All language subtitles for Law & Order s14e02 Bounty.eng

[Man Narrating]
In the criminal justice system,

the people are represented by two separate
yet equally important groups...

the police, who investigate crime,

and the district attorneys,
who prosecute the offenders.

These are their stories.

Really chuggin' along, huh?

Look, if you can't write...
I'm thinking, all right?

You know, in Florida...
Vonnegut never had to deal with this.

Screw you, okay?

- It's been goin' on for an hour!
- I'll call the desk.

Screw that!

The music's so loud, he can't
even hear me. Hey, buttwipe! Hey!

He could be an ax murderer.
Then I'll call the police.

He was a pervert who liked
listening to loud music.

That's all we know!
And you know this because...

Because I can add
one and one together. Hey!

Jeffrey is in the middle of a novel.
Jeffrey is about to be in the middle of Rikers.

Look. We never even met the guy.
We only found him because Jeffrey couldn't concentrate...

with the music blasting.
Was the music on all day?

No. Actually, just tonight.

It started...
I don't know. Maybe 9:00.

Okay. Hang here, okay?
[Briscoe] Well, how long has he been here?

He took the room for a week.
Checked in on Monday.

He have a name?
Bob.

What?
What is that, like Cher?

Huh?
Did Bob have a last name?

Well, this ain't exactly
the Four Seasons.

The guy pays for a week in cash,
I don't ask any questions.

He's never been
any trouble before.

Before what? Monday?
Huh?

I usually take the towels.
Looks like a couple of cracks to the skull with this did the trick.

That's why I always get
a nonsmoking room.

The manager's a bust.
Same with the neighbors.

He's been dead two hours, tops.
There's no clothes or luggage in the closet.

Tell me we found
a driver's license. Not that lucky.

No business cards?
Man, not even a toothbrush.

I have a feeling
whoever did this has strict rules against kissing on the mouth.

Detectives.

[Chattering On Police Radio]
"Don't leave home without it."

Skull cracked in two places.
Acute cerebral hemorrhaging.

Good news: Death came quickly.
And the bad news?

My cable's on the fritz.

Last meal, chili dogs.

Mustard and relish?
Tabasco.

In that neighborhood,
that's fine dining.

No defensive wounds.
That's odd.

Yeah, the fun part for these guys is
the struggle after they've been tied up.

Or so I've heard.

Guy checks into a sleazeball hotel
on 10th Avenue,

pays cash, has chili dogs for dinner...

doesn't strike me as a guy
who'd waste 20 bucks on a manicure.

Elementary, my dear Rodgers.

You run the piece?

Not registered. We're checking
where it began its life.

Look, she already had him tied up.

If all she wanted was
what he had in the room,

she didn't have to kill him.
If she didn't want to be I.D.'d, she did.

Believe me. Guys who are into
what this guy was into...

don't file too many complaints.

- Check with S. V.U. Anyway.
- We did. No similar M.O.'s, and latents led nowhere.

The guy...
[Briscoe] Bob.

Checked in alone?

- Mm-hmm. And nobody saw
any guests arrive. - Great!

- He had a manicure.
- Would you stop it with the manicure.

Hey, I don't get manicures, do you?

Ed, I got the phone records
from the hotel.

Your guy only made one call
in two days.

You run it down?
I did.

And got voice mail.
You're gonna love the message.

[Woman] Hi, guy. Cosette here.
Well, not here, exactly.

Leave a name and number.
I'm available for out call only.

[Beeps]
What time was the call?

8:32.
F. Scott Fitzstupid... next door...

- said the music went on around 9:00.
- Where'd the hooker live?

East Village.

Cab would get her to the Clinton
in 20 minutes.

[Sighs] Great.
Quota time, huh?

You'd think with all the crap in the city,
you'd find a real criminal to hock.

I'll pay the fine. For the record,
which one of the wives complained?

Actually, we haven't contacted
the deceased's family yet.

- Deceased?
- Yeah, that tends to happen when you bash somebody's brains in.

Whoa! What are we talking about?

Your client, Cosette.

- The one you left tied to the bed.
- Hey, I don't do kink.

And my date was ordering a French dip
from room service when I left.

That's a good story. It's too bad the Clinton
Hotel doesn't have room service.

The Clinton... Where's that?
I was at the Monarch.

Oh, yeah? What room?

2716.
A guy named "Glen"?

- I'm calling my lawyer.
- You can call him from the precinct.

The nice officers downstairs
will escort you.

[Water Running]
Could we make this quick? My wife's in the shower.

Your wife?
Yeah, she just flew in from Boise.

- Um, I came ahead on business.
- And hired a private consultant?

Look. It was my first time.
[Gasping]

How often do I get to the city?
Uh, the concierge. Um, um, Douglas.

He's the one who gave me her name.
How long was Cosette here?

You mean, in the room?
Uh, 8:00 to 10:00.

The M.E. Says
he died around 9:00. Died?

Who died?
Maybe Douglas had more than one girl on his list.

- Look, my-my wife...
- Go. Go.

[Door Closes]

Sorry. I don't think
he's a guest here.

We're more interested in
whether or not you got him a date.

I don't know what you're talking about.

Glen, in 2716,
would argue otherwise.

Look, I've known Cosette forever.

She would never get involved
in something like that.

Just your all-American
girl next door, huh? That's right.

Sometimes, I send
business her way. So what?

It's called pimping.
I refer business...

to an entrepreneur as a courtesy.

I never take a nickel from her.
[Chuckles]

So what about the rest
of the girls on your block?

What's that supposed to mean?
Do you refer any other girls?

No way.
Thanks.

So Bob's all alone in the big city.
He gets an itch. The recommended scratcher's out and about.

So, he goes to Plan "B"
for backup.

But Bob only made the one call,
and the itch is gettin' real bad, so...

You don't think he was
dumb enough to leave a message?

Even after you erase a message,
it remains in the system for 48 hours.

Nothin' like peekin'
at somebody's privates, huh?

It's for the customer's benefit
if he should erase something by mistake.

But I'm sure you're never
so thoughtless. I don't have voice mail.

Uh, Melba, this number belongs to a girl
who's involved in prostitution.

Maybe murder. So if you could
help us out, we'd really appreciate it.

What time?
8:32.

[Man]
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.
[Briscoe] Where do you meet him?

I got news for you, Cosette.

There's no such thing as
"hooker-client confidentiality."

Uh... [Chuckles]
For good customers, I, uh...

- provide a place.
- Nothin' like a home office.

He says he lives in the city.
But Douglas referred him.

Sure, I guess.
What does he look like?

Better yet, maybe
you should pick him out.

Let's go, Cosette.
Another road trip.

I'd love to help you, but
I've never seen that face before.

[Briscoe] He said you
gave him Cosette's number.

He lied. Believe me,
in my business I hear a lot of lies.

- And what business is that?
- I'm a financial reporter for the Ledger.

Well, maybe it was
a friend of a friend.

I've got a wife and a three-year-old.
She's not something I talk about.

- Uh, nothin' personal, babe.
- Oh, not to worry.

I'm a stand-up guy. If one
of my buddies was murdered,

I'd be the first to help you
find the slut who did it.

If it's okay, my wife's got a leg oflamb
about to come out of the oven.

Sorry, Arnie.
Tuesday?

So?
[Briscoe] We'll be in touch.

You know, there's still
the manicure angle.

What angle?
Tenth Avenue, in the 40s.

How many nail-clippers can
there be within walking distance of the Clinton Hotel?

Yes, yes, I know.
I remember.

Is he a customer of yours?
One time.

Two days before.
Before what?

You mean two days ago.
Yes! A-Ago. Yes.

Nice man! Strong hand.

Uh, did he pay cash?
Cash?

Yes. Ten dollar tip!

- Mr. Philly.
- That's his name, Mr. Philly?

[Chuckles]
No, no. Name Bob.

Philly from where he live.
But he travel much.

Tucson. Before that,
he say New Hampshire.

- And, uh, Charleston.
- And he's got the frequent flyer miles to prove it.

No.! Bob not fly. Bob drive.

Which means Bob had to park.
Thank you.

Whatever they told you
at Safe Park on 11 th, we got the best weekly rates in town.

And you're just a sand wedge
from the Clinton Hotel. My lifeline.

Pennsylvania car.
Here she is. Buick.

You really don't need a warrant?

Bob said it was okay.

Pop the trunk, Ed.

Uh, I think you got a customer.
He'll keep.

I won't.

Hey, Ed!
Yeah.

Whole bunch of stuff
about Mitchell Maas. The rich kid rapist?

The fugitive rich kid rapist.

An entire police report.

Court papers.

Maybe Bob was a stalker.
Or a bounty hunter.

The car's registered to Robert Rovelli.
Better known as "Bob."

"Bobcat." The Philly police
know him well.

"Bobcat Rovelli.
Have gun, will travel."

Even if it is unregistered.

Word is, Bobcat's an
"outside the box" kind of guy.

This Mitch Maas is a piece of work.

Ten million dollar trust fund,
and he's out date-raping ski bunnies.

You think he graduated to murder?

[Briscoe]
Nah. Guys on the run don't make house calls.

Tell me something.
You come into a strange town, what's the first thing you do?

Search the Yellow Pages
for the best rib joint.

You call home, the office... someone
to let them know you made it okay.

You said this guy, Bobcat, made only
one call from his room to the call girl.

I'm thinkin', even bounty hunters
have families.

So one of the personal items
taken from the hotel room might have been a cell phone.

On which he called
itch-scratcher number two.

You got the name,
look up the number.

[Keyboard Clicking,
Phone Ringing]

Bobcat? Nope, that I'd remember.

A.k.a. Robert
or Bob Rovelli?

Sorry.
[Briscoe] That's funny, because our phone records show...

that Bobcat called you
three times the other day.

I'm a reporter at
the New York Sentinel. You can't imagine how many calls I get.

Mr. Rovelli's shortest call
was almost four minutes, Mr. Kellogg.

Rovelli. Sure. My bad.

Yeah, we spoke. I told him
the same thing I told the F.B.I. After the interview was published.

- What interview?
- Last week, I published an interview with Mitchell Maas.

- He's the bookstore heir, convicted of...
- Maas, we know.

So, what exactly
did you tell the F.B.I.?

That Maas called me out of the blue
here at the office.

I had no idea
where he was calling me from.

The feds traced the call and discovered
it was from a throwaway cell phone.

[Briscoe] A phone interview
with a notorious fugitive's...

gotta add a couple of numbers
to your paycheck.

A follow-up interview might even
move the decimal point.

What? Kellogg had
a manicure too?

Hey, what if Maas promised
to call Kellogg from the road from time to time?

Oh, I got you.
A promise wouldn't mean squat...

if a bounty hunter
slapped chains on him.

Kellogg calls Maas and warns him
that Bobcat's on the scent.

Only that shoots your theory of
fugitives and house calls all to hell.

Maas kills Bobcat and calls Cosette
to send the dogs sniffing in the wrong direction.

Only how would Maas
get her number?

Maybe Kellogg is
a friend of Cosette's too.

Birds of a feather
still drink together.

Especially reporter birds.

Brian comes out of nowhere.
Big smile, hearty handshake.

Boom! You know, he's headed
to theJournalist Hall of Fame.

Left my sorry butt in the dust.

Well, sounds like
you knew him pretty well.

Yeah, I used to be
at the Sentinel.

Five years in the Metropolitan section.
I rewrote Kellogg's first piece.

Now look... Mitch Maas
calls him personally.

You know that's gonna turn
into a book, or a movie, or...

who knows what.

If I sound jealous, I am.
But Kellogg has talent. You can't take that from him.

How long did you say
you've been seeing Cosette?

That again? [Sighs]
I don't know.

- Uh, five years. Why?
- So that started back when...

you were still bendin' elbows
with Kellogg. Yeah.

But no. I never told Brian about it.
Like I told you,

my personal life I keep personal.

Besides, Brian's single.
He gets all the pu...

Put it this way. He does
just fine in that department...

without any professional help.

[Telephone Ringing]
Forensics says the latents in Rovelli's hotel room...

aren't even close to Maas's.

Tell you what: Kellogg can write.
Listen to this.

"I imagine Maas sitting wherever he was,
in some coffee shop in Houston,

"some gas station in Tampa,
the tic over his left eye starting to flutter uncontrollably...

as he started to bare his soul."

So, did he cop to raping the girls?
Claims that they were after his money from the get-go.

A rich rapist claiming frame.
That's original.

You know what bothers me?
Besides the Mets?

I read all of these articles,
the police reports, the witness depositions...

Not one of them mentions a tic
fluttering over Maas's eye.

Poetic license.
Maybe.

Or Kellogg met with him
face-to-face.

[Kellogg Chuckles]
My compliments. You caught me.

Mitchell Maas and I broke bread...
steaks, actually... a couple of days before I published the interview.

What about the four-hour phone call
the F.B.I. Traced?

I had to call my machine.
You never considered dropping a dime on Maas?

Why would I?
Maybe to be a good citizen?

Maybe so he wouldn't rape
somebody else's daughter?

That's not my job, is it?
You see? That's why you guys are movin' to...

the top of America's
most-despised list.

No, Lennie, it's what's comin' next
that earns him that honor. That's right, Detective.

Anything Mitchell Maas
and I might have discussed is protected by law.

And it didn't bother you
that he might have recently moved up to murder?

My readers trust the Sentinel.
What would happen to that trust if I started betraying sources?

Your crime writers
would have less to do.

And if Deep Throat couldn't rely on
Woodward and Bernstein's confidence,

Nixon's face might be
on a mountain.

The courts used a balancing test,
and the people's right to know came out on top.

What about the people's right
to watch a rapist-murderer rot?

Uh-oh.
Slippery slope time, Lennie.

Well, Albany stopped the slide for good
with a statute that says we can't force a reporter to disclose anything...

a source tells him in confidence.
So it's "Take a Felon to Dinner Week" all year long?

Yeah, as long as you write
about it afterwards.

Dinner?
Kellogg says he had steaks with Maas.

Yeah, who paid?
My money's on the guy with the New York Sentinel expense account.

So what you're telling me is,
Kellogg knew Maas was a fugitive and aided his escape.

Hold on. You want to charge
a reporter with accessory after?

If it'll convince him to help us
locate Maas, why not?

Stop the presses!
Very funny.

Brian Kellogg, you're under
arrest for aiding and abetting a number of felonies.

The good news is
you got another exclusive.

You have the right to remain silent.
Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.

Docket number 298463,
People v. Brian Pierce Kellogg.

Charges: Harboring a fugitive
and accessory after the fact.

- Talk to me, Mr. Kellogg.
- My attorney should be arriving shortly, Your Honor.

He snooze, you lose.

- Give me a plea.
- I'd prefer to...

This is not a Chinese restaurant,
Mr. Kellogg.

There are only two choices available.
Pick one.

- [Man] Innocent, Your Honor.
- [Judge] 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.

[Gavel Bangs]

So Vinnie the Chin takes a seat
at the bar in O'Malley's Tavern.

He tells Mr. O'Malley that he's throwing
a "Sweet 16" for his granddaughter...

and that O'Malley has two options:
He can supply the liquid refreshment free of charge...

or watch his establishment
burn to a crisp.

Very colorful, Mr. Dworkin.
Extortion always is.

Now, let's look at what
you're doing to my client.

The difference is Mr. O'Malley
wasn't committing any crime.

Look, you know as well as I do,
I don't want to do this.

Just tell me what you know
about Maas. What a relief.

Talk, or go to jail for
facilitating a continuing felony!

You know, when they came
and took away my Fourth Amendment,

I kept my yap shut... what the hell!
I really didn't have anything to hide anyway.

When they grabbed up
my Second Amendment, I sat still and bit my tongue...

because, truth be told,
I'm allergic to guns.

But here we are, you with
your cold, hard fingers...

wrapped around the neck
of my First Amendment,

and I've got to shout as loud
as I can, because if I don't,

before you know it, you won't
let me say nothin' at all.

My motion to dismiss
on the grounds of everything that makes this country not Iraq.

Judge Murphy cut Dworkin off
before he had a chance to get started.

Don't tell me he said it was
an issue of fact for the jury.

That's exactly what he said.
Brave man.

I know I wouldn't want the op-ed page
looking over my shoulder 24/7.

I suspect this will convince Mr. Kellogg
to hit all the high notes.

Some reporters actually consider
going to jail to protect their sources a badge of honor.

Yeah, spending a couple of weeks
in a holding cell for contempt...

is a far cry from a couple of years
in Attica for facilitation.

The judge wants facts.
I suggest we pile up as many as we can.

I'll start with the people
who work with Kellogg.

Thousands of reporters
spread across the map...

Who does the fugitive du jour
pick? Brian Kellogg.

Believe me. That's a career.
The interview upped our circulation 10%.

And I'm sure Kellogg
was rewarded handsomely.

People don't
go into journalism to get rich. They do it to get the next story.

Are you saying Mitchell Maas
promised Kellogg another interview?

I wouldn't know.
But I wouldn't be surprised if he promised Brian his firstborn.

That's just the kind of guy
Brian is.

Do you know where they had dinner?

Why? You gonna lock me up too?

[Chuckles]
Sorry.

I only read what you did.

Brian's not the worst boss
I ever had.

But he's not the best?
Hey, you know. Every now and then I'd like to do more than take a letter or get coffee.

Tell me about it.
Ah, what can I say? I guess he's under a lot of pressure.

What kind of pressure?
Publish or perish.

The man's gotta fill
two columns a week.

He comes across cucumber-cool
to everyone else,

but I know what's really goin' on.

Why don't you tell me?
Well, I suppose this-this couldn't hurt him.

Here's a for instance.

Schultzie wanted someone
to do a piece...

about the investors who were
destroyed during the Enron thing.

So Brian volunteers.
Like it's nothing.

I read that piece.
I can't believe he got some of those people to talk.

Yeah. Well, that's Brian.

Now, to the rest of the staff,
Brian comes across like, "Hey, piece of cake!"

Mm-mm. Between you,
me and the coffee pot, he was a wreck.

So, can I assume that someone who
doesn't make their own coffee...

doesn't make their own
dinner reservations?

Hmm. Most of the time, yeah.
But, when he met with Maas, he flew solo.

So where does he usually
go for steak?

The Palm.
But not this time.

- How do you know?
- Well, because this time, he took a company car.

And that would have been
a little extravagant, 'cause it's like two blocks away.

I don't know. Maybe I thought
you'd find a book of matches or something.

You sure nobody drove it
since Kellogg took it out?

Yeah, that's what
they tell me. Why? Well, it's a long shot.

Hey. According to
the navigation system, the last person that used this car...

went to 25 Oak Tree Lane
in Greenwich, Connecticut.

Could be where Kellogg met Maas.
Or it could be the golf club where the editors do their "research."

What the hell?
We have nothing else.

Isn't that the playboy from Vail?

Mitchell Maas. Good eye.
Money. Family. Looks. Makes you wonder what went wrong.

Has he spent any time here?
A rapist? Here in Greenwich?

There's a chance.
How about this guy?

Does this look like a halfway house?

I'll be.
That looks like Mr. Smith.

- Nice fellow. What did he do?
- Why don't you tell us?

- Well, he and the wife...
- Mr. And Mrs. Smith? You bought that?

No, but I don't pry.

I certainly doubt that he's
the first gentleman to use our facility to step out on the missus.

You get anything beside "Smith"?

- I believe he called her Denise.
- Can I take a look at your registration book, please?

Kellogg checked into his motel
in Greenwich three nights straight.

On the last night, his car was in the lot
from 6:00 until the following morning.

That was the night of the seventh.
Which is the same night he was supposed to be having dinner with Mitchell Maas.

Exactly. And the motel manager
said that he and this Denise didn't have any visitors.

And they only went out for a cozy dinner
for two at a coffee shop at around 9:30.

So that leaves us with
two possibilities, Jack.

Either Kellogg got the date wrong,
or he didn't have dinner with Maas.

I know it's crazy, but I showed
Kellogg's photo to people at Bobcat's hotel.

And a custodian said that
he saw someone that looked a lot like Kellogg...

waiting for an elevator.

Maybe it's not that crazy.

The last entry on Bobcat's map
was on the second.

He was looking for Maas in Tucson.

He was headed for Los Angeles,
only he never made it.

Instead, he winds up dead
in a hotel on 10th Avenue.

Bobcat highlighted every
move he made on this map.

Why didn't he highlight
his trip east?

Because he didn't come east
looking for Maas; he came east looking for Kellogg.

Wait a minute.
When was that interview published?

On the 10th?

Yeah, the 10th.

That's the day that Bobcat
changed directions.

So he might have read something
in that interview to make him think that the ace reporter...

made up the whole thing.
Kellogg lied to his editors about the phone call from Maas,

and he lied to the cops
about their dinner. But making up an interview entirely?

The bottom line is: Who would be
better equipped to realize...

that the interview was bogus than
someone who had lived and breathed Mitchell Maas for almost a year?

And then he came to New York
to blackmail Kellogg.

An easier buck than chasing Maas
from coast-to-coast.

See if you can find out what it was
that inspired Bobcat's trip east.

And if I can?
Refile.

Charge Kellogg with murder two.

Congratulations! You squeezed the hunk
of coal hard enough, a diamond popped out.

Les jeux sont faits.
Consider the white flag raised.

Brian has agreed to tell you
everything he omitted from his published interview with Mitchell Maas.

No longer good enough.
Hey.

I love a costume party as much as
the next guy, but no amount of makeup...

is going to turn Brian into a murderer.
[Chuckles]

- Or a reporter.
- Tell that to his millions ofloyal readers, why don't you?

One page two of your interview,
you wrote about Mitchell Maas's passion for baseball.

How, since he went on the run,
the thing he misses most is his box seat...

beside the dugout in Coors Field.
Hey, somebody's got to root for the Rockies.

Why do you suppose that
particular line is underlined...

in Bobcat Rovelli's copy
of the interview?

Well, we didn't know either,
so we checked with Coors Field,

and they told us that Maas's seats
were behind home plate.

This is what you're hanging
your hat on? A literary flourish?

To Bobcat, it was a red flag.

It told him... Mr. Kellogg might have
fabricated the entire interview.

[Chuckles]
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?

[McCoy] It had to be a lot, to give up
his hunt for a million dollars.

Pay up or be exposed as a fraud.

My feeling is...

you really couldn't afford either.

Uh, what say we reconvene?

The People will show
that Bobcat Rovelli...

caught the defendant
in a very public lie.

That Mr. Rovelli discovered the lie
and threatened to expose him.

That his ego, or pride,

could not or would not allow that.

So he went to Mr. Rovelli's hotel room,

and cracked his skull
with an ashtray,

killing him instantly, and then,
with utter disregard for the consequences,

he tried to frame
an innocent party...

by staging an aborted sex scene.

Mr. Kellogg has no defense,
he has no excuse.

He's guilty of murder
in the second degree.

You know that dream...
where you show up at work,

and you're naked?

In my version,
the day starts off great.

I actually get a seat
on the Number 2 train.

In the elevator, Susie, from down
the hall, flashes a wink and a grin.

Then, smack in the middle of my
presentation to a roomful of partners,

I see my reflection in the window.

Not the suave, well-coiffed devil
you see in front of you, mind you,

but a bony-butted...

- You can imagine the rest!
- Your Honor, what has this got to do with...

Brian Kellogg saw
that reflection every day.

He was petrified that those
around him would see it too.

He was scared that they would
see past his facade...

his cocky grin, his air of competence,

and see him for what
he really was: A fraud.

A man forced to play a role
that he was totally unable to audition for, let alone play.

And who is it that forced him
into that role?

It was you. It was me.

It was all of us!
All of us who allow a policy of racial preference...

- Your Honor!
- All of us who sit by and let the government force institutions...

such as the New York Sentinel
to put less-than-competent people into positions...

solely to assuage
some sort ofhistorical guilt.

I want the entire opening statement
stricken from the record...

as irrelevant and misleading.

I'll see counsel in my chambers.

I want a mistrial!
It's jury nullification, Your Honor.

Who, me?
Most defense attorneys have the decency to wait...

until closing arguments
to try and confuse the jury...

with completely irrelevant,
absurdly emotional facts.

Prosecution is permitted to speculate
as to motive.

The defense should therefore be
permitted to prove it is just that, utter speculation,

by offering evidence as to
the defendant's actual motive.

Affirmative action
made him do it.

Well, if you want to split hairs,
it's really equal opportunity. Your Honor...

No. This, I want to hear.
Unrealistic expectations, Judge.

They create enormous pressures.
Who can argue that pressure doesn't mitigate a defendant's mens rea?

I can't. Can you? And as
we all learned in first year crim,

a lesser degree of mental culpability
is the essential difference between murder and manslaughter,

which in turn is the difference
between a defendant dying in prison...

and getting out in time to dance
at his daughter's wedding, God willing.

- Offer him man one, Mr. McCoy.
Save us all the migraine. - Out of the question!

[Softly] It's your head.
Well, defense is certainly entitled to argue...

You can't.!
I just did.

It's like being kicked by a mule.

It's a baseless argument, Arthur.
Juries don't baffle as easily as Mr. Dworkin thinks.

Yeah, but you have to admit,
it is creative.

A lot of people are frustrated
by affirmative action.

Affirmative action does not apply
to the Sentinel, and even if it did,

it isn't relevant to this case.
I know that and you know that,

- but a jury...
- Will vote against it.

Thank you, Sandra Day,
for deciding not to decide.

Don't go there, Arthur.
Why? Because I get a rash...

when I see five of the nine justices
in Washington rewriting the 14th Amendment?

The 14th Amendment forbids
discrimination based on race, not assistance.

"Give the black man a chance
to stand on his own legs.

"Let him alone.

Your interference
is doing him positive injury."

But Frederick Douglass didn't know
that 140 years later, so much would not have changed.

- Sounds like white guilt.
- We're leveling the playing field once and for all.

You see, if Dworkin has
the two of you arguing about it,

a jury doesn't stand a chance.

I've got the law;
I've got the facts.

All Dworkin has is hoopla.

I'll ignore it and convict
the son of a bitch.

Back when I worked at the Sentinel,
Brian and I were pretty close.

[McCoy]
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.

[McCoy]
But it was in the Rolodex you kept on your desk.

Sure.

And, uh, you left the Sentinel
because you got a better offer?

[Chuckles]
I left because they didn't appreciate my work.

How do you know?
I was there for five years before Brian showed up.

- Ayear later, I'm working for him.
- Pissed you off to no end, huh?

I'm human.
And did you complain, like any human would?

Sure. I went to Mr. Schultz,
the managing editor.

I said the whole thing was bull,
that Brian didn't have the experience.

[Dworkin]
And what did Mr. Schultz say?

That there were other considerations.

That I should just
bite the bullet on this one.

I'd have to say...
I thought the Maas piece would be the interview of the year.

Did you do any sort of fact check
after you read the piece?

How could I? Brian told me
he spoke to Maas over the phone.

He didn't know where he was.
Which turned out to be a lie.

When I found out, I confronted him.
He told me that Maas insisted that no one ever know...

that they met face-to-face.
And you believed him?

I had no reason not to.
We stand for integrity at the Sentinel.

Most articles are fact-checked twice.
Interviews are approved.

- Our readers rely on that.
- How would they react if they learned that...

one of your star reporters
actually fabricated an interview?

Once you lose the public's trust,
it's next to impossible to get it back.

And what would happen to a reporter...

if it were discovered
that he made up stories?

He would never work again.

If any reporter
other than Brian Kellogg...

misled you about the circumstances
surrounding an interview,

what would you do?
It depends.

- On whether he was black?
- Absolutely not.

We depend on the totality
of the circumstances.

- The nature of the so-called lie.
- Really? We'll get back to that.

You know what I don't get?

Mr. Kellogg was writing obituaries
when he got to the paper.

But three months later,
he was on the Metro desk.

- He was good.
- Ayear later, he was a senior editor. Sounds more like he was great.

- Was he great, Mr. Schultz?
- My people must have thought so.

And he was wearing the right color skin.

I like to think of myself
as color blind, Mr. Dworkin.

Yes, we hire talented minorities.

We try, as best we can,
to keep a world perspective.

Let's pretend one of
your reporters publishes a story containing out-and-out lies.

Would you consider such insubordination
to be a fireable offense?

- Yes.
- Yet nothing happened to Mr. Kellogg...

when he wrote about a mythical
phone call with Mitchell Maas.

Why is that?

[Chattering]

Seems like old times.
You jab, I cross.

You're not cute.
My nana would disagree.

You know what? I'm tired of you.
I'm tired of defense attorneys obfuscating facts...

with prejudice.
"Zealous representation." I'm sure you've heard of it.

I don't believe that includes
the denigration of an entire race.

An entire race didn't hire me.
An individual did.

It's destructive.
You want destructive?

Let's talk about a social policy
that stigmatizes blacks as inferior...

by rendering all of their accomplishments,
per se, suspect.

If the one judging the achievements
happens to be a member of the Klan.

Really? Okay.

Uh, you're sick. No.
Your daughter is gravely ill,

and only major surgery will save her.

And you're lucky enough to have
the choice between two surgeons...

one white and one not-so-white...
which do you choose?

My choice would have
nothing to do with race.

Fair enough. Uh, they both grew up
in the same block in Queens,

they both went to Harvard...
Come on, Jack!

Can you honestly tell me
that it would never cross your mind...

that Dr. "B" maybe got a little boost
climbing over the ivy-covered walls?

While Dr. "A" was a legacy!
Okay. Let's try this.

The powers that be
at a major corporation...

parade a couple of black faces
in front of the wondrous white multitude.

They pat themselves on the back,
but do you suppose one of them ever stops to think...

what that parade actually does
to those marching in it?

You mean, providing otherwise
unavailable opportunity?

Opportunity is not opportune
when it's accompanied by marginalization.

That's backwards!
The denial of opportunity created marginalization.

And there's one word
for that: Racism.

Ooh, the "R" word.

The most dangerous weapon
in the leftist arsenal.

Look, Janeane Garofalo herself
can storm into my office...

and tear down the framed photos
of Goodman, Chaney and Schwerner...

that I keep on the wall over my desk
for this, but what the hell.

Affirmative action is the devil.

All it does is tell a black man
that he is first and foremost black.

Do you want racism? Let's put on
our jackboots and define a man...

by his race alone...
now that's racism, with a capital "Heil!"

Gee, do you really believe that?

What I believe
really isn't the issue.

I'm not just tired of you; I'm disgusted.

I'm disgusted that you would take
these global travesties...

and bend them and twist them
and turn them inside out.

Just to get a murderer off.

It's a livin'.

I know how I got thejob
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 wouldjust 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.

[Scoffs]
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 ofhero.
A role model.

They asked me to speak
to kids at the high school.

I was proud...

that I was, all of a sudden, an important
part of the black community.

I get calls from JesseJackson.

Have dinner with Spike Lee.

[Chuckles]
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. [Chuckles]

That's because you can't be in my shoes.

L-I didn't just have to be competent.

L-I had to be superior...

just so people wouldn't think
I was incompetent.

And Bobcat Rovelli...

knew for a fact
that you weren't superior.

You tell me. What if someone else
had been found to fabricate a story?

There'd be a scandal that'd
blow over in a couple of weeks.

But if I'm caught? Well, let's just say
all the wrong people would have...

all the "I told you so's" they wanted.

And that's what you were thinking
when you showed up in Bobcat Rovelli's hotel room?

He took one look at me
and laughed in my face...

and said, "It figures."

That's when I hit him.

If Kellogg was under so much pressure,
he could have quit the damn job.

[Scoffs]
And announce publicly, "I can't hack it?"

Why not? Humans fail.

It's what makes them human.

What, Serena?
It's just, I'm not so sure Kellogg doesn't have a lot more at stake...

every time he leaves his apartment
than I do!

And I think this is all a truckload
of hocus-pocus from Dworkin...

to cover the fact that Brian Kellogg
was more concerned with the trappings of easy success!

The promotions, the paycheck,
the company car,

the trysts in a Connecticut motel
with someone named Diane... Denise.

Have you spoken with her?
We don't even know her last name. There are a lot of Denises in Connecticut.

I want Kellogg down here
first thing in the morning.

A continuance? If you haven't
noticed, I'm on a roll in there.

I'm not asking your permission.

We uncovered a crucial witness.

Who? A busload of nuns ready to testify
that Bobcat was up for sainthood?

No. Just Mr. Kellogg's friend Denise.

Um, I haven't had the pleasure.
A married lady, who your client knows quite intimately.

And her testimony
is relevant because...

To be totally honest, I doubt
if anything she has to say...

would make a difference
to anyone in the courtroom.

Oh.! Silly me.

- I thought "crucial" meant...
- Make a deal.

Are you crazy? We've rounded man one
and are sliding into man two.

That could be 18 months.
No.

We gave it a shot, okay?
It didn't work out.

What can I get?

I'll give you man one.
But you have to do the max.

Twelve and a half to 25 beats the hell
out of 25 to life.

Yeah. Fine.

Sure. Why should I have any idea
what's going on?

I had a dream. I dreamed that
Sandra Day swung the other way,

that the University of Michigan Law
School dropped racial considerations...

in its admission policies altogether.

Oh, you should have been there, Jack!
You should have seen how the white students looked at their black classmates.

How the world treated them
once they graduated.

You can drop it now, Mr. Dworkin.
The trial's over.

Your main problem was,
you had the wrong client.

Well, I can choose my causes,
not my clients.

I still think I could have won,
Denise notwithstanding.

The minute she walked
into the courtroom, all the sympathy you manufactured for Kellogg...

would have backfired in his face.

His dinners with Spike Lee
notwithstanding.

Turns out, he was in
the unique position to know that.

Better than either of us.

Lawyer to lawyer, you never
talked to Denise, did you?

No.
Then how did you know?

I didn't.

But I do know that
I'm barely white enough to live in Greenwich, Connecticut.

[Howling]

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