The Conference Room. Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin are with the Emperor as he explains he's going to serve Pearce with the complaint himself. He tells them they'll have to sign a confidentiality agreement. Mrs. Baldwin asks why. Well, no way would Pearce admit he's guilty and give up the body if he thought the Baldwins would go running to the police. Mrs. B insists that it's "not about that." The music lobs away in the background. Bobby: "I understand, but he'll obviously need to be convinced." Mr. Baldwin says they'll give Pearce anything he wants; they just need to know where he's stashed Chad. You'll agree not to pursue him criminally or civilly? Yes. Mrs. Baldwin wants to go with the Emperor to the jailhouse. Bobby doesn't think that's a good idea. She weeps, "A mother's plea?" Bobby shuts her down.

Helen's Office Where She Negotiates Pain. The papers on Helen's desk flutter as she jumps to her feet, shocking her knees and stressing her bones from the lack of body fat. "Are you serious?" She crosses her arms and pouts her very shiny, very pink lips. There is so much make-up caked around her eyes and her lower eye lids that I'm afraid Tammy Faye will sue for Wrongful Impersonation. Lindsay is just asking her to "check it out." Helen: "Lindsay, a kidnapping that happened eighteen years ago? I can promise you it's inactive." Lindsay wants Helen to review the file, assuming she can even find it, and let her know what they have. Helen pouts. It's not a pretty sight.

The Boston Bank Of Vainglorious Pain. Jimmy's sitting with a snot-nosed banker, who condescends, "I just want to make sure you've truly considered the ramifications of closing out your IRA." He has. That he'll be liable for taxes on the entire amount. He knows. That he needs to realize he'll pay a penalty for early withdrawal. Yup, he understands that too. Does he own a house? Blah home equity products blah. Jimmy quips, "Maybe I ought to be committed, but this is what I want to do." The clerk starts blathering on about other ways to get the cash, but Jimmy shuts him down, "How much will I get from the IRA?" Banker shuffles some papers, pounds his keyboard, and says, "Approximately eighty-two hundred dollars." And that falls about nineteen grand short of what the Lump needs to pay off Spanky. Jimmy is horrorstruck at how pitiful his retirement savings are. Blah let it ride the market, blah if you let the money grow blah. Jimmy: "Just give me the money." Yeah, he's got a bookie to pay, so stuff the monetary rhetoric and get on with it.