Somewhere in the rubble of American rebellion and counterculture, a book was born. The Anarchist Cookbook was a how-to manual so dangerous and so incendiary that even its author later tried to disown it. I once had a copy of this notorious title. I didn’t buy it. I took it. I stole it, really, from the headquarters of a violent Chicago street gang during an off-the-books sweep. I had no legal right to seize it, but in my judgment as a former cop, taking that book was a minor crime to prevent a greater evil. It vanished over the decades, but recently, I ordered a new one from Amazon. Not because I needed it, but because we need to talk about it. A Weapon Disguised as a Book The Anarchist Cookbook was first published in 1971. Its author, William Powell, was just 19 years old. He was a disillusioned teenager angry at the Vietnam War and the machinery of American power. He dove into military manuals and chemistry texts, boiling down complex formulas into step-by-step guides for creating...

I’ve watched more documentaries than I can count, some routine, some riveting, but The Tylenol Murders on Netflix stands alone. It is a haunting, brilliantly constructed deep dive into one of the most terrifying unsolved mass murders in American history. And for me, it’s not just a story. It’s personal. This horror story unfolded in a neighborhood I knew intimately. Years earlier, I lived near 1500 N. LaSalle Street in Chicago, the same building where Paula Prince, one of the victims once lived. Even after I moved downtown to Marina City, I remained closely tied to that area as the Democratic precinct captain for the neighborhood. It was my beat. I knew the streets, the shops, the people. Paula Prince was a striking, graceful flight attendant for United Airlines. I remember her clearly. She bought a bottle of Tylenol from the Walgreens at North and Wells—a store I’d frequented many times. That bottle had been tampered with and laced with cyanide. Paula was found dead in her apartment...

I’ve spent decades in the trenches of criminal defense as a private investigator. I’ve worked shoulder to shoulder with some of the sharpest legal minds to ever walk into a courtroom-and a few who should’ve stuck to traffic tickets. From them, I learned the law not in a classroom, but on the battlefield, where freedom hangs by a thread and the stakes are life-altering. No, I’m not a lawyer. Maybe that’s because I’ve been having too much damn fun digging up the truth, shredding bad police work, and watching DA cases fall apart under the weight of their own arrogance. This blog is about a rare and reckless breed: the pro per criminal defendant—the lone wolves who choose to defend themselves against felony charges without a lawyer. Bold? Maybe. Suicidal? Sometimes. Recently, I took on a new role under contract with the Los Angeles County Superior Court. For once, they waved enough cash under my nose to pull me in. The twist? I’m now appointed to cases defending men and women accused of...

Redundantly, the gun control zealots have fixated on their favorite boogeyman: the AR-15—America’s most popular and widely owned rifle. With obsessive fervor, they label it a “weapon of war,” exploiting fear and ignorance to strip away rights from law-abiding Americans. But here’s the truth they don’t want you to hear: AR-15s and other rifles are involved in just a tiny fraction—only 2.6%—of homicides in the United States, according to 2019 FBI data. Knives, blunt objects, and even fists kill more people annually than these rifles. But beyond the statistics lies an urgent and morally unforgivable issue: the disarmament of America’s most vulnerable citizens—our elderly and disabled. With age comes frailty. Osteoarthritis, Parkinson’s disease, and Sarcopenia rob millions of older Americans of their physical strength, motor skills, and coordination. For them, lifting, aiming, and firing a handgun—let alone racking a slide or managing recoil—can be physically impossible. But an AR-15, wi...

The clock is ticking, and the tension is mounting. Two major gun rights cases—Snope and Ocean State Tactical—have been relisted a jaw-dropping 14 times. The justices haven’t granted certiorari. They haven’t denied it either. It’s like we’re standing on the edge of a constitutional cliff… but don’t be fooled by the silence. Here’s the truth: this is not over. Not by a long shot. Granting cert would mean a full hearing—a showdown in the highest court of the land. Denial would leave the states free to keep banning so-called “assault weapons” and standard-capacity magazines. But with the conservative majority on the bench and the landmark Bruen decision of 2022 setting a bold new precedent, it’s highly unlikely the Court lets these cases drift into the black hole of legal limbo. I believe the Court is gearing up for something bold—and unprecedented. As the term closes in July, expect the unexpected: a summary decision, delivered with precision and finality, declaring that Bruen already...

Right now, with nothing more than a sharp idea and a well-crafted prompt, anyone—anyone—can summon AI to generate a polished screenplay that rivals anything produced by a room full of Writers Guild veterans. This isn’t some distant future—it’s happening now. And no picket line or protest chant will stop it. The Guild is facing an extinction-level event. Next in line? The actors. Flesh-and-blood stars are about to be upstaged—permanently—by flawlessly generated, AI-crafted performers. These digital beings never age, never misbehave, and deliver the perfect take every time. Entire film sets, backgrounds, and lighting can be conjured out of thin air with terrifying precision. The Screen Actors Guild may fight, but the floodgate is wide open—and the water’s already rising. Music? Lyrics? Vocals? Gone are the days when raw talent held the key. AI now writes the hooks, pens the verses, and belts out spine-tingling choruses in any voice imaginable—dead or alive, man or machine. The old gods...

It was 1971 and before I ever pinned on a Chicago police star, I was working with the Cook County Sheriff’s Police, and that’s where I met Ernie Nealy. Ernie was no ordinary copper. He had taken a leave of absence from the Chicago Police Department, a rare move in those days, just to escape the stench of corruption that had permeated the city’s streets. It wasn’t just about ethics — it was survival. He also wanted to live in peace, out in Evergreen Park, where the air was clean and the politics were someone else’s problem. Ernie had it made. The man drove Cadillacs like they were Chevys, and his wife dripped in mink. Their house looked like something out of a magazine — suburban success, old-school respectability. But greed? That wasn’t in Ernie’s DNA. And yet, fate was about to hand him a test — the kind you don’t study for. It happened on a gray morning. We were heading up the elevator at 1121 S. State Street to Boys’ Court — to grab a prisoner. Just as the doors were about to sli...