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.