The footage was clear. The violence, close. The children, visibly shaken. But the case was closed — because the bruise didn’t land on them. A brutal look into how silence is mistaken for safety, and why flinching should count as evidence. Tag someone who knows a child’s fear isn’t a footnote.

What began as a custody trial spiraled into a generational showdown—both sets of grandparents came to court, not to testify, but to throw hands. The courtroom, meant for justice, became a stage for old wounds and orthopedic chaos. The child’s best interest? Drowned in denture grit and generational pride.

They didn’t need chains. They had forms. Consent dressed in legalese, silence sterilized by court orders. What they took wasn’t just autonomy—it was belief. And darling, I’d rather be paranoid and intact than polite and harvested.

This Memorial Day, we honour freedom—but not hers. In court, I watched a man argue for forced pregnancy, armed with scripture and unpaid child support. The battlefield isn’t foreign anymore. It’s female. #DiaryOfABlackLawyer #MyWombMyVerdict #AbortionRightsAreHumanRights

What if the real American experiment wasn’t democracy—but data collection by deception? In this searing Diary of a Black Lawyer entry, we unearth the chilling truth behind government-sanctioned experiments on Black prisoners, soldiers, and psychiatric patients. Tuskegee. Holmesburg. MK-Ultra. Not conspiracy—history. Poised. Petty. Not available for human trials.

He said child support violated his constitutional rights. I told him: that’s not tyranny, love. That’s accountability with a court order. The Constitution protects you from kings—not from your own child’s orthodontist.

She brought bruises. He brought charm. In the theatre of family court, trauma must audition—and my client didn’t pass the vibe check. If the law prefers manners to mercy, let’s stop calling it justice.

Today, the court leaked a list of alleged “freak off” attendees to the public—but still refuses to televise the trial. They’ll serve scandal, but not justice. And I must ask: If the system is so righteous, why won’t it let us watch?

He sculpted her body with surgical precision. But he forgot one thing: confidence has a recovery time too. When she finally healed, she realized—he was the last thing that needed to go. Scalpel to settlement, darling.

Your phone doesn’t just know what you like. It remembers what you fear. The device in your pocket is more loyal to the algorithm than to you. And we gave it everything—our faces, our fingerprints, our DNA. Voluntarily. Isn’t that the real trick?

We do not reform the incarcerated. We ferment them—chemically weakened, emotionally caged, and then released into a world engineered to fear them. The system was never broken. It was designed to recycle them. And the cage? It never truly opens—it simply becomes invisible.

Wendy doesn’t need a guardian. She needs agency. The right to be eccentric without being silenced. As Britney twirls freely through Instagram, Wendy disappears quietly—legally—without so much as a family visit. We feel everything. We execute nothing. And that, darling, is the point.

Part II of the Diddy trial has arrived, and the pen is sharper than ever. Who orchestrated the empire’s fall—his enemies, his enablers, or the man himself? This isn’t just a courtroom drama. It’s a cultural autopsy. Dear Diary, Diddy Do It? Now live.

In today’s entry, a mother’s desire to control the narrative takes a chilling turn—texting the father while pretending to be their daughter. The courtroom unravelled not just a lie, but an entire performance. Diary of a Black Lawyer: The Impersonator is now live.

When the music stops, the silence speaks. A melanated woman dares to stand where others crumbled—composed, unshaken, and devastatingly clear. The trial is his, but the reckoning? That belongs to her.

Let him keep the house. The accounts. Even the espresso machine. What she wanted—what she demanded—was the PlayStation. Because in the theater of divorce, true power is won not with property… but with petty precision and exclusive possession of Player One.

Today’s motion was not about justice. It was theatre—complete with a script, an audience, and two shell-shocked in-laws in the front row. No, Charles didn’t care about the toys. He cared that her parents heard the transcript. Word for vibrating word. You see, in family law, revenge doesn’t need a dagger. Sometimes, it just needs a subpoena and a gallery seat.

I once stood in court as opposing counsel—a woman—interrupted me, raised her voice, and bulldozed the hearing with the subtlety of a protest march. The judge said nothing. Later, someone leaned in and whispered: “She fundraised for his last campaign.” And just like that, the rules bent. Some of our hardest trials don’t happen in court. They unfold in silence.

I leave not to disappear — but to gather. To breathe among temples, sleep among treehouses, and return with words stitched from new stars. The Intermission Before the Next Reckoning — now live on Diary of a Black Lawyer. Catch up on the entries you missed. The next ones are already taking shape across the ocean.

Today, they tried to shrink her legacy to custody schedules and visitation minutes. But history does not shrink. It builds, breathes, and claims what cannot be erased. The Blueprint They Forgot — now live on Diary of a Black Lawyer. For every legacy they tried to mute, and every child they could not rewrite.