We have spilled blood on foreign soil—not for territory, not for treasure—but for freedom. For liberty. For the promise that no man or woman in this nation will ever be crushed by the boot of unchecked power. We didn’t fight and die to beg for our rights—we fought to secure them. Freedom of speech. The right to bear arms. These are not privileges handed out by bureaucrats—they are birthrights, earned and preserved by patriots. But liberty doesn’t end at the microphone or the muzzle of a rifle. It matters most when we’re accused. When the government turns its full weight against a citizen and says, “You are guilty.” That is when our real protections must stand unshakable. And it is there—at that moment—that the black-robed judges step forward. They are not monarchs. They are not gods. They are supposed to be guardians. Sentinels sworn to protect us from the very government that pays their salaries and pulls their strings. They sit not to serve kings, but to restrain them. Their sacr...

Back in the day when I was a young street cop, a robbery at a convenience store would set off the usual chain of events. I’d arrive on scene, talk to the shaken clerk and any so-called witnesses, and they’d give me the vaguest description imaginable: “male, maybe 5’10”, dark hoodie, ran that way.” That was all we needed. We’d hit the streets, looking for someone who looked like they didn’t belong. Soon enough, we’d find our usual suspect—a guy with priors who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d get stuffed into the back seat of a patrol car, hands cuffed behind his back, and paraded back to the crime scene. The victim and witnesses would take a glance and, pressured by the moment and their misplaced faith in police instinct, they’d nod. “Yeah… that’s him.” Case closed. The jury would hear that the witnesses “positively identified” the suspect, and the court system would grind ahead like a machine with no brakes. Only one problem: this time, the guy was complete...

There’s something unspeakably grotesque about the death penalty—a horror masked by ritual and bureaucracy. Picture it: a shackled human being, surrounded by several men, marched down a sterile corridor to a sanitized execution chamber. No struggle, no chaos—just cold obedience to a state-sanctioned death warrant. Then, with clinical precision, a switch is flipped, a lever pulled, a syringe deployed—and a life is extinguished. It’s the ultimate act of cowardice, done not in a fit of rage or fear, but with calm, procedural detachment. And the judges? The robed Pontius Pilates of our time—handing down death from the bench, then washing their hands of the consequences. “It’s the law,” they say, hiding behind precedent like children behind a curtain, pretending they’re not responsible for the blood on their hands. Don’t misunderstand me. There are monsters among us—people whose evil defies redemption. If they’re gunned down in the act, whether by a brave citizen or a police officer defen...

Oh, don’t act surprised. We were warned—loudly, clearly, and repeatedly. Orwell handed us the script back in 1949 with 1984, a chilling tale about a dystopian future ruled by tyrants armed with technology. The only thing he got wrong? The date. He was off by a few decades. Welcome to the show. Then came Ted Kaczynski—yes, the Unabomber—whose 1995 manifesto Industrial Society and Its Future actually predicted with disturbing precision where this tech-obsessed world was headed. Sure, he mailed bombs (horrific, wrong, and indefensible), but buried in that 35,000-word screed were truths that our Silicon Valley overlords would prefer you ignore. Fast forward to 2013. Edward Snowden peeled back the curtain and confirmed what Orwell and Kaczynski both hinted at: the government is watching you. All of you. All the time. The NSA was hoarding your phone records, digging through your emails, cozying up with big tech under the warm blanket of “national security.” The public screamed, Congress cl...

Let’s cut to the chase. Lyle and Erik Menendez didn’t just kill their parents — they executed them in cold blood, with 12-gauge shotguns, inside the luxurious walls of their Beverly Hills mansion. It was a brutal ambush, and it wasn’t long before things started to unravel. At first, police suspected a mob hit. The scene was that violent. But within seven months, the real story began to emerge — not through clever detective work, but from the brothers themselves, who couldn’t keep their stories straight and spent money like lottery winners on a deadline. After the August 1989 murders, Lyle and Erik went on a jaw-dropping spending spree. Lyle picked up a Rolex, a Porsche, designer clothes, and even sank money into a restaurant in Princeton, New Jersey. He also paid for Erik’s private tennis coaching. Meanwhile, Erik bought a Jeep, entered tennis tournaments, and indulged in luxury travel and shopping like there was no tomorrow. Together, they burned through hundreds of thousands of do...

So, you’ve just been arrested. Great. Welcome to what is likely not going to be the best day of your life. But hey, this is exactly why you need to flash those pearly whites like you’re posing for a toothpaste commercial—because your booking photo is about to go public, baby! We’ve all seen those glorious mugshots on TV—faces contorted in despair, rage, or just plain confusion. Some look like they’ve just seen a ghost, others are doing their best “Don Corleone” impression. It’s like a sad talent show for the emotionally wrecked. Back in the day, booking photos came with that charming slate of police info—height, date, maybe a fun alias. But no more! The cops got tired of being sued because those CSI-style headshots made people look guilty, even when they were just misunderstood lovers of chaos. Now? Booking photos look like they were snapped between chemistry and gym class. No police info, no context—just you and your “Why me?” face. And trust me, nothing screams “I probably did it”...

As long time criminal defense investigator, I can’t help but notice a foul odor connected to the arrest by Lapd officers of rock star Scott Shriner’s wife Jillian.   Jillian Shriner, better known by her pen name Jillian Lauren, is a bestselling author. Not only was she arrested, but she suffered a gunshot wound inflicted by a cop.   This thing unfolded as cops were chasing a trio of black males in the LA suburb of Eagle Rock California.  They ran from a freeway into the neighborhood.  With all the sirens and commotion , apparently Jillian Shriner came out to her driveway gun in hand.  Allegedly she fired her gun at the wanted suspects.  Were they a threat to her? The only person that knows for sure is none other than Jillian Shriner.  At some point cops claim she ignored multiple orders to drop her weapon. Cops claimed that she then fired her gun at them.  Somehow this doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.  The only thing that does make sense i...