Over at the Sun, Templeton comes in with "some good stuff." Intrigued, Gus asks what he's got. "I got a kid in a wheelchair outside the stadium wanting to go to the game, but unable because he didn't have the money for a scalped ticket." "Sounds pretty good," says Gus, rubbing his mustache. "You got art?" Scott says he tried, but the photogs were booked with the game. "It's your main color piece! You gotta have a picture of the kid if he's your lead! Can we send 'em out now?" "I guess. He probably rolled out, but you could try." "Shit. How old was this fella?" "Thirteen." Gus asks about the parents, and why the kid wasn't in school. "In this city? He just cut." "What about his parents?" "Both dead, no shit. He lives with his aunt in West Baltimore." Gus wonders why the kid's in a wheelchair, and Templeton replies that there was something about a stray gunshot: "It was all pretty vague." Apparently, the kid didn't even want to use his real name, only going by "E.J." Augustus seems very skeptical about the authenticity of the story, and tells some rewritist to check out some old clips to see if she can find anything about the kid. "If we find him, I'd love get art on the kid." "Don't hold your breath," she replies. Fucking Templeton, dude. I don't like that guy. He's makin' it up, I know it.
Fitz and some other Feds are sitting with the U.S. Attorney, showing him the file on Stanfield and explaining that the cops could certainly use some assistance. The guy just kicks back with a smug smile on his face, and it's fairly obvious that he doesn't plan to help at all.
Lester arrives at the detail office, where Sydnor and Pearlman are sitting. "Sorry I'm late," he says. Holding a thick file folder, Rhonda stands up and says, "We do this right, it is like a spiral. We start on the outside of the circle, and we work our way around the edges. Pick up everything we can before we get to Clay and the people he keeps close." She's referring to the subpoenas they've been putting together to figure out the money trail leading to Clay Davis. "You think Clay knows the indictment's coming?" asks Sydnor. "Clay Davis has been waiting for the other shoe to drop his whole life. He knows."
Boy, does he! The man himself is over at Burrell's office, bitching about this investigation, and hoping Burrell can help. "My hands are tied here, Clayton. It's a new mayor, a new state's attorney." "I'm out there doing the Lord's work for you, Irv. You know it. Who got that pay raise through the council? Just enough for you to get that new patio, but not enough for that guy from Pittsburgh to take your place." Irv tells him he wishes he could help, but people are keeping a close eye since Carcetti took office. "You're the commissioner, still, right?" asks Clay. "Yeah, but it ain't like it was." "Well, if you don't control it, who does?" "On this, I gotta reach around Daniels, and he's Carcetti's boy. Look, this is a grand jury investigation, for God's sake! We could both be charged with obstruction of justice!" Clay doesn't want to hear that: "Oh, goddammit, Irv! I've been there for you, carried water for you, and you do me like this?" "Clay, I can't! Nobody could!" "You think I'm goin' down, don't you? You think I'm done? All you ungrateful bitches thinkin' you can throw me out the boat!" He heads to the door, fed up, and tells Burrell that he won't forget this. He storms out, passing Rawls on the way. Rawls steps in and says, "Clay cryin' to you?" "Yeah, like I could put brakes on this mess." Rawls hands him a report with the new crime stats: "That's with the numbers bent as far as we dare, with City Hall asking for clean stats. There's only so much we can do." "What the hell are we gonna tell the mayor?" Rawls shifts uncomfortably.