Alicia's letter -- the most private and powerful and exposed, the most painful and the proudest she's ever allowed herself to feel since the day she died and came back to lfie -- has had the net effect of... Extending negotiations and giving her a chance to top the other offer. With all that money she doesn't have.
She opened a vein, and got to exactly where she started out. In terms of cost/benefit, of course, the letter was its own reward, but she still thinks she did that for her kids -- would steadfastly not have done it for any other reason, because that would have killed her -- so she can't even see that benefit. I think, I mean, she's not real and I'm not her, but what I would be feeling in this moment is... Not shame, exactly, but embarrassment of a particularly private and puzzling sort. Fuck Me For Even Trying, I guess is the medical term. And as is often the case, it's exactly the kind of thing you need to make the kind of huge-scale transformative Jean Grey changes girlfriend's about to blow up around herself.
Alicia: "So, we need to recall Burke."
Mike: "We already heard from him."
Alicia: "That's what 'recall' means. Re-Call. He has new evidence."
Dunaway: "Oh yeah? And how the shit do you know that?"
Alicia: "I was just standing there minding my own business at work and he came to see me on his lunch break. And one of the things he said was that he asked to come back in, and you rejected him. Because you are monsters, now."
Mike: "You cross it! The line!"
Alicia: "Zimmerman took the gun from the jewelry store crime, but it never entered into evidence. Fact."
Mike fights her at length, but she stonewalls for a vote, and after a decently awful amount of time Pastor Roc seconds her, and then -- See? People are complicated! -- Winter backs her up too: After all, they're here to determine the truth. After Winter, the whole thing goes domino, a Slow Clap of Bill "Husker" Adama proportions, as one by one the whole room falls to her. And the look on Mike Kresteva's face, pending future action, seems to be one of unthrilled, but very active, intrigue. (Or that of a slavering vivisectionist, pending, again, future developments.)