All language subtitles for Law and order S13E17 - Genius

NARRATOR:
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.

Other side. MAN 1: Come on.
Deep. Deep. Deep.

Set. Hike! MAN 2: Watch your pass.
Watch your pass.

One Mississippi, two
Mississippi, three Mississippi

MAN 2: Come on.
Come on. Come on. Oh!

Holy...

All I can tell you now is 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.

And this was under the cab, too.

A Season in Hell.

Arthur Rimbaud.

French poet.

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 2.
That's a $40 smoke.

My ex was right. These
things will kill you.

Alright, have forensics
run a preliminary DNA.

Hey, and while you're
at it, could you run

the vic's prints through
all the right places?

Busy. Busy. Busy.

Guy had a wallet,
not a stitch of ID.

Well, luckily, I don't think
they require ID 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 a robbery?

Well, that's a possibility.

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

Maybe he was adopted.

Detectives!
I just called the TLC.

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

Thanks.
Okay.

That's like three miles away.

But parking's a bitch.

I got the sniffles.
That against the law?

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

Body?
What kind of body?

The dead kind.

It's New York. They find bodies
in all kinds of weird places.

Don't you 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 gotta 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.

ED: 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 A.A.
A couple years back.

Sorry, pal.

Another gig down the toilet.

Well, how often did Chertoff
moonlight in the cab?

Every Wednesday while Mr. Pak
was in an A.A. Meeting.

We're canvassing
the neighborhood to see

if there's any local 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 belonged to
somebody named Bobby Lee Redburn,

card-carrying
member of the KKK.

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?

ED: 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.

BRISCOE: Or maybe
it's not him.

Oh, think we're getting warmer.

VAN BUREN: The sheriff from Beloit
ID-ed the photo as Redburn.

He also confirmed
that 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
is 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 and 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
Mathilde. 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.

(CHUCKLES)

Cohiba Millenniums. They make one
batch of these every thousand years.

Fidel gave them to me.

No, thanks.
I'll pass.

You know, what I used to love,
though, was the Monty 2s.

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

(LAUGHS)

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.

ED: Oh, yeah? And where
was she hanging out?

Mmm, Helen's Tavern.
It's an eatery catering to...

ED: 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 can ease the pain, how?

Listen, a cabbie was stabbed.

A new copy of A Season in Hell
was found beside the body.

Hmm.

Some bad memories
coming back, Mr. Lambert?

I always mourn when someone who
actually reads leaves the earth.

Let's cut the crap.
You bought the book.

And a Monty 2 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
gonna take some time.

Vodka, gin, Scotch. I'm drinking bourbon.
What can I get you?

Oh, nothing for me, thanks.

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

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.

Well, 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 Finnegans 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 the story 10 times, the
soup spoon becomes a steak knife.

He tells it 20 times, the wall
becomes Natalie's shoulder.

In ten years, it'll 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.

(SCOFFS)

Remorse, that's for naughty
children and priests.

Let me see it, your piece.

Regulations.
(SCOFFS)

Would have you
benched for sharing

liquid refreshment
with a suspect.

Alright. 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.

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?

Mmm-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.

Mezcal Especial. He claimed
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...

Mezcal Especial. Two hundred
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 or...

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.
(CHUCKLES)

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, personal.

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 and 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?

Mmm.

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 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.

A chest kill is the best kill.

If the point of insertion is selected
correctly, the blade slips in easily

bypassing bone and ligament.

They could 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?

Five hours? 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 lookin' 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's 50%
imagination, 50% mouth.

I think there's some
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.

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. Hemingway
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 have got him
home within two hours.

Well, he could have 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.
BRISCOE: Thanks.

Gotta give him credit for a quick recovery.
(CELL PHONE BEEPS)

Yeah, twice.

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

Briscoe. Yeah.
We'll be right there.

You gotta love this kid, Beck.

I wouldn't have believed it
if i hadn't seen it myself.

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 gotta 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.

Now, 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?
That's the bad news.

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

Gee, 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.

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

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
sentenced me to 10 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 that
manuscript in a shoebox.

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
Times best-seller 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 three.

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.

WARDEN: 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.

BRISCOE:
The power of the pen.

Well, the power of a
$600 an hour mouthpiece.

Lambert hired an attorney

who made 10 appeals
if he made one.

I think those judges just got
sick of listening to him.

Did they reduce
Warner's sentence?

He served six of 10.

So, he was a good prisoner?

(CHUCKLES)

"Good prisoner." That's kind
of like "jumbo shrimp."

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, 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.

WARNER: I have
a question. Did she...

We're discussing
Anna Karenina. Join us.

You ought to read
Crime and Punishment.

Clay Warner, you're under arrest

for the murder of
Robert Lee Redburn.

Don't you love 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
4-7-3-6-8-9.

"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. Hmm.

How do you plead?

Not guilty on all accounts.

JUDGE:
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.

A 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!

(GAVEL BANGS)

(WHISPERING INDISTINCTLY)

"Utter genius.

"It shocks the reader into
redefining his life experience.

"One part Dostoyevsky,
one part Dickens."

I'm impressed, Mr. Warner. Perhaps
this will increase sales.

Alright, 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 and...

Forensics puts him at the scene.

Yeah, I would have
saved you the trouble,

if you would've asked me.
Yes, he was there.

As Rimbaud would
have said, c'est tout.

That's it. Do you have
a murder weapon?

No.

Do you have an eyewitness
to the murder? No, you don't.

He describes it in his book.

Yeah, and how shall 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-, if I remember
correctly.

A.

And you know, and I was always
surprised I have to admit,

that you never took my
trial advocacy seminar,

because we handled real cases
and you might have benefitted

a little from the work.

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

(SIGHS)

Man two. He does it all.

Oh, 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 gonna
make you 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 have
looked at Nelson Lambert

ergo, you never would have
looked at Clay Warner.

Time to go.

A hundred and
fifty-five pages.

Why not? He has the best
researchers there are.

Students trying to get the
grades for law review.

(SIGHS)

It was a routine
investigatory step.

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

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 search 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.

If 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 whole passages

out loud to strangers
in a public...

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... 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.

You know, 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

was that the only advantage that
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 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 freshmen 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 Keats' 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.

Not when one of the office occupants gives
us permission to conduct the search.

Behind my client's books?

His officemate had
free access to the books.

First off, he has an
expectation of privacy.

Second, anything that's found...
WARNER: 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' motions.

A 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 regulations,

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've 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.

The 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 East Side.

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.

And why is that? Because students
have the luxury of open minds, Jack?

Because your example
is misplaced.

He's a Klan member. He's
responsible for two deaths.

In his spare time
he trades kiddie porn.

Is his life really
as 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, 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 over-inflated
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.

(SIGHS)

You like hypotheticals,
how's this?

Bobby Lee Redburn
kills Clay Warner.

(LAUGHS)

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?

No, 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.

Three hundred bucks.
Two tickets to a Knicks game.

I mean, that's really
worth a human life?

Especially one with
such creative potential?

You know what, Jack, you're right. You know
what, 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.

SIMPKIS: 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.

No, 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?

LAMBERT:
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.

Well, 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,

then I stabbed him.

And then?

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.

(SIMPKIS CLEARING THROAT)

All right, I'm just trying to
understand this, Mr. Warner.

You're, uh...

Think of death as
relief? Do you?

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 chainsaw 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 anymore
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 SOB,
keep him alive.

If you do that, the best way for any future
defendant to avoid the death penalty

is gonna 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?

(DOOR OPENING)

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.

(GAVEL BANGS)