Weaver checks on the alderman. "How do we stand on the medical-records issue?" he asks in a low voice. "It's been handled," Kerry chokes. "Good, good, thank you for your discretion," he smiles. Weaver fumbles her way through a "you're welcome" that seems really tenuous and guilty. Laura Innes is a fine actress; Kerry Weaver, not so much.
Outside, Weaver mentions to Susan that she discharged Bright. Then, she lies that his syphilis test was negative, which is the stupidest thing because there's a huge trail of people who can catch her in the lie about the mislabeled swab, not to mention Chuny, who first delivered the news that he was positive. Weaver's lying really, really indiscriminately. It's only a matter of time before someone catches a whiff of that moldy breadcrumb trail. Susan can't believe it was negative because his sore was a textbook example of the disease. "He's fine," Weaver bleats. "He could have untreated syphilis," Susan argues, suggesting they run the test again. "He's FINE. Let it go," Weaver barks. Susan's alarmed, but lets it go.
Mr. Scott tries to convince Luka to let him see his son, but his attempts fail when the cops show up to arrest him. "This is crazy! I have never hurt my son!" he wails, threatening to call a lawyer as he's dragged down the hall. Weaver watches this with interest. "What's that?" she asks. "Father abusing his son," Luka says shortly. "Where's DCFS?" she asks. "They were busy," he replies. Weaver can't believe Luka leapt to calling the police. "Did you even talk to the child?" she gapes. "Of course I did. He was scared," Luka says, walking away. Sigh. I'm tired of Luka being all fucked up inside. Somebody needs to fix him, stat. By an extraordinary stroke of luck, I am between jobs, and therefore available indefinitely.
Weaver sidles into David's room and warms him up with small talk before finally asking him about his injuries. "I don't pay enough attention," he says brightly, parroting what his father says. "Did you really fall out of bed today, David?" Weaver asks, gently. "I...jumped," he confesses. Weaver, startled, asks if that's true, and David nods sadly. Well, that was easy. Luka must've been questioning him in Croatian.
Carter parks outside Ed Asner's clinic and pushes his way inside. "We're closed," barks Ed. Carter weaves his way into the back office, where he reintroduces himself to the gruff doctor and warns him that his diabetes is completely out of control. "I take my Orinase," Ed insists. "They still make that?" Carter gapes. Ed sneers that it works for him just fine, thank you, despite the tests proving otherwise. Boring. Does anyone care? Carter is taking baby steps toward his first Carter Family Foundation Crusade, and all he does here is look around at the shabby clinic and write a check to Ed for some basic but expensive essentials. Ed, calling it "white liberal guilt," tears up the check. "I'm not here to make you feel better," he says quietly. Carter's all, No, you're here to be my Bishop. Carter pleads with him, begging for a chance to help. "You can sweep," Ed says gruffly, tossing him a broom and exiting. Carter smiles at him -- you know the smile; it's the "dawn of respect" smile that Pratt wore last week and which everyone wears around gruff but lovable old men whose prickly exteriors mask mushy hearts of molten gold. It's the way of things.