But does Avon have to worry? D'Angelo's furrowing his brow so hard you could plant corn in the creases. The camera pulls back to show a bit of glass glare in the foreground, and as we see that he's behind a partition that only goes halfway to the ceiling, D'Angelo finally says it wasn't he who fucked up. On the other side of the glass, next to Levy, Stringer sarcastically asks who did. Levy pipes up to say that D'Angelo just needs to stay calm through the bail hearing, and they'll have a good shot of springing him. Sullenly staring down, D'Angelo wonders, "Then what? Hmm? Who gonna take the weight for all the shit in the trunk of that car?" Stringer doesn't have a cute answer for that one, and as he fidgets a little, D'Angelo asks, "Where's Wallace at?" There's a long silence, and Wallace repeats, "Where's the boy, String?" Stringer, looking sad either that he has to say it, or sad that he can't punch through the glass and tear out D'Angelo's throat, orders D'Angelo to shut his mouth. D'Angelo breathes hard: "Where's Wallace? That's all I want to know." As Stringer holds onto his composure with both hands (and a foot, to brace himself), Levy tells D'Angelo to think, but D'Angelo wants an answer, and keeps browbeating Stringer: "Where the fuck is Wallace? Huh? String! STRING! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! WHERE THE FUCK IS WALLACE?!" Stringer actually can't look at D'Angelo, which is surprising to me; given who Stringer is, and who Wallace was, it seems incongruous that Stringer could be ashamed about a decision he surely made without any scruple. Anyway, D'Angelo's lost it now, and leaps out of his chair, screaming that he doesn't want "this PayLess-wearing motherfucker" to represent him; he'll get his own lawyer. Levy looks shocked to have been fired (and to have been accused of the lawyerly equivalent of passing off Die-Hards as Timbs), but he stands with Stringer, who drawls, "All right, you stupid motherfucker. You made your decision." D'Angelo: "Yeah, I made my decision. Where's Wallace at? Where the fuck is Wallace?" Stringer snatches up his jacket and stomps out with Levy. I kind of wish we could get a little interstitial scene here with Levy going, "Yeah, where is Wallace?" and Stringer giving him a black eye.
In his office, Burrell is telling Daniels, "Bring him in. You're done." Daniels calmly asks why, suggesting that they could stay up on the bug in Avon's office. "The bug you didn't brief me about," snorts Burrell. Daniels: "Well, I thought your little bird told you everything we did a minute after we did it. One of our people got hurt. That's supposed to mean something." Burrell blahs that they're "hunting [Kima's] shooters," and that due to Daniels's good work, they have a viable case on Avon, the main target: "Just charge Barksdale with the attempt purchase from New York and bring it all home." He smiles smugly, but as Daniels fails to roll over, the letter opener in Burrell's hands starts to look more and more menacing. "And what about Stringer, his #2?" asks Daniels. "He slipped off the hook when we lost the boy witness." Burrell declares, "We've done all we can." "Are you hearing me?" murmurs Daniels. "These are the people responsible for dropping a police. Not just the shooters, but the ones who make the dirt happen. I'm trying to put them down for real, not for some short-time bit." Burrell raises his eyebrows: "That all you're trying to do?" Yep, there's the Burrell with his hand in Davis's pocket. And sure enough, he asks why, if Daniels is just trying to go after Kima's shooters and their criminal organization, he's all up in campaign finance reports and so forth: "What the fuck has that got to do with anything?!" "The money is part of my case," says Daniels calmly, not backing down. "There might have been a time when I was willing to say otherwise to let you and all your friends hide some of that dirt, but not now." Burrell chuckles: "You want to talk about dirt? Have at it." Daniels glares, cocking his head, as Burrell chummily offers, "Let's talk some shit about your Eastern District days. Talk some shit about what was goin' on back when you was runnin' wild in the D.E.U." "That's just talk," squints Daniels. "Just talk?" beams Burrell. He laughs, and then pulls a binder out of his desk drawer and drops it dramatically on his desk. "FBI field reports. You came into a lot of money quick. And you can go to jail just as quick if I start asking the right questions. This case ends, or you are done." Daniels heaves a breath, the light gone from his eyes, as Burrell adds, "Hell, I don't even need you to lock up Barksdale. I'll have your major debrief your detectives -- type the warrants himself." Um, I don't think Foerster has typed shit since before there were machines that plugged in. "This case is done," Burrell declares.