The Practice
Public Servants

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Ragdoll: C- | 1 USERS: A+
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May he please rest in peace

A Night That Awaits Pain. A strange bell tolls somewhere deep in the Boston night. Rats scurry around through garbage. A barrage of heavily armed and SWAT-orientated officers take their positions around a building. Many of them aim. Many of them cock their rifles just to be ready. Suddenly, a car door opens. There is a sharp intake of breath. A captain asks a lawyer what the hell she’s doing there. The lawyer makes a lame excuse about wanting to make sure no fourth-amendment rights are violated. The captain lets this pass, although he does wonder how the lawyer made it past the checkpoints. Well, she is a district attorney, and she does have a great pair of legs, and, you know, this is television; there are no boundaries here. She is warned to keep her distance. The car door is shut. Pause. Pause. Pause. Heightened pause. More pausing. Even more pausing. A door opens, and a man comes out into the night. A voice from the distance screams, “Bruce Manning!” Another voice yells, “Freeze!” Yet another voice bellows, “Hold it!” and “Get down!” Suddenly, as Bruce Manning starts to hold up his hands, someone else shrieks, “Gun!” And it’s all guns blazing. Pow-pow. Puh-pow. Pow. Puh-pow. Bruce is jerked back and forth until he finally falls to the ground. Nah, come on, Bruce wasn’t holding a gun -- he was holding a freaking cell phone. First of all, if Jackie had warned him about the police “sting,” Bruce probably wouldn’t have gone out his front door; in fact, he probably would have skipped town by now. Helen’s mouth is open again, as per usual when she’s “acting” serious. Mrs. Manning comes out to the front stoop and starts asking what’s happening. She starts to cry, and then Helen arrests her for felony murder. It was a cold, cold night in Boston.

Hellenor’s. There is no sign of a baby. Ellenor is doing work. She doesn’t look tired. She doesn’t look sad. She just looks like Ellenor. Helen relays the events of the evening. Helen’s lipstick is very glossy for this late in the workday. By that time of night, I’ve already got black liner smeared down half my face, my lips are parched and chapped from recycled air, and I’ve changed into my boyfriend’s relatively unattractive jogging pants. Helen admits that it made her feel better to see the man responsible for sending the Runt into reruns in the sky killed, but you can tell Ellenor is concerned. The doorbell rings. See, if my doorbells rings that late into the night, I look so bad I’m embarrassed to go and answer it -- that’s how bad I look at the end of the day. It’s Detective Mike. He’s pissed. Wah, why didn’t you tell me this was going down, wah, the man didn’t have a weapon, wah, execution, and wah. Mike’s the only one seeing things realistically here; he’s got Vendetta Vision. It worked for him when he accused the Emperor of going to far with the Lindsay/stalker plot, and it’s working for him now. Mike: “This was the equivalent of a hit.” Helen snarks, “I have to take a different legal point of view there, Mike, but you know if it gets out there on the street, whack a DA and this is what happens, I can live with that.” She has Mini-Groucho Marx eyebrows. They are scary. Mike says there’s going to be an investigation. Helen thinks that's fine. She wants Mike to make sure he tells her when to show up wearing white. Huh? Okay, whatever, Helen -- if it makes you feel better to appear virginal, we’ll give you that little comfort. Then Mike asks about the deal Helen made with Cahill. All he gets is a Stone Cold Gamble in response. The Vendetta Vision will only get you so far, my friend.

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The Practice

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