My mother called an emergency family meeting at a high-end steakhouse in downtown Chicago yesterday to read the terms of my late father’s estate. She made my older brother and me sit through an incredibly tense, three-course meal before she finally reached into her designer bag. Mother: “Your father was very specific about how he wanted his assets distributed. I expect both of you to respect his wishes.” She slid a notary-stamped legal document across the white tablecloth toward my older brother. He got everything. He was awarded the suburban family home, the vacation condo in Naples, Florida, and the remaining six-figure balance of the retirement portfolio.

I am the lead defense attorney for a man accused of a fatal hit-and-run, but this morning I discovered that the real killer is the presiding judge sitting on our case. I was reviewing the state’s unredacted digital evidence locker at my desk when I noticed a corrupted video file labeled as "irrelevant traffic footage" from the night of the accident. Me: "Hey, can you run this file through our recovery software? The timestamp matches the exact minute the victim was struck on Route 9." Paralegal: "Sure, give me ten minutes. It looks like it was exported from a high-end commercial dashcam."