Once Daniels has gone, Polk starts to look distressed. Mahone joshes that Polk is going to miss him, and Polk doesn't deny it, asking what he's going to do. "What do you say we go out together?" suggests Mahone. "I mean, it only hurts for a minute. And it doesn't have to be line-of-duty, either. I'm serious. You know those stairs where they send us down to the basement? ...It's dark down there. You go up eight or nine steps, let go of the rail, take a little jump--" "I'd break my fuckin neck like that!" Polk protests. Mahone, for some reason, is totally confident that Polk will be fine: "You do a little dance on those steps, you're up to two-thirds with me! And maybe you sue the city -- get a little more. Can't say we don't deserve it." Well, no -- you can't say cops don't deserve it. You two in particular...not quite as deserving as they possibly could be. Polk regards the x-ray with a wistful little sigh, like me regarding the latest issue of Blueprint.
Back in the courtroom, Browning is incredulous: "Five in. For a one-and-one." Well, SERIOUSLY. He wants to know why the cops want to "bang" him like that for such a trifling charge, and Kima replies, "Because it's your turn, Mr. Browning. Everybody out there gets a turn." Browning says that a judge might disagree, but McNulty has his sheet: "For one thing, it's a little wrong to be calling it a sheet." "More like a book," says Kima. This all adds up to Browning going away for a while, basically, unless he wants to get kind of chatty. Kima: "Tell us some stories, might could be someone else's turn." Browning smirks, "Stories...." "Avon Barksdale," Kima shoots back. Browning chuckles. She asks if he knows the name. "Every motherfucker up in them towers know the name!" Browning replies, though adds that he's never had contact with him personally. Kima throws out Stringer's name, along with those of Wee-Bey, Savino, Stinkum, and two other dudes we don't know about. Browning just smirks, so McNulty sighs, "Who're you gonna give us, Marvin?" He threatens that if Browning doesn't start talking, it'll be time for sentencing instead. "A-ight," says Browning. Kima's like, "'A-ight' what?" "A-ight, I'll take the years," says Browning. McNulty's like, "Poop."
An unfocused shot of a ceiling vent takes us to Bodie, lying in bed, looking like hell. A big dude takes a gander and is moved to utter a "Damn, boy." "You should see the cop," says Bodie hoarsely. The guy tells him that when he's ready, he needs to get up and put on a uniform, and not to report to his bunk any later than breakfast. Bodie asks who else is there: "Anybody from Westside?" "D.C. boys, mostly," says the...guard? Orderly? Social worker? Warden? I'll stick with "dude." Bodie tries to get out of bed, holding his hand to his gut and wheezing painfully as he looks around at his new colleagues. Let's just say they could look friendlier. He regards his uniform -- a plain grey sweatshirt and matching sweatpants -- but before he can actually contemplate putting on his new kit, he spots a mop bucket out in the hall.