The Practice
Judge Knot

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Judge Thyself

The Firm. Helen comes into the office. She sees Lindsay and says, "Hey!" Blah Lindsay knows what happened, blah her husband didn't tell her, blah she heard it from someone she knows blah. Helen came by to see how Rod was holding up. Lindsay: "He's in his office. He won't talk." Snort. Stop it. Snerk. Hold up! Snurf! Quit it. Okay. Okay! OKAY! I know. Bobby never shows any emotion! Ha. Heh! Ha. Right. Blah Lindsay conflict, blah admire Judge Fleming, blah work bullcrap blah. Then she admits, "Ah! Bobby didn't want me there." Helen reassures her, "Lindsay, I hope you know that this isn't about Bobby shutting you out." What the hell is their marriage based on? Honestly. Helen: "When he's up against his demons he'd rather battle them alone. I happen to be along for the ride on this one." No sexual innuendo intended. Except that there is, of course, bad sexual innuendo all over the place. It's making my head spin, actually. Lindsay says, "I'm glad you can be there for him." I can't tell if she's being catty or not. The phone rings. It's for Helen. Apparently, Judge Fleming is ready to make a deal.

Back in the same leather-bound conference room, Anderson is blathering on about how he's not convinced that the prosecution has enough to convict his client. "But," he says, "to avoid the mud of a media-saturated trial, Judge Fleming maybe willing to assist your investigation." Fleming looks coy. Greg is frustrated. "Maybe?" he spits. Blah they want a good deal blah. The judge wants a slap on the wrist. Greg isn't willing to bend over and take that much. The judge sits on detailed records, compiled over six years, of his dealings with fifteen attorneys. Greg: "I suspect we'll be able to work something out." The judge asks if Helen is deriving any satisfaction from this case. She is not. Blah he's a decent judge, blah poor Fleming, blah school of hard knocks; blah took a little on the side, blah did a couple of favours, blah wrong must never win by technicality. He benefited from quickly moving the easy trials through. In fact, Fleming is pissed. He's tired of the unprepared, sloppy attorneys. He's sick of the way the justice system has declined. He did it all for the love, people. He devoted his life to being a judge. He's also grown a bit too big for his britches. According to Fleming, he's not a linesman, he's not a defenseman -- he's the game. What. Ever. Helen whines about how sad she is. Blah mentor blah. Hurry up and hand over the files. Which he does, and then he tells Helen that no one has reviewed the names, not even his attorney. Then Fleming says, "Let the bloodbath begin." He chuckles. But wait, what's in the other folder? My gosh! It's a gun! Why yes, it looks like -- bam! Judge Fleming is going to shoot himself in the head. Everyone at the table jumps back when they hear the shot. They're all stunned. ["Please. They never heard of Budd Dwyer?" -- Sars] A nice trickle of blood drains slowly onto the desk. That's correct. From the man who just shot himself in the head. No one else has blood on them. The blood doesn't splatter. It just drains nicely in a clean, fitting manner. Well, I guess the guy is dead. Too bad -- we all liked you, Bruce McGill.

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The Practice




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