Witness Name: EMERSON TURNKIN

My name is Emerson Turnkin, but most people call me Em. I held the position of site supervisor
at Franklin’s Trench on August 31st, 2012. To label a catastrophe an accident is either
foolishness or being misled. Those lives were knowingly sacrificed to feed Tatum Zillias’ inflated
ego and wealth.

The collapse of the crane in those winds shouldn't have shocked anyone, including us.
Regardless of the money thrown in to cover it up, the indelible stain of blood on that site will
never fade. No amount of effort or lies can erase that spot.

How did it come to this? How did we end up hoisting heavy loads amidst a raging storm? I wish
I could have halted it. I wish I had called in sick or resigned without showing up. Sadly, I was
powerless, mere window dressing at a site run by Tatum Zillias.

This wasn't the path I envisioned. I aimed to be a property developer. Yet, at 53, single,
childless, and unemployed, I hold a degree in construction management from Penn State with
thirty years of site experience. But those opportunities won't return. It's a pitiful situation.

I built my reputation like a house, brick by brick, emphasizing union relations and eventual
success. It contrasted starkly with Zillias' philosophy, where speed trumped safety and cutting
corners was cheaper than compliance.

When Zillias approached me in 2011 for the Trench project, I hesitated. Despite promises of
control, it was a lie. I held the title of site supervisor but lacked actual authority. Determined to
do right, I followed every code diligently. However, the situation deteriorated rapidly.

Problems emerged with squatters, and clashes intensified. Zillias' obsession with speed led to a
risky lift, ignoring warnings about overloading the crane. The reckless pace strained workers,
and safety plummeted. My protests fell on deaf ears.

On August 31st, 2012, disaster struck. Despite warning about worsening weather conditions,
Tatum pushed ahead recklessly. During the crane lift, the panel succumbed to the wind,
resulting in the crane's collapse. Tatum's relentless pursuit of legacy overrode safety and cost
lives.

The blame game won't obscure the truth. Tatum prioritized a legacy over human lives. The idea
that squatters or any external force brought down the crane is preposterous. Tatum's disregard
for safety was the root cause.

Witness Name: LONDON PACKARD

In my life's journey, there are places etched in memory, though time's touch has altered them.
Franklin’s Trench, once our haven, now lies unrecognizable amidst twisted metal, a far cry from
the utopia where we once thrived. Dispersed like autumn leaves, we, the Trenchers, cannot
reclaim the lives taken from us. Born into a stark world, devoid of colour, it was in the '60s that
hues painted our existence. A time when societal awakening seemed plausible—no
possessions to divide, no causes for bloodshed, and no religious divides. Alongside the people
and the land, I, too, awoke. We endured struggles together, shared sustenance, and bonded as
one. But as colours faded, friends fell to misfortune, lost in a maze of despair.
Amidst the chaos, I stumbled upon Franklin’s Trench in '75, a hidden sanctuary—sheltered,
warmed by steam vents, with a trickle of clean water, a precious find akin to life's wellsprings.
Here, a diverse tapestry gathered, regardless of wealth or status. We coalesced, aiding each
other in times of need. Over the years, our numbers swelled, offering refuge to over 1500 souls,
even sheltering unexpected guests like Tatum Zillias’ mother. Yet, fate twisted when Zillias, with
the city's backing, sought to transform our haven into a heartless structure.
A community meeting unveiled the impending threat, plunging the Trenchers into despair. Most
resigned to seek new homes, save for a few, including Arty Dent, whose eccentricities often
stirred unease. Arty's erratic behaviour incited concern but his outlandish promises held little
weight—until a drastic plan emerged. Amidst these upheavals, a reporter, Reese Dentner,
pledged support, promising to halt construction if granted time for a compelling story. I aligned,
believing this might offer a glimmer of hope.
Events unravelled swiftly: negotiations failed, tensions rose, and Arty, in a frenzied state,
attempted disruptions, earning the label "Operation Turtle." Yet, Reese's involvement held
hidden intentions, revealed too late. With each passing day, our community dwindled, weary
souls departing until only Arty and I remained, clinging to remnants of our shared existence.
As August dawned, a fleeting hope emerged, disrupted by Zillias’ unrelenting pursuit. Nature
intervened, stalling construction, but Arty's final act triggered calamity—the crane's collapse
claimed both Arty and Zillias’ ambitions. Among Arty's belongings lay an envelope addressed to
Reese, a cryptic testament to his intentions.
Our haven, now lost, stands as a testament to battles fought and lost. The echoes of our
struggle, captured in words, a narrative of dreams shattered, lives dispersed, yet our spirit,
etched in defiance, lives on.

Witness Name: MICAH ESTRATTON

My name is Micah Estratton, and I’m a forty-six-year-old with a Mechanical Engineering degree from
Drexel University. While my formal education happened there, the real schooling came from my sixteen
years in construction. Being a part of the International Union of Operating Engineers for over a quarter-
century, serving in leadership roles, and receiving awards for my contributions has been a journey
deeply rooted in my family’s legacy.

My mother, a crane engineer herself, founded Estratton Lift Systems, a renowned provider of speciality
cranes and sling systems in the Mid-Atlantic. She instilled in me a love for this industry, leading me to
Fightin’ Phil, one of her last crane designs. Phil's been booked nearly year-round since '88, a testament
to his engineering marvel.
At ELS, safety and excellence go hand in hand. We not only provide the machinery but also ensure top-
notch operations staff. My dedication to Phil and his meticulous maintenance stems from this
commitment to safety. While challenges have cropped up, like the incident with Fightin' Phil's cables,
we've always prioritized safety over profits.

The dynamics changed when we took on Project Z. Despite reservations about the site supervisor and
certain safety issues, we pushed forward. As deadlines loomed, pressure mounted, and decisions were
made to expedite, compromising some safety measures. Even then, safety was always on our minds.

The pivotal moment arrived during the Big Lifts. Unexpected changes in panel weights threw us off,
pushing Phil beyond his regular engineering load. Despite concerns, we proceeded, reassured by past
successes. But nature had its say—a storm, strained schedules, and increased pressure. Despite the
challenges, I believed we could manage.

August 31, 2012, marked the culmination of it all. I meticulously checked Phil, adhering to our inspection
schedules, but the wrench incident delayed proceedings. We grappled with adverse weather conditions,
struggling to manoeuvre the roof panels. Yet, with a green signal, we proceeded cautiously. As we hit
the apex, a catastrophic sequence unfolded, and Phil came apart.

The aftermath led to contemplation and questioning. What caused Phil's failure? Was it solely the wind,
or could external factors have played a role? Speculation lingered, but I knew in my heart that, up until
the end, I had Phil under control.

It's been a journey filled with triumphs, challenges, and the tragic loss of lives. Reflection is inevitable,
and I continue to carry the weight of that day, grappling with unanswered questions. But one thing
remains unchanged—my unwavering commitment to safety and the legacy that Phil, my mother, and I
share.

Witness Name: REESE DENTNER

I'm Reese Dentner, a journalist whose job involves shaking things up, telling the truth, and ultimately
selling stories. The courts have granted me immunity for testifying, so I'm here to be entirely forthright
about what I've uncovered. Let me start by stating clearly: Tatum Zillias, in my opinion, is a deceitful
character.

My journey began at Villanova University, where I pursued degrees in English and Communication,
focusing on journalism. Later, I earned a master's degree in journalism from Syracuse University. Starting
my career in London, I faced some trouble, culminating in a scandal tied to allegations of hacking royal
family members' accounts. After settling the matter by relinquishing my British citizenship and sharing
unpublished information, I turned to independent journalism, contributing to various publications like
TMZ, muckraker.com, The Sludge Report, and Redbook.

Arriving in Philly in 2003, I found the perfect journalistic battleground amid the city's fervent sports
culture, dual daily papers, sporadic corruption allegations, and lenient rules for confronting wrongdoers
with a camera. It was here that I encountered Tatum Zillias.

Driven by a tip from a reliable source, I delved into Zillias' negligent safety practices at construction sites,
culminating in an expose named "Unsafe at Any Speed," published in the Inquirer. Zillias, as confirmed
later, paid hefty fines due to the piece. Oddly, Zillias thanked me for my work, an unexpected turn of
events.

When Zillias took an interest in the Franklin's Trench, I saw an opportunity for an explosive story.
Discovering inhabitants on the site, commonly referred to as squatters or "mole people," I realized they
were potential sources. With a high-powered camera and a laser microphone set up in a nearby
building, I bypassed trespassing concerns.

Among the squatters, Arty Dent caught my attention. A military veteran with erratic behaviour and an
imaginative mind, Dent claimed peculiarities about the construction project, attributing it to
extraterrestrial activity. Spending considerable time with Dent, I learned of his resistance to losing his
underground haven, which he believed was invisible to satellites.

Throughout 2011, the site remained relatively unsecured, offering little in the way of substantial
content. However, when Zillias returned in January, the situation escalated. Security measures
intensified, hindering our investigation until I facilitated a breach in the fence.

The chaos resumed as accidents increased, some feigned for workers' compensation. Zillias' leniency in
compensating these individuals became my next article's focus: "Workers' Romp: Liars Costing YOU
Money." With heightened attention on the site, I planned to release my exposé, "Trench Warfare,"
aligning it strategically with the building's grand unveiling to dignitaries.

By August, most squatters had moved on. Arty became fixated on an alleged promise of spots in the new
building. His behaviour grew more erratic, and his "Master Plan" emerged as a foreboding mystery.
Despite my concern for his safety, Arty vanished before my eyes.

On August 31, 2012, my return to the site sparked resentment from workers due to my critical article.
Observing Arty from afar, he stood by the fence, seemingly lost in a ritualistic moment. His cryptic
actions and contemplative demeanour struck a chord, and he disappeared into the unknown.

Subsequent events unfolded tragically. A crane collapsed, murmurs of conversation amid high winds,
and my attempts to gather information from key figures proved futile. Amid the chaos, Arty, in an ironic
twist, communicated posthumously through London Packard, delivering a perplexing "Master Plan."

As the blame for the catastrophe fell on Zillias, accusations of murder arose. Yet, I question the validity
of such claims. While Zillias is no saint, labelling them a murderer seems far-fetched. My instincts,
detailed in my earlier writings, foresaw impending trouble, but the truth behind the catastrophic event
remains elusive.
Witness Name: TATUM ZILLIAS
So you want to know where it all started? It sprang from the depths—the gutter, my birthplace. Raised
by a homeless mother and a father I never knew, our world was defined by public assistance, housing,
schools, and church handouts, for meals if there were no other options. Life for me wasn’t a smooth
path; it resembled a rugged, uphill climb. That’s where Franklin’s Trench began, many years later.

My mother relentlessly impressed upon me that I shouldn’t repeat her mistakes. She worked multiple
jobs to afford tutoring, sports, and everything I needed. She ensured I had what she lacked. Achieving
the position of high school salutatorian and studying business at Temple, I eventually realized the
greatest business lay in the land. While she thought I was engrossed in classes, I scraped together every
penny I could find, beg, or borrow to purchase a dilapidated house close to school. It was a mess, and I
made my fair share of mistakes fixing it up, but within a year, the house was transformed—for the
better. Selling it didn’t earn me much, but it was genuine earnings, my earnings. That money became
the stepping stone for the next property, and the cycle continued. When I confessed to my mother, she
was rightfully upset about my deception, yet I persisted, house after house. By 1990, I employed three
individuals.

A former classmate from Temple commissioned me to construct a home in Delaware County. This
realization opened my eyes to undervalued areas across Pennsylvania—abandoned industrial sites or
overlooked communities.

By January 1, 2010, Project Z came into existence, aiming to make a positive global impact and secure
my financial future in retirement. For six months, my team and I scoured potential opportunities,
eventually stumbling upon Franklin’s Trench—an eyesore, a gaping abyss in the city left unutilized.

I lacked the funds for such an ambitious project without staking my entire fortune. Using my
connections in the city and counties, I orchestrated meetings with HUD, the Mayor’s Office, and the
Commonwealth. I proposed a deal: if they provided funding and sold me the property for $1, Project Z
would create an unprecedented public housing development, transforming the neglected trenches into
the cornerstone of a new community.

Striving through financial constraints, I targeted October 2012 as the decisive deadline. Progress on the
site was sluggish. Immersed in acquiring public works contracts in Detroit and Memphis, the lack of
significant advancement on Franklin’s Trench was alarming. Initiating a second shift, we extended site
operations to 16 hours a day, despite local discontent, to accelerate progress. In late August, tensions
peaked. The threat of a hurricane loomed, endangering our temporary roofing and potentially causing
significant setbacks.

Do I regret the outcome? Undoubtedly. However, do I regret taking charge and steering the project?
Absolutely not. My intentions were pure—to furnish the people of Philadelphia with sustainable homes,
a future for their children, and set a standard for other American cities to emulate. I'm prepared to
accept accountability, whether in success or failure. But to be charged with third-degree murder? It's
absurd. I abided by most regulations and willingly accepted the penalties for those I flouted. My
intentions never veered towards causing harm, but the squatter's actions irreparably destroyed
everything—a crane, a vision, countless dreams. His actions led to this catastrophic tragedy.