Roth is now defending himself to Wallace again. "I assure you, both shootings were self-defense," he says. Roth claims there was a series of muggings in that Florida neighborhood, so he carried a gun, heard someone charging him from behind, and shot in that direction. The muggings didn't continue, so Roth thinks his street savvy nailed the bastard. "Ever wonder what you would've done if the man had been white?" Wallace asks. "He wasn't," Roth says. "What if?" Wallace asks. "He wasn't," a visibly stressed Roth insists.
Beth's bummed because her feminine wiles aren't working -- she got nothing on Braxton. Charlie, for once, found something useful. Civic complaints by Latinos rose 60 percent since 1996, presumably the year Braxton hit the beat, and the demographics shifted to show Latinos moving away from the district. Beth tries to one-up Charlie by spouting off about her source at the D.A.'s office. I wish I could say they were building sexual tension, but the writers aren't too interested in either of them. Phil doesn't even care, and that's saying something.
Wallace plops down on a couch in Nikki's office and says Roth's lawyers might try to argue that racism is a mental illness, thus Roth wasn't of sound mind when he shot Braxton. Benton can't believe people are claiming racism is just a version of insanity. "What happened to good old fashioned hate and stupidity?" he asks. Hildy appears and chips in that the Black Panther party came up with the idea of racism being a form of paranoid psychosis, making racist America an insane nation. "I hate shrinks. Does that mean I need therapy?" Wallace asks. "Yes," spits Brooke.
Brooke and Wallace are back in the office, heading for the elevator and trying to ignore each other. They play a childish game with the elevator button, and the camera decides to shoot the scene from ankle-level looking up at Hope Davis's bum. It's right there in the camera. It's cheeky. They banter about the case. More Davis bum. They push each other into the elevator and grin sheepishly, half-annoyed and half-aroused. She picks lint off his suit. They smile. They glare. They smile. This is courtship we're witnessing. "Buy you too much to drink?" Wallace asks. More stupid grins. I'm getting sick. Brooke accepts the truce, and Wallace's third chin jiggles a bit in anticipation of wild nooky. His first chin is just anxious to feel the cool dribble of alcohol running into its dimple and pooling there.