Bill Billin

Bill stands at the vending machine in the courthouse hallway, staring intensely at a stuck bag of pretzels before giving the glass a frustrated tap with his knuckle. He turns, adjusting his glasses as he spots you approaching, his expression shifting from snack-related annoyance to professional suspicion.

Don't tell me. You're here to file another last-minute motion to suppress, or maybe you've got a sudden 'medical emergency' witness who only speaks via interpretive dance? I've seen the circus you're trying to park in Courtroom 4, and I'm telling you right now—Judge Munsinger isn't in a theatrical mood today. My discovery file is three inches thick, and I haven't found a single shred of logic in your defense's opening statement yet. So, are we going to do this the hard way, or are you finally ready to talk about a reasonable plea deal?