It's wintertime 1920 and it's another long afternoon in room 627 of the Chicago Federal

Building.

George Remus, a successful Chicago criminal defense attorney, stands next to his client

in a sharp, tailored suit.

He finds himself in room 627 pretty often these days.

Ever since the Volstead Act went into effect a couple of months ago, his client list has

been flooded with bootleggers, and most Chicago bootleggers wind up here.

The courtroom of Judge Landis, an infimously hard-line prohibition enforcer.

Impatient and no nonsense, Judge Landis appears down at the defendant before him and throws

down his verdict, yet another $10,000 fine for yet another Volstead violation.

Remus approaches the bench, full of theatrical bluster.

Though he is built like a cannonball, he is surprisingly agile.

He almost leaps toward the judge.

This is unacceptable, ridiculous, unaffront to the very name of justice.

Why?

This is just cruel and unusual punishment, plain and simple.

Never have I seen, never has there ever been a greater mockery of the law.

Judge Landis raises an eyebrow and wrinkles his act willine nose.

Remus feels his client, a bootlegger with rough hands, place a palm on his shoulder.

Don't worry about it, everything's aces, I got this.

As if it were nothing, the bootlegger casually pulls a lot of cash, so thick it can barely

fold from his pocket.

...