Palmer goes down to meet Reporter Maureen with his Secret Service people in tow. Maureen is one of those office babes with great hair. She's like an African-American version of CNBC anchor Maria Bartiromo, and she looks really boss in a charcoal-gray business suit that's only slightly reminiscent of the costumes from Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation tour; she has a slightly harried look on her face that only adds to her appeal. Palmer objects as the Secret Service men frisk her, but Reporter Maureen allows it. Finally they are alone, and Palmer goes over their long "history" together. Gee, did these two have an affair? Nah. The clues are too subtle. Palmer wants to know why Reporter Maureen is giving legitimacy to "rumors" started by his "enemies." Reporter Maureen mentions non-shoe-designer George Ferragamo's testimony and reveals a new source of information. The rapist's autopsy report noted some evidence of struggle -- cuts and scratches initially explained away as being from the rape itself. But an hour later, an African-American teenager entered an emergency room one block away with "similar injuries." Maureen had the paperwork analyzed, and the handwriting matched Theo Huxtable's. "I don't give a damn about your experts," says Palmer. "My son never killed anybody!" He promises "consequences" and stomps out. The time is 4:36:56 AM.
Ah, an ad for Kate and Leopold. Where to begin? You know, I'm so glad a movie is finally addressing the problems facing today's society. Women are miserable these days and their lives suck. Oh sure, men and women are all living longer, and there are appliances that make household chores less time-consuming so women can get out of the house and have careers, but let's face it: it's an empty empty existence, because men don't stand up when the owner of a vagina leaves the table. Back in the 1800s, though, men were really really nice. They wore fancy suits, smelled like lavender twenty-four hours a day, and had super-cool names like Tristan and Leopold. Yeah, some historians would have you believe that a gentleman in his thirties back then wouldn't give the time of day to a woman past her childbearing years (i.e. anyone over twenty-one) because of the importance of producing heirs, but that's just sexist bullshit fostered by male academics. Men back in the 1800s remembered birthdays and anniversaries, and because there was no TV back then, they didn't zone out watching ESPN all day. Victorian England was a feminist utopia. God, I wish someone would invent a time machine or something. I don't think I can handle another day without being picked up on horseback.
The time is 4:40:52 AM. Klockwise from the top left, Rick and EFB2 drive, Nina makes phone calls, and Theo Huxtable sleeps. Palmer enters Theo's room, wakes him up, and confronts him about the death of Nicole's rapist. No one cares, but in case someone actually starts to care for some reason, Theo acts indignant, yet doesn't exactly deny killing the rapist. Yes, folks, they're going to drag this out even farther. Oh yeah, and guess what? The Palmers aren't perfect. Apparently, Dad wasn't always around because of his political career. Shocking!