Four years. Four oaths. One forgery.
Four documents sit in Hennepin County guardianship file 27-GC-PR-09-77 — the case of a man named Adrian Wesley. Each is an Affidavit of Service: a sworn statement, under penalty of perjury, that Wesley's guardian handed him his legally required annual paperwork, including the single notice that tells a ward he can ask a court to end the guardianship and walk free. They are stamped filed in four different years — 2022, 2023, 2024, 2025 — and presented as four separate proofs that Adrian Wesley was looked after, year after year. They are the same document. The dates were changed; the body was copied, strip for strip, byte for byte, across all four sworn filings.
Each page is built from roughly twenty-six full-width horizontal image strips stacked edge to edge. Eight of those strips carry the identical cryptographic fingerprint across all four years; counting the two blank spacer strips, ten are identical across all four; nineteen are shared across two or more. A document sworn in 2022 and a document sworn in 2025 — 1,128 DAYS apart — recite the affiant's "I declare under penalty of perjury" line in the same pixels. That is not four people documenting four years of care. That is one file, re-dated four times.
A life sentence. No conviction.
Adrian Michael Wesley was born March 15, 1991. He is deaf — hearing lost in childhood to untreated ear infections — and the court records describe fetal alcohol syndrome, an intellectual disability, and a psychotic disorder. He cannot read well. He signs, when an interpreter is provided. He has been under a court guardianship since 2009, when he was seventeen — sixteen years and counting — holding his rights "for an indefinite period of time." He has never been convicted of a crime.
What he has instead is a loop, and it is not new: Hennepin County first found him incompetent in 2010. The 2017 cases closed it for good — he was committed to the Minnesota Security Hospital in St. Peter as "Mentally Ill and Dangerous," and he has been held there ever since. Every few months a court order pulls him eighty miles north — from St. Peter to Courtroom 857 at the Hennepin County Government Center — and back, every hearing at 1:30 PM, for a "review." The reviews change nothing. In those cases the court found him incompetent twelve times, most recently in January 2024 — never once restored, never once tried.
By 2023 the State stopped pretending it would end. The Department of Human Services created a category for him — a "non-restorable defendant" — and stopped providing competency evaluations, because the evaluations always said the same thing. One examiner: "There is little likelihood that Mr. Wesley would be restored to competency in the foreseeable future." The damage, another wrote, lies in "the underlying neurodevelopmental structures of the brain"; it is "permanent and ongoing"; further "competency restoration efforts would not result in any appreciable improvement." He is not getting better, and everyone with a signature on the file knows it.
So in January 2024 his own attorney asked the court to do the only humane thing left: dismiss the charges. By then Wesley had spent 2,571 DAYS — seven years — confined between jail and hospital on cases that could never reach trial. The court said no. Not because he might recover — the order concedes his "civil commitment is indefinite" — but because the charge is a "crime of violence," the victim "remains invested," and, in the State's own words, "given that Defendant is in a secure setting indefinitely, no matter what happens in the criminal case, there is no discernable prejudice to Defendant to continue to have these charges pending." He is locked up for life regardless, so keeping the case open costs the State nothing. The charges stay. He stays.
A few human details survive the paperwork. At his one contested hearing, his attorney testified that Mr. Wesley "did not understand what a trial was" — and that he was "proud that he passed the test" at St. Peter hospital. He thinks he is doing well. And in February 2024, the court tried to mail him notice of his own case. It went to the group-home address he last lived at in 2017, and came back stamped "RETURN TO SENDER — NOT DELIVERABLE." Seven years in, the court that will not release him does not know where he is.
This is the life Adrian Wesley's court file describes: a deaf, disabled man confined without a trial, found incompetent twelve times, declared beyond help, and kept inside because release was never on the table. Hold onto it — the rest of this page examines the file that describes it.
The vocabulary of a life
Word counts — how often each term appears across Adrian Wesley's own case files.
Read the file and swap one word. Everywhere it says "committed indefinitely," read a life sentence. Everywhere it says "non-restorable," read will never be released. Everywhere it says "competency restoration programming," read we are trying to reprogram him, and it isn't working. The court's vocabulary is built to make a life sentence without a trial read like administration.
In the file's own words
Pick a theme; each quote opens the order it comes from, at the exact page.
Nine pages from the file
The language of indefinite confinement, in situ. Scroll the grid; click any page to enlarge.
Generated by software. Sworn by no one.
Open any of the four PDFs and search for text. There is none. Zero fonts. Zero characters. Every page is pure image — yet each file's own metadata claims it was made with "Microsoft: Print To PDF," a tool that produces real, selectable text from a real document. These produced none.
A PDF is a container — a wrapper that can hold typed text, fonts, and form fields, or can hold nothing but pictures. Inside these four there is no document in the ordinary sense: no text, no fields, only a stack of roughly twenty-six horizontal image strips. Those strips are the filing. What looks like a scanned, signed affidavit is a picture, sliced into bands and bolted together inside the container.
The way it is built rules out a person. Every strip spans the full page width. The seams between them are mathematically perfect — 0.0 points of gap. The pixels are not square: roughly 600 dots per inch vertically, 584 horizontally. A flatbed scanner produces square pixels, so this image was stretched to fit a page by software, not scanned. No person sits in an image editor cutting a sworn affidavit into ribbons and reassembling it band by band — it would take enormous effort, by hand, for no reason. This is the output of an automated assembly process. Composing a full page out of stored strips is exactly what a generative or AI-assisted image pipeline does; it is not what a human filing a court document does.
Because normal filings are not made this way at all. The people who file affidavits use word processors, where inserting or correcting a line of text takes two seconds and produces real, searchable text. What these four contain instead is a black template image with every variable value — the service date, the address, the role label, the affiant's name — rendered in colored text dropped onto it. Black template, color-coded inserts: the signature of an automated merge that stamps database values onto a stored form and flattens the result to a picture. A person filling out a paper affidavit does not color-code the answers. Software does.
The four filings themselves
Open any of the original court PDFs and read it in place.
Press Full page → Flicker. The four "different-year" filings strobe as one page, because they are one page. Switch to Strips to watch the seams: the boilerplate bands hold frozen while only the injected fields move. Zoom in — the text stays razor-sharp at any magnification, because it was never scanned; it was rendered.
A SHA-256 "fingerprint" is a 64-character code calculated from a file's exact contents. It is the bedrock of digital forensics — the same check your computer runs to confirm a software download arrived unaltered, the same tool courts accept to prove a file wasn't tampered with. Two properties make it decisive: change a single pixel and the entire code changes; and you can never reproduce the same code twice by re-scanning, re-printing, or re-generating a document — do any of those more than once and you get a different code every time. So when a strip in the 2022 affidavit and the "same" strip in the 2023, 2024, and 2025 affidavits all carry the identical fingerprint, they are not similar documents. They are one file, copied — a 100% identical clone dropped into all four. Eight strips are clones across all four filings. Independent annual filings cannot produce that. Cloned ones do.
The cloned strips, with their fingerprints
Click any strip to open it full-resolution; the viewer steps through only the copies of that one strip. Each block shows the strip, the years it appears in, and the SHA-256 it carries in every one of them.
Think of each page as a stack of horizontal ribbons. On these four filings, the ribbon carrying the sworn oath — and seven others — is the identical digital file in 2022, 2023, 2024, and 2025. When the load-bearing ribbons are clones, not one of the four affidavits is an independently executed document. They are copies of a single source, each stamped with a different year. There is no "original" among them that is more real than the rest — they are all the same file.
One printer, one batch. A secondary tell sits in the file metadata. All four affidavits carry the identical author field GS-DSS-P-INT-IB$ — the trailing $ marks a Windows service account, not a person. One machine "printed" all four. A fifth Affidavit of Service in this same guardianship file carries a human author name (Courtney Olson) and an ordinary print-to-PDF fingerprint — the contrast isolates these four as a single coordinated production batch, distinct from the normal filings in the same docket. ◆
Every shared strip, grouped by fingerprint
All nineteen strips shared across two or more filings, every filing each appears in, and what each one says. Sort any column, or expand a fingerprint to see every filing it sits in — the structure proves itself.
Don't take the analysis. Take the files.
Nothing here asks for trust. Every claim above is reproducible in sixty seconds with the raw files, posted in full below. Each package contains the original court PDF, a decompressed copy, and every image extracted from it — named by its SHA-256 fingerprint. Open two folders, sort by filename: any filename present in both is the identical image. Present in all four means identical across all four years.
full package 2023 affidavit ·
full package 2024 affidavit ·
full package 2025 affidavit ·
full package
A normal PDF stores its contents compressed, so you can't easily see what's inside. The decompressed copy (the .decomp file — it exists nowhere else) unpacks it into plain view. You don't need our word for what these documents are made of; you can open them and look.
Open the decompressed files here
Each decompressed PDF, expanded inline — read it, or download it from the viewer's toolbar.
The inspector. Drop any .decomp file into pdfcrowd.com/inspect-pdf/ — it parses the PDF's internals entirely in your browser, so the file never leaves your computer — and read the document's own structure: the image strips, the missing text layer, the producer string, straight from the file. (Any local PDF inspector does the same; these are public court records regardless.)
Method. The structural examination — pikepdf/qpdf object inspection, SHA-256 hashing, page-geometry math — is documented in full in the two forensic reports: the structural examination and the logical-implications brief. The report's narrower "8 byte-identical content strips" figure and the folder method's "10 identical objects / 19 shared" figure are the same finding counted two ways: 8 text-bearing strips, plus 2 blank spacers, identical across all four; 19 shared across two or more. 🔒
Adrian Wesley's name is inside Matthew Guertin's court orders.
Matthew Guertin is the inventor whose patent sits at the top of References Cited on Netflix's continuation patent — and the defendant this site documents. Two of the orders filed in State of Minnesota v. Guertin carry, buried in their PDF metadata, a title that has nothing to do with him: "Contested Competency for Adrian Wesley (incompetent) (doctors disagree)." One is Guertin's Order for Continuance, filed June 14, 2023. The other is the July 15, 2024 Order to Recuse signed by Judge Julia Dayton Klein. Across all 4,251 documents in the forensic corpus, exactly two carry the name Adrian Wesley in that metadata title. Both are in Guertin's case. 0.047%.
This is authoring metadata, set when the document was created, and it points one direction only. Wesley's own case files do not carry his name in this field. Guertin's do. A document does not acquire a stranger's competency status in its title by accident; it acquires it when it is built from that stranger's file. The order in which Guertin's judge stepped off his case was generated from the working file of a man the system had already declared permanently incompetent. ◆
Every PDF carries hidden housekeeping text — like the "document title" a word processor remembers. It travels with the file. When Guertin's recusal order carries the title "Contested Competency for Adrian Wesley," it means the file that produced Guertin's order was a copy of an Adrian Wesley competency document, with the visible text swapped and the hidden title left behind. And there is a second, equally damning reading: the name was placed there deliberately. Metadata "seeding" — leaving Adrian Wesley's name where a curious reader will find it, then dressing it as an accidental leftover — baits the reader into looking him up and lends the manufactured record a borrowed air of authenticity. Accident or plant, the file still binds Guertin's order to Wesley's. ▸
The bridge is not one field. The clinical vocabulary used to declare Guertin incompetent arrived in his case after it had already been used on Wesley. Of fifty competency terms that appear only inside a four-defendant cluster and nowhere else in the corpus, FORTY-NINE show up in another defendant's file before they ever appear in Guertin's. "Psychotic disorder" and "unspecified schizophrenia" entered Wesley's record in May 2020 — more than three years before they were turned on Guertin. ◆
The same judges run both files. Michael Browne, George Borer, Danielle Mercurio, and Julia Dayton Klein each preside across both Wesley's manufactured record and Guertin's live prosecution. Klein is the judge whose recusal order carries Wesley's name. ◆
Read the source reports
The full forensic basis for the metadata anomaly and the vocabulary directionality, expandable in place.
Read the dates. They don't survive contact with a calendar.
A finding before the case existed
A single order entered incompetency on "all three files" on February 21, 2017. One of those cases, 27-CR-17-22909, was not filed until September 2017 — seven months later. A court cannot find a defendant incompetent in a case that does not yet exist. 🔒
Two evaluators, one evaluation
One February 2017 examination is attributed to two different examiners across the records — Dr. Elizabeth Barbo, and, in a later order, Kristen Otte. One examination does not have two authors. 🔒
Contact logged with a ward confined 80 miles away
The guardianship reporting logs in-person and telephone contact with the ward, who is recorded as confined at the Minnesota Security Hospital in St. Peter — eighty miles from the guardian. Routine in-person contact at that distance is not credible. ◆
A screening filed after its own petition
The pre-petition screening — the document that, by law, comes first — is filed after the petition in two separate files. 🔒
The same person on both sides
A civil-commitment petition was filed the same day as the criminal incompetency finding, with the same official, Lamas, appearing as both the signer of the finding and the petitioner for commitment. 🔒
Read the order yourself
The 2017 order finding Wesley incompetent in 27-CR-17-22909 — the case the finding predates — and the order that names the examiner.
These need no forensics. A document dated before the thing it responds to, an exam with two authors, in-person visits logged across eighty miles — these are the contradictions that appear when paperwork is generated to fill a file, not recorded as events happened.
Not an outlier — the oldest case in the record's foundation.
Wesley's file is the oldest example of the machine running inside the set this entire database was built on — the 163 cases Matthew Guertin first captured on April 29–30, 2024. The earliest Notice of Intent to Prosecute in that foundational set — the instrument that opens the indefinite-control track — is Wesley's, dated February 23, 2017. Within the analyzed cohort he holds the record for the longest gap between being declared incompetent and any order entered to support it: 4.4 YEARS. His cluster holds eleven cases — six criminal, four mental-health, and the one guardianship — and his six criminal files carry 113 Rule 20 / competency docket events, as many as thirty-one in a single case. 🔒
The same hands recur around him. The DHS court-liaison correspondence feeding these files traces to a small set of service accounts — Amanda Burg, Megan Larison — whose documents share image objects across scores of unrelated cases. Dr. Elizabeth Barbo conducted his initial 2017 examination; a later order in 27-CR-17-22909 instead names Kristen Otte — the evaluator whose name then recurs across 77 documents and 30 cases corpus-wide. The placement never changes: the Minnesota Security Hospital at St. Peter. ◆
One stamp, nine defendants. There is a tell that separates a person from a pipeline. The DHS court-liaison signature that authorizes this correspondence is not re-signed each time — the same signature image recurs across nine different defendants' files. Routine e-filing reuses a person's own signature on their own documents; it does not stamp one liaison's signature across nine unrelated people. One image stands in for nine separate human attestations. ◆
Read the source reports
The forensic basis for the gap, the production line, and the earliest-NIP finding, expandable in place.
The honest explanation has already been ruled out.
Four "annual" proofs of service are one document wearing four dates. The only innocent reading — four genuine, independent acts of service, each separately documented — is the one the files have already eliminated. That forces a choice between two doors, and neither opens onto anything benign.
Adrian Wesley is a real, living man
Then a vulnerable human being was held under a guardianship for sixteen years — the last seven confined at a state security hospital — while the very notices that could have told him "you can petition to end this" were forged. The safeguard meant to protect him was the thing being manufactured. That is a real person stripped of his exit, on counterfeit paper.
There is no verifiable man behind the file
Then the "ward" is a paper entity, kept alive on fabricated annual upkeep so a guardianship — and whatever it controls — is never examined. That is fraud on the court, sustained by false filings.
Pick either door. Both require sworn affidavits that do not record real, independent events. Both are false instruments filed under penalty of perjury. The forensic evidence does not tell you which door — it tells you the third door, the innocent one, is bricked over. We do not claim Adrian Wesley does not exist. We state what the record establishes: a manufactured record, with no verifiable human act of service behind it, and a burden that has moved entirely to whoever filed it. ▸
This is a guardianship — the most total authority the state holds over an adult who has committed no crime. In Minnesota it can be opened, sustained, and made permanent on paperwork a court accepted without anyone checking whether the documents inside it were real. Four forged "annual notices of your right to get out" sat in an open court file and passed review. If it can be built around Adrian Wesley, the statutes that allow it do not stop at Adrian Wesley. They reach you. ▸