All language subtitles for Law.and.Order.S14E02.Bounty.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DDP5.1.H.264-playWEB_track3_[eng]

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 chugging 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 talking about this music.

It's been going 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 axe murderer...

Yeah, well,
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's 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, is that like Cher?

Huh?

Bob have a last name?

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 card?

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.

Captioning sponsored by
UNIVERSAL NETWORK TELEVISION

NBC

Skull cracke.

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.

A guy who checks
into a sleazeball hotel

on Tenth Avenue, pays cash,
has chili dogs for dinner...

Doesn't strike me as a guy

who would 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 ID'd, she did.

Believe me, guys who are
into what this guy was into

don't file too many complaints.

Check with SVU anyway.

We did.

No similar MO'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 going to 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 Fitz-stupid,
next door,

said the music went
on around 9:00.

Where does the hooker live?

East Village.

A 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 some
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.

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

Your wife?

Yeah, she just flew in
from Boise.

Um, I-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-uh-um, 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-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.

So 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
is out and about.

So he goes
to plan "B" for backup.

But Bob only made
the one call,

and the itch is
getting 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.

Nothing like peeking

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,

There's no such thing

as hooker-client
confidentiality.

Uh... for good customers,
I, uh... provide a place.

Nothing 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.
A little 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.

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, nothing personal, babe.

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. 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
flier 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 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.

I think you've
got a customer.

He'll keep.

I won't.

Hey, Ed.

Yeah.

A whole bunch
of stuff about Mitchell Maas.

The rich kid rapist?

The fugitive
rich kid rapist.

The 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.

$10 million 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 thinking 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.

AKA 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 FBI

after the interview
was published.

What interview?

Last week I published
an interview with Mitchell Maas.

He's the bookstore heir
convicted...

Maas, we know.

So, what exactly
did you tell the FBI?

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

got to 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 gotcha-- a promise
wouldn't mean squat

if a bounty hunter
slapped chains on him.

So 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, now he's headed to
the Journalists' 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 going
to turn into a book

or a movie or... who knows what?

If I sound jealous, I am.

But Kellogg has talent.
I 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

bending elbows
with Kellogg.
Yeah.

But no.
I never told Brian about her.

Like I told you,

my personal life,
I keep personal.

Besides, Brian's single;
he gets all the p...

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 imagined 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?
He 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 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.

Well, what about
the four-hour phone call
the FBI traced?

I had to call my machine.

You never considered
dropping a dime on Maas?

Why would I?

Well, 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
moving to the top

of America's
"Most Despised" list.

No, Lennie, it's
what's coming next that
earns them that honor.

That's right,
Detective.

And 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?

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...

Docket Number 298463.

People v. Brian Pierce Kellogg.

Charge is 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.

Well, 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.

It's okay.

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
nothing 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/seven.

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.

You know, 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 first-born.

It'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.

What can I say?

I guess he's under
a lot of pressure.

What kind of pressure?

Publish or perish.

The man's got to fill
two columns a week.

He comes across cucumber-cool
to everyone else, but I know

what's really going 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,"

Uh-uh. 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're sure
nobody drove it

since Kellogg took it out?

Yeah, that's what
they tell me. Why?

Well, it's a long shot.

Hey.
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 got 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
besides "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 Tenth 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 tenth.

Yeah, the tenth.

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.

It's 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 fait.

Consider the white
flag raised.

Brian has agreed 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 make-up's

going to turn Brian

into a murderer.

Or a reporter.

Tell that to
his millions

of loyal readers,
why don't you?

On 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,

but then, smack in the middle

of my presentation
to a room full of partners,

I see my reflection
in the window--

not the suave, well-coifed 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.

The 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.

Defense is certainly entitled...
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.

Or 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 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.

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.

It would 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 colorblind, 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's 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, you're sick.

No, your daughter is gravely ill

and only major surgery
will save her.

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.

They both grew up
on 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 Goodwin, 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 living.

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.

And 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.

Well, 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.

That'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.

12 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.

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