Standing in the office for just the third time this episode, Wallace downs aspirin and accepts an envelope from a courier. By the way he then bellows through the hall toward Nikki's office, I'd say it's a legal issue. "Some zit in a windbreaker just handed me a subpoena like it was a bean burrito!" Wallace shouts. "What'd you expect?" grins Nikki. Wallace is mad -- he deserved a free bean burrito, dammit, and now all he's got a piece of paper, which is no good with guacamole, or melted government cheese, either, for that matter. Attorney Stuart Daniels of the Capital Punishment Defense League has asked Nikki and Wallace to relay every detail of the Ledger's investigation into B&W's guilt or innocence. Bebe Neuwirth chuckles as Wallace charges out of her office, then tries to bludgeon herself with the Emmys™ from her Cheers days.

Ever the charming codger, Wallace tells Stuart Daniels to suck his brain if he wants all the notes and memos pertinent to B&W. Daniels turns him down and asks Benton to put his penis away before a "memo" leaks out.

Benton roils, claiming he has just thirty-seven hours to prove the innocence of two men whose case should be in the hands of lawyers and cops instead of some high-strung reporter. "Learn about the men behind the murders," Daniels urges Wallace. What follows is a pat rehashing of Bradford's rap sheet -- two felonies at ages nine and nine-and-a-half, the assault of a blind man, a grocery-store robbery at age eleven and a published manifesto declaring that Saved by the Bell actually foretells Christ's second coming. "But of this massacre, he is innocent," Daniels stresses, dropping a cryptic hint about an alibi. Wallace is curious, but Daniels moves along to the subject of the harmless and utterly non-violent Washington. "He's never used a knife or even his fists," Daniels insists. "What, so he's Mahatma frickin' Gandhi?" Wallace asks. Hey, that's Mahatma F. Gandhi to you, pal.

Now we're in Sing Sing Prison, according to the Murphy Brown graphic. Benton is visiting with Washington and stares at the man's hands, repeating the supposition that those fists never pummeled anyone before. "Not yet," grins Washington. "Though I'd like to shank the pasty white son of a bitch that put me here." Wouldn't that be twelve pasty bitches? Unless that state's idea of sequestering a jury is to inundate them with newspapers and a non-stop loop of CNN, then Benton's column alone does not a conviction make. Washington says he was a junkie for years because he was too afraid to fight anyone, although prison forced him to clean up his act. He can count the days he's been drug-free, Washington claims. "Congratulations," Wallace sighs half-heartedly, unable to imagine the healthy hell in which a man lives without vices and addictions and the cooling effect of alcohol or a sweet vial of smack. As for the polygraphs, Washington confesses he committed the robberies but no murders, and his drug withdrawal gave him shakes that compromised the lie-detector test's results. "Kinda ironic," Washington says. "Out there, I tried to kill myself on a daily basis and in here, I get a new lease on life, only....You know." Wallace blinks blankly. That last rum and coke popped a brain cell and he's struggling with the language.