E: Coming down from last week’s blockbuster episode, this week’s offering brings a little less intensity. Though there’s an undercurrent of dread, the goings on are generally more mellow. Instead, we get two pretty interesting cases of the week, a crazy “back to the 90s” guest star, the foreshadowing of misery, and a Peter sighting – in his own campaign headquarters! I know, right? Who’d have thought to look for him there?
Killer Song begins with a long camera shot into the wet and echo-filled underground parking garage where Ham Sandwich ended. It’s very like the beginning of Mock, which begins right where Bang left off, with Alicia leaving her apartment in the midst of a brutal argument with Peter. Mock began with Zach and Grace listening to their parents; Killer Song takes off as we hear whispers of Blake and Kalinda’s conversation. The first thing we can hear for sure? Blake saying how Alicia is what matters to Kalinda. I’m not sure this repeated scene is necessary to ground us in last episode’s big revelation – as if we could forget! – but I like the parallel with last season, especially given Blake’s conviction that he and Kalinda are the real grown ups in all this game play.
So, the two replay the information which is burned into all fans’ consciousness (that Kalinda slept with Peter) ; Kalinda’s eyes are huge and haunted. We hear again that Blake talked to an unnamed ASA. We see him leave.
She calls Alicia. Why would she do that? Is she afraid Alicia already knows? What did she think she was going to say? I mean, she can barely get a coherent sentence out. At first, I thought she was dialing Peter and Alicia picked up, but no, it’s Alicia’s cell phone. Alicia’s immediately curious to know if Kalinda met Blake (which she admits) and if he had anything new to say (which she denies). “Alicia, where are you?” At home, of course, sitting on her beautiful couch in her tasteful (if slightly stiff) living room. As the silence stretches on, Alicia wonders what might be behind it, but Kalinda (shocker) declines the offer to talk. “I’ll see you at the office tomorrow, ya?” As she hangs up, we see Kalinda standing over her baseball bat, looking at her phone. How can one person look so fierce and so devastated at the same time?
The screen goes to black, and we hear another phone ring. As a light clicks on, we see Cary Agos’ pale face squinting in the dark, knocking magazines and papers off his nightstand, fumbling for his phone. “Yeah, it’s me, what?” he mutters once he’s finally brought it to his ear. Quick cut to a darkened car. “Cary?” comes a frightened, little girl voice. “Kalinda?” He’s surprised. “What are you doing?” He squints again at his nightstand, reaching for his clock, astounded she could be asking this. “Making an omelet, what do you think? Where are you?” Heh. Boy doesn’t like his beauty sleep interrupted, does he? “I need some help,” she whispers. He sighs. “Okay. Now?” You know, I really love their relationship. “Did you talk to Blake today?” Have we ever heard her sound so vulnerable? No, he didn’t. “He said he was interviewed by an ASA. Do you think you might know who that is?”
“No,” he replies, “but I wouldn’t worry about it. Childs doesn’t have a case anymore since Blake went AWOL.” The edges of her face are glow in the darkness. “Cary,” she says carefully, painfully, “I think Blake might have something on me, and he might have told it to an ASA. Can you find out?” Something real, she means, but does he hear it? Sure, he says, puzzled. “What does he have on you?” She takes a moment to reply. “Can you find out?” is all she’ll say. It’s too much. And since Cary still harbors some resentment against the Florricks, it’s not unreasonable caution. Yes, he can find out. “Thanks. Bye.” He snaps out the light, puzzled.
And then his face appears, bathed in white light, fresh and dressed for the day. There’s a really nice coffered ceiling behind his head. “So you think he’s well?” The man on the stand says to – “to a reasonable degree of psychiatric certainty” the man in question no longer needs either out or inpatient psychiatric services. Well. So far it’s just a bunch of white guys in blue suits. Who used to be crazy? It’s initially confusing to me because Cary’s sitting where the defense usually sits. “You do know that he tortured, raped, and killed Mallory Cerone?” Cary declares passionately. The tweedy little psychiatrist on the stand does know. “Mr. Bose was unwell when he committed that crime thirty years ago.” Alicia walks into the courtroom (why, I wonder?) and one of the men at the not-Cary table turns to watch her take a seat. “He was found Not Guilty by reason of insanity, and committed to a psychiatric treatment center, not a prison.”
Alicia sits down next to a youngish woman with a high, complicated ponytail and strong eyebrows. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” Alicia whispers. “I didn’t either,” the woman replies, her eyes on the witness. “I couldn’t stay away.” The witness continues. “For 30 years he’s been treated. I can say without hesitation he’s a different man than the man who committed that crime.” Oh, you mean this crime? Cary helpfully puts photos up on the screen: Ms. Cerone is spread out on the hood of a car, sitting in a field of snow. “Don’t look,” Alicia cautions her companion, who can’t take her eyes away. “I’ve seen them before,” she replies, almost hypnotized by what’s in front of her.
“I understand, these photos are indeed horrifying,” Dr. Tweedy tells Cary as geometric images of blood trails flash behind his head. “But they were committed by an insane man.” Cary’s next image is of Mallory Cerone holding up a small baby wearing a red striped knit cap. “This is the woman he tortured and killed.” “I know,” says the witness sadly. “And did you know her daughter is in court today?” He didn’t. Cary turns and looks back at Alicia’s seatmate. The witness is sorry. “I know it’s hard to hear, but justice has been done here. The man who killed your mother no longer exists.” Yes, I’m sure that’s very comforting. Actually, I won’t be snide. Dr. Tweedy is very compassionate sounding. The thing is, it might actually be convincing if we were getting this kind of emotion from the killer and not from his therapist. Ah. On cue, Bose turns around to look at the daughter in the audience. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking into her white face. Her eyes look red and she presses her lips together very slightly in a fierce effort to contain emotion. “I am very, very sorry.” But no, she can’t contain it; she gathers her things and runs from the room.
(This is an interesting idea. Can someone change that deeply? Is he lying to us and to the therapist, or has he really taken those thirty years, overcome his “mental illness” – if murder can be classified as a mental illness – and purge himself of that evil? Can it be done? Would we prefer to live in a world that presumes us capable of that kind of change, or not? I don’t know if you noticed this, but in as Cary asks the therapist about the murder, there’s a tiny flicker – a microexpression, if you will – that plays over Bose’s mouth. It’s the tiniest touch of a smile, and it shows from the very beginning that there’s no real debate here. There’s no real regret, however he managed to fool the therapist.)
“He’ll be out in a week,” Cary tells Alicia, and even though it’s an upsetting topic, it’s also a joy that he’s just talking to her as a person, as a valued colleague. None of his resentment is getting in the way. “So now it’s up to you guys, to keep him from getting rich.” Ah. That’s why Alicia’s there. Except – huh? Is he planning on selling a memoir? “We’ll do our best,” she nods, and turns to go, but Cary impulsively stops her. “And hey, Alicia, tell Kalinda to stop worrying about the grand jury. I can’t find any more interviews so there shouldn’t be any more subpoenas.” You can see him wondering if this was the right thing to say, especially when Alicia takes a touch to long to answer. “Okay, good to know – I’ll tell her.”
“Are you considering a divorce, m’am?” a male voice cries out, and suddenly we’re seeing Lana Timmerman (embattled Congresswoman’s wife – the “new” national scandal) trying to put her baby into her car amidst news crews and photographers. Ah. The legit paparazzi. Lovely. The legend on the tv screen (Chicago’s CBS 2, which is the actual CBS affiliate) reads “Lana Timmerman reacts to racy photos.” Oh, lovely. I sometimes wonder about the press in times like these. Do we really need to know how she feels about racy photos of her husband with another woman? Let’s be frank. We know how she feels. It’s called the imagination. Or empathy. Or being human. Or what have you. It’s not rocket science. Are the particular shades of her horror and disgust and pain really our business? How did Dan Jansen feel when he slipped on the ice and lost the gold medal? You know what, I think I can guess. I really don’t need to ask him.
Sorry, pet peeve of mine. I mean, what kind of heartless wretches are we that we need to ask that question? Or have it asked on our behalves?
Of course, I am watching this show. Maybe that makes me a big fat hypocrite. I’d like to think it’s a different thing, what with the show being fictional, but maybe that’s a convenient fiction in and of itself.
“Why are they still in the news?” Marissa Gold asks her father, looking adorable in red. “She should just divorce him and get it over with. Then people would stop chasing her.” Would they? Huh. I think that’s fascinating. I bet she’s right. “This is not good,” Eli grouses from his desk. “Why?” Marissa wonders, perched on the couch in his office, clicking away at the remote. “It has nothing to do with you guys.” “Everything has to do with us guys,” Eli disagrees, typing away on his laptop. “Voters are like amoebas, they suck everything up and don’t distinguish. ”
“Is that what amoebas do?” Marissa snarks. Ha. I really enjoy Marissa. She’s super cute on her own, but pair her with her dad? Outstanding. Eli shoots her a wry look. “So that’s the other woman? She’s pretty!” Marissa notes, as the tv helpfully shows us a racy picture of Congressman Timmerman behind his intern at the steps of a sunken hot tub. I’m not really sure you can tell how pretty she is, what with low resolution, wet hair, closed eyes and the naked bits under the water, but really, is that all we have to say? Is that the best analysis this clever girl’s got? Lana Timmerman is pretty too. “Of course she’s pretty,” Eli says dismissively, “this story will own the week.” Marissa starts changing the channels – commercials – and Eli tells her he’s got work to do. “Why does America suck?” she wonders. Eli starts waggling his finger, getting a lecturing tone. “America does not suck. People suck.” Ha. That’s hilarious. And somewhat true. “What, and you think Israel will suck any less?” She turns to look at him. “It’ll suck different,” she says. Again, good point.
Click. And now we see Natalie Flores’ college id. “That didn’t end well, did it?” Marissa notes. Oh, poor Natalie. “There was nothing to end, well or not well. I went to dinner with her, that’s all. I was trying to find out if she was undocumented when she worked as a nanny for Wendy Scott-Carr. ” Natalie runs from the cameras, with the words “State’s Attorney Candidate Caught Helping Illegals” written on the screen, hardly a fair characterization. Fake CBS 2, you should be ashamed! Marissa shoots him a dubious look from her perch on the couch. Really, she’s just adorable. Dad wags his finger again. “And she was!”
“So, it was all just a political scheme?” “It was information gathering,” Eli corrects. “Oh, come on, Dad,” Marissa smiles. “I saw your face. I saw how happy you were.” “I have great control over my face,” Eli replies, staring at her solemnly. Ha! That’s the best and most entertaining lie he’s ever told. “I can make people believe…” Ah, but she’s not going to stay and listen to this foolishness. “Oh, I’m so sorry, was I boring you?” She’s got to go study. Aw. You’re fun to have around, Marissa. Especially when you make your dad act like a little kid. She tosses the remote down on his desk. “Don’t misbehave. Control that face!” He smiles as she goes. Love them. But as soon as she’s gone, he gives a serious look at the tv, where Luis Flores is defending his daughter, and turns the sound on. “It’s not her fault. She’s been in America since she was 2 years old,” the father insists. He’s mad. I can see why. The new anchor voices over that poor Natalie’s become a “flash point” for Illinois and its immigration laws, which some people think are too lax. Eli’s not happy with this development.
A driving beat accompanies us to the large conference room at Lockhart/Gardner. A wa-wa pedal kicks in, distorting the sound as Alicia drops Miss Cerone off in a waiting room. (So, I totally had to look her up, because she’s super familiar, and guess who she is? Child actor Gaby Hoffman! You know, Jonah’s friend with the travel agent parents from Sleepless in Seattle. Also from Uncle Buck. ) A distorted choir sings “Drive on out/you wanna drive on out.” At first, I’m wondering why the background music is so very loud, but eventually it becomes clear that the crew in the conference room – notably Diane, Will and Kalinda – are listening to the song over someone’s lap top. “The girl is alone,” a male voice begins, “in a blink of an eye.” On the laptop is an album cover (or art for a single, anyway, called “Just Drive On Out” by AG 47) with a frightened face on it, the mouth covered. “I tell her to drive, drive and – bitch, don’t cry,” the implacable voice continues. “The city’s too bright…”
“And the copyright belongs to him?” Will wonders, turns the sound down. “Jarvis Bose?” Kalinda confirms, “copyright 2010. The band dedicated the whole album to him.” Lovely. How’s it doing, Diane wonders. #3 on the billboard top 200. Also lovely. And monetarily? “Bose has 800,000 in royalties coming to him.” Youch. Thankfully, there’s a but. “But it’ll go higher.”
Oh. That’s not the kind of but I was hoping for. Diane, on the other hand, is not impressed. “It’s still not a lot of money.” Youch. That’s cold. Alicia looks depressed by that assessment. “You should talk to Rhonda. She’s not interested in the money. She just wants to stop him from getting rich from a song about killing her mom.” Diane sounds bored, shifting around in her seat. “Yes, I understand her reasoning – what’s ours?” Then we get to the real source of her grumpiness. ‘This is one of Bond’s cases.” Well. The man was good for something, anyway, other than superpacs and drug lords. Oh, and Lou Dobbs. Let’s not forget him. Will thinks the Bond’s done good work on it. “It looks good, being on the side of an angel suing a monster,” he offers. Diane’s assuming they’ll go with intentional infliction of emotional distress, and she’s right, since it’s apparently worked in other states. (Really? How many times can this particular issue come up, I wonder? I’d like to think there can’t be a great amount of relevant case law out there.)
Diane peers over at Rhonda. Bose is being released? Yes, Alicia confirms. Will explains that Bond had the whole emotional distress argument prepared. “Okay,” Diane grudgingly assents, “but we can’t keep carrying all of Bond’s old cases.” Really? Don’t you want his business? Isn’t having more clients better for you? “Are you signing off?” Will cuts to the chase. She is. Done.
Funny that she’s in charge here, huh? What’s up with that? Everyone in the conference room exhales. “Okay,” Will says quietly to Kalinda and Alicia, his right and left hand – the only people in the packed conference room who really matter. “Bose’s lawyer will try to argue first amendment rights; if they lose that, they may go after the song itself, say it has nothing to do with the crime.” Kalinda takes it in. “You want us to make sure the song is actually about the rape and murder?” He does. “Yes. Whatever you can get to connect the imagery to the crime. And we’ll never use it, but just in case.” Ah, didn’t you learn in school, Will, that you should never say never? Just listen to Justin Bieber. He’ll tell you. Will leaves, and Kalinda shares a sardonic look with Alicia. “Well, this’ll be fun, finding clues in bad poetry.” Instead of the answering smile she expected, however, Alicia takes off. She’s seen Eli in the hall, and has run after him, but Kalinda doesn’t see him and just looks guilty.
“Don’t worry I’m not going to comment,” she tells him in a tone of voice that clearly says “you idiot, why on earth would you have to come here to find that out?” Eli’s mouth rounds into a circle, and his eyes roll around hilariously in search of the context. This is how you control your face? “The Colorado congressman,” Alicia prompts, “and his skinny dipping girlfriend, that’s why you’re here, right?” No. Diane pokes her head through her door to call Eli in. Ah. Alicia peers in curiously (though really, do you need to crane your neck when the walls are made out of glass?).
“I don’t understand,” Diane complains. “Her legal fight for citizenship was complicated by the recent…” here Eli gulps, unsure of his phrasing, “situation in the news, and I don’t think her current lawyer is quite up to it.” He’s looking very defiant, brazening it out, pretending this is a normal sounding request, almost challenging her to contradict him. She does. “This is Natalie Flores.” “Yes. A DePaul student. Actually, ex-student.” “Wendy Scott-Carr’s nanny.” “Yes. Ex-nanny.” Hee. I love the rhythm of this. “So, do you mind if I ask,” Diane can’t contain herself, “rumor has it that your campaign was instrumental in exposing her undocumented status?” Oh. That. “Yes, well, you know I can’t comment on that.” Eli looks distinctly uncomfortable. “But this has nothing to do with the campaign. This is something I want you to handle.” Well. Now that’s an emphasis we’ve never seen from him. Diane puts on her poker face and says she’ll offer Natalie her services; Eli’s pleased.
“One more thing,” Eli cautions, “I’d rather it wasn’t mentioned that I had anything to do with this.” Diane nods in understanding. “If the press asks,” she agrees. “No, if she asks,” Eli corrects, and Diane slides back into bafflement. “Okay. Good to know.” They shake on it. “You were thinking about running for a judgeship at one point, weren’t you?” Eli remembers. Yes, she was. “You should think about it again,” says Eli.
“Past the freeway signs/past the telephone lines,” come the lyrics of the killer song. Do people who don’t live in California use the term freeway? I’m genuinely asking. Alicia’s head starts bobbing along to the beat. “It’s perverse, I’m sort of starting to like this.” “That is perverse,” Kalinda teases. Well, it’s definitely catchy. “Do you see any connections? Carcass, kitchen sink…” Alicia sorts through dreadful crimes scene photos, almost unrecognizable as human in their strange, angular geometry. Too generic, agrees Kalinda. Then again, there’s a comment about a bloody gearshift, and there certainly was one of those.
“So, Cary checked to see if there were any more interviews with Blake, and he couldn’t find any,” Alicia mentions, not looking up from the photos. Kalinda does look up. She’s surprised to hear this coming from Alicia. “Cary came up to me, he said you should just stop worrying about another subpoena.” Okay, Kalinda shrugs, and turns a remarkably bad poker face to the photos. “What happened, did Blake say anything?” No, Kalinda mutters, refusing to look at Alicia. “You still have that bad feeling?” Kalinda doesn’t answer. “Something bad’s gonna happen?” Alicia smiles, as if she could cajole Kalinda into a better mood. Oh, honey. Little do you know. Kalinda fakes a laugh, and then leans forward to examine the photos. Ever so casually, she changes the subject. “You happy?” Alicia’s taken aback. “Am I happy?” “Yeah, with your life, your home?” “I don’t know,” Alicia considers the question seriously. “I guess so. It’s like when a storm is over, is it happiness – or just relief?”
Natalie Flores cocks her head to the side, her mouth open in surprise. (Ugh, I hope I don’t get any evil hits from that sentence.) “I don’t understand.” “We want to help you,” Diane says helpfully. “We’ve been seeing you in the news. We think your case is being mishandled.” Diane introduces Alicia. Now, okay, I know she’s the main character on the show, but surely there’s a conflict of interests here – even if only in appearance – because of the campaign? Or Eli asking you to keep him out of it? Or something? I mean, it’s hard to introduce Alicia without her last name coming up. “She’s worked on other immigration cases and I’ve asked her to help you.” Oh, right. That’s going to make it easy to keep Eli’s name out of it. And Alicia’s had experience on what, one immigration case? Diane explains that they would take the case be pro bono. Natalie looks so young here, her gaze flittering back between Alicia and Diane. Why are you doing this, she wonders. “Because we think we can help you,” Diane lies. Do they? Can they? I mean, the powers that be know she’s out there.
Diane establishes that Natalie arrives in America in 1986, when she was 2. “The problem we’re facing is this, Natalie. You know about the Dream Act?” She does. It was legislation that was designed to help people like her become citizens. Yes, agrees Alicia, “but its’ political defeat has made it paradoxically harder. Politicians are less likely to support … the undocumented. Especially someone like you with a high profile.” Oh, God, poor kid. They establish that she needs a sponsor with 3 years of citizenship, which she has in an aunt. “Good. The fact that your case was already in the works should keep you out of any immediate trouble.” Diane relaxes back in her seat. Ah, those sound like famous last words to me. “And we’ll need you to have a job. Do you have one at the moment?”
” I do. Day trading.” Alicia does a double take. “Day trading? Like, the stock market?” Diane can’t quite believe it. Currency exchanges too. And yes, for clients – professors mostly. “It’s not a lot of money, but I do offer a pretty consistent 12% return.” Well, damn! That’s very impressive. Alicia hides a smile. “Well, I was thinking like a nanny job, but that’ll work.” Diane smiles and dismisses her newest client.
“You’re Peter Florrick’s wife,” Natalie says stiffly as Alicia accompanies her to the elevator. “I am.” “Do you know that I used to be Wendy Scott-Carr’s nanny?” “I do.” “It’s kind of odd, the way this is working, me being helped by your firm.” Alicia considers this for a moment. “Yes, it is odd.” She hits the elevator button. “Did Eli Gold ask you to do this,” Natalie Flores asks, but I can’t help hearing Betty Suarez’s instincts in Natalie’s suspicion. “No,” Alicia says immediately, “Diane did. Why don’t you give me a call when you get all your documentation together?” Alicia proffers her business card. “Am I being used here?” the still worried girl asks. “I don’t know,” Alicia replies, not minimizing Natalie’s distress. “But you know what the best thing to do is if you are?” “What?” Alicia sticks her card out further and smiles wide. “Use them right back.” Natalie walks into the elevator, where she’s joined by Kalinda, who’s on her phone trying to reach Cary.
“Why do you want to know?” Matan Brody asks. Damn, Matan Brody. Have we seen him once this whole season? Yes – I think perhaps back in Double Jeopardy, working with Cary and blaming him for their loss. At any rate, it’s been an awfully long time. And of all the people Blake could have ended up talking to… did he know that Brody would be so hostile to the Florricks? Probably. ‘Why do I want to know if you were the last one to interview Blake?” Cary repeats as his phone pings. “I don’t know, I just didn’t see any interview notes.” 9:34, it says, with a voicemail and missed call from Kalinda Sharma. “Because I have them here,” Matan answers. Oh, do you? Oh. Dear. “You were out that day, so I took them.” “Okay. Anything I should know?” Matan regards Cary with a hint of smugness. “I don’t know. Who told you to ask?” Oh. Dear. Blake really did it. Yikes. Cary’s eyebrows come down. “Do we have a problem here?” “I don’t think so, I’m just wondering why you’re asking me about a dead case.” Uh, because it’s his case? But of course Matan knows why he’s asking. “Okay,” Cary literally backs off, “this is me, out the door. This is the door, and this is me, leaving.” As Cary’s pulling the door shut – and oh, don’t they always wait for the dramatic moment? – Brody apologizes, sort of. “Tense place around here these days.” Cary agrees. “Baghdad after Saddam,” he says to express his solidarity. He tries to shut the door. “The point is to survive.” Cary nods, and then he does close the door.
Up next is a man on a stage; oh, how convenient that the band is in Chicago! How likely is that? “It was a lark. It was our Axl Rose moment,” a skinny, not particularly handsome guy with a mildly sexy British accent tells Kalinda. Presumably, he’s the lead singer of AG47. “Very lucrative lark,” Kalinda observes. All the best ones are, he agrees. “It’s just a goof – kind of a new millennium art, you know? Collage.” Really? Do you know what that word means? He’s very casual, and very cocky; he’s swaggers off the stage. “Yeah,” she sighs, leaning up against the sound equipment, “collage from a killer.” He actually pays attention to her now. “Yeah, well, art is art, isn’t it? Didn’t Norman Mailer kill someone?” (No, but he did campaign to free a man from prison who murdered someone soon after his parole. Surprisingly relevant. I had no idea.) “So where did you get the song,” Kalinda wonders. “Where are you from, darling?” he doesn’t answer. “Nearby,” is the genius response. “How did you get the song?” From “him” – by which the rocker dude means Jarvis Bose. “Yeah, he sent it about a year ago from his mental hospital. Love getting submissions from mental hospitals. Always open them first.” What, does that happen a lot? He leans back and considers Kalinda again. “So what is your accent?” Hmmm. What is her accent? She’s not playing, though. “Did he send you the lyrics?” “No, tape.” Oooh, now that’s interesting. “Awful stuff, sounded like a dying porpoise. And when I said I wanted to record it, he said he wanted to change some lyrics. Guy in a mental hospital thinks suddenly thinks he’s Ray Davies.” He leans in. “So, uh, you gonna stay for the set?” “Can I see the tape?” she asks instead. Of course he’s going to let you see the tape, Kalinda. No question.
The sound is tiny, and the voice is, let us say, not very smooth, but the driving beat is the same. How did he possibly record this in prison? Do they have recording studios? “Drive on out, where no one can see/ Drive on out under the Christmas tree.” Well, that bit’s new. “Popcorn smell, that won’t come off,” he wails, a bit nasal. Kalinda’s ears perk up; clearly this isn’t in the newer lyrics either. “The bloody cowguard, it won’t come off.” “Bloody cowguard? I’d call that more than generic,” Alicia volunteers, stating the obvious. Kalinda grabs her things, headed to the scene of the crime to look for even more clues in the landscape – which to say, a context for the most specific lyrics.
Call me perverse, but I’m really liking this song, too. (Words aside, obviously.) Even the version that sounds like a dying porpoise. There’s something in that driving beat that’s really involving.
Alicia’s phone rings, but the call is a mess. No clear words come through, so she hangs up on poor, frustrated Natalie Flores. “Phone your sister,” her father asks her. The two are clearly in some sort of institution, like a police station or really scummy hospital. Natalie shakes her head. “She’ll only tell us to go with the public defender.” Well,” says her father, “maybe we should go with the public defender.” Ah, poor public defenders. Don’t you feel like you’d do anything not to have to have a public defender? “Just give me one minute, okay Dad?” Natalie pats her father on the shoulder. Oh, Natalie, it’s not his fault he’s not Ignacio Suarez. Who else could be? She takes her phone out of the room to call Diane, but she can’t get past Diane’s assistant.
Eli’s busy telling – well, presumably a reporter – that Wendy’s outspent them two to one so he’d like to consider Peter the underdog. Just as he does so, a note appears, and he scuttles off. Very stiffly, he answers a phone in the middle of the office. “Hi. Hello. This is Eli.” “It’s me,” Natalie says forlornly, walking about looking lost. “Yes I know,” Eli says, with surprising patience considering that he’s fairly horrified to be doing this in public. “You asked Lockhart/Gardner to help me?” “What?” he pretends. “Eli, you were the one who asked Lockhart/Gardner to help me.” He wants to deny it, but he cannot lie to her. “Yes. But it’s not what you think.” What does she think? “Eli, I need you to call them,” she says clearly, her face (once seen close up) tracked with tears, “my father’s been arrested, and they won’t return my calls. My Dad is going to processed in an hour, which means his name is going to be entered into the system as undocumented.”
I have to admit it, though. Why is this more dangerous than her being on tv as an undocumented alien? I mean, everyone knows he’s undocumented. They know where he lives. Was no one going to come after him?
Diane does take Eli’s call. Ah, the perks of power, money and influence. Eli demands she run out – despite being swamped – and save Mr. Suarez from being deported. Er, Mr. Flores. “Diane, you asked me last week if I was happy at Lockhart/Gardner. I am, but I don’t want to be unhappy. She needs your help now.” Well. That’s throwing your weight around! Also, it’s cute. He’s clearly upset. “I’m on my way,” Diane replies, caving. She heaves a big sigh of annoyance – but only after she’s hung up.
The killer song is back, as we see yet another crime scene photo, this one of a curled up blue hand with blood trickling into the palm. Very artistic. Ugh. More dreadful bloody pictures. I won’t go into detail except to say that there’s torn fabric and a lot of rope involved. How does Rhonda live with this? Presumably she was the baby in the happy photo; the pictures are all she has of her mother. Well, and now the song.
Kalinda’s using the photos to find the exact spot in a snowy field. “Drive on out, where no one can see. You drive on out under the Christmas tree.” Kalinda walks down a dirt road through the field. Why is she walking? Why, so she can trip over two pieces of wood nailed together, of course – the kind of cross that Christmas trees get nailed to. Nice. She drives her big black SUV over to a gate marking the Grayton Christmas Tree Farm.
They did this on purpose, right? Made us like this loathsome song? It’s really catchy. I don’t think I could stand to download it, though; I like it when they’re just playing the beat in the background, powerful and relentless, so I don’t have to listen to the words. Maybe Kalinda should appropriate it as her theme song with new lyrics.
Somebody’s inputting information into a form on their computer. Ah, it’s the Chicago Police Department, so it must the Flores family. Diane gets the story from the arresting officer: he responded to a call about a burglary. “And you saw Mr. Flores at the scene.” No, just in the vicinity. “There was a report of a Hispanic burglar with a weapon driving away, and I saw Mr. Luis Flores…” and here the officer makes his case with his emphasis. Hispanic! All done! “…in a similar vehicle.” Diane pounces on this phrase. “In a similar make and model?” She leans in, but the officer holds up his hands. ‘We’re just holding him for questioning, m’am.” She starts whispering. “Yes, unfortunately in a few minutes dispatch will be sending his name on to IEC as undocumented.” The officer is supremely unconcerned. “Well, that’s not under my purview in investigating a burglary.” She pins him down with her gaze. “It was a different make and model, wasn’t it?” He asks her to leave, but Diane keeps pressing. Natalie – sitting with her father and Eli – looks on in concern. “You saw a Hispanic man driving his car near the burglary scene and you took him in for questioning.” Yeah, that pretty much sums it up, but he’s not going to admit there’s anything wrong with that to you. “Talk to the judge, because I’m not talking to you anymore!” She starts pleading. “He’s innocent of the burglary, but he will be deported if you keep holding on to him.” You know, I love this about Diane. She was busy and she didn’t want to be running around today, but you give her a person being railroaded by the system and she’s fully present and passionate in their defense. Her protests don’t seem to be helping, however, as the officer keeps typing.
“Are you alright?” Eli asks Natalie quietly. “Yes,” she sniffles, “you can go now if you like.” “No, I’m fine.” She looks vulnerable, but there’s fire there. “Whatever this is doing for you, Mr. Gold, whatever guilt this is satisfying, you don’t have to worry. I’m fine.” He looks a bit hurt.
“Do you see this key, m’am?” the arresting officer asks Diane, his finger over the Enter key. He presses it. His voice is spiteful when he tells her that Mr. Flores is now in the system. “Have a good day!” Well. I guess some people don’t like being called racists, even when they are. Natalie bends down to comfort her father.
“Yup, one court after another, that’s my life,” Jarvis Bose says airly to his newest attorney, a well dressed, sophisticated looking woman with smooth brown hair and lots of jewelry. Ah, must be Rhonda’s case up now. “You just behave and everything will be alright,” she comforts him, leaning in and putting her hand on his shoulder. Wow, I wouldn’t be so touchy feely with a murdering rapist, but that’s just me. “You’re an artist now!” Ah, well, that makes it all better, then. He’s sinless, just like Charlie Sheen. Bose’s lawyer stands, straightens her jacket, and introduces herself to Will as Babette Penn. Really? Babette? Her flirt level is set on stun. “I like your suit,” she enthuses. “I like yours. How is it representing a killer?” My, Will. It’s not like you haven’t done that before yourself. Then again, I’ve noticed that there’s often a level of hostility in Will’s flirting. You’d almost think he wasn’t with Tammy, those reflexes are so strong.
Babette sighs. “Oh, you’re not going to be a killjoy, are you?” “I might,” he considers, still flirty. “I’m not sure yet.” “He’s really nice when you get to know him,” Babette smirks, sarcastic. Yeah, she’s just Will’s type. He chuckles. Then he notices Jarvis Bose enthusiastically motioning someone in the audience to see him,
“The psycho wants you,” Kalinda whispers to Alicia as they sit in the gallery. Nice. “What do you think?” “I think you should go.” Well, if you say so, Kalinda! Alicia goes. Kalinda goes with her. “Hi,”Jarvis says, standing to meet her, inhaling deeply. He smiles awkwardly, and she’s silent. “I’m a fan.” “Of?” Alicia wonders. “You! From way back. The press conference, standing by your man. I wrote a song about it.” Well, holy crap. That’s unexpected. And thoroughly creepy. He does indeed look star struck. “How gratifying,” Alicia replies, stone cold and dignified. It’s very Jackie, actually. “I’ll send it to you,” he enthuses, completely blind to her tone. “Oh goody,” she can’t help but snark, and Kalinda leads her away.
“Let’s not make this boring, shall we?” Babette and her cleavage beg Will. “What do you suggest,” he asks, “tequila shots?” He’s baffled. She gives a fake laugh and tells him he’s funny. “No. I’m punting on the First Amendment.” Now she’s got his complete attention. “What’s the fun in a Constitutional argument?” “You want a quick verdict,” he correctly assesses. “You can bankrupt my client with appeal after appeal, and his song has nothing to do with his past crime.” (As opposed to his present crime?) “Good luck with that,” Will says, turning away and fussing with his papers to signal the end of the conversation. “Just a warning?” she says softly, grabbing his label and pressing herself firmly against him. “I play dirty.” Will brushes off his jacket where she’s touched it, and tells Kalinda and Alicia that yep, he cursed them all by using the word never. They need to find relevance in the song lyrics, stat.
Babette Penn asks the judge for a summary judgment. Will tries to remind the judge that it’s Rhonda suit, poor frumpy looking Rhonda who lost her mom, but Babette has the the advantage to start. “Yes, and unfortunately for Mr. Gardner, that case was adjudicated over 30 years ago.” Ouch! She’s cold. “We are now in civil court. ” “Where you are not objecting on First Amendment grounds.” “That’s because in the interest of a quick and tidy judgment, we would ask this suit be dismissed on the facts.” “And we would argue it should be heard by a jury.” That’s because you want “to inflame the jury’s passions against my client,” Babette rightly assesses, but Will says no. “The facts are persuasive.” He reaches back to Kalinda, and takes a handful of papers. “As you can see from these revised lyrics, your Honor, Mr. Bose changed the words of his song to avoid similarities to his crime.” Lyric sheets for everyone!
“And those changed lyrics feature an embedded cowguard, which you can see in this photograph,” Will points out. Babette looks at her client, who raises his eyebrows, just as Cary walks in to talk to Kalinda. I love Cary in white knight mode. He’s just so concerned. They need to talk, and as soon as Kalinda can hand more papers to Will, they’re gone. He brings out the information about the Christmas trees. Will feels that this should be enough to dismiss Miss Penn’s motion, but Bose has something to say about that. He tells Babette, who tells the court, that the Christmas Tree Farm wasn’t there 30 years ago. “Is this true, Mr. Gardner?” grey haired Judge Breen asks. Will does not know, and when he sees that Kalinda’s not there to back him up, he asks for a recess to determine the truth.
Cary leans over Kalinda in the hall, at an intimate distance. He’s checked around about Blake. “There are no interview notes, so I thought there was no interview, but I think there was. Matan Brody interviewed him last.” Kalinda inhales, taking the information in with the air. “And what did he say?” “Matan?” (What kind of name is Matan, anyway? Okay, I looked it up. It’s Hebrew. It means gift. It’s so fitting. He’s a gift alright, that one.) Duh, of course Matan. That’s what you were talking about, right? “He said he interviewed Blake last, and he’s keeping the interview notes under lock and key.” “Why?” “I don’t know, he wouldn’t say.” Kalinda swallows hard. “Did he tell you what was in the interview?” No. “Did you tell Matan I was the one asking?” Of course not. Listen to how protective his voice is. Boy, when he finds out what the secret is, man, that is not going to be good. I don’t know, Kalinda, it might be better to stop betting on containment and start telling at least a few people (ie, Cary) so they can evacuate. Then again, I really don’t know what he’s going to do. I mean, he likes her, and he has a grudge against Peter. That can’t be a good combination.
“Cary, will you do me a favor? If you find out something else, will you just come talk to me? No one else?” He blinks. “I talked to Alicia because she was your lawyer.” She knows. “Don’t worry, you won’t get subpoenaed again. Childs won’t come after you again.” Oh, Cary. You’re being atypically slow here. She as good as told you that her worry was unrelated to the previous case. “Thanks,” she says, smiles slightly, and leaves. Cary leans against the wall, puzzled, intense.
“They’re right,” Alicia tells Will back at the office. “The Christmas Tree Farm is only 18 years old.” I guess the fact that they weren’t planning on using this information explains why they didn’t make sure of that in the first place? “Well, we all need to do a bit of musical archeology here,” Will tells them. “What’s the connection between these lyrics and the crime scene, and why did he change those lyrics especially?” Yes. We do know that’s the issue, Will, thank you. “Kalinda, where are you on this?” “Nowhere,” she confesses. Well. At least her top is really cool – draped grey-purple silk with a square neck. Gorgeous. “Great,” Will replies, confused. “Now let’s get somewhere.” An assistant breaks up the meeting with a call for Alicia. Where’s Courtney? I don’t think we’ve seen her since VIP Treatment. It feels like an age. I’m pretty sure this is the woman who gave Kalinda the message from the mystery caller who may or may not have been her ex-husband. Or are they even still married? Kalinda – paranoid – watches Alicia take the call, but it’s not Matan on the phone with a horrible surprise. Instead, it’s Jarvis Bose.
“You know who this is. I can tell from your voice you know who this is,” Bose tells her, making me shudder. Alicia motions frenetically for Kalinda, who sprints out of the conference room. “Is this Mr. Bose?” “Yeees. I need a lawyer.” Um, huh? “Mr. Bose, you have a lawyer, and we can’t be speaking.” Kalinda flaps at her. “There’s a website that’s dedicated to illegally downloading my music.” Well, I guess there’s a website for everything. “You can speak with him if he waves his rights,” Kalinda hisses, blouse shimmering as she wags her arm to emphasize her points. “And you want another lawyer to battle illegal downloads?” “You’re going to lose this tomorrow, the case will be dismissed, and then I’ll need someone to sue over illegal downloads!” He’s cheery, as if it should all be clear and mutually agreeable. Meanwhile Kalinda has picked up another extension so she can listen in. “Well, I need to remind you that I work for the firm represent the adverse party in your current suit. And I can’t talk to you unless you talk to your current lawyer.” “I already did, she was great,” he says.
He starts doodling on a white board. He’s wearing a blue polo shirt, and the preppiness looks odd, but of course everything about him is unsettling. “Why did you stay with your husband?” He’s pleasant, still, as if that were the kind of thing she’d just tell people. (To be fair, some people might be cool with justifying their life choices to complete strangers who also happen to be murderous psychopaths, but Alicia’s not one of them.) “I don’t know,” she says, annoyed, “why did you change your lyrics?” She looks at Kalinda, a “hey, why not?” expression on her face. Well, at least she didn’t ask him why he raped and murdered Mrs. Cerone. He laughs. “I’m an artist!” Oh, buying our own press, are we? “You know, they did spectrographic studies of Fra Angelico paintings, and they found rough sketches beneath them?” “So you were revising to improve,” Alicia guesses. “I was revising because my life is a revision.” Oh, nice line. “And the Christmas tree? That was just an improvement?” “Well, it wasn’t the best rhyme, was it?” Oh, sure, that’s the issue. Obviously. “I guess I shouldn’t talk Art with a lawyer.” Oh, that’s so so true. There’s no way a plebe like Alicia could understand your process. “It’s up to you,” she replies, refusing to be drawn in. ‘Art is about personalizing, isn’t it?” Alicia turns to Kalinda and rolls her eyes. “Law is about the macro, Art is about the micro.” Gee, it’s almost like getting Colin Sweeney back.
“I see. And what’s the micro here?” “Ooo.” Bose is impressed she can repeat his terms back to him. “Is this important to our lawsuit?” Our lawsuit. Man, it’s like they’re married in his head already. “Our lawsuit against illegal downloads? You decide.” “I want to remake my life – like you have. How do I do that?” Again – impressively – she doesn’t allow herself to be drawn in.”Well, it would have helped if you didn’t kill someone.” He finds that hilarious. “Oops! I can’t change the past, can I? Once a bad person, always bad person.” Kalinda looks at her friend; it’s a real question, when not implied to obvious creeps. Kalinda is has done a bad thing; will that make Alicia consider her a bad person once she finds out? Bose hangs up.
“What do you think?” Alicia asks Kalinda. “I think we should be looking into the personal.”
And there to do it for them – ugh – is poor Rhonda Cerone. Well, she would have more insight into her mother’s life, maybe, but making her listen to this stuff sucks. “I don’t know,” she says. Alicia explains they can’t connect the new lyrics to the crime scene. “We were wondering if they might connect to your mom.” Rhonda shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” Poor girl. She must have been a baby when her mom died – how would she even know? “Nothing with the Christmas tree, popcorn, calgon?” ” Rhonda’s certain. “No, it was February. We didn’t have a tree up. I don’t know about the rest of it.” Well, okay, I guess she remembers something, which makes the character a little older than I thought. Is that good or bad in terms of emotional scaring? I guess I was mislead by the baby picture. (Also, the actress is only 28, born in 1982. So there.)
“This is how it’ll work,” Diane explains to Natalie. “Your father was swept up in a hunt and peck, a burglary charge targeting a Hispanic adult five foot ten. There’ll be a bond hearing tomorrow and he’s sure to be released.” Seriously, he’s got to wait in jail overnight just for being Hispanic? That’s so offensive. Natalie’s tear stained face looks up at Diane; she’s terrified. “The problem is, he’s now in the system.” Betty Suarez’s dad was deported, too. Sorry, it all comes back to Ugly Betty. Natalie’s eyes close, and she drops her face down into her hands. “He’s been scheduled to be picked up with the other undocumenteds at 3pm. So I need to speak to a judge about accelerating his bond hearing.” Right, but, if he’s already in the system, and they know where he lives, won’t they just come after him either way? Are they so arbitrary in immigration, or do they just not have enough agents to go after individual people? Natalie hears that there’s a plan, a goal, and gulps down her tears. “Okay. What can I do?” “Be at court tomorrow,” Diane replies, giving her a sympathetic clout on the shoulder.
Poor Rhonda Cerone is back listening to the song in Alicia’s office, images of the crime scene flashing in front of us (presumably to mimic what’s going on in that poor woman’s head). “Not too far, in the trunk of the car, and no one can hear her scream.” The look on her face… Alicia walks through the halls toward her, surprised to see her back. Her words come in an excited rush. “I just realized I can help. I was in the elevator and I just realized.” What? “I’m in a survivors’ group, we meet every month, children whose parents have been murdered.” She’s practically spitting out the words, so eager to get them out. “There’s a woman there, her name is Lynne Boyle, her mother was raped and murdered in Poplar Grove, they never found the killer.” Alicia doesn’t understand – is Rhonda alright? “Yes, actually for the first time in a long time, I am. Listen, the things you said in the song, they don’t sound like my mom. They sound like hers.”
Wow. Woah. That’s kind of amazing. Is it horrible to say it’s awesome? The guy still seems pretty sick (Cerone’s murder had those serial killer ritualistic elements), and maybe this will get him back in jail where he clearly belongs. Not that I want him to have killed more fictional people, of course, it’s just that if the truth finally comes out, giving closure to another family – I don’t know, that’s all just great. And what a fantastic way to get at a smug criminal! Literary analysis and support groups for the win!
Yeah, I like that a lot.
The Florrick campaign headquarters are dark, the monitors glowing in blue, bespeaking the promise of a new beginning. Wow, Peter’s in an office at the campaign headquarters! Have we ever actually seen that before? In the occasional meeting, sure, or at appearances, but in his own office? Eli lives at headquarters, but Peter? Just saying. Hi Peter! It’s nice to see you.
Sitting across from him is – of course – Kalinda.
“We said we’d never talk about this,” Peter says. Kalinda raises her eyebrows. “You think I wanna talk about it?” Right, because when does she ever want to talk about something personal? “Why are we talking about it?” Peter looks pretty annoyed, frankly. “Matan Brody knows.” He’s quick to scoff. “Matan Brody – no one knows.” “There was another investigator at Lockhart/Gardner. He seems to have found out, and he told Matan.” How DID Blake find out? Was it just a good guess? He can’t have any actual evidence, can he? Peter gives Kalinda a deeply unhappy look, and loosens his collar. Feeling guilty, Peter? Good. Kalinda looks away.
Then Peter’s eyes go wide and he turns to Kalinda, alarmed. “Does Alicia know?” She shakes her head. “No.” Peter drops his head into his hand in relief, rubbing his forehead as if he could rub away his indiscretions. “It was one night. There’s no way he could have found out.” I get it – I even agree with you – but it seems that he has indeed figured it out. “You know Matan. You hired him. That’s why I think he’s not telling Childs.” Well, that and Childs is a lame duck who can’t do anything for Matan anymore. “Childs is a lame duck.” Oh, okay, I spoke to soon. Of course she was going there too. “You mean he’s waiting to see who wins the election?” Matan is holding on to the information as job security. Smart, Matan. That’s somewhat atypical, but the meanspirited selfish bit I definitely believe. “My guess is he wants to be kept on if you win.” Ah, but if you do, then he’ll always have something to hold over your head. Not so comfortable, that. Peter agrees that he should talk to Brody.
Kalinda’s almost at the door before Peter calls out to her. “You know I love Alicia.” She nods. “I’ve … fallen in love with my wife again.” He looks surprised, almost embarrassed to be admitting something so unhip. Is that his excuse for what happened? His justification? Somehow, that really infuriates me. So before, he didn’t care if he was hurting her? Is it all about keeping her ignorant so she’ll stay? I don’t know why, but I guess I never really thought of his cheating as having come out of a place where he was just not into Alicia anymore, and the idea of that – and him then thinking he deserves to have her back without being honest with her – makes me spitting, sputtering mad. And I’ve been so pleased with Peter this season. “It would kill her to know this.” Kalinda agrees.
The next morning, Alicia arrives at the office, and catches Kalinda on the stairs. “It was another murder!” Say what? “Rhonda told me yesterday. The lyrics in the song started to make sense to her. But not about her mom. Why was your phone off?” “What’re you talking about?” “I tried your cell!” “No, no, I mean the song.” Brilliant redirect, Kalinda! It’s like you really are the grown up, manipulating a room full of children. Oh. Alicia brings Kalinda up to speed about Lynne Boyle. “She was raped and murdered in Poplar Grove. She was kidnapped from her workplace. A movie theater.” Ah, Kalinda twigs to the connection, the popcorn smell. Alicia raises her eyebrows and smiles.
“Lynne Boyle, 28, mother of two.” (Just to say – are both mother and daughter Lynne Boyle? I’ve listened twice and that’s what I have to conclude, even though that’s a little odd. Did the writer just mix up the names? Lynne isn’t a common name for girls born in the early 80s. Of course, neither is Rhonda.) Cary’s throwing crime scene photos of a winter scene very similar to the one where Mallory Cerone’s body was found. “She was found in the trunk of her car. She was carjacked, and forced to drive off into a field where she was raped and murdered.” God. Cary’s standing with Alicia and Kalinda in what looks like a records room, the photos balanced on a filing cabinet, a copy machine behind them. It’s all unglamorous, institutional gray. “No dna evidence. Some fabric fibers, but they never matched.” The photos contain more geometric blood streaks and an unfortunate amount of duct tape.
“When did this happen?” Cary consults the documentation. Three months before Mallory Cerone. “Did anyone ever try to connect it to Bose before?” It’s Kalinda who wonders this. Man, it’s inspiring to see the three of them working together, all about the work, all about justice. Yes, people did, but no luck. That’s because no one makes as good a team as you three! “There was nothing of his at the scene.” Alicia, who’s been shuffling through the photos, goes still. “Kalinda, take a look at this!” “This” is a picture of the front of Mrs. Boyles’ car; a pine tree deodorizer hangs from the rear view mirror. “The Christmas tree,” Alicia breathes.
According to Natalie Flores’ watch, they’ve got 25 minutes to save her dad. “We’re cutting it close!” If they don’t talk to that judge and get over to Dad before three, he’s scooped up into ICE’s merciless net. “We have to get the paperwork to the holding cell, too,” Diane worries. But just in time, the racist cop arrives, at court on another case. When non-nonsense Judge Jane Moretti wearily finishes one case, Diane seizes the opportunity to leap in, even though it’s not their turn. At first the judge isn’t biting until she hears Diane’s name. “Miss Lockhart! Emily’s List, is that right?” Diane’s winning smile finds an answer from the judge.
Natalie’s watch shows the time at 2:45. “I had reason to believe he was connected to the case, so I pulled him over.” “Yes, ” Diane counters to the racist cop, “but reports stated that the burglar was within the ages of 18 and 25, is that correct?” Ha. Now that’s funny. Racist cop admits that it is so. “And how old is Mr. Flores?” Judge Moretti wants to know. “Well,” the cop says in an aggrieved tone, “he says he’s 52.” Ha. I’ll say it again: ha. “Officer, I understand the need to widen the net, but that would seem awfully wide, wouldn’t it? Motion for bond approved.” Diane asks for haste in processing the bond. The papers are stamped, and off they run with 8 minutes left on the courthouse clock.
And there’s a cop sitting in front of the holding cells, where a line of men are shuffling off to a detention center like the doomed fish at the end of Finding Nemo. “I have a release notice for Luis Flores,” Diane says, putting her paperwork in front of the cop. “Dad!” Natalie yells, since of course, he’s right in front of them in the halting line. “That’s my client. He’s received bond, sir.” ‘He’s being transferred to ICE.” “No, the judge just ordered his release. This is a mistake,” she says, pointing to the line.”Maybe, m’am, but it’s not our mistake.” Oh, God. Poor Natalie – Natalia to her dad – begs the desk clerk. “No, sir, please, my father’s done nothing wrong. He’s never even had a parking ticket.” And yet he is unmoved. Cretin. “It’s not about doing wrong, miss. He’s in the system. It’s out of my hands.”
“It’s not out of your hands. You know it’s not.” Diane pleads passionately. We haven’t heard her voice sound like this since the death row case. I’ll say it again, I love watching these lawyers get invested in their cases and in their clients. “That’s just not true, m’am.” Diane huffs in frustration, and Natalie calls to her father again, panicked. “I’m sorry!” “Don’t say that,” he tells her, “I’m okay.” So I guess the deal here is that the undocumented are okay as long as they don’t run fowl of the law in the smallest way, but if they do, they’re ground up like so much hamburger meat?
And then we hear a voice, as if from heaven.
“Hey, Tom, what’s up?” The room parts for Eli. “Mr. Gold! How’re you?” Turns out that they know each other from Sheriffs association functions. Really? Wow. I guess when Eli intimated to Becca that he knew every cop in town, he wasn’t so far off the truth. They joke about bad function food. “So, can you help me out here? Luis is my … gardener.” Oh, nice. Racist stereotypes used for good? “Ah, I don’t know, Mr. Gold, it’s ICE.” “It’s ICE when he’s out the door.” Diane chimes in. “This man could be a material witness in an ongoing investigation.” Hm. I suppose that, strictly construed, that’s actually true, even if the investigation is into his daughter’s immigration status. Eli repeats Diane’s words, which is rather adorable. “It’s a small gesture,” he smiles. Tom doesn’t look pleased. “It would be a appreciated. You can’t find good gardeners these days, you know?” Everybody looks at each other. Natalie is breathless.
And the next thing we see is her father, released from custody into his daughter’s loving arms. He pats her back, murmuring reassurances. “I think were almost out of favors in there,” he says to Diane. They all look, but Eli seems to be gone.
“So the lyrics have nothing to do with your crime?” Will asks Bose, now seated on the stand. Rhonda, of course, is in attendance. Why ever would you think so? Bose dismisses the idea as preposterous. “I’m a fan of Gerard Manley Hopkins and Elvis Costello. I just wanted to do something that combined their spirits.” Oh. Yeah, not buying that one. The writing’s not nearly vivid enough to come close to Hopkins’ spirit. Will looks unconvinced. “Really?” “Really. Did you like the song?” Man, Bose is such a narcissist. How did that nice seeming psychiatrist not know that? “I liked the earlier version,” Will replies. Bose shakes his head.”I hate my first drafts. Everything’s in flux, don’t you think?” Will hums noncommittally. “And the Christmas tree you mentioned in the song, the lyrics you tried to cover up…” “Objection!” Miss Penn calls wearily. “Actually, I’m not sure whether I should object to that or just laugh.” ‘You want some help with that?” Will asks. “No,” she says, “I think I’ve decided.” Then she breaks into some very fake laughter. “Do you two want us all to leave?” Hah. Good one, Judge Breen. “No, your Honor,” Will’s quick to back down, and Miss Penn has a rather funny expression frozen on her face.
“So the reason you changed the cowguard in your song, has nothing to do with the murder?” That’s right, Mr. Gardner. “But you do remember seeing the cowguard?” “I don’t think I do remember, but I’m an intuitive person so it’s probably in there someplace.” Oh, yes. I’ll buy that one. Of course I will. He chuckles. Because crime scene details are just so funny when you view them through the lens of Art, don’t you think? Cary walks into the courtroom. And why did he change the lyric about asking the victim to pull over at the side of a field? “Because I thought it was melodramatic.” Ah, and that’s the last thing a song reenacting a vicious crime should be. “Yet fairly realistic, given how you killed her.” Bose actually looks pained. “I’ve tried to block those memories.” Rhonda rolls her eyes, more as a plea to heaven than sarcasm. Then it could be based on your crime, Will posits. Babette objects because it’s a leading question, but Judge Breen disagrees. “No,” says Bose decisively, “I remember my crime enough to know that it’s not connected to the crime.” Could anyone really buy that? Good, says Will, and asks Bose to explain the car trunk allusion.
“Well, the song describes how I carried her in the trunk, which is impossible. I couldn’t have done that, because I don’t drive a stick.” Will’s head snaps up. Cary, too, looks up at this detail. “So you only put her in the trunk after you killed her?” Ah. “Yes, I…” Will smirks. Bose realizes he’s slipped up. Mallory Cerone was never in the trunk. Will’s feral smile starts taking over his face. It does feel good to be on the side of the angels. Miss Penn sits back, and Rhonda inhales deeply. “Go on,” Will encourages Bose, “you were saying?” Miss Penn wants a break. Will advances on Bose instead. “You were saying about the trunk? How you put her in the trunk?” “I didn’t do that,” Bose answers too late. He smiles slightly. “Because that doesn’t have anything to do with this crime.” Right, with this crime. Miss Penn begs for a break again. Breen grants her one. “It’s too bad,” Will taunts Bose quietly, “you mixed up the victims.” Will walks away, and Cary, in gallery, gestures to him, his thumb held flat. It makes me think of Roman emperors and gladiators, but it’s probably supposed to be a long distance fist bump. Wonder Twins powers, activate! This has got to be deeply satisfying.
“… leaving many observers to wonder if this new deal will push the congressman’s wife even closer to divorce.” Ah, we’re back in Eli’s office, and Marissa back on his couch, curled into a little ball (she’s very compact) watching Lana Timmerman, who’s just signed a 1.3 mil book deal (shades of Jenny Sanford). Marissa shakes her head. “I say again, America sucks.” Eli looks over. “What’s wrong with that? Capitalism at work.” She glares at him. Then he starts get worked up. “What is it with you youth today, and your disgust for everything capitalistic?” Awesome sneering, Eli. Marissa starts waving the remote around. “You don’t think that’s disgusting? She’s selling her pain…” “…to pay her bills,” Eli interrupts. “It’s better than selling her body.” “Actually, I disagree,” Oh, nice. “Selling her body is at least more honest.” More honest? How’s that? What would she be selling in a book that she wouldn’t deliver honestly? Or does it just seem less personal and invasive to someone who hasn’t had to do either? Eli closes his eyes against the self-righteousness of youth. “Ah, how I love these little chats.” Of course, the thing is he does love them. They fight. They argue about issues. They challenge each other, and get to spout off without actually getting the other one mad or hurting their relationship. That’s something I understand.
“So, I told Mom about your little girl friend,” Marissa says. Okay, I guess she is annoyed with her dad. “Thanks.” “She called it your “campaign palate cleanser.” Heh. Eli screws up his face, annoyed. Nice line, ex Mrs. Eli. You’re golden! Oh, wait… “You always find some crush in the last month of the campaign to fixate on.” Wow, that’d be really annoying to be married to. That word is coming up a lot. “How I love your mom’s little pop psychology one liners.” Hee. “She says it’s because you hate yourself. You need to act as savior to someone,” and you can see her trying to remember the diagnosis correctly, “or you’ll have to face the fact you do bad things.” Oooo, I love this! Does he hate himself? I can’t speak to that, because he seems to gloss over doing the bad things most of the time. It’s a fun idea, though, that Natalie is part of a pattern for him, and I can certainly see him needing to remember he’s capable of good. It make sense of it all. Not that she isn’t worth saving for her own sake, of course.
Eli purses his lips like an old lady and considers. “That doesn’t even make sense.” Through some sort of snack, Marissa disagrees. “In a sort of screwed up way, it does.” What a cute little chipmunk she is, munching away, watching her dad for signs of irritation she can exploit. “Why are we even talking about this again? Can’t we just sit and enjoy quality time?” Eli’s in high dungeon, bobbing his head emphatically. It’s so hilarious. “She’s outside.” Dude, you so cannot control your face. What? “You asked why I’m talking about her again. It’s because I saw her outside, and we said hi!” He stands. “Go to her, Dad. Go ‘save’ her.” Hee. And he’s going to! Of course he is. His whole demeanor changed.
He finds her at the door, leaving. “Uh, hello?” he cries, stopping her. “Hi! I just wanted to say thank you,” Natalie smiles adorably. “You didn’t need to,” he breathes, awkwardly. She points outside. “My boyfriend’s back from Las Vegas.” Ah, that’s right, the contortionist. “I’m just saying that – it’s not a big deal, I’m just saying it.” “I’m glad, ” he lies, trying on several fake smiles until abandoning the effort all together. “I, um, actually…” “No,” she tries to stop the words, “no, you don’t have to…” “It’s not what you think,” he murmurs. “Really, it’s just a thank you,” she finishes. Protesting too much? “Natalie, I know,” he says gently. “I know. It’s just nice to talk, that’s all. I’m too old to have expectations of anything other than talk.” She snorts. “Oh my God, that sounded terrible,” he realizes, and yes, Eli, it did. You’re not that old. She tries to reassure him, but it’s too late. “It’s really nice talking to you,” she smiles wistfully. “And to you,” he agrees. “Goodbye,” she says, and leaves. “Okay,” he says to himself, steeling him self to return to the campaign. That’s it – no kiss, no words of passion, no inappropriate cannoodling in the supply closet. That’s The Good Wife we know and love; more about the wanting than the having.
“Defendant’s motion to dismiss is granted,” Judge Breen declares, his gavel banging. What? This didn’t make sense to me at first, but I guess Will went to pretty great lengths to throw his own case – to prove that the lyrics did not, in fact, refer to Mallory Cerone’s murder. Bose embraces Penn (shudder). How can she? Yuck. Will leans over to Rhonda. “It was always a long shot,” he reminds her. She knows. Bose jaunts over. “I’m so sorry, m’am.” “That’s okay, buddy,” Will steps in, being all manly, as Rhonda turns away. “If there was any way I could get her back…” “You mean them back,” Will says, blocking him again. “If there was any way, I would.” She heads out of the courtroom. “I know you must hate me. I hope we can talk sometime!” Yep, there’s nothing she’d like better than a cup of tea and a good gossip with you. Ah, and there’s Alicia. “We have to talk about those illegal downloads.” “Sure,” she says, arms crossed over her chest, “when you get out.”
“Well haven’t you heard?” he gloats happily, puffing out his chest, “I am out.” “Yeah,” she says flatly, “I have heard.” And behind steps Cary, like a Canadian Mountie, upright and true, saving the day, flanked by court bailiffs and maybe someone from the sheriff’s department (different uniforms). “Mr. Bose, you’re under arrest for the murder of Lynne Boyle. You have a right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” Awesome. Rhonda rises up from her bench further down in the gallery – she must have snuck back in, or hidden there as Bose talked to Alicia. Alicia watches the procession impassively (how else) and Will with a look of self-satisfied pride. Cary follows Bose, reciting the Miranda rights in ringing tones. This has got to feel pretty damn good for all of them.
“Thank you,” Rhonda breathes, looking at Will and Alicia, and finally down at Kalinda, who’s been atypically unobtrusive. She sits back down in shock. The rest of her life is open; the old darkness, perhaps, is passing away.
“That’s okay,” Alicia laughs, “you guys play, and I’ll cook.” She’s tossing a salad while Zach and Grace play air hockey on the kitchen island. They completely ignore her, but no one seems actually upset about it. She’s wearing a gorgeous, soft-looking periwinkle sweater, and seems relaxed and happy. “Mom, it’s tied.” “Carl, what’s wrong with you?” Grace quotes, doing a quavery voice. ‘Well, I kill people, and I eat their hands, that’s two things.” Seriously, watch the clip, it’s warped without being actively disgusting. “You have to at least make references I understand,” Alicia complains. “Carl!” Grace quavers again. “Mom, it’s still tied,” Zach pleads as Alicia takes a pizza – on one of those wooden pizza shovels, no less – into the dining room. No take out for the Florricks tonight! “Dad – where’s Dad?” Zach wonders. Grace calls out for him to join them. Peter’s in the master bedroom on the phone. “No, I just want to make sure,” he says, before yelling back that he’s coming. “Listen, Matan. We’ve always worked well together. So, you be good to me, and I’ll be good to you.” He leave a long pause in the middle of that sentence. I have to wonder if it’s a coincidence that he’s dressed all in black, an informal sweater and chinos (the sort of thing Vincent made for his Jet Set challenge on Project Runway), or if he’s getting a villain edit. “Okay,” says Matan from his office (in exactly the same light, and possibly the same clothes as when he talked to Cary several days ago). “Beat Wendy.” Well, there’s the rub, isn’t it? Of course, if he doesn’t beat Wendy, what’s the good of blackmailing him? He won’t have any power, and you, Matan Brody, might just be out of a job. And you’ve never seemed particularly competent, so I don’t know if you could hold the job on your own merit.
“I thought you liked it, I thought you liked public school,” Alicia says, standing at the table with Grace at her left and Zach across from her. “I do, I like public school,” Grace chirps. That doesn’t really seem like a public school. Becca doesn’t seem like a public school kid, does she? Oh well. “I just kinda wanna see what other schools are out there, you know? Where would we move to?” Alicia’s running a pizza slicer across the pizza and Grace is doling out the salad. “I don’t know that we would. I mean, maybe if we did, just to a bigger apartment?” Alicia looks up to see how that idea is received. “Not back to Highland Park?” “Mom doesn’t want to,” Grace volunteers. “I didn’t say that. It’s … expensive.” Well, that was sort of wrapped in Peter’s troubles, right, the money? Of course Alicia wasn’t working then. But the commute? “Isn’t the market down?” Grace wonders. Alicia can’t believe it. “What’re you, following real estate now?” They both laugh. It’s so nice.
“Hey, Dad,” Grace says, noticing Peter walking toward them. ‘Mom says we might just stay around here and not go back to Highland Park.” He walks into the room and leans on the doorframe. “That’s right.” Alicia turns around and notices something in his posture. “Everything all right?” she asks. “As good as it can be,” is his reply.
That’s convincing. Oh, Peter. He almost grins, but his face just can’t make it all the way. “Want some pizza?” “I do.”
Ah, poor family, discussing what’s going to happen when Peter wins, and how your lives will be full of bright choices again. What would happen, do you think, if Peter loses? That’s almost more interesting to me. And – gulp – what happens to Eli? Does he go away once the campaign is over, for good or ill? We know he wants Peter to campaign for larger posts, but still, can they be in permanent campaign mode all the time? I’m going to miss me some Eli, big time.
So, what is there to say? I liked the case of the week a lot. It was interesting and very satisfying in a morally unambiguous kind of way. It’s like the writer’s threw us a bone, especially after all the tough losses and unpleasant clients of the last few months. Has spring come again? I like the immigration stuff, partly for the various locations we saw (new courts and processes are always fun) and Diane’s fervent defense of the clients she didn’t want.
And, let’s see. Kalinda and Peter not talking about it. Am I wrong for being mad about that comment, that he’s always loved Alicia but he hadn’t been in love with her when he was cheating? I guess what bothers me about it is the notion that it somehow absolved him of his vows. I’m sure he wouldn’t say that, but he sees her as more valuable now, and doesn’t want to lose her, but any sort of justification of his actions based on the relative strength of his feelings for her – as if it could possibly be her fault – oh, I think I’m over thinking this, but it really hit me the wrong way. Did anyone else have a strong reaction? I mean, I’m glad he doesn’t want to lose her now.
Do you think that Cary’s going to let things lie, now that he knows there’s a mystery going on, or will he try to figure out what Matan is hiding? And how much will it affect his feeling for Kalinda – and his fragile reconciliation with Alicia and Will – if/when he does? If Kalinda just told him, would it minimize the damage, or would he go off like a loose canon? I don’t know. I will say, though, Eli’s not the only one who likes to feel like he can save people. Even if Kalinda generally doesn’t need saving.
I did really enjoy the Eli time we had this week. The story with Natalie works way better than I thought it would, even if this time she looks much closer to Marissa’s age than she did before. And that’s just creepy. I love that Eli unintentionally insinuated that he was impotent. Hilarious. How fascinating, that he could have this campaign ritual of a sort. That, too, just makes me think about what’s going to happen to him when the campaign is over. Does anyone know how long Alan Cummings is under contract for?
Finally, can I say? I hope they have another pizza in the oven. Zach could probably eat that whole thing himself. Even with a big salad, that is not a two teenager sized pizza. And finally, anyone else like the song? Can you get that beat out of your head?