All language subtitles for Law.and.Order.S13E17.Genius.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DDP5.1.H.264-playWEB_track3_[eng]

the people are represented
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.

Fake the slant,

hit me by the cab,
all right?

Other side.

Set... hike!

One Mississippi,

two Mississippi,

three Mississippi.

Come on, come on, come on.

Oh!

Holy!

All I can tell you now,

it was a single knife wound to the chest.

So what? He crawled under the cab to keep
warm?

This guy didn't
crawl anywhere.

Knife hit the aorta.

Our friend here was dead
before he hit the ground.

You got a time?

Temp tells me no more than five hours.

Puts it around 3:00 a.m.

From the blood spatter,

he hit the bricks
right about here,

then some good Samaritan
shoved him under the cab.

A clean New York
is a happy New York.

This was
under the cab, too.

A Season in Hell.

Arthur Rimbaud.

A French poet.

I thought he was a Knicks fan.

This stogie
was down there, too.

Well, that could have been there since the
60s.

I doubt it.

Cuban, Monty Two.
That's a $40 smoke.

My ex was right. These things will kill
you.

All right, have forensics
run a preliminary DNA.

Hey, and while you're at it,

could you run the vic's print
through all the right places?

Busy, busy, busy.

Guy had a wallet,
not a stitch of I.D.

Well, luckily,
I don't think

they require I.D.
to hop in a cab.

What makes you think
the DOA hopped a cab?

I don't.
I think he drove it.

How many cabbies you know
don't lock up for the night?

Oh, so you're thinking
this is robbery.

Well, that's a possibility.

But the hack license
was issued to a Ji-Hoon Pak.

Maybe he was adopted.

Detective!

Just called the TLC.

Ji-Hoon Pak lives over on West 46th
street.

Thanks.

That's like
three miles away.

Parking's a bitch.

Captioning sponsored by
UNIVERSAL NETWORK TELEVISION

We found a body
under your cab, Mr. Pak.

A body?
What kind of body?

The dead kind.

That's New York.

They find bodies
in all kinds of weird places.

Just read the papers.

Unfortunately,
we don't have to.

We just wanted to give you a heads up.

Yeah, thanks. What for?

We impounded
your vehicle.

Oh, come on,
you can't do that!

I got to earn
a living here.

Look, we'll get it
back to you

maybe tomorrow
at the latest,

and with your little bout
of the sniffles,

it shouldn't
be a problem, right?

Man, this sucks.

Just for kicks,

you recognize this guy?

No.

I spent my college years driving

somebody else's
cab, Mr. Pak.

You know, lending out
your hack license

to somebody else
could have you looking

for work
real quick.

But that'll be the least of your problems

if you do know this guy
and you lie about it.

It's John Chertoff.

He's a nice guy.

I met him in AA,
a couple of years back.

Sorry, pal.

Another gig down the toilet.

Well, how often did Chertoff
moonlight in a cab?

Every Wednesday,

while Mr. Pak was
in an AA meeting.

We're canvassing
the neighborhood to see

if there's any locals
spending more cash than usual,

but you know the odds on
a random, isolated killing.

Only it might not
be that random.

Forensics ran
Chertoff's prints through AFIS.

Let me guess,
they showed up

on the grassy knoll
in Dallas.

No, in a black church
in Beloit, Mississippi.

One that mysteriously
burned down five years ago.

Only those prints belong

to somebody named
Bobby Lee Redburn,

card-carrying member
of the KKK.

The preacher's two kids
died in that fire.

Stop. So, what?
Redburn jumped bail?

Nope. Hung jury and
he lived a happy life

till the Feds noticed

he was downloading child
porn from the Internet.

That's when he split.

Maybe I'm not
so upset he's dead.

Well, how close are the prints?

Four-point match.

That's hardly conclusive.

I'll call down to Mississippi,

and you two see if there's
anything else to prove

that Chertoff and Redburn
are one and the same.

If this guy was Redburn,

he must have left his white hood
back in the land of cotton.

You know,
there's something

to be said for the simple life, no phone,
no TV.

If I were hiding
from the Feds,

I'd be in Rio.

You know, it's
hard to figure

a Klansman buddying
up to Mr. Pak.

Maybe he saw the light.

Or maybe
it's not him.

Oh.

Think we're getting warmer.

The Sheriff from Beloit I.D.'d
the photo as Redburn.

He also confirmed
the preacher was home

the night that
Redburn was killed.

I wouldn't be shocked
if one or two more

of the congregation
wasn't out to get him.

Yeah, but if the Feds
couldn't find Redburn,

how did a bunch of yokels?

Hey, sometimes even a random killer hits
the lotto.

Oh, is the one about

the young man from
Nantucket in there?

Hey, man, let me
ask you something.

Do you remember seeing
any books in Redburn's room?

Me either.

I can't imagine
he'd start his collection

with a dead French poet.

Not when Mein Kampf's
available.

You think the book belonged to the killer?

Well, it's new, the spine

isn't even cracked yet.

There's a sticker
from Barnes & Noble,

It's worth a look.

Have fun.

Verlaine was the real talent, you know.

Rimbaud just latched

on to his coattails
and wouldn't let go.

We were just saying that on the way over
here.

He shot him.

Who shot who?

Verlaine popped Rimbaud.

Paul loved Arthur.

Paul also loved Matilda.
It was a whole mess.

The French,
what do you expect?

So, can you tell us if you sold any copies
recently?

If you really want decadent,

I'd stick with Baudelaire.

Oh, wouldn't you know it.

A couple of days ago,

our downtown store
sold a copy to Nelson Lambert.

The writer?

Put it
on plastic.

Damn, I read
all his books

when I was a freshman in college.

I read his police report
when he stabbed his wife.

I smoke. I drink.

Whatever my ex-wives don't know
makes me stronger.

Cohiba Milleniums.

They make one batch of these
every thousand years.

Fidel gave them to me.

Oh, thanks,
I'll pass.

You know what I used

to love, though,
was the Monty Twos.

Son of a bitch, that's what I smoked last
night.

You knew that,
didn't you?

Okay, well...

Whatever I did wasn't enough.

Whoever was on the receiving end
more than deserved it.

In other words,
you don't remember?

I met the muse
last night, Detective,

and she looked an awful lot
like a bottle of tequila.

Oh, yeah? And where was she hanging out?

Um, Helen's Tavern.

It's an eatery
catering to, uh...

The drunk
and obnoxious,

yeah, I read page six.

Do I sense some animosity here?

It's just that
dead bodies

make my partner
a little testy.

And I could ease the pain, how?

Listen, a cabbie was stabbed.

A new copy
of A Season in Hell

was found
beside the body.

Mm...

Some, uh, bad memories
coming back, Mr. Lambert?

No. I always mourn when someone

who actually reads
leaves the Earth.

Let's cut the crap.

You bought the book.

Yeah, and a Monty Two was also
at the scene of the crime.

Go figure.

Tack on your affinity
for knives, and all the fingers

seem to point
in the same direction.

Well, I gather this
is going to take some time.

Vodka, gin, scotch,
I'm drinking bourbon.

What can I get you?

Oh, nothing for me, thanks.

Uh, my muse dumped me

in the gutter
about six years ago.

Scotch is good.

Hey!

What? It's the end
of a tough day

How often do I get
to sit around

and shoot the breeze
over a couple of drinks

with the voice
of his generation?

You don't know him
very well, do you?

The man has spent his life

trying to become the myth
he created in his books.

How much macho
does it take to stab a woman?

With Nelson,

fiction has a funny way
of becoming fact.

The three of us
were sitting over there.

He and Natalie were arguing
about Finnegan's Wake

or some such nonsense.

Nelson tossed
his soup spoon.

It hit the wall over there.

Natalie was hit
with a glob of minestrone.

That's not what it said
in the police report.

He tells his story
ten times.

The soup spoon
becomes a steak knife.

He tells it 20 times.

The wall becomes
Natalie's shoulder.

In ten years, it will be

a decapitation
with a samurai sword.

Writers.

They lie for a living,
Detective.

So he was here last night.

Until the wee hours.

Have you ever killed a man, Detective?

Have you?

Quid pro quo.

You answer
my question,

I'll repay
the favor.

I've had occasion
to use my weapon.

Yes, unfortunately.

Why "unfortunately"?

Was it a clean shooting?

Not the point.

Remorse...

that's for naughty children and priests.

Let me see it.

Your piece.

Regulations.

Aah, would have you benched

for sharing liquid refreshment
with a suspect.

All right.

I could use a good benching.

Knock yourself out.

Lighter than a .45.

Government issue in Nam.

You served?

Marched through
so much muck

we had to shove
our sidearms,

down our pants to keep the
barrels out of the mud.

They say that the first one
is the toughest.

The first kill
is hard only

by consequence
of it being first.

First step.

First word.

First woman.

First murder.

Do you know the difference

between killing and murder,
Detective?

Mm-hmm. 25 to life.

Intimacy.

If you use a bayonet,

it becomes personal.

A man's blood flows
between your fingers.

Warm, wet...

Even more so with a knife.

Sometimes they scream.

Not as often as you'd think.

So, Nelson hang around
to help you clean up?

That'll be the day.

No. He was drinking from
his own private stock,

Mescal Especial.

He claims Saul Bellow
gave it to him.

Son of a gun
drained the bottle.

Yeah, I've been there.

So, anybody else

at this party
besides you and Nelson?

His friend Clay was here
for a while.

Clay?

Warner.

One book, he thinks
he's Leo Tolstoy.

Teaches a creative
writing class at Hudson.

This tequila
they were drinking...

Mescal Especial.

$200 a bottle,
if you can get it.

Is that the kind

with the dead worm
in the bottom?

Yup. And Nelson sucked it
straight from the bottle.

That's when I put him in a cab.

Around
3:00 a.m.

That's right.

You know, I've never seen
a $200 bottle of booze before.

It should be
in the trash out back.

Help yourself.

Yeah, I can get DNA
off a bottle neck.

Sure, I can. Maybe.

Unless the alcohol denatured
the mitochondrial material.

You say it was
in the trash?

Yeah. Give it a whiff.

That's not my aftershave.

Cross contamination.

Any number of elements
could corrupt the DNA,

making it unrecognizable,
assuming it's even there.

God.

I'm glad
I stayed late.

Who needs Disneyland, huh?

Who would you say was the most
despised man at the front?

The C.O.

Negative that.

Sniper.

Sitting all alone, up in a tree.

No artistry
in that kind of a kill,

just technology.

Now, it takes a certain kind
of a man to do the deed

up close,
personally.

And you're that kind of man?

Just doing my job,

cleaning up the nation's mess.

Soldier-to-soldier.

Man-to-man.

Did the best man win?

I'm sitting here.

I'm sharing my scotch

and my soul, am I not?

What about you, Detective?

Do you have what it takes?

Can you perform
with grace under pressure?

Play poker for
the ultimate stakes?

I don't think of it as a game.

Of course it is.

Winners live, losers die.

It's all a damn game.

A Season in Hell.

That sounds like something
you'd like.

Minor work by a minor poet.

Can I borrow your copy?

I gave it to a friend.

This cabbie fellow of yours,
where'd he take it?

In the chest.

Good.

Good.

The chest kill is the best kill.

If the point of insertion
is selected correctly,

the blade slips in easily,

bypassing bone
and ligament.

they can deflect the blade,

making a quick kill
less likely.

The prey feels
what he thinks is a hard blow.

Not until the blood flows
does the man realize he's dead.

You son of a bitch.

You did it.

You killed him.

Did I?

I hope to hell he called you
in the morning.

Hey, the best way to get a drunk
to open up is to let him drink.

Isn't that right, Lennie?

Hear, hear.

Did you at least
read him his rights?

It was just
two guys talking.

Yeah, until a lawyer
gets involved.

We just wanted
to make sure

we were looking
in the right direction.

And? Well, he described the wound

like somebody who'd seen
it up close and personal.

I've got Beck
working on

lifting DNA samples
from Lambert's bottle.

If they match the DNA
on that cigar,

it definitely puts him
at the scene.

That's great.

Why don't we all
go out for a drink

until we hear from Beck.

He's had enough, but the owner of the bar
said

Nelson was drinking
with somebody named Warner.

Well, maybe he'd
like to join us.

Nelson is 50% imagination, 50% mouth.

I think there's an ego
in there somewhere.

That's just a shield.

Nelson was the smallest kid
in the schoolyard

with the thickest glasses.

The kids picked on him,

so he learned to fight back
with words.

Believe me,
Nelson wouldn't kill anyone,

although some might claim
he bored them to death.

Well, what about
his wartime escapades?

Yeah, it was kill or be killed
in Fort Dix, New Jersey.

Sounds like Mr. Lambert has trouble
distinguishing fact from fiction.

The whole macho thing,

it's all about
self-preservation.

A hard exterior
shields a sensitive soul.

Nelson's not the first.

Hemmingway
and his man's man image.

He wrote
about running the bulls,

but the closest he ever got

was watching
from a second-story balcony.

Sounds like you know
Mr. Lambert pretty well.

He helped get
my first book published.

Would I lie to protect him?
I suppose I would.

But the fact is, in this particular
instance, I don't have to.

Okay, so,

just for our records:

What time did you say
you left Helen's?

Nelson passed out,

head on the table, around 1:00.

Right around then, I guess.

There you go.

That's all we needed.

I mean, as far
as we can tell,

the murder took place
around 3:00.

So, the worst cabbie
in the city

would've got him home
within two hours.

Well, he could've
gone home

and then come
back out again.

Thanks, man.

Hey!

How was that book
that Nelson gave you?

You know what?
I must have left it at Helen's.

I do stupid things like that
when I drink.

I got a class.

Thanks.

Got to give him credit
for a quick recovery.

Yeah, twice.

Once about the book, and the other about
their time of departure.

Briscoe.

Yeah.

We'll be right there.

You've got to love
this kid, Beck.

I wouldn't have believed it
if I hadn't seen it,

but-- are you ready for this?--

you can get DNA
off the lip of a bottle.

So, does it match
the prelim from the cigar?

Oh, not even close.

Beck, you just eliminated
our prime suspect.

But you've got to love
the pure science of it, guys.

Accomplishment, purely
for accomplishment's sake.

I hate to criticize
your methods, Beck,

but you could've told us
this over the phone.

But then you wouldn't
have gotten the cherry.

Oh, my God,
please tell me

you know what
he's talking about.

The cherry, better known
as the fingerprint match

on that book you found
at the scene.

Nelson Lambert?

Oh, it's the bad news.

Beck, for your sake, I hope
there's some good news.

Hey, now, I realize
that a four-point match

is nothing to pop
the champagne cork over,

but considering it belongs
to somebody

who spent the past six years
in Sing Sing,

I thought it might
pique your interest.

Yeah, someone named Warner.

Clay Warner.

I was 24 years old.

I paid my rent by selling weed
to grad students at NYU.

And one of them turned
out to be a narc?

No. a PhD candidate in physics.

He got picked up
for soliciting a prostitute

and traded my name
for his own clean slate.

They found an ounce and a half
in my apartment

and, uh, sentenced me
to ten years.

Ten years

for an ounce and a half?

Must be more to it.

You'd think so,
wouldn't you?

But like they say,
every cloud...

Prison gave me time to write.

Is this it?

I lined my cell

with publishers'
rejection letters.

Oh, it only takes one.

Which I wouldn't have
without Nelson Lambert.

I sent him
the manuscript in a shoe box.

I'm sure he only opened it

because the return address
was Sing Sing.

Prison's a metaphor
that no writer can ignore.

Yeah, no murderer either.

Okay.

I lied about the book.

I wanted to protect Nelson.

So, he didn't give you
the poetry book?

Nelson gets drunk

and reads poems to the crowd

whether they're listening
or not.

Wednesday night,
it was Rimbaud's turn.

Only your prints
were on the cover.

All right.

Maybe I enjoy
a live audience, too.

First Nelson Lambert,
now Clay Warner.

What do you want to do,

wipe out the entire New York Tims
Bestseller List?

Warner only sold 2,000 copies.

Read between the lines,
Detective.

Well, you saw that
book of poetry.

It looked unopened.

It was brand-new.

Yeah, but that's hardly
scientific.

Hey, you get two drunks passing
a paperback back and forth,

they're bound to
bend some pages.

Book report's due at 3:00.

The dog ate mine.

Listen to this.

"The thoracic cavity

"sits just behind
the third button from the top.

"If the point of the knife
enters there,

you're assured a kill."

Who says you can't learn
a trade behind bars?

Well, you can make it
to Sing Sing in about an hour.

Find out if Warner writes
about what he knows.

I'll tell you what, I was glad to get
rid of him.

What with Nelson Lambert
writing letters to the editor,

taking out ads
in the New York Review of Books,

you'd think we had the Count
of Monte Cristo locked up here.

The power
of the pen.

Or the power
of a $600-an-hour mouthpiece.

Lambert hired an attorney who
made ten appeals if he made one.

You know, I think
those judges

just got sick of
listening to him.

Did they reduce
Warner's sentence?

He served
six of ten.

So, he was a good prisoner?

Good prisoner.

That's kind of like
jumbo shrimp.

I mean, you know,
he mostly kept to himself.

Especially after the thing.

What thing
is that?

Three guys went
into the laundry.

Two came out.

The third one
was stabbed?

Shanked in the chest.

Blood everywhere.

And Warner?

Oh, he was there,
all right.

Some of that blood
was his.

Why would the appellate court
let him go after that?

Well, you know, knowing and proving are
two different things,

especially with Lambert

screaming about the immorality
of locking up a genius.

You still have
the blood analysis?

Sure. I'll get it
for you, too.

Warner's DNA was on the cigar,

his prints
were on the book.

They were both found
at the scene.

The guy in prison was killed the same way
as the cabbie.

Which Warner describes
in perfect detail in his book.

A reason would be nice.

Well, money's
as good as any.

Redburn's cash was missing.

This guy's been feeding us
volumes of lies from the get-go.

Pick him up.

I have a question:
Did she...

We're discussing
Anna Karenin.

Join us.

You've got to read
Crime and Punishment.

Clay Warner,
you're under arrest

for the murder of
Robert Lee Redburn.

Don't you love it
when art imitates life?

You have the right
to remain silent.

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

You have the right
to an attorney...

Docket number 473689.

People of the State of New York
v. Clay Warner.

Charges are
Murder in the First Degree,

Murder in the Second Degree,

Manslaughter
in the First Degree.

All for one dead body?

The murder
was committed

during the commission
of a robbery, Your Honor.

That makes it a felony murder.

Clay Warner?

Are you the fellow
that wrote that book?

I am.

I started it.

Mm. How do you plead?

Not guilty
on all accounts.

People
on bail?

A half a million dollars.

The defendant
is tied to the murder

with both DNA
and fingerprint evidence.

Both of which are irrelevant
as far as risk of flight.

He's a repeat offender,
Your Honor.

Minor drug charge and he
didn't jump bail the first time.

But old dogs
do learn new tricks.

Bail is set at $300,000.

Uh, Judge...

I'm sorry,
Professor,

but nothing says,
"I'll be back" like cash.

Next!

"Utter genius."

"Shocks the reader into
redefining his life experience."

"One part Dostoyovsky,
one part Dickens."

I'm impressed, Mr. Warner.

Perhaps this will
increase sales.

All right,
Jack.

I can play smart-ass with you
if that's what you want.

This is your
meeting, Ira.

What do you want?
World peace.

The Mets should win a pennant,
but I'll settle for Clay,

being free to write
a couple dozen more books.

I'll send him all the pencils
and paper he needs.

See, you're starting up again
with the whole smart-ass thing.

Forensics puts him
at the scene.

I would have

saved you the trouble

if you would have asked me.

Yes, he was there.

But as Rimbaud would have said,
"C'est tout," that's it.

Do you have the murder weapon?
No.

Do you have an eyewitness
to the murder?

No, you don't.

He describes it in his book.

And how should we exclude that?

Let me count the ways.

Like I said, Ira,
this is your meeting.

Man Two, time served.

He hasn't served any time.

Six years on a trumped-up drug charge.

You're not serious.

Weren't you in my first year
Criminal Law class?

Back row on the left.

A-minus, if I
remember correctly.

"A." You know, I was surprised,

I have to admit, that you never
took my trial advocacy seminar,

because we handled real cases,

and you might have
benefited a little

from the work.

No offense, but I didn't
care for your clients.

Man Two. He does it all.

That's what I like about you,
Jack.

You go for the jugular,
but you never forget to smile.

Well, I'm sure I'm going
to make your smile even wider.

The police traipsed all across

the First Amendment
illegally

when they manipulated
the bookstore

to disclose the names
of their customers.

Whose First Amendment rights
are you talking about?

Rimbaud's?

Among others.

And without that illegally obtained
disclosure,

you people never would've looked
at Nelson Lambert,

ergo, you never would've
looked at Clay Warner.

Time to go.

155 pages.

Why not?

He has the best researchers
there are--

students trying to get
the grades for Law Review.

It was a routine investigatory
step.

The detectives were attempting
to tie a suspect to a crime.

This is clearly
not analogous

to buying a screwdriver
from a hardware store.

And I'm sure
you'll tell me why.

Allowing the State
to enter a bookstore

to review a person's
reading or buying patterns

would have incredibly
chilling effect

on what a person
chooses to buy.

Surely no one in
this room would argue

this is not a blatant violation of the
first amendment.

On the other hand,
I doubt anyone in this room

would raise
First Amendment issues

when the Feds searched
the Internet for purchasers

of child pornography.

That's for another time.

What we're talking
about right now

is a man purchasing
a literary masterpiece.

You can't burn the books.

Fine, stop the public
from purchasing them.

It's exactly
the same difference.

First of all, your client
did not purchase the book.

The book was bought
specifically for Mr. Warner.

If Mr. Warner at any moment
had an expectation of privacy

in this particular
reading material,

he would not have read
the whole passages out loud

to strangers in a public place.

Whoa, let's back up.

You're saying it wasn't the
defendant who bought the book?

That's correct.

Nelson Lambert purchased
the book in question.

Well, then, Professor,
the next thing out of your mouth

better be very convincing.

Who would write books,

who would buy books,
who would read books

if the very nature of
those books were not free

from government interference?

Good question.

Not good enough.

Your client didn't buy the book.

He doesn't have standing to
argue his rights were violated.

Nelson Lambert
has already started

his "Save the Genius" campaign.

Warner won't be
the first genius

to have spent a significant
portion of his life behind bars.

Oscar Wilde, Jean Genet...

I'll stick with the tax code,
thank you.

I briefed the admissibility of
using Warner's book against him.

Simpkis hasn't even moved to exclude it
yet. He will.

The one thing
he preached in class

is that the only advantage
the defense counsel has is time.

Especially when he's paid
by the hour.

He advocates
stretching out

pretrial motions
as long as possible.

He thinks that once
the prosecution has asked

for its first extension,

the advantage shifts
to the defense.

How far can we push this?

There's no case law
directly on point.

It's a crapshoot.

Which tells me we should
have something else

in our back pockets.

His father died

in a pool of his own vomit.

Should I have expected
any better from him?

It seems people who know
about these things

think Clay
is quite talented.

That's sweet.

Are you opposed
to his writing?

Is there something specific,
Miss?

We think Clay may have killed
a cabbie in order to rob him.

Do you know if he was having
financial problems?

How could I possibly know that?

You're his mother.
Maybe he asked to borrow money.

It's been years,
Miss.

Since you've supported him?

Since I've spoken with him.

He's a bad seed.

Always was.
Always will be.

Tell you what?

The man can write.

Teaching on
the other hand,

well, let's just say,

it involves a whole
other set of skills.

Let me guess,

Nelson Lambert's influence
helped him land this job.

And my Irish luck put me
in an office with him.

You don't get along with Warner?

Clay and a meager talent like me? Come on.

Did you know him
before he went to prison?

You're not wired or anything?

Of course not.

He used to sell me dope.

He did okay, too.

He was the only
grad student

who didn't have to tutor
freshman to buy dinner.

What about now?

I wouldn't know.
Now I'm high on life.

What about money?

What about it?

Was he in financial trouble?

I just figured
he was up to something

that I didn't
want to know about.

Such as?

What the hell, let the gods
of literati strike me dead.

Okay, I'm working on a paper on
Faulkner's use of Keat's poetry.

I'm here late one night
doing some research.

Voila.

Behind the two volume
biography of Faulkner

that everybody has
and nobody reads.

The cash had the cab driver's
prints on it.

The blood traces on the knife
are being tested.

Outrageous.

I'm hardly a wordsmith,

but I think that describes
what's happening here

as well as any word could.

It was perfectly legal.

Back when we were paying taxes
to King George.

"Legal."

You're supposed to get a warrant before
you run your fingers

through someone's personal items in his
personal office.

Now when one
of the office occupants

gives us permission
to conduct a search.

Behind my client's books?

His office mate
had free access to the books.

First off,

he has an expectation
of privacy.

Second, anything that's found...
Stop.

I'll take a deal, Mr. McCoy.

No, you won't.

Shut up.

I'll confess to whatever
you want me to confess to.

I have only one condition.

I'm listening.

I want the death penalty.

I want you to have me killed.

I don't know who was
more shocked, Simpkis or me.

Yup, what fun is it hitting someone who
won't hit back?

I never
really thought of this

as an exercise in fun,
Arthur.

Brace yourself for
Professor Simpkis's motions.

Motion to quash
the agreed upon sentence.

On the grounds
that Warner isn't competent

to negotiate
on his own behalf.

He wants to die, so
he's got to be crazy.

I've arranged for Skoda
to examine him.

And you say
this isn't fun.

Here's a new one for you.

I am not crazy.

Not everyone I talk to
is crazy.

But I bet they
all claim to be.

Not everyone
is as forthcoming as you.

So, show me
where to sign

and we can call this off.

The state takes this
very seriously, Clay.

It won't execute someone
with a mental defect.

They can't kill
a crazy person,

and a person who wants
to die must be crazy.

And around and around, we go.

Tell me about prison.

Now, that'll
make you crazy.

How so?

Very clever, Doctor.

If I consider a life in prison
worse than no life at all,

then my desire to avoid
going back behind bars

is actually
an indication of my sanity.

I just asked a question.

Victor Hugo
compared prison

to church-- the deprivation,
the regulation, the conformity.

And you agree?

Prison is the anti-church.

A church lifts the
human consciousness,

elevating man
beyond himself

to a union with his God,
but prison... forces him down.

Flesh against concrete.

It crushes him
deeper into himself.

Writers like Hugo
paint these grand metaphors

without having
the slightest reality check.

Sure, they heard about
what goes on in prison,

but they never really know.

A life sentence.

Think about
what that means,

Doctor.

Every minute
of every day, forever.

Imagining death's
a lot easier, no?

I barely scratched
the surface.

After eight hours?

His intelligence makes
it hard to know

what's real
and what's not.

So the blurbs on the back
of his book are true.

I don't know.

I certainly hope
there's a "yet" coming.

I'm meeting with him
again tomorrow.

Let me ask you something,
Jack.

Off the record...

would you prefer that
I found he was incompetent

and therefore unable to be sentenced to
execution?

Why would you ask that?

No reason.

Analyze him, Emil. Not me.

You seem irritable today.

Tell me about
the cab driver.

Make that testy.

If you don't want
to do this...

What do you want
to know about him?

Did you talk to him?

I told him I wouldn't
put out my cigar.

Smoke bothered him?

I didn't care.

Were you always like this?
Defiant?

Don't you
really mean

did I pay attention
to Daddy and Mother?

If that's what you want
to talk about.

Well, Daddy slept with

every tramp
on the Upper Eastside.

Did your mother know?

My mother...

What about her?

I'm tired of this.

I murdered a man
for no other reason

other than I felt like it.

He pissed me off,
and he deserved to die.

Whatever she did to him,
it doesn't excuse his actions.

He doesn't want

to be excused,
remember.

He didn't hear voices?

No.

There was no irresistible impulse to kill?

Not that I'm aware of.

So, he's legally sane.

Or he's lying.

Not that it matters,

but does he feel
any remorse at all?

None
whatsoever.

Clay Warner couldn't
care less about anyone.

I can't think of a better
candidate for execution.

Albert Einstein kills
Jack the Ripper.

Now, what do we do?

Do we sentence
him to death

or do we name a college
physics building after him?

Your hypotheticals are better served in a
classroom, Ira.

Why is that?
Because students

have the luxury
of open minds, Jack?

Because your example
is misplaced.

He's a Klan member
responsible for two deaths.

In his spare time,
he trades kiddy porn.

His life really is
worth another life?

Especially somebody

with so much
to offer society?

The legal system
does not ask that question.

Oh, and so
you don't either?

Right, all human
life is equal.

Blah, blah, blah,
blah, blah, right?

That's good for church
on Sunday, Jack,

but in the real world,

the value of human life
is relative.

You know what, Ira?

It takes an overinflated ego
to even suggest such a thing.

Oh, and this from a man

who doles out innocence
and guilt for a living.

This from a man who made
his living

defending a document
that purports

to treat all men equally.

You like hypotheticals?

How's this?

Bobby Lee Redburn kills
Clay Warner.

Would you still be fighting to keep him
alive?

Absolutely.

Just because the legislature
says something is legal

does not make it moral.

So this genius thing
has nothing to do with this.

I would do whatever it takes

to stop even one
state-sanctioned murder.

And then, Jack, no matter
what happened,

I'll be able to sleep at night.

Would you?

You may not like what
your client wants to do,

but it's his life...

and his right to end it.

Really?

So you would ask
for the death penalty

if we went to trial?

That's irrelevant.

Come on, Jack.
He stole $300.

He killed a man!

Right, which if that
were all he did,

the death penalty
wouldn't even be an issue.

300 bucks.

Two tickets to a Knicks game.

That's really worth
a human life?

Especially one with
such creative potential?

You know what, Jack?
you're right.

Have another drink
and just pretend

that you're just an innocent
bystander to the process.

Because somewhere
down the road,

when that icy needle
juts into Clay Warner's vein,

you won't be able
to avoid it anymore,

and you will see as clear as day

that you are
the process.

I've been a part
of the literary community

for nearly three decades.

It's not a time for modesty, sir.

You've won three
National Book Awards,

two Pulitzer Prizes.

I don't write
to win awards.

Of course not, but
they certainly serve

as recognition of your standing in the
community.

I suppose.

Have you formed
an opinion

as to Mr. Warner's
talent?

Clay Warner

has the ability
to create things

that weren't there before.

And that's an ability

that should be
nurtured, developed,

hell, even pampered.

Why?

Because it's damn rare,
that's why.

Even if he violates
the law?

Art gives form
to life.

Clay Warner killed someone.

He should be punished for that.

But taking his life is not punishing Clay
Warner,

it's punishing
society.

But he wants to die.

He's not rational.

Any true artist who
willingly abandons his art,

cannot, by definition,
be rational.

Thank you.

Along with your panoply
of literary awards,

have you received
a medical degree?

No.

A PhD
in psychology?

No.

Isn't it arrogant of you, then,
to sit here

and contradict
a recognized expert?

Genius, true genius, should
be coddled and forgiven.

Dostoyevsky was
a degenerate gambler.

Poe was a drug addict.

Wagner was a thief,
an adulterer, a racist.

These are despicable men all,

and yet their respective
societies

ignored their iniquities

because of the sheer abundance of their
contributions.

Now, for some sad reason,
we've devolved into a society

that worships conformity
over creativity.

It would be better
for the world

to let genius be,

to never doubt it--

never question it?

That's right.

And Clay Warner

is a genius?

He is.

Then who are we, sir,
to question his decision now?

I left Helen's,
hailed a cab

and had him drive
me across town.

But you live downtown,

isn't that correct?

There was
another bar

I felt like going to.

What happened in the cab?

Nelson gave me a cigar,
a Cuban, I lit it up.

And the cab driver,

Mr. Redburn,
didn't care for that?

No, he didn't.

He told me to put it out. I refused.

So, he pulled
to the curb

and told me to get out. Did you?

Yes, but when
I was outside,

I opened his door
and pulled him out with me

and then I stabbed him.

And then?

I turned off
the engine,

took his money
and shoved him under the car.

I didn't really need the money,

but what the hell,
I already killed him.

Was this the first time
you killed?

No.

In prison, I stabbed some junkie
in the laundry

because I didn't like him.

I'm just trying

to understand this, Mr. Warner.

You... think of death as relief,

do you?

I never thought about it.

You're asking to die,

but you've never thought
about being dead?

You're not scared?

Why would I
be scared?

Death is nothing more
than the absence of life,

and believe me, life isn't
as precious a commodity

as people delude themselves
into believing.

Life, death,
it doesn't matter to me

either way.

So, you're sentenced to life

without the possibility of parole.

You what, you just
kill yourself?

Probably, but this
is a lot easier.

Oh, come on, Mr. Warner.

You lose this motion,
you're sentenced to prison.

Before you get a chance
to kill yourself,

wouldn't you continue writing?

I suppose.

Because as
Mr. Lambert said,

any artist willing to abandon
his art cannot be rational.

The thing is,
Nelson thinks

his own immortality lies
between the covers of a book.

I know there ain't
no such thing.

This is it,
Nelson.

This is all there is.

It would have been easier

if Warner had taken a chain saw to a
family of four.

Why?

Because you're human.

And humans can't help
but judge other humans.

That'd be just as wrong
as treating Warner differently

because he can string together
sentences

better than the rest of us.

The quality of the victim
should not matter

any more than the quality
of his killer.

I said it'd be easier,
not more just.

It's good, Arthur.

He can write.

You want the easy answer?

Just words on a page.

And the more
difficult one?

So are these.

The death penalty is
the most severe punishment

the law allows.

I got to admit,
it's disconcerting

that Warner thinks it's less
severe than going to prison.

You show the S.O.B.--
keep him alive.

If you do that, the best way for any
future defendant

to avoid the death penalty
is going to be to ask to die.

What gets your goat
is that in the past,

you've always had the backstop of
mandatory appeals.

You were just a cog
in the system.

You could always rationalize it
to yourself

by placing the ultimate
responsibility

on someone else's shoulders.

Now, if Clay Warner dies,
it's because I wanted him dead.

It's not you, Jack,
it's the law.

Words on a page.

I have listened carefully
to the testimony

of the psychiatrists
for both sides,

to the character witnesses
and finally,

to the defendant himself,

which in the final analysis deserves the
most weight.

First,

I have determined
that the plea bargain

was reached in good faith

and without coercion
of any sort.

Second, I find that
there was not

a preponderance
of evidence offered

to establish that
the defendant suffers

from a mental
disorder or defect.

My final holding, therefore,

is that Mr. Warner
shall be executed

pursuant to the laws
of this State

and in accordance with
the plea agreement reached

between the parties

to this matter.

Captioning sponsored by
UNIVERSAL NETWORK TELEVISION

Captioned by Media Access Group at WGBH
access.wgbh.org