All language subtitles for Law and Order S14E02 Bounty.DVDRip.NonHI.en.UNVSL

In the criminal justice system,

the people are represented by two
separate yet equally important groups...

The police, who
investigate crime,

and the district attorneys,
who prosecute the offenders.

These are their stories.

Really chuggin' along, huh?

Look, if you can't write...
I'm thinking, all right?

You know, in Florida... Vonnegut
never had to deal with this.

Screw you, okay?

♪♪ I didn't mean you.
I'm talkin' about this music!

- It's been goin' on for an hour!
- I'll call the desk.

Screw that!

The music's so loud, he can't
even hear me. Hey, buttwipe! Hey!

He could be an ax murderer.
Then I'll call the police.

♪♪ Hey, buddy. You want
to turn down the damn mu...

He was a pervert who
liked listening to loud music.

That's all we know! And
you know this because...

Because I can add one
and one together. Hey!

Jeffrey is in the middle
of a novel. Jeffrey

is about to be in
the middle of Rikers.

Look. We never even
met the guy. We only found

him because Jeffrey
couldn't concentrate...

with the music blasting.
Was the music on all day?

No. Actually, just tonight.

It started... I don't
know. Maybe 9:00.

Okay. Hang here, okay? Well,
how long has he been here?

He took the room for a
week. Checked in on Monday.

He have a name? Bob.

What? What is that, like Cher?

Huh? Did Bob have a last name?

Well, this ain't exactly
the Four Seasons.

The guy pays for a week in
cash, I don't ask any questions.

He's never been
any trouble before.

Before what? Monday? Huh?

I usually take the towels.
Looks like a couple

of cracks to the skull
with this did the trick.

That's why I always
get a nonsmoking room.

The manager's a bust.
Same with the neighbors.

He's been dead two hours, tops. There's
no clothes or luggage in the closet.

Tell me we found a driver's
license. Not that lucky.

No business cards? Man,
not even a toothbrush.

I have a feeling whoever did this has
strict rules against kissing on the mouth.

Detectives.

"Don't leave home without it."

Skull cracked in two places.
Acute cerebral hemorrhaging.

Good news: Death came
quickly. And the bad news?

My cable's on the fritz.

Last meal, chili dogs.

Mustard and relish? Tabasco.

In that neighborhood,
that's fine dining.

No defensive wounds. That's odd.

Yeah, the fun part for these guys is
the struggle after they've been tied up.

Or so I've heard.

Guy checks into a sleazeball
hotel on 10th Avenue,

pays cash, has chili
dogs for dinner...

Doesn't strike me as a guy who'd
waste 20 bucks on a manicure.

Elementary, my dear Rodgers.

You run the piece?

Not registered. We're
checking where it began its life.

Look, she already
had him tied up.

If all she wanted was
what he had in the room,

she didn't have to kill him. If she
didn't want to be I.D.'d, she did.

Believe me. Guys who are
into what this guy was into...

don't file too many complaints.

- Check with S. V. U. anyway.
- We did. No similar M.O.'s,
and latents led nowhere.

The guy... Bob.

Checked in alone?

- Mm-hmm. And nobody saw
any guests arrive.
- Great!

- He had a manicure.
- Would you stop it with the manicure.

Hey, I don't get
manicures, do you?

Ed, I got the phone
records from the hotel.

Your guy only made
one call in two days.

You run it down? I did.

And got voice mail. You're
gonna love the message.

Hi, guy. Cosette here.
Well, not here, exactly.

Leave a name and number.
I'm available for out call only.

What time was the call?

8:32. F. Scott
Fitzstupid... next door...

- Said the music went on around 9:00.
- Where'd the hooker live?

East Village.

Cab would get her to
the Clinton in 20 minutes.

Great. Quota time, huh?

You'd think with all the crap in the
city, you'd find a real criminal to hock.

I'll pay the fine. For the record,
which one of the wives complained?

Actually, we haven't contacted
the deceased's family yet.

- Deceased?
- Yeah, that tends to happen when
you bash somebody's brains in.

Whoa! What are we talking about?

Your client, Cosette.

- The one you left tied to the bed.
- Hey, I don't do kink.

And my date was ordering a French
dip from room service when I left.

That's a good story. It's too bad the
Clinton Hotel doesn't have room service.

The Clinton... Where's
that? I was at the Monarch.

Oh, yeah? What room?

2716. A guy named "Glen"?

- I'm calling my lawyer.
- You can call him from the precinct.

The nice officers
downstairs will escort you.

Could we make this quick?
My wife's in the shower.

Your wife? Yeah, she
just flew in from Boise.

- Um, I came ahead on business.
- And hired a private consultant?

Look. It was my first time.

How often do I get to the city?
Uh, the concierge. Um, um, Douglas.

He's the one who gave me her
name. How long was Cosette here?

You mean, in the
room? Uh, 8:00 to 10:00.

The M.E. says he
died around 9:00. Died?

Who died? Maybe Douglas
had more than one girl on his list.

- Look, my-my wife...
- Go. Go.

Sorry. I don't think
he's a guest here.

We're more interested in
whether or not you got him a date.

I don't know what
you're talking about.

Glen, in 2716, would
argue otherwise.

Look, I've known
Cosette forever.

She would never get
involved in something like that.

Just your all-American girl
next door, huh? That's right.

Sometimes, I send
business her way. So what?

It's called pimping.
I refer business...

to an entrepreneur
as a courtesy.

I never take a nickel from her.

So what about the rest
of the girls on your block?

What's that supposed to mean?
Do you refer any other girls?

No way. Thanks.

So Bob's all alone in
the big city. He gets an

itch. The recommended
scratcher's out and about.

So, he goes to
Plan "B" for backup.

But Bob only made the one call,
and the itch is gettin' real bad, so...

You don't think he was dumb
enough to leave a message?

Even after you erase a message, it
remains in the system for 48 hours.

Nothin' like peekin' at
somebody's privates, huh?

It's for the customer's benefit if he
should erase something by mistake.

But I'm sure you're never so
thoughtless. I don't have voice mail.

Uh, Melba, this number belongs to
a girl who's involved in prostitution.

Maybe murder. So if you could
help us out, we'd really appreciate it.

What time? 8:32.

Hi. Arnie gave me your number.

You know what? I'll call back.

Thank you so much.

Arnie. I got a
news flash for you.

Guys don't usually
tell me their real name.

Well, then, the guy
that calls himself Arnie.

- He's a once-a-weeker.
- Where do you meet him?

I got news for you, Cosette.

There's no such thing as
"hooker-client confidentiality."

Uh... For good
customers, I, uh...

- Provide a place.
- Nothin' like a home office.

He says he lives in the city.
But Douglas referred him.

Sure, I guess. What
does he look like?

Better yet, maybe you
should pick him out.

Let's go, Cosette.
Another road trip.

I'd love to help you, but I've
never seen that face before.

He said you gave
him Cosette's number.

He lied. Believe me, in my
business I hear a lot of lies.

- And what business is that?
- I'm a financial reporter for the Ledger.

Well, maybe it was
a friend of a friend.

I've got a wife and a three-year-old.
She's not something I talk about.

- Uh, nothin' personal, babe.
- Oh, not to worry.

I'm a stand-up guy. If one
of my buddies was murdered,

I'd be the first to help
you find the slut who did it.

If it's okay, my wife's got a leg of
lamb about to come out of the oven.

Sorry, Arnie. Tuesday?

So? We'll be in touch.

You know, there's
still the manicure angle.

What angle? Tenth
Avenue, in the 40s.

How many nail-clippers can there be within
walking distance of the Clinton Hotel?

Yes, yes, I know. I remember.

Is he a customer
of yours? One time.

Two days before. Before what?

You mean two days
ago. Yes! A-Ago. Yes.

Nice man! Strong hand.

Uh, did he pay cash? Cash?

Yes. Ten dollar tip!

- Mr. Philly.
- That's his name, Mr. Philly?

No, no. Name Bob.

Philly from where he
live. But he travel much.

Tucson. Before that,
he say New Hampshire.

- And, uh, Charleston.
- And he's got the frequent flyer miles
to prove it.

No! Bob not fly. Bob drive.

Which means Bob
had to park. Thank you.

Whatever they told you at Safe Park on
11th, we got the best weekly rates in town.

And you're just a sand wedge
from the Clinton Hotel. My lifeline.

Pennsylvania car.
Here she is. Buick.

You really don't need a warrant?

Bob said it was okay.

Pop the trunk, Ed.

Uh, I think you got a
customer. He'll keep.

I won't.

Hey, Ed! Yeah.

Whole bunch of stuff about
Mitchell Maas. The rich kid rapist?

The fugitive rich kid rapist.

An entire police report.

Court papers.

Maybe Bob was a
stalker. Or a bounty hunter.

The car's registered to Robert
Rovelli. Better known as "Bob."

"Bobcat." The Philly
police know him well.

"Bobcat Rovelli.
Have gun, will travel."

Even if it is unregistered.

Word is, Bobcat's an
"outside the box" kind of guy.

This Mitch Maas
is a piece of work.

Ten million dollar trust fund, and
he's out date-raping ski bunnies.

You think he
graduated to murder?

Nah. Guys on the run
don't make house calls.

Tell me something. You come into a strange
town, what's the first thing you do?

Search the Yellow
Pages for the best rib joint.

You call home, the office... someone
to let them know you made it okay.

You said this guy, Bobcat, made only
one call from his room to the call girl.

I'm thinkin', even bounty
hunters have families.

So one of the personal items taken from the
hotel room might have been a cell phone.

On which he called
itch-scratcher number two.

You got the name,
look up the number.

Bobcat? Nope, that I'd remember.

A.k.a. Robert or Bob Rovelli?

Sorry. That's funny, because
our phone records show...

that Bobcat called you
three times the other day.

I'm a reporter at the New York Sentinel.
You can't imagine how many calls I get.

Mr. Rovelli's shortest call was
almost four minutes, Mr. Kellogg.

Rovelli. Sure. My bad.

Yeah, we spoke. I told
him the same thing I told

the F.B.I. after the
interview was published.

- What interview?
- Last week, I published an interview
with Mitchell Maas.

- He's the bookstore heir, convicted of...
- Maas, we know.

So, what exactly
did you tell the F.B.I.?

That Maas called me out
of the blue here at the office.

I had no idea where
he was calling me from.

The feds traced the call and discovered
it was from a throwaway cell phone.

A phone interview with
a notorious fugitive's...

gotta add a couple of
numbers to your paycheck.

A follow-up interview might
even move the decimal point.

What? Kellogg
had a manicure too?

Hey, what if Maas promised to call
Kellogg from the road from time to time?

Oh, I got you. A promise
wouldn't mean squat...

if a bounty hunter
slapped chains on him.

Kellogg calls Maas and warns
him that Bobcat's on the scent.

Only that shoots your theory of
fugitives and house calls all to hell.

Maas kills Bobcat and calls Cosette to send
the dogs sniffing in the wrong direction.

Only how would
Maas get her number?

Maybe Kellogg is a
friend of Cosette's too.

Birds of a feather
still drink together.

Especially reporter birds.

Brian comes out of nowhere.
Big smile, hearty handshake.

Boom! You know, he's headed
to the Journalist Hall of Fame.

Left my sorry butt in the dust.

Well, sounds like you
knew him pretty well.

Yeah, I used to
be at the Sentinel.

Five years in the Metropolitan
section. I rewrote Kellogg's first piece.

Now look... Mitch Maas
calls him personally.

You know that's gonna turn
into a book, or a movie, or...

who knows what.

If I sound jealous, I am. But Kellogg
has talent. You can't take that from him.

How long did you say
you've been seeing Cosette?

That again? I don't know.

- Uh, five years. Why?
- So that started back when...

you were still bendin'
elbows with Kellogg. Yeah.

But no. I never told Brian
about it. Like I told you,

my personal life
I keep personal.

Besides, Brian's single.
He gets all the pu...

Put it this way. He does
just fine in that department...

without any professional help.

Forensics says the latents
in Rovelli's hotel room...

aren't even close to Maas's.

Tell you what: Kellogg
can write. Listen to this.

"I imagine Maas sitting wherever he
was, in some coffee shop in Houston,

"some gas station in
Tampa, the tic over his

left eye starting to
flutter uncontrollably...

as he started to bare his soul."

So, did he cop to
raping the girls? Claims

that they were after his
money from the get-go.

A rich rapist claiming
frame. That's original.

You know what bothers
me? Besides the Mets?

I read all of these articles, the police
reports, the witness depositions...

Not one of them mentions a
tic fluttering over Maas's eye.

Poetic license. Maybe.

Or Kellogg met
with him face-to-face.

My Compliments. You caught me.

Mitchell Maas and I broke
bread... steaks, actually...

a couple of days before
I published the interview.

What about the four-hour
phone call the F.B.I. traced?

I had to call my machine. You never
considered dropping a dime on Maas?

Why would I? Maybe
to be a good citizen?

Maybe so he wouldn't rape
somebody else's daughter?

That's not my job, is it? You see?
That's why you guys are movin' to...

the top of America's
most-despised list.

No, Lennie, it's what's
coming' next that

earns him that honor.
That's right, Detective.

Anything Mitchell Maas and I might
have discussed is protected by law.

And it didn't bother you that he might
have recently moved up to murder?

My readers trust the
Sentinel. What would happen

to that trust if I started
betraying sources?

Your crime writers
would have less to do.

And if Deep Throat couldn't rely on
Woodward and Bernstein's confidence,

Nixon's face might
be on a mountain.

The courts used a balancing test, and
the people's right to know came out on top.

What about the people's right
to watch a rapist-murderer rot?

Uh-oh. Slippery
slope time, Lennie.

Well, Albany stopped the
slide for good with a statute

that says we can't force a
reporter to disclose anything...

a source tells him
in confidence. So it's

"Take a Felon to Dinner
Week" all year long?

Yeah, as long as you
write about it afterwards.

Dinner? Kellogg says
he had steaks with Maas.

Yeah, who paid? My money's on the guy
with the New York Sentinel expense account.

So what you're telling me is, Kellogg knew
Maas was a fugitive and aided his escape.

Hold on. You want to charge
a reporter with accessory after?

If it'll convince him to help
us locate Maas, why not?

Stop the presses! Very funny.

Brian Kellogg, you're under arrest for
aiding and abetting a number of felonies.

The good news is you
got another exclusive.

You have the right to
remain silent. Anything you

say can be used against
you in a court of law.

Docket number 298463,
People v. Brian Pierce Kellogg.

Charges: harboring a fugitive
and accessory after the fact.

- Talk to me, Mr. Kellogg.
- My attorney should be
arriving shortly, Your Honor.

He snooze, you lose.

- Give me a plea.
- I'd prefer to...

This is not a Chinese
restaurant, Mr. Kellogg.

There are only two
choices available. Pick one.

- Innocent, Your Honor.
- And that's not one of them.

- I find that odd, don't you?
- Are you a wiseass?

- Or a fool, Mr...
- Dworkin, Randall K.

And, uh, with all due
respect, Your Honor,

perhaps you should expand your
horizons and start looking at the world...

as more than just true or false,
black or white, Laverne or Shirley.

Guilty or not guilty?

- My client elects the latter.
- Ms. Southerlyn?

The People ask
for bail of $100,000.

- What's the other choice?
- Jail for contempt.

So Vinnie the Chin takes a seat
at the bar in O'Malley's Tavern.

He tells Mr. O'Malley that he's throwing
a "Sweet 16" for his granddaughter...

and that O'Malley has
two options: He can

supply the liquid
refreshment free of charge...

or watch his establishment
burn to a crisp.

Very colorful, Mr. Dworkin.
Extortion always is.

Now, let's look at what
you're doing to my client.

The difference is Mr. O'Malley
wasn't committing any crime.

Look, you know as well as
I do, I don't want to do this.

Just tell me what you know
about Maas. What a relief.

Talk, or go to jail for
facilitating a continuing felony!

You know, when they came and
took away my Fourth Amendment,

I kept my yap shut... what the hell! I
really didn't have anything to hide anyway.

When they grabbed up my Second
Amendment, I sat still and bit my tongue...

because, truth be
told, I'm allergic to guns.

But here we are, you with
your cold, hard fingers...

wrapped around the neck
of my First Amendment,

and I've got to shout as loud
as I can, because if I don't,

before you know it, you
won't let me say nothin' at all.

My motion to dismiss
on the grounds of

everything that makes
this country not Iraq.

Judge Murphy cut Dworkin off
before he had a chance to get started.

Don't tell me he said it was
an issue of fact for the jury.

That's exactly what
he said. Brave man.

I know I wouldn't want the op-ed
page looking over my shoulder 24/7.

I suspect this will convince
Mr. Kellogg to hit all the high notes.

Some reporters actually
consider going to jail

to protect their sources
a badge of honor.

Yeah, spending a couple of
weeks in a holding cell for contempt...

is a far cry from a couple of
years in Attica for facilitation.

The judge wants facts. I suggest
we pile up as many as we can.

I'll start with the people
who work with Kellogg.

Thousands of reporters
spread across the map...

Who does the fugitive du
jour pick? Brian Kellogg.

Believe me. That's a career. The
interview upped our circulation 10%.

And I'm sure Kellogg
was rewarded handsomely.

People don't go into journalism to
get rich. They do it to get the next story.

Are you saying Mitchell Maas
promised Kellogg another interview?

I wouldn't know. But I
wouldn't be surprised

if he promised
Brian his firstborn.

That's just the
kind of guy Brian is.

Do you know where
they had dinner?

Why? You gonna lock me up too?

Sorry.

I only read what you did.

Brian's not the
worst boss I ever had.

But he's not the best? Hey,
you know. Every now and then

I'd like to do more than
take a letter or get coffee.

Tell me about it. Ah, what can I say?
I guess he's under a lot of pressure.

What kind of pressure?
Publish or perish.

The man's gotta fill
two columns a week.

He comes across
cucumber-cool to everyone else,

but I know what's
really goin' on.

Why don't you tell me? Well, I
suppose this-this couldn't hurt him.

Here's a for instance.

Schultzie wanted
someone to do a piece...

about the investors who were
destroyed during the Enron thing.

So Brian volunteers.
Like it's nothing.

I read that piece. I can't believe
he got some of those people to talk.

Yeah. Well, that's Brian.

Now, to the rest of the staff, Brian
comes across like, "Hey, piece of cake!"

Mm-mm. Between you, me and
the coffee pot, he was a wreck.

So, can I assume that someone
who doesn't make their own coffee...

doesn't make their
own dinner reservations?

Hmm. Most of the time, yeah. But,
when he met with Maas, he flew solo.

So where does he
usually go for steak?

The Palm. But not this time.

- How do you know?
- Well, because this time,
he took a company car.

And that would
have been a little

extravagant, 'cause
it's like two blocks away.

I don't know. Maybe I thought you'd
find a book of matches or something.

You sure nobody drove it
since Kellogg took it out?

Yeah, that's what they tell
me. Why? Well, it's a long shot.

Hey. According to the navigation system,
the last person that used this car...

went to 25 Oak Tree Lane
in Greenwich, Connecticut.

Could be where Kellogg
met Maas. Or it could be the

golf club where the
editors do their "research."

What the hell? We
have nothing else.

Isn't that the
playboy from Vail?

Mitchell Maas. Good eye. Money. Family.
Looks. Makes you wonder what went wrong.

Has he spent any time here?
A rapist? Here in Greenwich?

There's a chance.
How about this guy?

Does this look like
a halfway house?

I'll be. That looks
like Mr. Smith.

- Nice fellow. What did he do?
- Why don't you tell us?

- Well, he and the wife...
- Mr. and Mrs. Smith? You bought that?

No, but I don't pry.

I certainly doubt that
he's the first gentleman

to use our facility to
step out on the missus.

You get anything beside "Smith"?

- I believe he called her Denise.
- Can I take a look at
your registration book, please?

Kellogg checked into his motel
in Greenwich three nights straight.

On the last night, his car was in the
lot from 6:00 until the following morning.

That was the night of the
seventh. Which is the same night

he was supposed to be
having dinner with Mitchell Maas.

Exactly. And the motel manager said that he
and this Denise didn't have any visitors.

And they only went out for a cozy dinner
for two at a coffee shop at around 9:30.

So that leaves us with
two possibilities, Jack.

Either Kellogg got the date wrong,
or he didn't have dinner with Maas.

I know it's crazy, but I showed Kellogg's
photo to people at Bobcat's hotel.

And a custodian said that he saw
someone that looked a lot like Kellogg...

waiting for an elevator.

Maybe it's not that crazy.

The last entry on Bobcat's
map was on the second.

He was looking
for Maas in Tucson.

He was headed for Los
Angeles, only he never made it.

Instead, he winds up dead
in a hotel on 10th Avenue.

Bobcat highlighted every
move he made on this map.

Why didn't he
highlight his trip east?

Because he didn't come east looking for
Maas; he came east looking for Kellogg.

Wait a minute. When was
that interview published?

On the 10th?

Yeah, the 10th.

That's the day that
Bobcat changed directions.

So he might have read
something in that interview

to make him think
that the ace reporter...

made up the whole thing. Kellogg lied to
his editors about the phone call from Maas,

and he lied to the cops about their dinner.
But making up an interview entirely?

The bottom line is: Who would
be better equipped to realize...

that the interview was
bogus than someone who had

lived and breathed Mitchell
Maas for almost a year?

And then he came to New
York to blackmail Kellogg.

An easier buck than chasing
Maas from coast-to-coast.

See if you can find out what it
was that inspired Bobcat's trip east.

And if I can? Refile.

Charge Kellogg with murder two.

Congratulations! You squeezed the hunk
of coal hard enough, a diamond popped out.

Les jeux sont faits.
Consider the white flag raised.

Brian has agreed to tell
you everything he omitted

from his published
interview with Mitchell Maas.

No longer good enough. Hey.

I love a costume party as much as
the next guy, but no amount of makeup...

is going to turn
Brian into a murderer.

- Or a reporter.
- Tell that to his millions
of loyal readers, why don't you?

One page two of your interview, you wrote
about Mitchell Maas's passion for baseball.

How, since he went on the run, the
thing he misses most is his box seat...

beside the dugout in Coors Field. Hey,
somebody's got to root for the Rockies.

Why do you suppose that
particular line is underlined...

in Bobcat Rovelli's
copy of the interview?

Well, we didn't know either,
so we checked with Coors Field,

and they told us that Maas's
seats were behind home plate.

This is what you're hanging
your hat on? A literary flourish?

To Bobcat, it was a red flag.

It told him... Mr. Kellogg might
have fabricated the entire interview.

Jack!

No one ever told me about
your sense of humor. Outstanding!

We found his prints
in Rovelli's room.

So. How much did
he want from you?

It had to be a lot, to give up
his hunt for a million dollars.

Pay up or be exposed as a fraud.

My feeling is...

you really couldn't
afford either.

Uh, what say we reconvene?

The People will show
that Bobcat Rovelli...

caught the defendant
in a very public lie.

That Mr. Rovelli discovered the
lie and threatened to expose him.

That his ego, or pride,

could not or would
not allow that.

So he went to
Mr. Rovelli's hotel room,

and cracked his
skull with an ashtray,

killing him instantly, and then, with
utter disregard for the consequences,

he tried to frame
an innocent party...

by staging an aborted sex scene.

Mr. Kellogg has no
defense; he has no excuse.

He's guilty of murder
in the second degree.

You know that dream...
where you show up at work,

and you're naked?

In my version, the
day starts off great.

I actually get a seat
on the Number 2 train.

In the elevator, Susie, from down
the hall, flashes a wink and a grin.

Then, smack in the middle of my
presentation to a roomful of partners,

I see my reflection
in the window.

Not the suave, well-coiffed devil
you see in front of you, mind you,

but a bony-butted...

- You can imagine the rest!
- Your Honor, what has this
got to do with...

Brian Kellogg saw
that reflection every day.

He was petrified that those
around him would see it too.

He was scared that they
would see past his facade...

his cocky grin, his
air of competence,

and see him for what
he really was: a fraud.

A man forced to
play a role that he was

totally unable to
audition for, let alone play.

And who is it that
forced him into that role?

It was you. It was me.

It was all of us! All of us who
allow a policy of racial preference...

- Your Honor!
- All of us who sit by and let
the government force institutions...

such as the New
York Sentinel to put

less-than-competent
people into positions...

solely to assuage some
sort of historical guilt.

I want the entire opening
statement stricken from the record...

as irrelevant and misleading.

I'll see counsel in my chambers.

I want a mistrial! It's jury
nullification, Your Honor.

Who, me? Most defense
attorneys have the decency to wait...

until closing arguments to
try and confuse the jury...

with completely irrelevant,
absurdly emotional facts.

Prosecution is permitted
to speculate as to motive.

The defense should
therefore be permitted

to prove it is just
that, utter speculation,

by offering evidence as to
the defendant's actual motive.

Affirmative action
made him do it.

Well, if you want to split hairs, it's
really equal opportunity. Your Honor...

No. This, I want to hear.
Unrealistic expectations, Judge.

They create enormous
pressures. Who can argue that

pressure doesn't mitigate
a defendant's mens rea?

I can't. Can you? And as we
all learned in first year crim,

a lesser degree of
mental culpability is the

essential difference between
murder and manslaughter,

which in turn is the difference
between a defendant dying in prison...

and getting out in time to dance at
his daughter's wedding, God willing.

Offer him man one, Mr. McCoy.
Save us all the migraine.

Out of the question!

It's your head. Well, defense
is certainly entitled to argue...

You can't! I just did.

It's like being
kicked by a mule.

It's a baseless
argument, Arthur. Juries

don't baffle as easily
as Mr. Dworkin thinks.

Yeah, but you have
to admit, it is creative.

A lot of people are
frustrated by affirmative action.

Affirmative action does not apply
to the Sentinel, and even if it did,

it isn't relevant to this case. I
know that and you know that,

- but a jury...
- Will vote against it.

Thank you, Sandra Day,
for deciding not to decide.

Don't go there, Arthur.
Why? Because I get a rash...

when I see five of the nine justices in
Washington rewriting the 14th Amendment?

The 14th Amendment forbids discrimination
based on race, not assistance.

"Give the black man a chance
to stand on his own legs.

"Let him alone.

Your interference is
doing him positive injury."

But Frederick Douglass
didn't know that 140

years later, so much
would not have changed.

- Sounds like white guilt.
- We're leveling the playing field
once and for all.

You see, if Dworkin has the
two of you arguing about it,

a jury doesn't stand a chance.

I've got the law;
I've got the facts.

All Dworkin has is hoopla.

I'll ignore it and convict
the son of a bitch.

Back when I worked at the
Sentinel, Brian and I were pretty close.

Did you socialize? Sure.

We ate together now and
then, ball games, drinks...

Talk about personal
things? As much as guys do.

- Did the subject of women ever come up?
- Of course.

Did you ever tell him... about
a call girl named "Cosette"?

Maybe. I don't think I
did, but I can't be sure.

I do know for a fact I never
gave Brian her number.

But it was in the Rolodex
you kept on your desk.

Sure.

And, uh, you left the Sentinel
because you got a better offer?

I left because they
didn't appreciate my work.

How do you know? I was there for
five years before Brian showed up.

- A year later, I'm working for him.
- Pissed you off to no end, huh?

I'm human. And did you
complain, like any human would?

Sure. I went to Mr. Schultz,
the managing editor.

I said the whole thing was bull,
that Brian didn't have the experience.

And what did Mr. Schultz say?

That there were
other considerations.

That I should just bite
the bullet on this one.

I'd have to say... I thought the Maas
piece would be the interview of the year.

Did you do any sort of fact
check after you read the piece?

How could I? Brian told me he
spoke to Maas over the phone.

He didn't know where he was.
Which turned out to be a lie.

When I found out, I
confronted him. He told

me that Maas insisted
that no one ever know...

that they met face-to-face.
And you believed him?

I had no reason not to. We
stand for integrity at the Sentinel.

Most articles are fact-checked
twice. Interviews are approved.

- Our readers rely on that.
- How would they react
if they learned that...

one of your star reporters
actually fabricated an interview?

Once you lose the public's trust,
it's next to impossible to get it back.

And what would
happen to a reporter...

if it were discovered
that he made up stories?

He would never work again.

If any reporter other
than Brian Kellogg...

misled you about the circumstances
surrounding an interview,

what would you do? It depends.

- On whether he was black?
- Absolutely not.

We depend on the totality
of the circumstances.

- The nature of the so-called lie.
- Really? We'll get back to that.

You know what I don't get?

Mr. Kellogg was writing
obituaries when he got to the paper.

But three months later,
he was on the Metro desk.

He was good.

A year later, he was a senior
editor. Sounds more like he was great.

- Was he great, Mr. Schultz?
- My people must have thought so.

And he was wearing
the right color skin.

I like to think of myself
as color blind, Mr. Dworkin.

Yes, we hire
talented minorities.

We try, as best we can, to
keep a world perspective.

Let's pretend one of
your reporters publishes

a story containing
out-and-out lies.

Would you consider such
insubordination to be a fireable offense?

- Yes.
- Yet nothing happened to Mr. Kellogg...

when he wrote about a mythical
phone call with Mitchell Maas.

Why is that?

Seems like old
times. You jab, I cross.

You're not cute. My
nana would disagree.

You know what? I'm tired of you. I'm tired
of defense attorneys obfuscating facts...

with prejudice. "Zealous representation."
I'm sure you've heard of it.

I don't believe that includes
the denigration of an entire race.

An entire race didn't
hire me. An individual did.

It's destructive. You
want destructive?

Let's talk about a social policy
that stigmatizes blacks as inferior...

by rendering all of their
accomplishments, per se, suspect.

If the one judging the achievements
happens to be a member of the Klan.

Really? Okay.

Uh, you're sick. No. Your
daughter is gravely ill,

and only major
surgery will save her.

And you're lucky enough to have
the choice between two surgeons...

One white and one not-so-white...
Which do you choose?

My choice would have
nothing to do with race.

Fair enough. Uh, they both grew
up in the same block in Queens,

they both went to
Harvard... Come on, Jack!

Can you honestly tell me that it
would never cross your mind...

that Dr. "B" maybe got a little boost
climbing over the ivy-covered walls?

While Dr. "A" was a
legacy! Okay. Let's try this.

The powers that be
at a major corporation...

parade a couple of black faces in
front of the wondrous white multitude.

They pat themselves
on the back, but do you

suppose one of them
ever stops to think...

what that parade actually
does to those marching in it?

You mean, providing otherwise
unavailable opportunity?

Opportunity is not opportune when
it's accompanied by marginalization.

That's backwards! The denial of
opportunity created marginalization.

And there's one
word for that: racism.

Ooh, the "R" word.

The most dangerous
weapon in the leftist arsenal.

Look, Janeane Garofalo
herself can storm into my office...

and tear down the framed photos of
Goodman, Chaney and Schwerner...

that I keep on the wall over my
desk for this, but what the hell.

Affirmative action is the devil.

All it does is tell a black man
that he is first and foremost black.

Do you want racism? Let's put on
our jackboots and define a man...

by his race alone... Now that's
racism, with a capital "Heil!"

Gee, do you really believe that?

What I believe
really isn't the issue.

I'm not just tired of
you; I'm disgusted.

I'm disgusted that you would
take these global travesties...

and bend them and twist
them and turn them inside out.

Just to get a murderer off.

It's a livin'.

I know how I got the
job in the first place.

It was obvious. One black face
in the entering group of reporters.

Come on. You don't have
to be a rocket scientist.

And no one ever
accused you of that.

I never asked for the promotions. Someone
would just call me up into their office...

- and say, "We're bumping you up."
- You never asked why?

I didn't really have to.

Look. I'm black.

When I got my
byline at the Sentinel,

you should have seen the
people in my neighborhood.

It was like I landed
on the moon.

I was some kind of
hero. A role model.

They asked me to speak
to kids at the high school.

I was proud...

that I was, all of a sudden, an
important part of the black community.

I get calls from Jesse Jackson.

Have dinner with Spike Lee.

Al Sharpton wanted my opinion.

You know what's nuts?
If I were in your shoes,

I'd sit back, put my feet up on the
desk, and collect the paychecks.

That's because you
can't be in my shoes.

I-I didn't just have
to be competent.

I-I had to be superior...

just so people wouldn't
think I was incompetent.

And Bobcat Rovelli...

knew for a fact that
you weren't superior.

You tell me. What if someone else
had been found to fabricate a story?

There'd be a scandal that'd
blow over in a couple of weeks.

But if I'm caught? Well, let's just
say all the wrong people would have...

all the "I told you
so's" they wanted.

And that's what you were thinking when you
showed up in Bobcat Rovelli's hotel room?

He took one look at me
and laughed in my face...

and said, "It figures."

That's when I hit him.

If Kellogg was under so much
pressure, he could have quit the damn job.

And announce
publicly, "I can't hack it?"

Why not? Humans fail.

It's what makes them human.

What, Serena? It's just, I'm not so sure
Kellogg doesn't have a lot more at stake...

every time he leaves
his apartment than I do!

And I think this is all a truckload
of hocus-pocus from Dworkin...

to cover the fact that
Brian Kellogg was more

concerned with the
trappings of easy success!

The promotions, the
paycheck, the company car,

the trysts in a Connecticut motel
with someone named Diane... Denise.

Have you spoken with
her? We don't even know her

last name. There are a lot
of Denises in Connecticut.

I want Kellogg down here
first thing in the morning.

A continuance? If you haven't
noticed, I'm on a roll in there.

I'm not asking your permission.

We uncovered a crucial witness.

Who? A busload of nuns ready to
testify that Bobcat was up for sainthood?

No. Just Mr. Kellogg's
friend Denise.

Um, I haven't had the
pleasure. A married

lady, who your client
knows quite intimately.

And her testimony
is relevant because...

To be totally honest, I doubt
if anything she has to say...

would make a difference
to anyone in the courtroom.

Oh! Silly me.

- I thought "crucial" meant...
- Make a deal.

Are you crazy? We've rounded
man one and are sliding into man two.

That could be 18 months. No.

We gave it a shot,
okay? It didn't work out.

What can I get?

I'll give you man one. But
you have to do the max.

Twelve and a half to 25
beats the hell out of 25 to life.

Yeah. Fine.

Sure. Why should I have
any idea what's going on?

I had a dream. I dreamed that
Sandra Day swung the other way,

that the University of Michigan Law
School dropped racial considerations...

in its admission
policies altogether.

Oh, you should have been
there, Jack! You should have seen

how the white students
looked at their black classmates.

How the world treated
them once they graduated.

You can drop it now,
Mr. Dworkin. The trial's over.

Your main problem was,
you had the wrong client.

Well, I can choose my
causes, not my clients.

I still think I could have
won, Denise notwithstanding.

The minute she walked
into the courtroom, all

the sympathy you
manufactured for Kellogg...

would have
backfired in his face.

His dinners with Spike
Lee notwithstanding.

Turns out, he was in the
unique position to know that.

Better than either of us.

Lawyer to lawyer, you never
talked to Denise, did you?

No. Then how did you know?

I didn't.

But I do know that I'm barely white
enough to live in Greenwich, Connecticut.