The Practice
Losers Keepers

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Ragdoll: B- | 1 USERS: A-
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Losers Keepers

Whoosh. In the holding cell, Ronnie's pacing. He's wearing a three-quarter-sleeved shirt with a strange vest on top. Rebecca reports that the offer is now five years. Without raising his head, clenching his hands together, Ronnie says he didn't commit the crime. His lawyer starts to explain that the doctor can connect the injuries, but Ronnie interjects, "I didn't hit her. I wasn't driving the car." Rebecca furrows her brows and asks him what he's talking about. Okay, some character named Eddie Barrington, some real-estate baron, was the drunkard who hit the woman; he paid Ronnie to confess. With his puppy-dog eyes, Ronnie looks straight at Rebecca and says for the umpteenth time that he didn't do it. Hey, at least he calls the lawyer "Ms. Washington" -- that's a hell of a lot better than "Bec." In an incredulous sort of way, Rebecca repeats his story out loud, so she can believe it herself: "Somebody else is paying you to take the fall?" Actually, it's a pretty sweet deal: Ronnie gets thirty thousand for confessing, plus an additional ten grand for each month he'd have to serve, but five years, no way he's going to dog it for that much time. There's a little technicality called a signed confession to tackle, but Rebecca still wants to know if there's any way they can prove the truth. Ronnie doesn't have an alibi, but the payola is collecting dust at the bottom of his closet if anyone felt like retrieving it -- that should be proof enough.

Boston Back Alley. This whole plot line is so ridiculous and full of awful stereotypes: women can't protect themselves, they're weak, defenseless, so in order to power up, they pack heat. Pul-lease. Lindsay and Ellenor are buying a gun from the back of a van. Yes, the back of a van. They are committing a felony in the name of self-protection. Because there's no time to go through the proper channels. There's no time to hire a personal bodyguard or even request police protection. The only avenue available to Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber is to sample some wares from the street. They twitter about guns going off in their purses. They prattle on about prices. The gun dealer is wearing gold chains and has a comb-over. Don't they all? Lindsay prods Ellenor into buying the illegal, non-carry permitting, effectively mega-dangerous weapon with the six hundred and fifty dollars she's carrying around in her purse. She's got exact change, of course. The dealer slams the doors of his van shut, and we listen to the two of them head back to the office. Ellenor rationalizes, "I don't know whether to feel better I have a gun or to be appalled that you can buy them on the street." The two discuss target practice and the benefits of having a gun fall into the "right" hands. A drum beats as we see the back of a nun's habit. The Symphony of Sinister Stalkers rises as we watch the two women walk off down the street before the commercials come up -- he knows they've bought a gun. That simply can't be good.

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The Practice

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