One thing I hate about Texas: the truck commercials. They're everywhere, and they all have their own little yay-Texas jingles. My God.
As has become the pattern, Wallace is chasing after someone who's trying to avoid him completely. This time, it's Walter, the D.A. Benton blithely notes that there's been two related stiffs in two days, but Walter doesn't want to talk about it. "I didn't know the woman -- it was a one-night stand, a quick bang," Wallace insists. "What, you never had one of those?" Walter is laughing. Benton, this bumbling, abrasive doughy dumpling of a human, scores one-night stands like he's Shaq under the hoop, and Walter's just...bald. So when I said Walter was laughing, I meant he was laughing through the pain. "What about your pattern of antagonism with women in the office that night?" Walter asks Benton. Wally pleads for help because he isn't sure where to turn, and Walter says he will be recusing himself from the Grand Jury if and when it's called. Benton asks if Walter thinks he's guilty. "DNA overrides belief," Walter says, leaving. In his mind's eye, Wallace sees a guffawing O.J. Simpson taking DNA Evidence over his knee and giving it the spanking of a lifetime. Outraged, Wallace shouts at Walter's retreating figure, angry that no one's willing to support him or stand up for him.
Brooke and Hildy are going over pictures from the Valerie Dunne file. "I'm trying to help [Wallace], and I seem to be the only one doing it," complains Hildy. Look, don't bite the writer who feeds you, Lili. They've been stingy with the storylines of late. Brooke rolls her eyes and picks up Valerie's picture, saying she recognizes Dunne: "I saw her wearing my pajamas with a bruise on her neck that you couldn't hide with a gallon of foundation." Hildy's shocked that she saw Dunne in Wallace's living room, and Brooke says that no one knows yet, not even the cops. She vows to stay silent as long as possible, but "he dug his own grave and he can dig himself out." The Ghost is busy etching a tombstone, looking up only long enough to roll its eyes and pat me on the back.
Benton commisserates with manger Tom. "He was the best fighter I had, pound for pound," Tom says. Benton makes a joke about Ramos sounding like a porterhouse steak, then starts to salivate during a lurid sexual fantasy involving a red meat, peanut M&Ms, Brooke, and some Béarnaise sauce.