his wife go for a walk along the water. Once Yibran comes back into view. Cabezas pretends to take his wife's photo as she poses on the beach. In reality, he's shooting over her shoulder in the distance, making sure to get the angle and framing perfect. They leave the beach that day, having landed their white whale. Cabeza sends the camera roll to Noticia's to have the film developed out of context. The results look completely unassuming. The pictures could be of any graying middle aged man walking along the shoreline with his wife. The two are mid conversation. He's gesturing with one hand. You can tell the beach is crowded in the distance, but they're the only ones in focus. There would be no reason to think they will have any meaningful effect on the world. But one image in that role sets off a course of events that completely changes the face of Argentina's politics. The picture hits the front page of the magazine on March 3, 1996. It runs with a story about Yibran's alleged plans to invest in a marina in Panamar. There are rumors it could be to further Yibran's alleged money laundering and drug and weapons trafficking schemes. The piece runs under the title Yibran Attacks Again. And almost as soon as it hits shelves, the anonymous threats start. Miche, Cabezas, Noticias, they're all targets. One threat comes over the phone. We're gonna take you out.
- [11:07]
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- [12:09]
Carter Roy
In 1996, journalist Gabriel Michei finds a surprise waiting at his house. Someone left bullets on his front doorstep. It's one of many threats Miche and his colleagues at Noticias magazine receive after releasing a cover story on the notor notoriously private businessman Alfredo Yibran. By January 1997 months have passed since publication. Michei returns to Pienamar with his friend and colleague Jose Luis Cabezas to cover another summer season. And a few weeks into their assignment, the threats haven't stopped. Apparently Bribe has been asking for Cabeza's address and someone has slashed a tire on the car the journalists have been using. The intimidation has been impossible to ignore, but Miche and Cabezas don't stray from course. They carry on with their work anyway. In fact, this summer they're even more determined than ever to take their work further. They want to land an interview with Alfredo Yibran, and they're willing to go to extreme lengths. One evening, they find themselves tailing Ebran's car down back roads headed to the businessman's estate as the sun sets. They don't really have a plan, but that doesn't stop them. The first step is to get close. Then maybe they'll get lucky. The thing is, Yibran has hundreds of military trained soldiers working security for his companies. The highest ranking of them served Argentina's oppressive military dictatorship, known for its cruelty and human rights violations. At any given time, Yibran has 20 to 30 different men working his personal security. And when Miche and Cabezas get close, they're intercepted by some angry guards. According to Miche, the run in devolves into a heated and tense exchange. But they part ways unscathed and empty handed. Then, on January 24, 1997, the journalists attend a party hosted by another business tycoon, Oscar Andriani, an entrepreneur and coincidentally, one of Yibran's competitors. Andriani's gatherings are famous for their fireworks and large crowds. At this particular party, guests say it feels like all of Pinamar is in attendance. Music, dancing and alcohol flow into the early morning hours. Cabezas spends much of the party with his camera in hand, taking photos of guests. Around 4am Miche says he's heading home and gives Cabezas the car keys. Cabezas says he plans to stay a little longer. He's having too much fun. He calls it quits about an hour later, sometime around 5am on January 21st. On his way out, he runs into the party's host. Andriani will later remember the run in it's brief. Not many words are exchanged, but he remembers Cabezas giving his review of the night. Incredible, incredible, he Sundays. Before the two men go their separate ways, Cabezas drives home in his white Ford Fiesta. He almost reaches the front door of the place he's staying in, but he never crosses the threshold. An hour or two later, the governor of Buenos Aires Province, Eduardo Du Halde, drives to go fishing. As the sun rises, he's on a rural road in the town of General Madariaga and sees smoke rising in the distance. There's about five men standing in a group near a large open flame. A car seems to be on fire in a ditch. Du Halde doesn't stop to see what's wrong. He assumes the men have everything under control. But he pulls over hours later, on his way back home. Police are now swarming the area. Cars are lined up, helicopters flying overhead. It's not immediately clear what happened, but the five men du Halde saw earlier are gone. Around 2pm that afternoon, Cabezas doesn't show up for work. After checking the obvious places, Miche gets worried. He considers stopping by the hospital, thinking maybe something bad happened to him. But on his way there, Miche decides to stop off at the police station. First, he speaks with an officer in the station who asks questions about the photographer's sudden disappearance. Michi notices a change in the man's energy. When the officer learns Cabezas was driving a white Ford Fiesta. Miche watches the policeman walk a few feet away to radio a fellow officer. He hears the officer say, quote, I think we identified the body. It takes time, but Miche's eventually caught up to speed. The burning car found in that ditch in General Madariaga was a white Ford Fiesta, and police found a body inside. The victim was male. He'd been beaten and handcuffed, but the remains were too burnt to make an identification. Miche travels with officers to the crime scene. He stares at the ashes, and even he can't be certain they belong to his friend. The prospect seems impossible. They were both just together. Eventually, reality sets in. Police found burnt rolls of film inside the car, along with Cabeza's office key. The initial police report is so short, it apparently reads like an accident and not a murder. Stranger still, at the first press conference about the tragedy, Argentina's President Carlos Menem makes some unusual comments. Without prompting, he says, quote, it's not a political crime. Please don't politicize. It comes to light that Cabezas had been handcuffed and beaten before he was murdered. When journalists ask a representative from the Buenos Aires Police Department whether the handcuffs belong to one of their officers, they don't deny the suggestion outright. He simply says he doesn't know, which some interpret as an admission of guilt. But long before any actual evidence of corruption comes to light. The people of Argentina are certain that something's amiss. They ignore their president's plea to not politicize the moment and take to the streets. National protests erupt. The Inter American Press association condemns the journalist's murder as an attack on free speech. Flyers, signs and posters everywhere read don't forget about Cabezas. Many feature pictures of the journalist's face, some just cutouts of his eyes. Don't forget becomes a refrain for the movement. It can be easy for tragedies to get buried by the never ending news cycle. But that doesn't happen this time around. Argentines keep the fight alive. Some take measures into their own hands, not trusting police to properly investigate. Kids and their parents go out hunting for the murder weapon. Vigils, church services and rallies are held across the country. Monuments are raised in the journalist's honor. Before all is said and done, the murder receives more coverage than the death of Juan Peron, the moon landing and the World Cup. And President Menem isn't the only politician who gets involved. Buenos Aires Governor Eduardo du Halde publicly promises Cabeza's family that he'll find the killers and bring them to justice, though no official has said the name publicly. From the beginning, one name is on everyone's Alfredo Yibran. He's suspected to have some hand in the murder. Despite fears of retaliation and ongoing threats to their work. Noticias magazine begins covering the case within days of Cabeza's death. According to the Los Angeles Times, their investigative journalists sometimes work more quickly than police. With every new issue, the magazine includes a tally of how much time has passed without a criminal conviction. Another signal to those in power that time won't sweep this murder under the rug. All eyes are on law enforcement and politicians to put the case to rest and to root out any corruption that might have allowed it to take place. So officials announce a reward for anyone who comes forward with information. Rewards aren't common practice in Argentina, but the decision seems to be effective. A witness quickly comes forward who links the murder to an alleged group of drug traffickers based out of Mar del Plata, a city about a two hour drive from Pinamar. The witness says they overheard the group's leader talking about needing to get rid of a journalist who screwed them over. The tip is enough for a warrant to search the homes of suspected members. But the question becomes why would a group of drug traffickers want Cabezas dead? To connect the dots, a theory emerges that Cabezas may have blackmailed the group with further photos he'd taken of their operation. No evidence for that theory is found, but police do find evidence to connect the group to Cabeza's death. They reportedly find a gun that matches the murder weapon inside one of their homes. Officials throw all the members in jail, and before long, a press conference seems to render a verdict. A prosecutor announces that a judge determined the gun is in fact the murder weapon based on forensics. But this happens before any official ruling comes out. And certain details around the discovery of the gun and the ensuing arrests raise eyebrows. For example, the witness who tipped police off about the group had a criminal record of his own and a documented relationship with Buenos Aires police. He was in jail, serving time when they reduced his sentence. After he got out, they gave him some gifts, including a car and a phone. Now, that could have been because he agreed to act as an undercover police informant. But if that were true and he was working with the police, why didn't he tell them about the threat sooner? Why didn't he try to intercept the murder? As more time passes, the investigation feels intentionally clumsy. Documentation is scarce. Evidence seems mishandled. Noticius publishes a piece accusing Buenos Aires police of large scale corruption. In addition to their explosive claims, they expose the extravagant lives of some of the department's top officials, their lavish homes and luxury cars. One even owns a private yacht. The piece is called Dam Police, and it goes so far as to call law enforcement in Buenos Aires. Devil Soldiers Du Halde, the governor of Buenos Aires, is quick to defend his police forces. But before long, the evidence proves their actions indefensible. In April 1997, a new witness comes forward with an entirely different story. This witness says it wasn't the drug trafficking group that killed Cabezas. It was a different criminal gang known as Los Ornos. It starts looking like law enforcement planted the gun in that first home. Because come to find out, a deputy police chief was in on the murder. Ray Ban Meta glasses are powered by Meta AI so you can get real time answers.
- [25:02]
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- [25:17]
Carter Roy
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- [25:28]
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- [25:57]
Carter Roy
Months after Jose Luis Cabezas murder, police arrest four members of the Los Ornos gang. Unlike previous suspects, these men admit to playing a role in the photographer's death. And their statements suggest they're telling the truth. For example, they say Cabezas was shot twice in the head. At first, this comes as a shock to police because the original report only listed one bullet hole. But a follow up autopsy reveals it was an error. There were actually two bullet wounds after all. Adding to the men's credibility, they're able to direct detectives to where they disposed of the photographer's camera. The device itself is easy to identify once recovered, thanks to the Looney Tunes stickers covering its surface. Courtesy of the Cabeza's kids. So when the Los Ornos gang says they were acting on the orders of a deputy police chief named Gustavo Praiseo, there's reason to believe they're telling the truth. But that's not all they claim. They say it was actually Praiso who pulled the trigger on the shots that ended the journalist's life. Moreover, Prezo becomes the missing link to a much larger conspiracy and a name that had been circulating the case from the very beginning. During a search of his home, police find an encrypted calendar that directly ties the deputy police chief to Alfredo Yabran. Then, using high tech tracing tools, investigators scour Praise's call history. Turns out he had been in regular contact with the head of domestic security for Alfredo, Gregorio Rios. Rios was widely considered Yubran's right hand man. Their phone calls increased in frequency leading up to the morning of Cabeza's murder. And then all communication stopped. But that's not all, investigators find. They use those same tracing tools to examine Yibran's personal communications. And that opens up an entirely different can of worms that leads them to the very highest offices in the country. Alfredo Yibran had been in regular contact with the Department of Justice. He had made 202 different calls to prosecutors, ministers and other officials within the executive branch and the Presidential palace, some of whom had publicly denied knowing Yibran at all. When the news reaches the public, a massive scandal ensues. At least one justice minister steps down. As a result, many more are implicated in the court of public opinion. All signs point to a conspiracy of the very highest order, but the evidence is still circumstantial. There's no way of knowing what Yibran or anyone else discussed on those 200 some calls. And in theory, they could have been above board. See, earlier that year, the federal government announced its plan to privatize Argentina's mail services, and it was all but assumed that Yibran's company would win the contract. He had plausible reason to be in contact with some, if maybe not all of those people. As a result of the scandal, a congressional committee launches an investigation into possible corruption. Yibran appears before the committee to testify. But a government led investigation into government corruption doesn't do much to build trust with the public. And the committee never actually renders a judgment. Come June, news breaks that fans the flames of conspiracies. Further, amidst all the political unrest, President Menem's chief of staff takes a meeting with Yibran while he's actively under investigation. Protesters crowd outside the presidential palace denouncing what they see as a meeting of gangsters. As it takes place, some smash the back window of Yibran's car as he drives away. Afterward, President Menem makes a statement reminding the public that Yibran hasn't been convicted of a crime yet. For that reason, he says he should be treated like any other business leader. Now, how many other business leaders are landing meetings with the President's chief of staff? Who's to say? For President Menem, that seems to be beside the point. Now, there is an explanation for the meeting. Yibran asked for it because he wanted to complain about how recent accusations have been affecting his businesses. For starters, he's had to remove his company's bid to take over Argentina's federal mail because there's been so much backlash. Yibran positions himself as the victim. He says he's been framed by two power hungry Governor Du Halde and Argentina's former economic Minister, Domingo Cavallo. You'll remember Cavallo first accused Dubran of large scale corruption on the floor of Congress. Dujalde, meanwhile, has become a face for justice in Cabeza's murder case. Yibran claims they both stand to gain from their defamatory campaign to manipulate public opinion. For his part, Du Halde plans to run for president in the next election. Being seen as a crusader would be a notch in his political belt. Pinning blame on Yibran also helps take blame away from the corruption already exposed in his police force. As for why Yibran appeared in Gustavo Praiso's calendar, Yibran admits he once met with the deputy police chief. But he claims it was strictly business. Prezo wanted to sell him an alarm, security system, nothing more. At a certain point, Police have arrested 10 people in connection with Cabeza's murder. That includes the Los Ornos gang, a handful of police officers, and Yibran's head of domestic security and right hand man, Gregorio Rios. But the investigation into Yibran's involvement cools down. While some prosecutors feel like they have enough to make an arrest, the presiding judge asks for more evidence. Months pass without updates. Then, out of nowhere, an old witness resurfaces, where with a new story, Silvia Beloski, Gustavo Praiso's ex wife. Like her former husband, Silvia worked as a police officer. She was arrested in conjunction with Cabeza's murder after investigators learned she had asked a colleague to dig up dirt on the photographer. At the time, officials felt like she knew more than she was letting on. And they were right. Fear had kept her quiet. But now she's ready to talk, and she gives officials the connection they've been waiting for. She tells police, quote, yibran is behind everything. This had been an order from Yibran. On Friday, May 15, 1998, the judge finally orders Yibran's arrest. That same day, the business tycoon goes on the run. Officials in Argentina alert Interpol. Right away, there are fears that Yibran might flee to another country without extradition laws, and investigators won't be able to touch him. There are no signs of him for days. Then, on Wednesday, May 20, five days after the arrest warrant, officials zero in on one of Yibran's homes, a ranch in Entre Rios, the province where he was born. It's in the country, a few hours north of Buenos Aires. The scene plays out like a movie. Helicopters fly overhead. Black cars filled with armed officers in bulletproof vests swarm the area. They search every building and room on the massive, sweeping estate. They expect to find Yibran's usual security team and cohort of bodyguards. But the only employees on the grounds are servants. Eventually, police identify a locked room. It's Yubran's suite. They call out to see if anyone's inside. When no one answers, they try to break in. But before they can get the door open, they hear a bang. One of Yubran's employees hears the gunshot and runs outside, shouting, don't shoot. Don't shoot. They presumably don't know the shot was fired inside the house and the person who pulled the trigger was their boss. The shot ends Ebron's life. When police finally break into the suite they reportedly find his body along with a gun and a note proclaiming his innocence. He's 53 years old. The trial for the murder of Jose Luis Cabezas begins in December, and it happens without the man who, the court confirms, set everything into motion. Yibran instructed his head of security, Rios, to kill Cabezas. Rios then orchestrated the scheme with the help of Praise, who took the lead on carrying the actual plan out with the help of a few other police officers and the Los Ornos gang. Cabezas was just 20 to 25ft away from his sleeping wife and kids when he was intercepted by two members of the gang. They threatened him at gunpoint, beat him, tortured him and threw him in the back of the Ford Fiesta. Prezo and the other accomplices waited nearby and followed the men to the countryside. Prezo shot Cabeza twice in the head at close range. They bundled his body, put it back in the car and lit everything on fire. The words Happy birthday spoken in a phone call, signaled the hit was complete. Governor Du Halde drove by before the men left the scene. A neighbor found Cabeza's body sometime between 5:30 and 7:15am from start to finish. It was over in two hours or less. Judges and policemen are named in court documents alongside at least one former justice minister. The method of murder is reminiscent of assassinations carried out by Argentina's old military regimes. Presumably, Yibran and his friends wanted to send a message to journalists working to expose corruption. He once answered the question, what is power? By saying, power is having impunity. In the end, the people of Argentina send a message of their own that collective action can put an end to impunity. Throughout the early 90s, Argentina experienced a string of tragedies that never saw justice served. Murders, attacks, an assassination, a bombing. Cabeza's death served as an inflection point in a greater cultural shift. The tides of power began to flow toward ordinary people. And by some accounts, it made Argentines more willing to use their voice. In December 1999, Argentines choose not to elect Eduardo Du Halde or the sitting president, Carlos Menem. They go for someone entirely new. By February, the court convicts regardless of what role they played in the murder. Every person put on trial receives a life sentence. A week later, Noticius magazine ends its countdown to justice. It had been three years since Cabezas was killed. But the fight isn't over. As of this recording, none of the individuals involved in Cabezas murder are still incarcerated. Most served less than eight years in an actual prison. The Buenos Aires Court of Appeals commuted all of their sentences, some multiple times. Both Gregoria Rios, the man who orchestrated the murder, and Praiseo, the man who pulled the trigger, then spent years of their already reduced sentences under house arrest. Praiso was actually able to graduate from law school while serving his time. Then, of course, there's Alfredo Yibran. Back in 1998, news of his suicide spread like wildfire. Headlines appeared in major media outlets around the globe. Television and radio stations reported that the body inside Yibran's ranch belonged to the businessman. But almost immediately, the conspiracy theories began to swirl. People had a hard time believing that such a powerful person would have ended his life over an arrest warrant. Many didn't believe he was dead at all. Rumors suggested Yabran might have used a body double. Maybe he paid someone to die on his behalf. Someone who desperately needed money and would be willing to sacrifice their life to give their family and their kids a better future. Or maybe he didn't need to. Maybe the police were in on it and the whole raid was staged. In the aftermath of Yibran's death, a poll found that 67.8% of Argentines thought he was still alive somewhere. Lying low, they told interviewers on the street, he's probably on a Caribbean island somewhere, or in a hole, or joked that he was secretly hiding behind a stack of money. It's maybe not surprising. Anything can seem possible when there's enough power and resources involved. Reported sightings of Yubran date back to just after his death, and new ones reportedly crop up every few years. Some actually suspect that the AY in the Argentine fashion brand, AY Not Dead, stands for Alfredo Yibran. The idea that Alfredo Yibran could still be alive remains one of the country's most popular conspiracy theories. As recently as 2022, Gladys Cabezas, the sister of Jose Luis, has spoken out against these theories. She says there's no doubt in her mind that Yibran is dead. Multiple witnesses who were there that day have confirmed as much. But she suggests there may be a greater conspiracy that didn't die with the businessman. That Alfredo Yibran may have been powerful, but he wasn't necessarily at the top of the pyramid. That he died by suicide before he was killed by those whose secrets he held. There are greater puppeteers still pulling the strings and wielding their power with impunity. In her eyes, the fight isn't over. Thank you for watching Conspiracy Theories. We're here with a new episode every Wednesday. Be sure to check us out on Instagram, heconspiracypod, and if you're watching on Spotify, swipe up and give us your thoughts. For more information on Alfredo Yibran and the murder of Jose Luis Luis Cabezas, we recommend checking out Netflix's documentary the Murder in Panamar as well as retrospective reporting done by the Buenos Aires Times. Among the many sources we used for this episode, we found those extremely helpful to our research. Until next time. Remember, the truth isn't always the best story, and the official story isn't always the truth. This episode was written and researched by Connor Sampson, fact checked by Sophie Kemp, engineered by Sam Emezkwa, and video edited and sound designed by Ryan Contra. Special thanks to Nick Johnson, Paige Ransberry, Andrew Byrne, and Jonathan Ratliff. I'm your host, Carter Roy.