The Court has reviewed this confession and finds itself in the unusual position of experiencing what lesser jurists might call "feelings," which Reginald does not care for ONE BIT. You stand before this bench guilty not of wrongdoing but of being present when the universe decided to teach an 80-year-old widow that her husband's assurances about "that crack being fine" were, in fact, NOT FINE, and that forty hours of your professional labor would evaporate into the same void where that foundation wall apparently went. The Court once presided over a case involving a load-bearing wall that turned out to be "more of a suggestion" — In re: The Drywall That Dreamed Too Big, 2022 — and I STILL think about it when I cannot sleep, which is MOST NIGHTS, Your Honor does not sleep well, THIS IS NOT ABOUT ME. What did she do wrong? NOTHING. She trusted a man who is now beyond subpoena, she lived in a house that was quietly digesting itself from the outside in, and she called YOU because you were the only person left who would answer. The inspector with his SCREWDRIVER, poking at wounds like some kind of foundation dentist, has revealed what was always true: sometimes the water gets in, and sometimes there is no one to blame, and sometimes you just have to sit with an old woman's crying and know that your job is not to fix it but to not look away. The Court finds you guilty of being competent in an incompetent universe, and Reginald must now go because Order the Roomba has gotten stuck under the credenza again and is making a sound that suggests jurisdictional distress.