The World Web Times - worldwebtimes.comGive me some time to dig up that tweet. It was from one of your other Egypt osint accounts. Idk exactly which one they all look the same to me
— Placeholder name (@CircularCowular) July 4, 2025
The post @egypt_warfare @Zeinobia Give me some time to dig up that tweet. It was from one of your other Egypt osint accounts. Idk exactly which one they all look the same to me first appeared on JOSSICA – jossica.com.
I saw Charity Watch’s report on DELTA Rescue and I realized at once, the author Laurie Styron, got it all wrong. It appeared to be a hit job on a wonderful organization. This led me to wonder, what is Charity Watch?
CharityWatch presents itself as a guide for donors – an independent evaluator – grading charities for financial transparency and efficiency.
It rates a few hundred nonprofits annually—out of the 1.5 million operating in the United States – issuing grades from A+ to F.
On its website, its tone leans heavily toward criticism, often focusing on large, well-known nonprofits.
It describes itself as the nation’s strictest watchdog, a gatekeeper for donor trust. It has gained its reputation by issuing harsh ratings of high-profile organizations.
When CharityWatch issues a failing grade, headlines follow. Donors freeze. Reputations crumble.
When a donor sees a D or F on CharityWatch, they assume misconduct. Charities serving veterans, animals, or the poor who receive a bad grade can lose crucial funding in days.
In a world of measurable standards and shared accountability, one institution remains unbound.
Its selection process for choosing the few hundred charities it evaluates is unclear. CharityWatch does not explain why some are graded while others are ignored.
It does not publish a full explanation of grading calculations. No scoring system, formula, or rubric. There’s no chart, or way to trace an “F” back to its cause.
The system appears rigorous because it is punitive.
CharityWatch measures honesty. Donors believe it. The media quotes it.
Because the watchdog said so.
It is not government affiliated. It does not issue certified findings. There is no regulatory interference. There is no CPA oversight inhibiting its grading. No peer reviews hamper its findings. CharityWatch isn’t bound by GAAS or IRS protocols.
It says it speaks for the donors. The quiet millions who want their money used well.
It gives a far higher percentage of failing grades than the other, bigger watchdogs — GuideStar (Candid), Charity Navigator, and the Better Business Bureau.
Candid (GuideStar), Charity Navigator, and BBB Wise Giving Alliance use widely accepted data sources—IRS filings, audits, impact metrics—and subject their processes to scrutiny. They weigh mission impact, community service, and third-party audits.
CharityWatch centers its judgment on discrepancies in tax form line items.
They rarely mention impact. They don’t visit. They don’t see the work. The numbers are the whole story.
A donor with $100 and a good heart might read the F grade and walk away. They won’t call. They won’t ask. They’ll just believe that the charity is dishonest.
A person wants to help. She reads about a sanctuary, a shelter, a school. Her heart leans in. Then CharityWatch gives it a D. She folds the check, turns the page.
The donor thinks they’re smart. They checked the watchdog. They saw a grade. They chose wisely. Donors believe they are consulting a neutral guide.
You’ve just donated to a charity. It has four stars from one watchdog. Gold transparency from another. Then you find CharityWatch. They gave it a D.
Grading systems imply standards. Criteria. A structure that can be understood, debated, improved.
Charity Watch renders A+ to F without a rubric to contest, no data to verify.
Its selective scope means its influence is outsized compared to their reach. Its ratings affect only a sliver of the sector.
Often, the groups they rate are prominent—or the most likely to generate controversy.
CharityWatch doesn’t look at all the charities. It picks a few. Imagine a ratings agency that claims to guard the public but inspects 0.02% of the field.
You read its criticisms and think, “Maybe they’re right.” Then you look closer.
No comments. No rebuttals. No transparency about their own governance.
You look for how they know. There is no formula. You look for who they are. No funding trail.
There is no panel of peers. No open debate. No rules of evidence. Yet, its decisions stick. In donor inboxes. In press clippings. In reputations, bruised.
It is a strange thing—to wield so much power from such a private place.
Few people realize it, but CharityWatch is just a one-woman organization.
Laurie Styron is the executive director and chief analyst.
One woman, a pen, and a platform. No active board. No CPA license.
You ask how she got the authority? She took it. Her authority to grade is self-appointed.
How does Styron decide the grade? She doesn’t say.
She does say, “We’re the only watchdog that tells the truth.”
A blog. A woman. No guidebook. No chart.
She writes a letter grade. Media echoes it. Donors panic.
CharityWatch tax filings do not disclose any staff. It does not say how much Styron makes out of the half a million CharityWatch takes in annually. It does not say how much Styron makes from her private consulting business – and if there is any conflict with the two as for instance a charity getting a higher rating if they learn how to improve with Styron’s consulting.
Absent any staff one can assume Styron gets most or all of the reported $325,000 salary expense, plus likely a significant expense account as indicated in its tax forms.
It’s quite something, really. One woman handing out verdicts with no cross-examination and the fate of a nonprofit hangs in the balance.
A charity might serve thousands. Feed the hungry. Shelter the sick. But if it displeases the woman in the Chicago office, it earns a public shame.
Styron says, “We’re tougher than the others.”
Never mind the people who go without because a donor read her bad review and turned away.
Somebody spends 45 years rescuing dogs – like DELTA Rescue, and CharityWatch drops a bad grade. No explanation.
People don’t ask how the bad grade got there. They don’t ask what the label means. Donors just walk away.
And somewhere, a shelter closes. A food line shortens. Nonprofits with spotless missions are discredited—without being heard.
Saving animals. Feeding kids. Keeping the lights on for someone who’s got nothing.
The self-appointed “expert” is focused, intense, and destructive.
A lady with a spreadsheet and no CPA license. She gives you a D. Donors don’t realize her guidance is based not on audits, verified impact, or certified financial review—but on undisclosed metrics, a sample size that barely scratches the surface and her opinion.
When she calls your nonprofit “wasteful”? The damage is done before anyone checks the facts. But the grades she assigns can alter the public image of a charity overnight. Her grades shape stories. Shape perceptions. Shape funding.
What’s remarkable isn’t how the grades are given—but how people believe in their fairness. A single individual rates others for transparency, yet operates without it herself.
And people treat it like gospel.
Styron cherry-picks big names, reduces complicated accounting to a scandalous headline. The model thrives on spectacle.
She says she speaks for the people—but she listens only to herself. She claims to reveal truth—but never explains how she found it.
Styron presents CharityWatch as a national authority on nonprofit accountability.
Yet IRS records and public filings show a tiny operation. Its annual revenue is modest—about half a million dollars. Its infrastructure is minimal.
No research department. No team of analysts going over forms. No investigative staff. No forensic accountants. No newsroom. No auditors. No review panel. No cross-checking.
Laurie, and maybe one or two clerical helpers, maybe a junior assistant gofer analyst, depending on the year.
You won’t find a funding breakdown. Still she’s seeking donations.
Still, the grades keep coming. The press still quotes them.
Pulling in half a mil a year. It’s a nice little business. A desk. A laptop. And Laurie. And we’re supposed to pretend it’s an agency with reach and rigor?
Only a woman and her mandate—self-appointed, undisputed, unelected. With a consulting business on the side.
Her CharityWatch website looks official. It’s just a blog with a letterhead.
Candid—formerly GuideStar—draws on teams of data scientists, analysts, and policy experts to inform its public evaluations. Candid builds data hubs.
Charity Navigator employs a full staff and maintains a dynamic, tech-based database of over 200,000 nonprofits. It has engineers and analysts and builds algorithms.
They have teams. They have offices, boards, audits and standards. They review hundreds of thousands of organizations.
CharityWatch?
It’s got Laurie. She reviews a few hundred organizations.
Despite this, CharityWatch’s grades are often quoted in media as if they carry institutional weight.
It’s a blog. A one-woman grading service. A desk. A domain name. A brand built on inference.
It doesn’t watch. It judges.
You ever hear of a regulator with no rules? A referee with no league?
Meet Laurie Styron. Meet CharityWatch.
You want everyone else to be honest, Laurie? Here’s an idea: go first.
The post CharityWatch Exposed: A Self-Appointed Watchdog with No Oversight appeared first on Frank Report.
The post CharityWatch Exposed: A Self-Appointed Watchdog with No Oversight first appeared on JOSSICA – jossica.com.
This is the third of a series.
In the USA, the Moulton report [29] found that the Sandusky case had been initiated years earlier by Dawn Daniels, who retained civil lawyer Slade McLaughlin to go after Sandusky on behalf of her son Aaron Fisher.
Aaron and Sandusky had both described the noise-on-the-stomach game but that absolutely nothing else had happened. Michael Gillum, an untrained therapist, describes his sessions with Aaron as “peeling an onion” to get to the truth.
Gillum used the phrase “oral sex” to describe the same innocent (and randomly infrequent during play) activity which both Aaron and Sandusky had already admitted to, and Gillum was willing to testify at the Grand Jury on Aaron’s behalf, with Aaron refusing to accept Gillum’s terminology, unless the prosecutor Jonelle Eshbach could provide a second independent fragment of evidence suggesting Sandusky had at least abused someone [30].
The grand jury declined to indict [31] and everything was repeated for the second grand jury the next year with Aaron reading Gillum’s words.
Even throughout the days before the trial, Dawn and Aaron’s civil lawyer Slade McLaughlin still hadn’t learned of any abuse, saying even at that late stage nothing stronger than, where there is smoke there is usually also fire [32].
After the trial, even to this day, and even after collecting her settlement, Daniels has been careful not to commit perjury and still says she is not aware of any particular incident of abuse that Sandusky may have committed [33].
It had been over a span of years, during which time no evidence against Sandusky was ever found, that Daniels had drip-fed her possible concerns — about who was now nothing but one of Aaron’s ex coaches from the past — through her son’s school, through social services, and through emails and telephone calls to Eshbach at the AG office.
Eventually there a rumor started to fly about Mike McQueary based on something in an internet forum, and it was found that separately a previous investigation had already cleared Sandusky. As I’ll explain a bit later, email communication between the AG office, police and judges wasn’t careful and professional.
Penn State assistant football coach Mike McQueary.
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Within the police department, Aaron’s story was given to Brett Swisher-Houtz during an interview. Swisher-Houtz had always denied being abused but admitted wrestling, didn’t like losing. Police were tape recorded telling Swisher-Houtz about Aaron (really Gillum) but exaggerating to try to elicit a response, and telling Swisher-Houtz that in the very same circumstance dozens of kids had been seriously sexually abused. Swisher-Houtz’ civil lawyer Benjamin Andreozzi was present while someone had pressed ‘record’ on the tape machine during a break when Swisher-Houtz had been sent outside [34].
He had been saying no abuse had occurred, and during the break the police described their strategy, essentially the Reid technique, to use lying as a way of gathering evidence. Andreozzi had been well-known in those days for his ethics and pro-bono work, and just as during witness testimony McGettigan had been careful not to score any points that landed in his lap in an unethical way, here wants to be careful that the history of the changes in his client’s testimony which will enrich the conditional fee agreement are fairly documented.
Andreozzi was careful to explain to journalists that part of the reason his client is testifying is because of the experiences of other victims, and even as late as Sandusky’s sentencing hearing Swisher-Houtz kept his financial motive clothed in the demonstrably unsubstantiated police claims of others needing rescue “I hope that the others, who were abused …will forgive me for not coming forward sooner” [35]. This is a phenomenon that a stats podcaster in the Letby case calls a feedback-loop of evidence [36].
Aaron Fisher came to understand everything a few hours after he testified. Ganim had always described Sandusky having chores, expectations and a college fund for Aaron just as he’d had for Matt and others.
When Aaron hadn’t been home Sandusky had been angry, demanding Dawn explain where he’s gone. We recall, from the Moulton report, that Aaron was unwilling to switch to Gillum’s terminology until someone else said something. At court this someone — who was none other than Swisher-Houtz — asks Aaron, would testifying earlier have saved Aaron’s pain.
Realizing from the question nothing happened to Swisher-Houtz, Aaron decides he’s still not feeling ashamed of his testimony because Jerry had yelled at his Mom. We know this because the ‘Silent No More’ ghostwriter quotes Aaron [47] recollecting his verbatim reply to Swisher-Houtz, “If Jerry would have just left me alone when I said I didn’t want to hang out with him anymore instead of … going crazy the way he did, I might not have said anything either.”
Dawn may never have had certain experiences like with an employer or a stable partner, where limits can be reached and everything’s still OK. Although the grand jury presentment mentions Sandusky having “shouting matches”, even a request [54] like saying: it’s two hours round trip, if Aaron wants to work next week have him phone to let me know, would have felt like it is the first crack in a little world which had shattered before, where Dawn and Aaron are always welcome and can do no wrong.
And this is very consistent with what Dawn said [48] to her neighbour after the argument, after Sandusky had left. She said what makes sense for a loyal wife, unfairly rejected by a husband asking for a divorce, and wanting to hold onto all the material remnants, “I’ll own his house.” And what makes sense for a woman with no choice but to try to support her kids with whatever remnants she hopes to cling onto from one after another failing relationship.
I’d be unfair to Aaron if I didn’t say more. Aaron actually had tried really hard not to throw Sandusky under the bus. In police interviews where the Reid method is used, saying that no crime occurred always just means you aren’t cooperating.
Here it is even worse, as Curley and Schultz had been charged with perjury when they tried to deny that there’s a crime. Something like the Reid method actually is needed, otherwise anyone could shut down a police interview at the beginning by saying there was no crime, nothing to witness.
The Reid method is when police tell people, whether it’s true or not, look, we already have proof that the crime happened while you were there. It’s considered an honest lie because it wouldn’t directly influence what the witness says they did or did not see.
A witness is allowed to say, just as McQueary said, according to their testimony, to both his father and his father’s colleague the nephrologist Dr. Dranov before his first police interview, that he had not been able to see into the shower room. In fact there is no line of sight. The police can counter, as they must have done for McQueary, well, there actually is a line of sight because the wall opposite to your locker is installed with a mirror.
This explains why in the preliminary perjury hearing [49] for Curley and Schultz, subsequent to the police interview McQueary instead says, “…as I turned and faced my locker I looked over my right shoulder into the mirrors.”
At a 45 degree angle from that mirror you can see into the showers,” while his actual quote about what he saw remains no more than an abstract judgement like a referee would say about a play in a football match, “what I had seen was extremely sexual and over the lines and it was wrong,” with no actual observation underlying this at all, of what it is or why it is wrong.
When asked for details, he seemed to say he’s 100% sure, but also “I can’t tell you a thousand percent sure that was what’s going on.”
In such a police interview, the only way to say you actually think it didn’t happen, if you don’t want to be confrontational, if you don’t want the interview to just stall when you might be hungry, or need to go to the bathroom, or have things to do, is to say “I don’t know” or “What?” or “Sorry, I just blacked out for a second.”
It is an obvious fact, but maybe one that needs repeating, that it is not actually possible to directly remember an interval of lost consciousness. We have no difficulty with the familiar notion “I fell asleep last night” but it doesn’t actually mean we witnessed ourself falling asleep.
What it always means, of course, is that the fact we fall asleep each night is something we deduce in an obvious way each next morning once something like a person, or the dawn chorus of birds or an alarm clock or just the passage of time wakes us up.
In a police interview when Aaron says “I blacked out” it does not mean that he’s remembering that Sandusky actually drugged him, or knocked him unconscious at the relevant next moment when Aaron was supposed to be witnessing a crime. It refers to what happens during the interview.
It means, Aaron was going along, telling police the things he remembers, and then no particular next thing arose in his mind. The sequence of recollections ended, at least temporarily. I don’t want to boast, but I think it’s a useful addition to the theory of recovered memories to try to attach a particular meaning to what a witness says when they say they have blacked out.
Eshbach’s careful wording of the grand jury presentment says Sandusky performed oral sex more than 20 times, and that one time Aaron did it and Sandusky’s hands contacted Aaron’s private area, throughout a two year interval. It is not totally clear whether the hands contacted the private area through the clothes, and whether this happened one time or more than one time.
We know that for some years Aaron described the T shirt game only, later allowed Gillum to use the phrase ‘oral sex’ to describe it, and finally after learning of Swisher-Houtz testimony, would recite Gillum’s words.
To Be Continued…
The post No Crime, No Witness, No Problem: Constructing Sandusky’s Conviction Without Facts appeared first on Frank Report.
The post No Crime, No Witness, No Problem: Constructing Sandusky’s Conviction Without Facts first appeared on JOSSICA – jossica.com.
No 14 boy would get the point this post is implying. The pic wasn’t taken in 76.
— ChurchOfTheDook (@ChurchOfTheDook) July 4, 2025
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