We enter the interview room in interrogatio res, as McNulty is musing that he can't see any reason for Gant to be dead. The cops won't hold a gruge over getting beaten in court, and they don't really mind D'Angelo's having "thrown a couple of hot ones in Pooh Blanchard." Though local honey farmers might miss his business. But Gant was "a citizen," who, according to Bunk, worked every day -- maintenance at the Projects during the week, and driving a cab to the airport on weekends. "Two jobs," McNulty intones. "And he volunteers what little time he has left at his church...A deacon." D'Angelo absorbs this line of discussion impassively. "Two jobs, and three kids," Bunk adds, just so we know for sure that they've probably been talking shit since back around the airport cab gig. "Three kids," McNulty repeats. "Young, too." D'Angelo looks a little pained at this, but doesn't look up. "Five, eight, eleven," Bunk embellishes. "Crying their little orphaned asses to sleep over this shit, 'cause they lost their mama some years ago. Now they out there on their own."
"He doesn't believe us," says McNulty. He exposits that they've been there two hours, yet D'Angelo's acting like nothing happened. "Where my lawyer at?" he sniffs. Bunk says that they called him, and will let D'Angelo know when he arrives. "I got nothing to say," toughs D'Angelo. "I mean, I'm sorry for the man, but I ain't got nothing to say." "You sorry?" snaps Bunk. "You sorry for him? You fucking killed the man." "No," says D'Angelo sharply. "Yes, you did," says Bunk. He elaborates that they don't necessarily believe D'Angelo fired the fatal shots, but that his actions in the lobby led directly to Gant's murder, via his witnessing the crime and testifying to it. "He didn't have to testify," spits D'Angelo. "No, he didn't, but he did," says Bunk. "It's not enough to beat the murder," says McNulty. "They gotta send a cold message to everyone in the Terrace." "Fuck the working man," says Bunk. "Fuck his kids; that shit don't count." We barely notice as he walks out of the room.
"See, that's what I don't get about the drug thing," says McNulty. "Why can't you sell the shit and walk the fuck away?" Talk to Bunny about that, McNulty. Um, in a couple of years. "You remember that little boy got shot in the barbershop on West Lombard last summer?" says McNulty. D'Angelo seems to recall, but McNulty presses on: "One asshole chases another into Teddy's House of Natural. Empties a 9. Bullshit argument over twenty missing gelcaps." D'Angelo's lip starts to tremble as I wish for a spinoff series set in Teddy's House of Natural. "And that little kid, instead of getting his first haircut, gets one in the eye. You remember that?" "It's fucked up," D'Angelo sniffles. "Yes, it is," McNulty agrees, just as Bunk reappears in the room with a pen and a legal pad, which he sets down in front of D'Angelo, who mumbles, "They didn't have to do that." "Shoot up a barbershop?" says McNulty. "No, they did not have to do that." D'Angelo: "That man was just...my thing." As D'Angelo continues staring at the table, the cops in the room realize that D'Angelo isn't talking about the barbershop. He goes on: "My thing ain't...they ain't had to do that." Bunk holds up a framed photo of three adorable children, and sets it down in front of D'Angelo, next to the pad. As D'Angelo looks at it, his nostrils flaring, Bunk sells it: "No mama and no daddy." D'Angelo shakes his head: "Lord Jesus!"