Jeannie, still decked out in her Prada-circa-1996 knockoff coat, listens to boss-man tell her he wants her to go into court tomorrow, even though he's never seen her in action, so to speak, as it were. She takes the massive tomes and gets right on it, if you know what I mean.
Sarah goes up to her boss Miss Holt (who is busy with someone else) and cries that, even though she doesn't want to undermine "fellow associates," and admittedly she "has a history" with good old Bitch Dyke Randuh, she isn't sure she should go ahead and rewrite that brief leaving out the legal-intent stuff. She goes on and on, sharply and snippily, until Miss Holt breaks in and informs her that the judge on trial is "lazy" and "will only look at how other judges have ruled." So thanks for being such a major pest, and do what you were told the first time, Sar-UH. Sarah rolls her eyes and neck like a roller coaster. Look out, young lady. If you don't watch out, your acting chops will freeze that way. Just look at Katie Holmes.
Gretchen Mol is shocked (shocked!) to learn that she's being sued for malpractice. Yes indeed, says Giancarlo Esposito. The dead guy who was sexually infatuated with her had a sister, and she's pissed off. Gretchen will be represented by the guy that formerly was the rat-like principal at Sunnydale High, Armin Shimerman. I love that guy! Edmund is his name in this stupid show. As Gretchen stands there, stunned and impotent, Edmund rattles off the legalese. He wants to have a deposition, then move for dismissal or settle for a nominal fee, then counter-sue for something or other. He turns to Gretchen and warmly says, "This'll go away in a jif." Heh.
Lunchtime! The three Girls sit around a table in a fancy place and recount the slights and injustices of the morning, none of which could possibly be their fault. "'A jif,'" Gretchen says bitterly. "Who talks like that?" The other two make fun of Edmund's stiff and clipped way of speaking. Hello, dead client? Make fun of that, why don't you. Gretchen shoos away a nervous, hovering waiter and Sarah suggests that they not discuss "the psychological MAKEUP of our clients." Jeannie -- in her beige frosted lipstick and shimmery gold eye shadow -- says that if they talk about work, they can bill the lunch.
Then, oh, snap -- something more important than ripping a girlfriend to shreds? Is it...the Rapture? No, it's Stacy Keach, sitting at the bar and guzzling a martini. My boyfriend says, "Look at that paunch! He used to be considered sexy, you know." I'm all, when? Forty years ago? "No, back in the '80s. Hammer time." Twenty years ago. Hey David E. Kelley, try objectifying male actors once in a while, and hire ones that are hotter than Stacy. That's what we want. Hot guys on TV. Sarah gets all excited to see the paunchy boozehound, and says that he's the guy who drafted the law in question. Should she go up to him? No. No for so many reasons. But she does anyway. She scurries off, and Gretchen turns to Jeannie and disingenuously says that she likes Jeannie's eyeliner. Is it new? Jeannie blinks, surprised, and says no. Look out, Jeannie. You're about to suffer a make-under. Or, you know, be humiliated again, this time by your so-called friends.