All language subtitles for Law.and.Order.S14E06.Identity.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DDP5.1.H.264-playWEB_track3_[eng]

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.

Mom, it was phat.

You know, so cool.

It was off the hizook.

God. Don't you
dare tell anyone

that you're my
brother. Ever.

You don't know everything.

You are so
not my brother.

Mom!

I told you guys to remind me

to turn the lights off
when we leave.

Hey, Isabel. What's up?

No. I didn't ask her yet.

You don't have to.

My answer is no.

Please!

Oh, God!

Andy?

Name's Andrew Hitchens.

Took one to the chest.

Married with two.
Boy and girl.

The wife around?

She's the one
called it in.

Looks like a .38.
A .45, maybe.

Whatever, it was
up close and personal.

Look at the powder burns.

How long?

Couple of hours, tops.

I finished work around 5:00,
picked up the kids

and came home,
like I do every day.

What time does your husband
usually get home

from work, Mrs. Hitchens?

Around 8:00. I don't know.
Always after me.

Was today special?

He didn't tell me.

Ask the office.

I will.
Where does he work?

At Systems Electronics.

Andy's the managing
software designer.

He loved his work.

Look, I'm probably
not making much
sense right now.

I got to... Can I take the kids
to my mom's?

Sure. That officer
will drive you.

There's nothing missing.

No sign
of a forced entry.

Both the front
and back doors take keys.

No witnesses.

Nobody
heard anything.

Everybody in the building
was at work.

See? That's why
I don't retire.

He hasn't been
here at all?
No.

What, he called in sick?

Why would he do that?

Well, I don't
show up for work,

my boss usually
wants to know why.

She's funny that way.

And I'd want to know, too,
if Andy worked here.

He doesn't?

No. Uh, what kind
of detectives are you?

Homicide.

Oh, my God.

But you
did know him?

Sure. Sure, He...
he worked here for years.

He was great.

They had to let him go

about eight
months ago.

Why did you let him go?

Well, the economy sucks.

Our revenues suck even worse.

It was either me or Andy,
and they pay me less.

Why wouldn't he tell me?

With some men,
it's an ego thing.

Your husband was let go

because of the downturn
in the economy.

We talked about everything.

There is one thing.

Didn't you notice
no paycheck coming in?

Why would I?

Andy took care of the finances.

Well, the balance in your
checkbook must have dropped.

I don't know.
That was Andy's department.

Maybe, if we could see the bank
statements, credit card bills,

it might shed some light.

At least I know
where Andy kept them.

Visa, MasterCard...

Brokerage account--
that was a joke.

Chase Manhattan--
checking, savings.

Bank of Lower
Manhattan.

I never heard
of this one.

Oh, my God!

He deposited $370,880
six months ago.

He has a bank
account with almost
$400,000 in it.

Which he opened three months
after he was laid off.

And you really believe
she didn't know?

It looks he
was withdrawing

his old weekly salary
from his secret stash

and putting it in
their joint account.

And the wife
was never the wiser.

And you
figure the money

plays into the murder?

Well, outside of that,

this Andy Hitchens
is an Eagle Scout.

No weapon,
no prints yet.

Well, I doubt
he went into the bank

with 400 thou cash.

What's next?

We figured we'd
talk to the bank,

see if we can get a lead
on where the money came from.

All right.

I've seen less going on

in an amusement park.

Welcome to the 21st century.

We've got to compete
with the big boys somehow.

I guess the free toasters
ain't gonna cut it no more.

There are three rules
of personal banking these days:

marketing,
marketing, marketing.

I guess it was
the free lattes

that attracted
Mr. Hitchens.

Ah, right. Mr. Hitchens...
opened his account here

with a cashier's check
payable to cash.

Issued by...?

Federated National Bank.

Another bank
that wasn't

on Mrs.
Hitchens' list.

Them? They're oatmeal
next to us.

Is there a number
or something on that check?

You know, there are

bank privacy laws.

Did we get
off the subway
in Switzerland?

Ha ha.

Be that as it may,

this is private
banking.

And we are
public servants

who can get
a warrant

to look through
every transaction

you've got
on that computer.

Look, man,
you issued

a cashier's check
to a Mr. Andrew Hitchins

for almost $400,000--
we just want to know why.

Well, obviously,
he must have an account with us.

And obviously, we'd
like to know about it.

Yes. He closed his account.

We issued him a...

Huh. That's odd.

What?

Mr. Hitchens opened an account
with us,

but he closed it 48 hours later

when the check
he deposited cleared.

You didn't
ask him why?

What was the check he
opened the account with?

It was a business check.

Something called
Mishaan Diamond Exchange.

You got to understand,

I like the men in blue,

but for business,
you're not that good.

Anyway, it's a nice day outside.

So what can I do you for?

Yeah. You
wrote a check...

I write a lot of checks.

Unfortunately, my suppliers,
they want to get paid.

Andy Hitchens-- what
did he supply you with?

That is a name
with which I am not familiar.

All right. Is this
your company's check?

Sure is.

Is that
your signature?

I cannot lie.

That's good.

So what's that
on the memo line?

That is the language
of Abraham and Isaac.

I know what it is.

I want to know
what it means.

That this Hitchens-- who
I never met before, mind you--

he was looking for a buyer,

and I was kind enough
to offer a helping hand.

Well, what did you
buy from him, Zev?

What are you, meshugge?

Does it look like
I'm selling sporting goods?

Diamonds. Two.
Perfectly matched.

Wait a minute.

You telling us that
you paid a total stranger

who walks in off the street

almost $400,000
for two diamonds?

Emerald cuts.

He could have got a lot more.

Shagitz--
what are you going to do?

Did it ever
cross your mind

that you might be
purchasing stolen goods?

You're talking
to the diamond king.

I know every diamond
on 47th Street.

So where did
the two emerald
cuts come from?

They belonged to Shlomo
Fineberg, up the block.

Believe me, if someone
stole them from him,

it'd be up on that
flashing thing in Times Square.

A man buys two
of my best stones,

what, I'm going to forget?

How much he pay
you for them?

Well, you know,
this is a down economy.

People buy food, pay rent--

diamonds, they're not
hopping off the shelves.

Was there an answer
in there somewhere?

It was bigger than a bread box.

You know
what I think, Ed?

I think Shlomo here
and Mr. Hitchens

were in the laundering business.

$380,000 and change.

And let me guess.

He paid you in cash?

Do I look like a putz?

Cashier's check,
money order or no sale at all.

This Mr. Hitchens
was the former.

In my business, I've learned--

always make copies.

This is made out to cash.

Yes. Endorsed
to me. See?

Here we go again.

Yes, we issued

this cashier's check,
but you knew that.

When did Mr. Hitchens
open his account here?

Who?

Andrew Hitchens?

He's the one
who endorsed the check.

Sorry. No Hitchens does
any banking here.

Well, is there some way

you can tell us who the
check was issued to?

Sure, but...

Ms. Gelman,
that check

may have been stolen,
so the quicker we
gather the facts...

Sure, sure, I understand.

Hm. It was the proceeds
of a residential re-fi.

Whoa, whoa. Baby steps, please.

Mr. Lonnie Jackson,

re-mortgaged his townhouse.

Who's Mr. Lonnie Jackson?

Obviously, one of our clients.

Hm.

He had us issue
a cashier's check
made out to cash.

And that's the address
to the townhouse?

Yes. 11 West 121st Street.

Harlem.

So this Lonnie Jackson character
mortgages his house

to pay off Andy Hitchens.

So what you thinking,
blackmail, gambling,
drugs, what?

Hey, whatever it was,
I doubt it was on the up and up,

given the hoops Hitchens
jumped through to hide it.

We still don't know
if this had anything
to do with his murder.

Two guys up to no good,
one of them winds up

with a couple of slugs
in his chest.

The odds are the other one
knows something about it.

You want to go to Harlem?

You drive.

Listen up, dude,
that dry wall was supposed

to be done last month,
not next week.

I got to go.

I said I got to go.

What are you gonna do?
Contractors.

You Lonnie Jackson?
No.

Russell Brown.

You can call me Rusty.

You working for
Lonnie Jackson?

Never heard of him.
That's funny,
because the bank

says he owns this
piece of property.

Guy stopped paying
his bills.

Some mortgage company
out in Kansas City

put it up for auction.

I buy it, fix it,
flip it and forget about it.

Your guy let it go

at this price,
he's running from something.

Yeah, us.

So this
Lonnie Jackson...

Who we haven't talked to yet.

re-finances his house
up in the hinterlands.

Hey, man, Harlem real estate
is up and coming.

You should see what
a brownstone goes for up there.

He takes the money
he gets from the re-fi

and turns it over
to Andy Hitchens.

The dead guy?
Mm-hmm.

But before
he ends up dead,

he buys diamonds
from a dude named Shlomo.

For his wife, I hope.

Oh, what fun
would that be?

No, he walks right across
the street and sells them

to another dealer named Zev.

And you don't think
it was buyer's remorse?

I think Hitchens
went through
a hell of a lot

to keep his wife
in the dark.

Somehow I don't think his wife
was the only one

he wanted to keep
that money from.

Hitchens and Jackson were
into some kind of bank fraud.

Or Hitchens was
blackmailing Jackson.

Either way, the money's got
to be in the middle of this.

What about this
Lonnie Jackson?

Nothing so far.

He's a solid citizen.
No yellows.

Hey, Rodgers says she
got something for us.

All right, I'll talk
to you guys later.

No signs of struggle.
No drugs, no alcohol.

Gee, Rodgers,
I'm really glad
you called us.

At least tell us
he ate something exotic.

Does coffee count?

How's this for exotic?

That's a bullet.
It comes from a gun.

Not from any gun
I've ever seen.

I ran it past ballistics
and it turns out

it comes from something
called a 7.63 Mauser.

Weapon of choice
for the Nazis.

It still doesn't help.

Well, it does if Lonnie
Jackson is a collector.

And if we had the slightest clue
as to where to look for him.

The nice thing about
a neighborhood

is everybody knows everything
about everybody else.

Sure, I know Lonnie.

Like my whole life.

Him and his buddies.

They're regulars here?

Eating donuts, drinking
coffee, telling lies.

Every day?

Not every day,
but most...

That's gonna change now.

Why's that?

Lonnie hasn't been around
for a while.

Not since he sold his place
to that white dude.

You know it's wrong,

black people should
be buying up here.

What about
his buddies?

Talk to Horace.

More than likely he's at the
Veterans Hall around the corner.

"Harlem Hellraisers,"
that's what they called us.

Most important thing I ever did
was to join up.

Colonel Horace Worthington.

Not many of us left,
either.

Y'all throw
those parties, right?

For only the best
and the brightest.

That's right,
my Aunt used to tell
me all about them.

Sounds like
quite a shindig,

but the reason
we're here...

Oh, right. We're looking for
one of your friends,

Lonnie Jackson.

Ah, the kid.

Always getting himself
into some kind of jackpot.

What's he up to now?

Well, we don't know,
but we'd sure like to ask him.

So who's stopping you?

We can't find him.

And it turns out he don't
own his house no more.

Well, that can't be.

He bought that place after
the war for ten grand.

It was his pride
and joy.

Turns out he took out
another mortgage on the place.

No way.

He didn't believe in debt.

If he needed money,
he'd have come to me.

When's the last time
you saw Lonnie?

Well, it's been a while.

I just figured he was visiting
his grandkids in Charleston.

You get to be our age,

grandchildren are about the only
ones that want to see you.

What about his kids?

Son, Paul.

He may be blood, all right,

but I don't know
if I'd call him a son.

A real creep.

He has an office
on East 63rd Street.

Horace Worthington?

That man can talk
through nine innings

without missing a beat.

You put him together
with my old man...

That's exactly what
we were trying to do.

Excuse me?

We're looking
for your father.

And you think I would know
because...?

Because you're
his son.

Do your children
know where you are

every minute of the day?

No, but I'd sure tell them
if I lost my house.

What? There's no way
he lost it.

He owned it outright.

He said he would die there

and his grandchildren
would die there.

The point is that

that old piece
of crap up in Harlem

was like Pop's Plymouth Rock.
He'd never sell it.

The truth is he mortgaged

the house,
then defaulted
on the payments.

The bank sold it to some
Donald Trump wannabe.

Why? If he needed money...

You would have helped?

Of course I would've helped;
he's my father.

Do you know somebody
named Andrew Hitchens?

No. Why?

Your father gave him all
the money he got from the re-fi.

This is nuts.

My father saved every penny
that he ever made.

When's the last time
you talked to him?

I don't know,
maybe six months.

But we e-mail, now and then.

I just bought him a computer
last Father's Day.

Who says nothing lasts forever?

But as you've told us
so many times,

cyberspace comes close.

How long did it take you
this time, Myra?

Two shakes of
a lamb's tail.

That long?
Not even.

Screen name LonJack last
logged on two months ago.

Now if you could only
tell us where he was
when he used it.

What makes you
think I can't?

"256 Mt. Morris Park."

That's Harlem.

We can hear you in there.

Open up or we're gonna
kick it in.

One... two...

You should know better,
Colonel.

You got no right to
come here like this.

Actually we've been
trying to figure out
what to arrest you for--

harboring a fugitive,

obstruction of justice

or just being a general
pain in the ass.

I'm doing nothing
of the kind.

You lie to us, Horace,
you become an accomplice.

Kid, what're you doing?

Lonnie Jackson?

You're a tough guy
to find, Mr. Jackson.

It all depends on who's doing
the looking, I suppose.

Why don't you come
down to our place

for coffee and a chat.

You leave him be.

I was a porter at JFK
for 50 years.

Well, actually it only
40 some odd...

since that young man
was shot down in Dallas.

And before that
it was Idlewild.

What a crying shame.

He was a good man,
that John Fitzgerald.

Pity is

he left two young kids behind,

a boy and a girl.

Just like
Mr. Hitchens.

Who?

That was your friend.

I don't recall anyone
goes by that name.

You gave him almost
$400,000, Mr. Jackson.

Doesn't that ring a bell?

Now why would I do that?

That's what we're
trying to find out.

You know, maybe I did meet him,
I don't remember.

Look, Mr. Jackson,

you were certainly sharp enough
to get the money from the bank,

give it to Mr. Hitchens,
kill him

and then hide from us.

So this senility act,

though it's fun,
the longer you keep it up,

the harder
it's gonna be on you.

That's nice, Mr. Jackson.

But why don't you go on
and sit back down.

Always show a lady respect.

Especially one as pretty as you.

Mm. Please.

You might change
your mind

after you hear what
I've got to say.

Here's the thing,
Mr. Jackson,

JFK keeps all of its workers'
fingerprints on file.

So I had forensics
compare your prints

to the ones found at
Mr. Hitchens apartment.

They match.

You want us to
call your son?

No.

Well, the court can appoint
a lawyer for you.

I have my own counsel,
Lieutenant.

I'll be just fine.

Docket 314812:
People v. Jackson, Lonnie.

One count murder
in the second degree.

Good to see you're
still alive, Aaron.

May I say the same for you, sir.

Tell me, Aaron,

what's the best thing

about getting old-- I forgot?

When you remember, Your Honor,
please let me know.

So what's his story?

Not guilty, sir.

You know...

in the past 40 years,
your lawyer

has yet to represent
a guilty man.

Must be luck of the draw,
Your Honor.

The People request
remand.

The defendant not only brutally
murdered a man,

leaving a widow
and two children, but...

Have you looked
at Mr. Jackson?

The only thing he's
running toward is
his oxygen tank.

Look, I've got

a full calendar today.

Bail set at $200,000.

Cash or bond.

Your Honor, my client lives
on what he receives

from Social Security...

Take that up with
Senator What's-His-Name,

not me.

Aaron Miller's an institution
in these courtrooms.

He's been around longer than
the sink in the men's room.

I'm just worried about an
incompetent counsel claim.

You remember that
lawyer in Texas

who fell asleep
during trial?

The operative words being
"during trial."

Aaron Miller's been around
long enough to know

when to throw in the towel.

There's no way this gets
anywhere near a judge or jury.

Ah, such youth, such innocence,
such nonsense.

It's good to see you. too.

This is such

a waste of time,
money, energy.

Nobody I'd rather waste a couple
of hours with than you, Aaron.

Well, then let's
have at it.

You have no case.

You have no motive.

You have no idea
what the hell happened.

Jack, you should
dismiss this mess

and we should all go home,
have a cognac

and get a good
night's sleep.

I'm all for it.

But first, I'd like
your client to explain

why he gave all that money
to the victim, Andrew Hitchens.

Giving is a crime?

I call it charity.

Or why his prints match those
found in the victim's apartment.

Perhaps Mr. Hitchens invited him
over for a cup of tea.

Then why did Mr. Jackson pretend
he never heard of Hitchens?

He's old. He's forgetful.

The victim was killed by
a weapon used in World War II.

Yes, and if

and when you find it,
we'll talk.

I'm offering manslaughter one

right now, Aaron.

That's 15, right?

And the alternative being...?

Murder two-- 25 to life.

Somehow, I don't think it makes
a difference either way to me.

I guess that's the benefit
of getting old

that no one ever
tells you about.

A life sentence is
that much less painful.

It's all good
to joke about, Arthur,

but the fact is Lonnie Jackson
might come off to the jury

like the kindly grandfather
everyone wishes they had.

Who killed
someone's father.

He and Hitchens come from
two different worlds.

It might give
the jury pause.

I know it
gives me pause.

Then find out what made
these worlds collide.

After the police were
poking around,

I got curious and did some
poking of my own.

Curious enough to find out
why Mr. Jackson

wanted to refinance
his townhouse?

Nothing too curious.

He wanted to fix up
the plumbing and electric.

New wallpaper.

After all these years?

His app says he was planning
on renting it out.

God, I tried living
through a remodel once.

Oh, Mr. Jackson wasn't going
to live there.

I assume he was going to travel.

What makes you say that?

He requested all
of his notices be sent

to one of those
private mailing places.

He has a box at Mailroom Plus
on Third Avenue.

I've checked out all
the private mail box places.

I'll tell you what, I haven't
felt all that secure

at any of them.

That's 'cause you
haven't talked to me yet.

That's cute.

24-hour video surveillance.

Security gate,
front-door
double locks.

Customer loses his key,
we change the lock.

Well, that's pretty good.

Actually a friend of mine
told me that this

is the best place around.

Oh, yeah? Who.

Lonnie Jackson.

He's a nice guy.

I mean, he's a little
nervous for my taste.

Well, you know how it is.

Sure. With two little brats
hanging over him all the time.

What are you talking about?

Your friend,

Lonnie.

He comes in once a month,
pays his tab in cash.

Last time he was here
he had his kids.

Whining like I don't know what?

And he's about six feet tall?

I guess.

About 80 years old?

Whoa. Try dividing that by two.

And I guess if I asked if he was
black you'd say...

Get a new pair of glasses.

That's Lonnie Jackson.

Or at least that's what he told
the owner of the mailbox place.

But it's really
Andrew Hitchens?

The guy behind the counter never
saw the real Lonnie Jackson.

Hitchens stole Jackson's
identity and mortgaged
his house.

I had the owner
open the box.

It was jam-filled with overdue
mortgage bills,

foreclosure notices
and last but not least

a notice of sale.

Well, that makes motive.

But what I can't figure out is

why Hitchens picked out Jackson.

Or how he found him.

Hitchens was some kind
of computer guy.

He wouldn't do anything illegal.

I know Andy.

I'm sure he wouldn't.

He probably just got caught up
with the wrong people.

You mean like loan sharks.

Yeah. It could be.

If I could perhaps
look through his laptop...

Will it help convict
the man who killed him?

It could.

Then fine.

I'll get it.

What we have here
are lots and lots

of lots and lots.

And you're going to explain
that to us mere mortals.

Real estate lots.

These are the property maps
that get registered

in the county offices when
you buy a piece of property.

What's that "T" stand for?

My guess would be
the title report.

What do they all
have in common?

All north of 96th Street.

All north
of a half million in value.

And they're
all owned

free and clear?

No, that'd be just one.

Eleven West 121st Street.

That's Lonnie Jackson's house...

or, I should say, former house.

It's a shame, Mr. Jackson.

No, it's despicable.

Hell, it's unconscionable.

Andrew Hitchens
stole your name,
your property,

your life savings.

He should be sitting
across the table right now,

but unfortunately you took
the law into your own hands

and made that impossible.

Where are you, Jack,

some fairy tale heaven again?

It's all on Hitchens' computer.

That's crazy.
All your legal degrees

and you still don't know
what's what.

No one stole anything from me.

I mortgaged the property.

Why?

Because I felt like it.

Because after four decades

of carrying other people's bags,

I wanted to get on a plane
myself and travel the world.

It's my money.

I earned it.

And there you have it.

Without a weapon,
you're in no better place

than you were last time we met.

There's a Dr. Jackson here.

He says he's Mr. Jackson's son.

Tell him to go to hell.

No. Show him in.

This meeting is over.

Who is this?

Shambala Green.

Your son has hired me to
represent you in this matter.

I've got Aaron.

The blind can only lead
the blind so far, Dad.

I don't need your help, son.

I don't want it.

Now take your next

ex-wife and get the hell
out of here.

Sorry, Shambala.

In America

a man can still
choose his counsel.

Not always.

You see, while you people have
been dillydallying,

Dr. Jackson has been
in family court.

Based on

the affidavits of respected
members of the community

and the testimony of his only
living son--

who just so happens to be

a medical professional--
Judge Kamer has declared

Lonnie Jackson incompetent

over his person
and property.

Judge Kamer did what?

I'm his legal
guardian now, Aaron.

What's this mean?

It means that he's fired, Dad.

And she's your new lawyer.

And just so you don't feel
left out, Jack,

this is the motion
to have Lonnie Jackson

declared incompetent
to stand trial.

I got a call from my
granddaughter last week.

She says, "Grandpa, I think

you're getting too old
to drive."

I said, "Really, sweetie,

you think I ought to pack in
the old Chevy?"

She said, "No, the Chevy's okay.

It's the Porsche,
I'm worried about."

Sweet thing gets her
driver's license next week.

Well, that's a nice story,

but let's not forget
the poor man in Santa Monica

who drove his car into
a Farmers Market

and killed 11 people.

And nobody spent

a night in jail.

He was 86 years old, Jack.

He didn't have the requisite
mens rea.

He wasn't legally culpable.

And if it were Arthur's
granddaughter behind the wheel,

we'd still be passing the hat
for bail money.

It's different.

Teenage girls
should know better.

The octogenarian knew better,
but he forgot.

He was a danger
to society and to himself.

Well, then let's lock him up
and throw away the key.

There is always
door number three.

Put the burden on the family
to take away the old guy's keys.

Only that flies in the face

of centuries of jurisprudence.

So does living past 80.

Which brings us back

to Mr. Jackson.

A civil court has
already determined

he is incapable of managing
his own affairs.

A criminal court has
different standards.

All we have to do is prove

he's capable
of assisting his attorney.

Which shouldn't be
that hard

considering he found Hitchens
in the first place.

Our computer experts can't
figure out how he did it.

You want to prove he's
competent, that'd do it.

Well, just in case,

I've arranged for our shrink
to sit with him.

Big difference in being
old and being crazy.

Nobody's saying
you're crazy, Mr. Jackson.

You're a shrink, aren't you?

I want to find out
if you are competent to...

Stand trial, right?

Same difference.

Not really,

it's not.

A crazy person can get his
e-mail off his computer,

only he thinks it's coming
from men from outer space.

While a competent man knows

the e-mail's from that
ingrate they call a son.

You have problems
with your son, Paul?

He's the one who sicced
the psychiatric dogs on me

in the first place.

Tell me about Mr. Hitchens.

You mean the one
they say I shot.

Well, I never heard of him
so how could I have killed him.

The prosecutor seems to think
he stole your identity

and used it to re-mortgage
your house...

Now that would be incompetent
on my part,

letting something
like that happen.

A man who would let that happen

should be put in a home.

Sure, he's forgetful.

So am I.

But you're not worried
about being put away

for forgetting
your phone number.

I'm sure nobody was
going to do that.

No, I'm sure you're right.

But this was more
than just forgetting

his phone number
or his name.

He lost his house
of 50 years.

No. It was stolen from him
by some computer con artist.

Yeah, you see it
like that.

But Lonnie Jackson-- he sees it
as a consequence getting old.

That scares
the hell out of him, Jack.

Is he competent enough
to help his attorney?

Absolutely.

And I'm looking forward
to watching Shambala Green

try to prove otherwise.

It wasn't just one thing
with Dad.

He screwed up a lot.

Screwed up--
how so, Dr. Jackson?

At first, we would
make plans for dinner,

and he wouldn't show up,
or he'd go

to the wrong restaurant.

Anything more significant?

He forgot the names
of my kids all the time.

Sometimes
he'd forget my name

or my wife's name.

Anything else?

He started buying
these stocks

that were worthless,

because one of his
senile friends at the VFW

told him they were going
to be hot.

Any physical signs?

About a year ago,

he passed out
while driving his car.

Luckily, no one was hurt.

He hit an electric pole,
and I told him that

I was going to take
his license away,

and he said no one would take
his freedom from him.

Thank you.

When was the last time
your dad saw his grandchildren?

Maybe a couple of years ago.

Did you send him
photos of them?

No.

Digital pictures
over the Internet?

No.

Then maybe
it's not so surprising

that he forgets their names
every once in a while.

Now, these stocks
he bought

on recommendation of his friend,

do you remember what they were?

The names, no,
but I can tell you this,

he lost money on all of them.

Really. How much?

About $1,500.
But that's not the point.

How much did you lose
in the market, Dr. Jackson?

Objection. Relevance.

Overruled.

The point is,
I'm trying

to keep my father out of jail.

He's 79 years old,

and he obviously
did not know

what he was doing
when he killed that man.

Gee,

I thought he was innocent
until proven guilty.

Objection.
Withdrawn.

Answer my question,
Dr. Jackson.

How much money did you lose
in the stock market last year?

About $180,000.

Makes you wonder
who the incompetent one is

in this family.

Your Honor,
objection!

Withdrawn.

Lonnie Jackson
has always been someone

who cares about his family
and other people.

Have you noticed any changes
in Mr. Jackson?

Nah.

He still wears
that same silly bow tie.

I think it went out of style
in the '40s.

But what a man wears

doesn't bear upon
what kind of man he is.

Lonnie Jackson is a good man.

He treats people fairly,

he minds his Ps and Qs,
says thank you,

and he always opens the door
for a lady.

And you've been friends
for a long time?

Since the war--

the big one.

Lonnie was a good soldier,
wasn't he?

The best.

Medals for marksmanship.

You should have seen him shoot.

Like no one I've ever seen.

And I bet he hasn't lost a step
in all these years.

Hell, no.

Me and him,
we go to the range and...

What do I know, anyway?

Does Mr. Jackson ever talk
about his wife?

Oh, yes.

He talks about her all the time.

He must love her very much.

Yes, he does.

The last time I saw him,

he was telling me
about a walk

that he and Emma took
just the other day

on the boardwalk

at Atlantic City.

The wind blowing
through her hair...

Tell me, sir, when did

Emma Jackson pass away?

1976.

How did you find out

that your house
had been mortgaged,
Mr. Jackson?

That's not so difficult.

I did it myself.

I should know.

I signed the papers.

Of course you did.

And what did you
do with the money
that you received?

I was planning

on taking a trip
around the world.

Well, that's nice.

What bank did you
deposit it in?

I forgot.

Isn't that a lie, sir?

Isn't the truth that
you were swindled
out of your money?

That someone you never met,
let alone heard of,

used your name,
signed some papers

and walked away with
your life savings.

No. That is not true.

And isn't it
also true that

you didn't even know
that you'd been evicted
from your own house

until the marshal
dumped you and all
of your belongings

out onto the street corner

in front of your
friends and neighbors?

No.
And isn't it true

that you didn't go to the bank
or to the police to complain

because you
were humiliated?

I'm ashamed of nothing
I've done, young lady.

Do you know what a pyrrhic
victory is, Mr. Jackson?

I'm not really sure.

That's when you win

but you really lose.

Like this hearing.

If I win, I get to say
that you're competent,

in which case, I get to
go into another courtroom

and try to prove that you
did something I know you did

but at the same time
I can't prove.

So why don't we
just call it a day?

It's what they call

going through
the motions.

It's what
I get paid for.

So you'll bear with me?
Sure.

Okay. So, what do I know?

I know that somehow
Mr. Hitchens picked you

out of a grab bag
as the perfect patsy.

That's easy--
everything's on
the Internet.

The fact that you
were 79 years old,

that you owned a piece
of property, free and clear,

worth nearly a million dollars.

But the best thing from
Mr. Hitchens' point of view

was that someone like you
could never track him down.

Because I'm old?
You said it.

Our computer experts
have worked on this for weeks.

They came up empty.

Maybe they aren't
as sharp as me.

Let's be serious,

Mr. Jackson.

You forget your
grandchildren's names.

How could you
possibly figure...

Do you know how long it took me?

Three days.

To find him, to kill him,

to get rid of the gun.

Objection, Your Honor.

I am not incompetent.

It's all of you
who are incompetent.

Not me. Not me.

Recess, Your Honor?

That's fine with me.

All I know is,
he just confessed

on the record.
At a competency hearing,

the subject of which obviously
is still very much in dispute.

I'm an old man,
you know.

I'm not dead.

Yeah, I forget what day
of the week it is sometimes,

but is that such
an important thing?

I've got a mind...

that works just fine.

Do you know why I didn't
report this to the cops?

Because my loving son,

who sends me a Christmas card

and maybe a call
for my birthday,

would have had me
put away in some
kind of home.

At least
we'd still own the house.

It's not what you own, son.

It's what you are.

I'm just an old man

who deserves to die
in the bed he worked to pay for.

Do you realize what it's like
to wake up one day

and everything is gone?

That I'm invisible?

I've been erased.

I worked
my whole life,

I bought that house,
I had no debt...

...and this man...

this monster
pushes a few buttons

and poof!

It's over.

I'm gone.

That Hitchens robbed me of me.

He stole my soul.

We'll see what we can do
about getting

your property back,
Mr. Jackson.
What's the point?

It's the computers, you know.

Taking the place
of human contact.

This all started because
of the computer you gave me

to keep me company

so you wouldn't have
to pay me no visits.

My first e-mail--

it's from a company,

"Do you want to win
a million bucks?"

So, what the hell,
I filled it out and returned it.

Dad, I warned you
about those companies.

And you were right, son,

but I filled out the form,

Langford Lewis Jackson.

Now, nobody knows me
as Langford.

That's how Hitchen's
knew your real name

to get your social
security number.

And that's also how

I knew the e-mail address

of the S.O.B.
who was ripping me off.

But you still didn't know
Hitchens' name

or where he lived.

There's something to be said

for almost 80 years of charm,
young lady.

I talked to the nice woman
at the Internet carrier,

and she was more than happy
to help an old man

find his granddaughter.

I told her I forgot
my granddaughter's
last name,

but I had her e-mail address,

and I wanted
to give her a call.

She was sweet
to help me out.

Did you know there's

a reverse directory
on the Internet?

I got his address.

And you went there to kill him.

I just wanted

my money back.

So I took what's worth
a whole hell of a lot more--

my pride...

my dignity...

my self-respect.

Me.

I took back me!

Me!

Jack...

we'll talk.

He'll do ten
in minimum security.

Not bad for a murderer.

If you ask me, I think his son
should do some of that time.

You can't put this
on Paul Jackson.

He's just a 50-year-old man

trying to live his own life
as best he can.

Funny thing, Serena,
when I was your age,

Paul Jackson would
have been considered
one of the elderly.

And when the Framers
were that age,

they couldn't conceive
of a population living past 80.