At a bar with wood paneling and Naugahyde seating -- Mr. Sobell's kind of drinking establishment -- Freamon is watching the mayor pontificate on the TV out of one corner of his eye, and following Clay Davis with the other. Clay's here with a lady friend, and when the state senator excuses himself to order another round of drinks, Freamon sidles over to the lady and says a few words we can't hear. Apparently, it's something along the lines of "Why don't you go powder your nose so's that I can have a word with the senator?," because she skedaddles, and Freamon slides into the booth next door. Clay returns to find his lady friend gone and replaced by a disapproving bearded cop -- not a very good tradeoff, if you ask me. "She asked that you keep that one stirred," Freamon tells a startled Clay. The senator recovers quickly enough to recognize Freamon from the trial, and offer to buy him a drink. Freamon takes a pass on that cocktail, but he has something he'd like to make Clay swallow: "You know, that was mostly my evidence you beat back there," Freamon begins. "Think you can do that again? Except this time, the jury's a federal one -- say nine white, three black." Clay doesn't like the direction this is going, and suggests that Freamon pound sands. Sure thing, Senator, but here's some reading material: it's the bank records on Clay's mortgage application containing his telltale fraud. "Now, why don't you take that back to Billy Murphy, ask your attorney what you're exposed to," suggests Freamon, who adds that, for now this is just between the two of them: "And no one else until I make it so." Naturally, Clay interprets this as the prelude to a bribe request -- he's been on the business end of enough to recognize one. Nuh-uh, senator; it's not money Freamon's looking for. "I get paid when I come back up in here in a couple of nights' time with questions, and you, sir, have answers," Freamon says. "Or my next call will be to the U.S. Attorney's office, and we will go again -- but for real. You can keep that copy." And with that bluff played, Freamon shows himself to the door.
At the Sun, Gus is reading over some copy; he has the first four paragraphs highlighted. "Just to let you know before the fireworks start, I'm spiking this lede, and I'm playing it straight," Gus remarks to Steven Luxenberg, the paper's Metro Editor. "You got my back?" Luxenberg says he does. Gee, I wonder whose copy could be causing so much agita? "Scott!" Gus calls out. Of course. Scott comes over, and tonight's little pageant begins. "I'm spiking your lede," Gus says, with a dramatic strike of the delete key. Gus's problem with the dearly departed lede is that, in a story about a public event, Templeton has chosen an anecdotal lede and quote from an anonymous person. Templeton protests that the woman he's quoting requested anonymity because she doesn't want to be known as homeless. Ignoring that his explanation has the whiff of bullshit about it, Gus counters that there were hundreds of homeless attendees at the vigil who probably would have had no problem being quoted by name. "But her story is great," Templeton says. "Look at that quote." Gus agrees that it's a wonderful quote -- perhaps too wonderful, if you take his meaning. "To hell with you if you think I made it up," Templeton seethes. Gus calmly -- and probably a little bit gleefully -- explains that the story as Scott wrote it doesn't measure up to the Sun's lofty standards. Templeton stalks back to his desk, shoving his chair when he gets there. The ruckus is enough to conjure up the malevolent spirit of Klebanow, who appears in a puff of sulphurous smoke in front of Templeton. We can't hear what the two of them are talking about, but, based on Templeton's angry hand gestures, I think he's probably complaining about his shabby treatment at the hands of Gus. "Here it comes, Gus," Luxenberg murmurs.