So Jim plops himself across from Not His Lawyer and launches in: "A week ago" -- God, is that all it's been? -- "I received a fax." Not His Lawyer busts in, all rat-a-tat Maltese Falcon-style, asking, "Who sent it to you?" Jim doesn't know: "The return number across the top of the fax was from the Versailles...the very place from which the money was embezzled." Not His Lawyer thinks small words are for suckers -- or should I say "denuded ignoramuses" -- vamping on to suck up time, "Seems like too egregious an error even for these simpletons." As Not His Lawyer asks Jim to "Speculate, Agent Cooper," we cut upstairs to discover The Three Product-Placed Ross-Dress-For-Less-Suit-Wearers Of The Apocalypse sitting in their chrome room, watching this conversation on a monitor. The middle one asks after a feature called "The Voice Stress Analysis," which we learn is "normal. There's a 70\% chance he's telling the truth." And an 80\% chance you won't be here next week to see how that 7-10 split shakes out. Jim reintroduces Silas Bodnick to the conversation, and he covers Bodnick's death, C-C-C-Caleb M-M-M-Moore's death, his tattooing, Wilkes's death, his arrest: "Which is how I ended up here." He found a map on his handkerchief, having given two away "to two local women immediately after Bodnick's funeral." Not His Lawyer notes that "it's an odd gift, Jim, and not ideal for our current purposes." Jim defends himself lamely: "It was something my father taught me." Shut up, this scene. Shut up, explaining all of this again. Not His Lawyer asks which of the women set Jim up, and we cut finally to the nexus of dramatic development for the course of the entire episode: "I don't know. I guess the one without the handkerchief." Shut up, Verbal Can't.
Man, if you thought the Jewish stereotypes on this show were one-dimensional, it's only because y'all haven't met the white trash yet. ClichéCam is all but mowed down by a passing locomotive (carrying the freight, I'm sure, of toothless yokels picking hayseed from their teeth while livestock freely roams up and down the aisles) as it moves to film The Wrong Side Of The Tracks. The trucker's wife -- we'll call her "The Trucker's Wife" for easy reference -- stands at the sink in a kitchen cluttered with open cans, dollar-store flatware, and broken, broken dreams. Man, you can hear the Hormel Canned Meat Product folks cashing their endorsement check, dropping the paper stub into a grinder, and watching it get appropriated into a mix of soot and dog food and endorsement check stubs and being sold to the lower-middle class in cans marked Hormel Canned Meat Product. It's all the big circle of life, people. The Trucker's Wife (I feel this nickname is working out fine so far) stands among the debris, dabbing her crying eyes with a handkerchief (wait! Is that the same as the...oh, never mind) and shoving it into her left bra cup when her husband -- The Trucker -- calls from the dining room, "Where's that gravy, Delilah?" She turns to the microwave -- and a small wave of sadness takes me over that I have exactly the same microwave in my apartment, which I think is a pretty nice place, thanks -- and removes a gravy boat which suspiciously resembles the shape and color of "the nice one" that my parents still trot out at big family dinners on national holidays. Oh, my God! I'm white trash! My gravy boat has sailed!