It's official. I really cannot root for the Knicks again, or else I'll hear that chant and see Oliver Platt clutching his knockers. It's too much.
Brooke and Wallace stroll down a long, staid hallway as she asserts that he owes her one. "Anything you want," he sputters. "The apartment," Brooke demands. Wallace refuses. She proceeds with the plan anyway -- Wallace hangs back while Brooke gets buzzed into the FBI's Internal Affairs office. In a breathy voice, she demands an audience with Carl Cavender, and refuses to accept the explanation that Cavender has been transferred to a classified location. "Go in there and tell him for me that I am pregnant and that it times out perfectly with one of his premature ejaculations," Brooke says sweetly. Yeah, I'll buy that they didn't think that explanation would sound convincing coming from Wallace -- I mean, really, who on Earth would be able to ejaculate with Wallace? Flustered, the guard obliges, and Brooke sneaks over to buzz Wallace into the room. Cavender struts out angrily and is greeted with hasty introductions and Brooke's haughty statement that they outsmarted his "Ken doll" guard. Wallace says they have proof putting him at Columbia the night of the protest, as well as evidence that he asked Andriesen to perjure himself and that he worked on the Red Squad. Cavender coolly wonders why they haven't taken this proof to the D.A. Flustered, Wallace tries another tack, but Cavender knows they're bluffing. "Now, if you and your little tart will excuse me..." Cavender says, leaving. Brooke's jaw drops and she storms out spitting nails.
Sitting at a bar with Earl, Wallace is finally getting his hands on the photographic evidence he wants. Earl was shooting pictures from the roof of Columbia, working on the covert Red Squad, the worst kept secret since Galileo said, "Don't tell anyone, but I think the Earth revolves around the sun." Earl insists on a friendly shot of tequila, and Wallace pretends to guzzle his. The man must be ill, as he's never spurned free alcohol before. Earl whips out his pictures and points out a tall man with a bushy head of red hair. Sure enough, it's our pal Scarlet O'Hare, and as God is my witness, he's causin' trouble with those damn Yankees again. The photos clearly show, shot-by-shot, that the left-handed O'Hare hurled the giant stone at the cop. O'Hare would do badly in a glass house. "Son of a bitch," gasps Wallace. Earl admits that they couldn't use the photos during the trial because it would expose the highly suspect Red Squad's existence. The alternative, we are to infer, was bribing Andrieson into perjuring himself.