Chuny catches Weaver and tells her that the alderman's labs are back, and he's positive for syphilis. "I asked Jerry to cancel them!" Weaver barks defensively. Chuny gamely shrugs that such is the nature of the lab. "You want labs, you can't get them. You don't want them, suddenly they get all efficient," she grins. Pratt passes and grabs Chuny to perform a test on Jessie; this triggers Kerry's tomfoolery radar. "What's she doing here? Kovac pronounced her an hour ago," she gasps. Pratt shrugs that, sure, she's in v-tach, but she does still have a pulse. Confused, Kerry nevertheless has a more important ass to whoop -- that of Jerry, who unwittingly failed to abet her duplicity. "I called [the lab]," he insists, good-naturedly. He offers to call again and find out what happened, but Weaver crabs that she'll take care of it herself, and I just realized that, given the STD plot and everything, it's kind of funny that I just used the word "crabs."
Malik announces the impending arrival of a child with a head injury; Weaver uses the ensuing minutes to question Luka as to why Jessie is still in Trauma Yellow. "I'm curious because she died an hour ago," Weaver adds, pleasantly. Luka knows he's busted, but he explains that Tom flatly refused to save himself until Jessie had died. "I unhooked her leads and pronounced her," he says simply. "Oh my God!" sputters Weaver. She can't fathom how to explain all this to Tom if he pulls through and Jessie is actually still alive. "I'll tell him it was a miracle," Luka smirks. Unsurprisingly, Weaver is less amused than I am by that retort. "That's hardly in the best interests of your patient," she scolds. "She wasn't my patient," he points out correctly.
The arrival of David Scott breaks up the scene. He's nine, and he fell off his bunk bed. The babysitting neighbor heard the crash and called the medics. And, scene.
Abby and Carter are at the fundraiser, the former peering at a model of the proposed new building. "The real one will be bigger," Carter explains helpfully. She smirks. She looks nice when she's not furrowing her brow in consternation and whining about her life. Her cocktail dress is nice -- simple, black, sleeveless. But they don't show her from the chest down, which is interesting, so it's hard to say what she looks like -- in the scene at the hospital, I think she was wearing a coat. The waiter brings a tray of appetizers; we can only pray this will trigger the age-old "appetizer vs. canapé" debate, but Abby manages to restrain herself. "Have you tried these?" she asks Carter, grabbing one and popping it into her mouth. "They're perfect little salty things," she says. Carter chuckles and warns her not to fill up on those, lest they escape early enough to go get some real food elsewhere. Carter should meet my appetite. I could clean that plate and go back for thirds, and still be up for a good dinner somewhere. "How much money are we trying to raise?" Abby asks casually, strolling past yet another model building. "Fifty-eight, I think," Carter says. "I know we're throwing in ten." Abby bites her lip. "Thousand?" she asks, knowing she's wrong. "Million," Carter replies nonchalantly. Abby almost chokes on her non-canapé, probably less stricken by the amount than with the easy way Carter tossed around the numbers. Abby wonders what that kind of cash buys. "Architectural significance," Carter says, mock-pompously. "I mean, what's the point of building a cultural edifice if you're not going to prove your civic superiority?" Oh, Carter, you earnest little cynic, you. All wrapped up in philanthropic angst, Carter muses that Ed's clinic is nearby, and wouldn't it be fascinating to see what he'd do with fifty-eight million. "Hot hors d'oeuvres in his waiting room," Abby smirks. Shit, I'd go to him for that.