Later, D'Angelo waits alone in a purgatorial interview room. No one's bothered to cuff him to the table, and he sits passively, his arems crossed over his chest. Presently, McNulty and Daniels enter and array themselves before him. "Remember me?" chirps McNulty. "Lawyer," announces D'Angelo. Daniels tells him to go easy -- they're just getting started. "Lawyer, motherfucker," says D'Angelo fearlessly. McNulty says that they get it -- D'Angelo's hard -- but they don't give a fuck. "You?" sniffs D'Angelo. "I'm tired of your games. What, you want me to write a letter, or some shit like that?" Come on, dude, that was a good one. Daniels says that they don't need to run a game when their suspect gets "popped with a kilo of uncut." D'Angelo's like, "...Baking soda?" Not really. McNulty adds that it wasn't D'Angelo's fault he got stopped, when he did everything right -- didn't miss a signal, both his taillights were working, he was the model driving citizen. But he says that D'Angelo has to ask himself how the troopers knew to pull him over: "Someone else fucked up -- you following me? But it's you they're gonna blame, and you who's gonna do the jolt." That is definitely the worst thing about working in a large organization: too many potential scapegoats, including oneself. "Lawyer," repeats D'Angelo, rolling his eyes. McNulty guesses that D'Angelo's lawyer is Levy, and needles that he gets paid by D'Angelo's uncle: "Oh yeah. He's looking out for your interests." "More than you," drawls D'Angelo. Point to the skinny kid. He leans forward to insist that he won't be saying anything else to anyone but his lawyer. Daniels and McNulty go through the motions of accepting this announcement, but at the door, McNulty adds, "Oh, by the way: your boy Wallace. Shot dead in the low-rises. That's how y'all take care of your own, right?" D'Angelo falls right into the trap, as he calls McNulty a lying motherfucker, and then jokes that McNulty will want D'Angelo to write Wallace's mom a letter, too. McNulty doesn't press the point, and as the cops leave, D'Angelo's face falls as he realizes it's true. Poor fucking kid.
Oh shit, now Avon has to deal with his sister. At her elegant home, an irate Brianna is complaining that Avon didn't have to send D'Angelo to New York the way he did: "In one car? He should've been trailing a mule!...He shouldn't've been out there alone!" Avon, awkwardly jiggling his legs on the tiny loveseat, tries to get a word in edgewise, but she's not having it: "Ain't you ever heard of a trap-car? You send my son to New York in a motherfucking rental? And then you just let him ride with that package in the trunk?" Avon starts to apologize, but she talks over him: "Sorry ain't gonna bring that boy out of prison!" Yeah, you can stuff your sorries in a sack! Also, way to come over for this serious conversation in your manpris and t-shirt with gaping arm-holes, Avon. Take a page from D'Angelo's book and try to smarten up a little next time you get one of your sister's children arrested. Anyway, Brianna tells Avon to make sure his "Jew lawyer" earns his money, and Avon mumbles that D'Angelo will have to do his part. "Meaning what?" demands Brianna. "You like the car you're driving, there, right?" Avon needles, quietly. "You like this crib? I put you in this crib. You like it? Yeah, I mean, we all got a lot to protect here. You need to remind him of that. So when he come down to it, he can stand up tall." Brianna studies the floor, apparently not enjoying the reminder of past compromises she's made -- is making, even as Avon speaks. She sits, sighing, and tells Avon he doesn't have to worry about D'Angelo: "I raised that boy, and I raised him right." According to a version of the Ten Commandments heavily weighted toward injunctions against snitching, I assume.