There is no "previously on The Practice" this week and the episode jumps right into the story. Oh joy. Oh bliss. This means they aren't continuing any of the other storylines but starting anew.
Sirens are moaning. Lights are flashing. Cars are overturned. Firefighters are busy. One has an industrial flashlight and is looking inside a car sitting on its side. For an instant, I think I've been transported to Monday night and I'm actually watching Third Watch. I half expect Eddie Cibrian to come bouncing out with a power saw and an attitude. A sedan pulls up beside the scene. Then a police officer pulls back a blanket covering the victim of the accident. Detective Mike looks at the body. As he walks away, Helen walks toward him from her car. She's wearing a camel-coloured coat and swinging her arms wide. Her scarf is the same colour as her coat and is tied very fashionably in one of those knots they teach you how to do on Oprah. Mike tells Helen the accident is the result of a car-jack gone horribly wrong. The victim tried to fight off the perpetrator, and then she was dragged alongside her car as it sped away. Then the car hit the pick-up truck. Mike points to an older man and says, "That's the driver of the pick-up." The entire scene is orchestrated. As we wallow in the terrible tragedy of the scene, the wailing violins and annoying oboes do not comfort us. A man who looks surprisingly similar to the pick-up driver jumps the police line and starts shouting, "Honey? Honey? No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o! No-o-o-o-o-o-o!" Detective Mike yells at an officer, "Keep that man back." Helen scrunches up her face like she actually cares. She asks Mike where the "jacking" took place. He says the crime took place at a supermarket/convenience store around the corner. There are no suspects and no witnesses. Oh, and what the heck is Helen doing there anyway? Well, she picked the accident up on the police scanner. Because she sits around the damn thing at night for entertainment; she's trolling for cases. Yeah, and all the people milling about came around after the accident. From over where the man burst through the police line, we hear, "Where's Justin? WHERE'S MY S-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-N??" A uniform cop comes running over: "There's a three-year-old boy trapped in the car." About nineteen previously sedate firefighters rush the car like it's a linebacker on the opposite team during state finals. One climbs on top of the vehicle, which is still lying on its side, with a stepladder, while another flashes his light into the car, exclaiming: "There he is! We see him now! There's no movement." Mike says, "Oh my god." Helen, always practical but totally useless, asks, "Do you hear anything?" No one wonders who the hell she is and what the heck she's doing at the scene of the crime, but the firefighter politely answers, "No ma'am." Mike tries to shield her from the horror of the crime; she brushes him off. One firefighter climbs into the car. A second breaks the back window. The father holds his head in fear. The third revs up the power saw. A fourth looks into the car from atop the ladder. Sparks fly. The DA looks concerned. Detective Mike looks on with the steadfast demeanour needed in situations such as these. The Piano Of Probable Yet Awful Tragedy plunks away to keep everyone comfortable. A fifth firefighter pulls off the roof of the car with the third man who has sawed it off in the first place, and a sixth firefighter takes the young boy from the third and asks, "Are you okay, son?" The boy, not knowing he's a victim of David E. Kelley's terribly contrived little mind, inquires in his sweet innocent's voice: "Where's Mommy?" The boy is handed over to his Grieving Father while still mumbling, "Where's Mommy? Where's Mommy? Where's Mommy?" Well, kid, your mom's been dragged by a car and is lying dead under a tarp. And I'm sure you're going to be damaged for life. Helen's glossy lips part as she stares at the scene. As the child mumbles for the hundredth time, "Where's Mommy?" Helen turns and looks poignantly at the motionless body under the white sheet on a wet Boston street.
If someone were to pull out all the hair on my head one by one, it would be less painful then watching and/or listening to these credits.