Previously on ER: Leon was keeping a gun for his thug friends, so Pratt ganked it and got caught with it at the hospital; meanwhile, the thugs stabbed Leon in his glorious, generous booty. Ed Asner showed up as a clinic doctor who doesn't take very good care of himself. Also, a nation mourned the Weavus.
We open the episode on The Lockhart Mistake, Part II: Pushily Pimping A Character's Family Problems. Dr. Greg "Arrogant Man With A Heart of Gold-Plated Coal" Pratt feverishly works to convince someone in the bowels of County General that Leon deserves a job there. The man isn't impressed, what with Leon's injured arm and the fact that his résumé is essentially whatever comes out of Pratt's mouth. "His cast will be off in three weeks," Pratt insists. "Cool, G! You said six before!" celebrates Leon. Pratt glares at him for this slip. The employer just seems amused. He then recognizes Pratt as one of County's doctors. "I'm an ER resident. All part of the County family," smarms Pratt. "I hate doctors," spits the employer. "You all think you're the queen of the damn Rose Parade." Pratt bristles. He doesn't want to talk about that episode of his life. He just doesn't. "I'm not a doctor," Leon points out helpfully. The employer cracks a smile. "He's not the sharpest nail in the box," he notes to Pratt. What a mean thing to say. Sadder still, Leon appears too...Leon...to understand the crack. He's not even in the box. Pratt begs the man to give his brother a chance, though, and the man finally agrees to interview Leon -- alone. Pratt pulls Leon aside and whispers, "Make sure you tell him that you work real hard, okay?" Leon nods eagerly, then turns and follows his potential employer inside. "I work real hard," he says plaintively. Then he turns and gives Pratt a huge grin and a wave, leaving his brother shaking his head in disturbed affection.
Dr. John "The Effects of Gamma Rays On" Carter greets an inbound trauma patient named Jessie Callahan, who was hurt when a sand truck rolled over on Interstate 40. Except, as the forums cleverly pointed out, I-40 doesn't pass through Chicago. There are a ton of other freeways and expressways from which to choose, yet the writers went ahead and picked one that's totally inaccurate. A forty-to-one chance of being correct, and still they screw up. These writers would be the most doomed Russian Roulette players in the world. Anyway, Jessie has a bloody scalp laceration and she's dizzily calling for her husband Tom. Carter shouts out that the paramedics are working with him, and that Jessie needs to relax, stop trying to get in any more lines, and let them save her.
Wherever Dr. Susan "I Need Another Job" Lewis is, it's dark. The lights are off. She's exiting the room of an apparent chronic masturbator who, she says, needs to use lotion or else "he's literally going to jerk it off." Her parents must be so proud. Jerry says that the paramedics are bringing in a fall victim; she brays that he needs to call the idiots in Engineering to come fix the lights. On cue, the lights flicker back on, and Susan rolls her eyes. Suddenly, a curly-haired blonde bursts in and screams, "Nobody panic!" Thanks for that. Because I was totally about to freak out about the ER being too quiet. Susan makes a crack about the nuts coming out when the sun goes down, and the double meaning to that last sentence just had me giggling so hard that I had to stop typing for five minutes. I am so easy. Which bodes poorly for the show, given that it doesn't really entertain me nearly as much. Dr. Kerry "Weavus? What Weavus?" Weaver appears to Susan, trying to sound totally controlled but looking quite tense. "Are we ready for him?" she asks. "Who?" Susan asks. After a dramatic pause, Kerry intones, "The alderman." Pause again. People, he's not the president. He's not a mob leader. He's not even the president of the local chapter of the NAACP, here to investigate why men of color here are relegated to being either doormats (Gallant) or assbags (Pratt). No, he's just a city councilman. Bully for him, and all, but he's not so important that I'd let him eat cookies in bed without sharing.
The paramedics burst in with the alderman on a gurney, accompanied by the same freaked-out blonde. The press is clamoring to get inside, and failing. The alderman is John Bright, and he took an eight-foot fall off a stage. "It was a dais," his assistant corrects. Well, that changes everything. Weaver muscles her way up to Bright's head and coos, "Alderman, it's an honor to have you here." Such an honor that he can cure the grief of a miscarriage. Maybe he's some kind of magic alderman. Maybe, if he'd been here last week, he could've pulled another Weavus out of a hat. Speaking of, I'm really going to miss the Weavus. I feel like somehow, the Weavus was meant to come to us as the counteragent to Rex the Wonder Preemie -- sort of a Battle of the Plastic Fetuses, or little matching angel and devil babies to perch on patients' shoulders. I guess that dream will never be.
Unloading Alderman Bright into a room, Weaver and Susan call for all the usual tests. "His chest is clear," Susan assesses. "Chest is clear," repeats the crazy assistant. She's standing behind Bright's head barking into a cell phone and leaning over and basically getting in everyone's way, but no one's reprimanding her for this, because she's the magic alderman's assistant, and no, she doesn't have to wear gold lamé and heels unless they're at a council meeting, so stop bugging her. "Jennifer, honey, try to breathe," the alderman sighs. Susan politely tells her that she can't use her cell phone in the hospital. Finally! Do TPTB read the boards? Because nobody issued the same warning to Abby when she was yakking away in the middle of a trauma. Maybe the rules are different for haggard nurses with bad dye jobs. "Alderman, have you been drinking?" Susan asks him. "You don't have to answer that, sir," Kerry interrupts immediately, winning a surprised glare from Susan. Kerry is such a whore. I love it. It's the other side of her character that we've been missing lately: the prostitute to politics. Bright pleasantly answers that he's been "on the program" for two years now, so no, he wasn't blowing the froth off any cold ones this fair night. "Don't worry, sir, you're in the finest hospital in Chicago," simpers Weaver. And of course, just as the gushingly overdone reassurance drips from her mouth, the lights shut off. Kerry nonchalantly whips out a pen light. "Okay!" she chirps, trying to pretend nothing's wrong as Susan gawks at her. The credits roll as we wonder how Sandy reacted to news of the miscarriage, and how Weaver broke it to her, and why everyone's acting like the Weavus was a figment of our imagination. Maybe the writers should stop writing fat, overwrought, overplanned scripts that have to be slashed, and instead concentrate on telling just a handful of stories and telling them well.
Jessie Callahan's machinery beeps us back from commercial. The backup power comes on as Carter begins trying to tend to her. "Thank God something's working," Weaver brats, wandering around sort of aimlessly. I think she's trying to free up the room for the alderman. I'm already sick of that phrase. "The alderman." The more I say it, the more I want to rinse out my mouth with steel wool and some Lysol. Carter announces that he's going to scan Jessie for internal bleeding. Jessie groggily asks where her husband is. "Get the lead out -- we've got a VIP customer waiting," Weaver snaps. Jessie, pissed that her life means so little to this small shrewish woman, stands up and whacks her on the head with a lead apron.
A pounding on the door snaps them to attention. It's Leon, peeking excitedly through the glass at Pratt. Flushing a little and shrinking under the confused glares of his coworkers, Pratt shuffles to the doors. "What are you doing? I work here!" he hisses. "Me too, G! I got the job!" shouts Leon delightedly. He's a huge hulking mass of glee wrapped in inappropriate volume. Pratt tries to quiet him while Weaver calls down to the engineers. "Get your fat union asses down here and fix the power!" she shouts, shooting Pratt a dirty look as Leon babbles about salary and benefits. Holy shit, he has benefits? I don't even have benefits. "I got the job! We're going to be working together, man!" Leon shrieks. Weaver crabs at Pratt to boot Leon out the door and resume work. Then, the phone cuts out. "Anyone have a carrier pigeon?" Weaver yells, trotting dutifully off-screen so that she can make room for Carter. On cue, he arrives. "Hey Leon, how's it going?" he asks casually. "I got a job!" crows Leon. "I'm glad to hear it," Carter says, smoothly switching the subject to Jessie. He orders Pratt to check the hemocue a second time before sending her up for her CT. Then he leaves Pratt to dispense with Leon. Pratt kindly offers to take him for pizza later to celebrate. "I'm working tonight on the late shift! I've got my own uniform and everything! Isn't that cool?" Leon rejoices. Pratt's super-skeptical of all this, but Leon assures him that he can pick it up himself. He's a big boy, he is. Pratt finally allows himself a smile and hugs his brother. "We're gonna be working together, man! Working together!" he cackles, trotting off down the hall as Pratt stares after him, wondering why he ever gave Leon the hospital's address.
The alderman is in a room now, Jennifer still screaming into the phone. "Somebody get me a fax number," she yells at no one. Susan points her in the direction of Jerry, not saying a word, especially because the word she's looking for is, I believe, "Getityourselfyoulazyhussy." Weaver enters and shares that Engineering is en route to work on the power. "How are you feeling?" she coos. "Pampered," Bright beams. "I'm sure you have other patients. This ER sees about 90,000 a year, right?" Susan cracks, "Oh, so that's why I'm so tired all the time." Weaver corrects him, claiming they see more like 110,000 people. "It's a damn miracle what you people do," Bright insists. Weaver snaps into Opportunist Mode, pointedly but calmly noting that their great team could do a whole lot more with better resources. In all her turned-on buzz about treating the alderman, Weaver has failed to remember that they're a county hospital and he's a city councilman. Still not David Blaine. Still not making patients disappear with a swoop of the hand. He's just an old guy in a suit. Bright gives a light laugh at Weaver's comment.
Susan interrupts that it seems Bright tore a ligament when he fell. "There goes my dream of being an Olympic gymnast," he jokes. Weaver laughs, because when the magic alderman conjures up a lighthearted crack, you either laugh or get put in the box and sawn in half. Weaver gives the order to page their top orthopedist. Nothing but the best for Chicago's #20 politico! A man in scrubs suggests they check a tox screen before they give him anything for the pain. "What?" they ask. "Who are you?" The man charges at Bright's bed. "Was it cocaine?" he shrieks. "Ray McGee, Chicago Times!" This is the part where you pretend you're working for your rival publication. And also, what a knob. Wait until the doctors have actually left the room. This man is the stupidest, second only to the two stupid doctors who didn't notice he was there in the first place. Weaver chucks him out. "Have you ever heard of the First Amendment?" he wails. "Have you ever heard of an awake colonoscopy?" she shouts in return. Then, in true Weaver form, she adds that he'd better return the stolen scrubs. Shame the alderman can't conjure up a few for her.
Susan teases Jerry about keeping out the fake nurses. "So many rules to remember," Jerry sighs. Dr. Luka "Erin Who?" Kovac overhears this and questions it, amused. "Don't ask," Susan grunts. "Don't we have enough trouble with the real ones?" grins Luka. Only if you bang them, baby. Still, that remark took balls. Fortunately, our boy probably has beautiful ones. Jerry snickers at this, but everyone else either pretends not to hear it, or doesn't care. Nice. Jerry gets off the horn and reports that a man from the I-40 pile-up -- you know, the one where the wounded are getting bused in from New Mexico or wherever the hell I-40 goes -- is en route, and Carter wants him to make sure it's Jessie's husband. Carter is wearing a tuxedo with a bow tie -- a crooked one, which isn't helping his lost-little-boy image. He looks like his name should be Skippy. "Ooh, hot date?" Susan asks. Carter downplays that he's dressed up to give away a large check at a symphony fundraiser. Susan acts a little impressed. Carter brandishes a chart and says, "Look what the patient fairy brought you!" He passes her the chart of a woman awaiting a chest film; Carter figures it's an easy prescription-and-dispo, so Susan decides she'll make Pratt do it. "He'll hate it!" she grins.
Abby charges through the front desk with a dress bag over her shoulder. Hee. A hag with a bag. A bag with a bag, even. "Ten minutes," she promises. Carter follows her down the hall, double-checking that she actually wants to go with him. Abby sasses that it's worth it for the free canapés alone. "What is a canapé, anyway?" she teases. Because she's déclassé, see. See? Carter stares at her. He sees. "Don't worry, I'll use the right fork," she rolls her eyes. "time, we'll do something fun -- we'll do something that you want to do," he promises. time? He makes it sound like this is their first date. Maybe he means, "time you clean up and wear a dress, we'll do something you want to do." Hmm. "Oh, you mean like golf, or bowling? Things my people enjoy doing?" Abby sasses. "Too bad Cats closed." Ha. With that, she muscles into the bathroom. "I'll just shut up now," Carter says to no one.
Chuny passes and wolf-whistles at Carter. "That's sexual harassment, isn't it?" he calls out. "You bet," she winks sassily. "I'm going to circulate a petition," Carter jokes. Chuny grins, because it's fun to make light of how she tried to besmirch Luka's record when he dumped her sorry butt. Although, actually, it was kind of funny, but also, go away, Chuny. Suddenly, Liz Torres wheels around the corner and reintroduces herself as Ed Asner's assistant at his clinic. She is worried that he's making himself sicker by working twelve-hour days, straight through the week, without anyone to cover for him so that he can go to County to get checked out. Luka interrupts with Tom, Jessie's husband, who has just shown up on a gurney. Tom wants his wife. "She's here, and she's stable," Carter calls out, promising to tell Jessie Tom's there. Liz begs Carter to come to the clinic and talk some sense into crazy old Ed. "What makes you think he'll listen to me?" Carter asks blithely. "He likes you," Liz insists. "He has a funny way of showing it," Carter laughs. "He's going to kill himself," Liz whines. Carter stops and suddenly things turn deadly serious. Oh, except that Liz isn't talking about suicide. She just thinks he'll run himself into the ground, and as she pleads with him one more time, Chuny interrupts that Jessie Callahan crashed on the CT table. This means, in layman's terms, "Buzz off, Liz."
Susan smacks the light board until it flickers on, so that she can look at a chest film with Pratt. They glumly deduce that their patient has pneumonia. "So much for an easy dispo," Susan sighs, ordering Pratt to call ICU because the woman's lungs are completely jacked. They saunter over to the woman, who is Jeanetta Arnette, formerly of Head of the Class. She's looking incredibly worn, with mussed hair, and her coughing is intense. "I've never had the flu this bad," she understates. Her two children, Marten and Rachel, are with her. They're kids; he can't be more than twelve, if that. Marten begs them to give his mom cough medicine. Susan's like, Um, riiiight. "We're giving her all the medicine we can," she says instead. Pratt shepherds the kids to the vending machines so that Susan can talk to Jeanetta alone.
Rachel wants to know how sick her mother is. "She has pneumonia," Pratt says. "It's a serious disease, but we're doing everything we can." Marten whispers that they should call Doug, and for one brief, blissful second, all the women in this show's viewership -- and hell, probably almost all of the men, because he's that hot -- pray that they're referring to Doug Ross. But no. Nobody is that fortunate. Pratt's ears perk up, since he's well programmed to root out opportunities to meddle. "He's our brother," Marten says. "He's twenty." Rachel pipes up with awe, "He has, like, fifty earrings." And apparently, elephantitis of the ears.
Jeanetta tries to blow off her condition, which is clever given that she's practically drooling lung tissue at this point. Susan informs her that her form of pneumonia is a dangerous one, and she's too sick to leave the hospital. Jeanetta's still in denial, as if her kids need her too much for this to be serious, ignoring the fact that she'll be a whole lot more useful to her children if she doesn't cough so hard that she turns herself inside out. Susan warns her that she may die if they take her off the hospital-supervised medication. "Is there anyone we could call? A relative, someone to watch the kids?" she asks. Jeanetta suggests her Aunt Sarah from Detroit. "What about your son, Doug?" asks an approaching Pratt. Jeanetta horks up a lot of hatred for Doug. Or, it's mucus. "I'll call Sarah. She'll come," Jeanetta insists. Pratt looks doubtful.
Chuny yells for Pratt, telling him that Jessie Callahan crashed. Pratt rushes to join the parade bringing her to Trauma Yellow while trying to shock her back to life. "What happened?" he asks. "Shut up and bag her," Carter spits. Hot. But if anyone was ever to misinterpret that order -- with lusty, terrible consequences -- it would be Pratt. Carter rails at Pratt for not checking the hemocue a second time, but Pratt insists that he did. We have no idea whether he did or not, so the great debate that's raging actually means very little. I guess you need a backwards episode if you want answers to these little spats. They finally get a heart rhythm and wheel Jessie into the trauma room.
Luka is with the husband, Tom, whose sats are dropping fast. He's coaching Michael "Yup, Still Here" Gallant through the process of setting up a central line. When he does it and does it well, Luka praises him. Dr. Robert "Rocket" Romano bursts in for a consult. "Tension pneumo with interperitoneal blood," Gallant rattles off, to which Romano barely waits a beat before replying, "Oh yeah, ex-lap, don't even bother scanning him." Swiveling to leave, Romano calls out, "Come on upstairs, sir, where the good drugs are." God bless you, Rocket. Luka translates for Tom that he's bleeding in his belly, and needs an operation. I love how he evidently figured "stomach" or "abdomen" would be too technical for poor Tom to comprehend. Tom catches sight of his wife being wheeled into Trauma Yellow and begs for a chance to see her. Luka heads door...
...into Trauma Yellow, where Jessie isn't doing that well. I speak Beep, and the rough translation of her condition is, "Oh, sweet Jebus." Carter rails, "She should never have left the department. She has a huge retroperitoneal bleed." Luka tries to grab Carter's attention, but Carter doesn't have time for him, so Luka just stands there with the door swinging open behind him. Naturally, Tom yells, "Jessie!" This prompts someone to close it just as Jessie goes into v-fib. She's got no pulse and she's been out for ten minutes. "She's brain dead," Pratt intones. "Her heart's barely beating." This evidently stuns Luka into silence, because he lets Gallant enter and inform them that Tom wants to see Jessie before he goes up to the OR. "Should I bring him in?" he asks. "Yeah," sighs Carter. Luka takes one look at Carter's tux peeking through the translucent yellow gown, and knows he's not dressed for doom. "I'll tell him," Luka offers. Carter thanks him and exits dejectedly. As he pulls off his scrubs in the hall, he looks up just as the hallway clears to reveal Abby standing at the front desk in a black cocktail dress, her blonde hair smooth. Flights of angels land on her shoulders, trumpeting her glory, and the heavens open up so that God might personally stroke her head. "Hi," Carter mouths imperceptibly. Abby waves. We fade to black thinking that, in this season of weak act-outs, this might be the poorest.
Susan and Jerry talk about puking, and then share a plate of nachos. Hey, I don't write it; I just bitch about it here. Weaver storms in demanding to know the alderman's whereabouts. Apparently, Bright is getting x-rayed. Annoyed that no one rushed him through, Kerry spits nails that spell out, "He. Is. Important." Susan whispers that she needs to discuss the alderman's case. Weaver blathers that he wrote a bill to finance a spousal-abuse shelter, and that he's one of the good guys, as if this justifies her surgically attaching her lips to his wrinkled derrière. "Not too good," Susan says quietly. "When I was checking for a pelvic fracture, I found a sore on his penis. I think it's syphilis." Weaver looks mildly horrified, probably thinking up ways to punish Susan for having the gall to make the alderman whip out his alderman. "Did you swab it?" Weaver whispers. "Yeah, we're waiting on labs," Susan informs her. Weaver decides, to Susan's semi-surprise, that she will handle this herself.
Tom has been positioned to his dying wife. Luka explains the concept of being "brain dead," but Tom insists that she might still wake up. Except no, honey. She won't. It's called "brain dead." Luka stresses that Tom's own wounds are worsening the longer he lingers, but Tom refuses to leave his wife to die alone. He starts sobbing to punctuate the fact that, yes, this is the worst day of his life, and that includes the day he realized prostitution is illegal everywhere but Nevada. Romano bangs impatiently on the door and gestures for Luka to join him. That's twice he's done that in the span of two episodes.
"Okay, cowboy, I've got a vascular surgeon, an anesthesiologist, and three residents waiting upstairs in an OR suite that rents for five grand an hour," Romano crabs. Yeah, but to whom? To the patient, right? Then Romano shouldn't necessarily care how long they're waiting. Sure, that's mean and all, but it's money in the coffers. Luka explains Tom's refusal to leave. "Well, isn't that touching," spits Romano. "She's dying," Luka adds. Romano notes that Tom will die, too, unless he gets upstairs promptly. "If he's not up there in ten minutes, I'm going to take out your spleen," Rocket threatens. Luka's like, Whatever, no one needs a spleen.
The alderman, en route from x-ray back to the main area, blathers that if America's so rich, it should be able to provide basic health services to all its people. Weaver bonds with him over this. "We do what we can with limited resources," she says. "Everyone should come down here and see the war you're fighting," Bright insists. That's his way of saying, "Vote for me and you'll get all the meaningless sympathy I can offer!" I mean, which one's the whore here, Weaver or Bright? Right now it feels like they should each leave money on the other's dresser. Romano bursts in, and his schmooze-meter is turned up to eleven. "Don't tell me we couldn't find a private room for the alderman!" he booms. "Nice to see you again, sir. Robert Romano. I heard you were down here and I want to make sure that you bend over for me just once so that I can French-kiss your cheeks twice as well as Kerry did." Wow. Two's a party; three's a brothel. Weaver explains that they're waiting on test results, and Bright avers that he really doesn't want his own room. "This lets me experience the service my constituents get when they come in," he smiles. Romano chirps something about his being in good hands with Weaver, but then hisses to her privately, "Get him a room."
Bright watches Romano go, amused. "I was on the committee that hired that man," he sighs. Weaver calls him an excellent surgeon. "Tragic about his arm," Bright says casually. "Lots of people downtown wish it had been his head." Then damn the lot of them. Damn every last alderiffic one of 'em. Weaver reads Bright's x-ray and shares that his knee isn't broken, but that there is some pooled blood that needs to be drained. Jennifer gets panicky again, but Weaver swears it sounds worse than it is. Pause. Weaver looks at them both uncomfortably. She totally doesn't want to have to talk penis-talk with this man, but she knows it's got to come. Heh. I'm gross. Once she gets Jennifer out of the room, Weaver quietly broaches the subject of the syphilis sore. The alderman is startled that it's an STD. Dude, what did you think that giant open sore was? Chicken pox? "We'll need to report it to the health department," Weaver informs him. Peering up at her through eyes that are twinkling on cue, Bright asks if there's a chance she can keep the diagnosis off his medical record. "It's automatic once the labs come back, but don't worry -- your records are confidential," Weaver reminds him. Bright shakes his head, correcting that his become public every time there's an election. "Syphilis isn't a word voters love to hear," he sighs. Comprehension dawns on Weaver. "You don't think everyone deserves some privacy?" he wheedles. Think twice about that before running for office, then, eh?
Pratt receives bad news about Jeanetta just as her troubled son, Doug, enters. He's got close-cropped hair that's a little thicker on top and gelled so that he seems to have a horn. He's got a lip stud. The forums pointed out quite accurately that he looks like a slightly lower-rent Giovanni Ribisi. "Hey monkeys, you making trouble?" he grins, hugging his siblings. Pratt introduces himself while Doug pats the kids' heads, looking a bit lost as to what else to do with them since he can't smoke them.
Jeanetta freaks out when she sees Doug. "What's he doing here?" she rasps through a mouthful of lung tissue. "He's worried about you," Pratt lies. "He doesn't worry about anyone but himself," she coughs. "Good to see you, too, Mom," Doug says sarcastically. Susan looks confused until Pratt identifies Doug as the miscreant son. Rachel wants Doug to stay. "So you can watch him get stoned?" spits Jeanetta, and I do mean "spits" -- something wretched is bubbling up in her throat. Doug counters that all they do with her is sit around and watch her suck down booze like it's water, to which Jeanetta may have had the wittiest comeback ever, had she not first choked on her own blood, and then horked a clot of it up onto poor Marten's shirt. Marten is appropriately horrified, never having seen bloody vitriol before and thus not knowing where to find a Hallmark card befitting the moment. Susan immediately kicks them out, because Jeanetta has stopped breathing. "You called him?" Susan scolds. Pratt swears geography was the main factor -- the aunt is in Michigan, and Doug's in the city, and he just wanted to help. "Learn to help by listening when the patient asks you not to do something," Susan hisses.
Weaver saunters up to Jerry and lies that Susan mislabeled the alderman's swab, and she needs it yanked from the lab. "They went out," he shrugs, but he promises to put in a call and get them stopped. Weaver sighs nervously, afraid the world will find out and realize exactly how easy she is.
Susan exits Jeanetta's room and tells Pratt that she's recovering. He says the ICU is full, and Susan insists that he must keep trying, because Jeanetta needs a bed, what with all the coughing and the horking and the dying. Pratt digs deep and finds a half-hearted apology for what he did. "You exacerbated a terrible situation," Susan reprimands. "I told you to call the aunt." Pratt did, though: turns out she's sixty-nine and has multiple sclerosis, and is therefore probably not up to playing Mary Poppins. "Think Stoner Boy's gonna do any better?" Susan sighs. Well, he'll probably be more apt to buy into the flight-powered umbrella and magical sidewalk drawings. Susan gestures for Doug to confer with them; he sidles over, head down and arms crossed, embarrassed. "You okay?" they ask. He confesses to smoking up a little that afternoon, but insists that he's fine now. "Hey, did I kill her?" he asks, uncomfortably. "No," Susan says. "We had to put a tube in her throat to help her breathe." Pratt comments that her lungs are infected. Doug wipes his face in consternation and apologizes for pushing his mother's buttons. Susan delivers a blow: Jeanetta needs to be in the ICU for at least a week, leaving Marten and Rachel without a place to stay. "Yeah, I guess," Doug says, his eyes romancing one of the linoleum squares in an effort to avoid meeting Susan's. "Your mother's aunt can't help out," Susan adds, annoyed. "Aunt Sarah? She can't even feed herself," scoffs Doug. Pratt leans in and asks if anyone else might be able to help, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, wake up and snort the pungent aroma of responsibility like it's sweet, sweet cocaine. Doug shakes his head instead. "There's nobody," he insists, eyes darting all over the place.
Luka's impatience with Tom is growing. "Listen, you have to go the OR," he booms. "I won't leave her," rasps Tom. Luka glares at the air around them, then fabricates an excuse to get Malik out of the room so that he can walk over to Jessie and disconnect one of her leads. Right when Tom's in the middle of reminiscing about the good old days, then, Jessie appears to flatline. "Is that...?" Tom asks brokenly. "Yeah," Luka says curtly. "She's gone." He even burps up a time of death. Tom smooches his faux-dead wife's hand as Luka has him whisked off to surgery. "I'll catch up to you at the elevators, Malik," Luka fudges. Once alone, he subtly reconnects the lead. Sure enough, Jessie's heart is still beating. Luka strokes her forehead gently. We fade to black just absolutely twisted and torn by the moral ambiguity of it all; also, we're really hungry, because all we've eaten today is hummus and carrots, and there are some Wheat Thins burning a hole in the cupboard.
Chuny catches Weaver and tells her that the alderman's labs are back, and he's positive for syphilis. "I asked Jerry to cancel them!" Weaver barks defensively. Chuny gamely shrugs that such is the nature of the lab. "You want labs, you can't get them. You don't want them, suddenly they get all efficient," she grins. Pratt passes and grabs Chuny to perform a test on Jessie; this triggers Kerry's tomfoolery radar. "What's she doing here? Kovac pronounced her an hour ago," she gasps. Pratt shrugs that, sure, she's in v-tach, but she does still have a pulse. Confused, Kerry nevertheless has a more important ass to whoop -- that of Jerry, who unwittingly failed to abet her duplicity. "I called [the lab]," he insists, good-naturedly. He offers to call again and find out what happened, but Weaver crabs that she'll take care of it herself, and I just realized that, given the STD plot and everything, it's kind of funny that I just used the word "crabs."
Malik announces the impending arrival of a child with a head injury; Weaver uses the ensuing minutes to question Luka as to why Jessie is still in Trauma Yellow. "I'm curious because she died an hour ago," Weaver adds, pleasantly. Luka knows he's busted, but he explains that Tom flatly refused to save himself until Jessie had died. "I unhooked her leads and pronounced her," he says simply. "Oh my God!" sputters Weaver. She can't fathom how to explain all this to Tom if he pulls through and Jessie is actually still alive. "I'll tell him it was a miracle," Luka smirks. Unsurprisingly, Weaver is less amused than I am by that retort. "That's hardly in the best interests of your patient," she scolds. "She wasn't my patient," he points out correctly.
The arrival of David Scott breaks up the scene. He's nine, and he fell off his bunk bed. The babysitting neighbor heard the crash and called the medics. And, scene.
Abby and Carter are at the fundraiser, the former peering at a model of the proposed new building. "The real one will be bigger," Carter explains helpfully. She smirks. She looks nice when she's not furrowing her brow in consternation and whining about her life. Her cocktail dress is nice -- simple, black, sleeveless. But they don't show her from the chest down, which is interesting, so it's hard to say what she looks like -- in the scene at the hospital, I think she was wearing a coat. The waiter brings a tray of appetizers; we can only pray this will trigger the age-old "appetizer vs. canapé" debate, but Abby manages to restrain herself. "Have you tried these?" she asks Carter, grabbing one and popping it into her mouth. "They're perfect little salty things," she says. Carter chuckles and warns her not to fill up on those, lest they escape early enough to go get some real food elsewhere. Carter should meet my appetite. I could clean that plate and go back for thirds, and still be up for a good dinner somewhere. "How much money are we trying to raise?" Abby asks casually, strolling past yet another model building. "Fifty-eight, I think," Carter says. "I know we're throwing in ten." Abby bites her lip. "Thousand?" she asks, knowing she's wrong. "Million," Carter replies nonchalantly. Abby almost chokes on her non-canapé, probably less stricken by the amount than with the easy way Carter tossed around the numbers. Abby wonders what that kind of cash buys. "Architectural significance," Carter says, mock-pompously. "I mean, what's the point of building a cultural edifice if you're not going to prove your civic superiority?" Oh, Carter, you earnest little cynic, you. All wrapped up in philanthropic angst, Carter muses that Ed's clinic is nearby, and wouldn't it be fascinating to see what he'd do with fifty-eight million. "Hot hors d'oeuvres in his waiting room," Abby smirks. Shit, I'd go to him for that.
Gamma appears to put a damper on everyone's spirits, as she's wont to do. Hey, do what you're best at, I say. "Hello, John," she says, accepting his kiss. She then turns to Abby and introduces herself. "Gamma, you've met Abby before," Carter reminds her. "Sorry. So many people in John's life," Gamma condescends. "Don't you look beautiful!" A compliment to which Abby chooses to reply, "What exactly are canapés?" Oh my God. How old are you, Abby? If you're as old as you look, then you definitely have major maturity issues. Sure, it wasn't a terribly polite introduction, but still -- don't whip out the "I's From A Po' Family" card. Be the bigger person, shrew. As Carter shoots her a totally and fairly inappropriately amused look, Abby continues, "Are they different from appetizers?" Gamma pities her with a simpering "I'm not sure, dear." Carter can't stop giggling, while Gamma regards Abby like she's fresh off the short bus.
Gamma then turns to Carter and reminds him of Thursday's board meeting to elect new foundation officers. "I always thought that was sort of a 'whoever's in the bathroom gets elected president' kind of thing," Carter cracks. Gamma rolls her eyes and tries to sway him by announcing that she wants him to run for Treasurer to replace his father. Carter's not enticed by this bone, which is understandable because it's a Gamma bone that involves math. "How did Dad get off so easy?" Carter smirks. Gamma drops the bomb that she's asking Carter's father to replace her as president. This stuns Carter, although it's hard to imagine why. It's not like Mrs. Carter, Queen Of The Glaciers is going to get the nod from Gamma. She's more likely to get a horse head in her bed. Carter is still silent. "Don't you think you're getting a bit long in the tooth for the disaffected youth role, John?" Gamma sighs. Carter stiffens and points out that he already has a day job, then stalks away in a right poor-little-rich-boy snit. Gamma is displeased, whereas Abby bites her prodigious lips and tries not to look terribly bothered by the fact that her date just ditched her with his disapproving grandmother and a plate of appetizers that might be canapés.
Luka and Weaver check out young David's wrecked arm. Weaver snaps at Luka for interrupting her assessment. Basically, the few lines they exchange are meant to convey her short temper with him. Weaver wants a head CT; Luka notices old bruises on the boy's body and asks for a long-bone survey. "First we have to rule out an intercranial bleed," Weaver insists curtly. Malik enters in search of Pratt; Jessie's potassium levels have dropped. Or risen. Honestly, who knows. They're at 3.2, if anyone out there is worried. Weaver orders treatment. "She's a DNR," Luka argues. " Yeah, and if she arrests, we let her go. Until then, we treat her," Weaver snits. "She's dead, Kerry," Luka counters. And for a second time this hour, Romano appears behind the door and raps on it to get attention. Dear God, does he do anything but knock, peer, and sneer? Kerry clearly doesn't appreciate the interruption. "This is a decision the husband should be making," Weaver insists. Luka points out the obvious: that Tom's in surgery with a massive slit in his abdomen that might prevent him from making any snappy decisions just this second. Weaver still maintains that if Luka had leveled with him, Tom might've given them clear instructions about his wife's treatment. "Now we have to decide," she brats. I think Luka did about as well as he could have with a very sick, clearly grieving man. He sensed that the man's judgment was impaired due to his sorrow and his medical condition and he did what he felt he needed to do to save the man's life. At any rate, Weaver elects to keep treating her until her heart gives out completely. Luka broods. What, you're surprised?
Romano shows up downstairs so that he can get in Kerry's face yet again. He very pleasantly remarks that he noticed the alderman was still outside in plain view rather than in a private room, which isn't acceptable because it doesn't adhere to the strict Sucking Up policy that's been enforced in County on this fine day. "He didn't want [a room]," Weaver points out. Romano doesn't care. "You should've given him a private room, he should've had two doctors and five nurses hovering over him every minute," he crabs. Weaver sneers that they only have five nurses on duty at any given time, yet this isn't enough to appease the Rocket. He wants them to bend over and pander until their joints are well nigh sore.
Back at the Carter Family Foundation Multi-Million-Dollar Brat Pack Extravapalooza, Abby finds Carter, who I think is downing a drink. "That was a little rude," she pouts, referring to his flouncing away and abandoning Abby with his wrinkled, judgmental grandmother. "Stay out of it," Carter warns her quite curtly. Abby's eyes fly open. "So was that," she bristles with a smirk as a woman on stage begins speaking. Carter whispers fiercely that Gamma wants him to stop working, and that this is her best way to try and do that. Abby figures Gamma's just an old biddy who wants young shoulders to carry some of her burden. Carter delivers a bitterly sarcastic tirade about the so-called family business -- as in, ribbon-cutting and "waving to the common man" and giving away money. "Prince Charles without the castle," he spits. Is that what this is about? Because little John-boy could buy a freaking castle, if his heart desired. He looks so petulant. Abby observes that Gamma's boasting a fairly palatial estate, to which Carter snaps that even if she means well, Abby shouldn't meddle in his life. Then, just to be literal about it, Mr. My Girlfriend Won't Let Me Meddle In Her Family Life gets up and puts his shoes on the other feet. Then he trots up to the podium to hand a ten-million-dollar check to the event's organizer. Carter seems uneasy as Abby weaves through the crowd, staring at him contemplatively.
Little David calls out for his father. "I fell off the top bunk," he whimpers. Luka promises to take care of him, and sends him away to a room with Chuny. Jerry hands Luka the kid's x-rays, and Luka cursees softly. "Is DCFS still around?" he asks. Suddenly, David's father, Mr. Scott, appears in search of his son. Luka regards him with deep skepticism. "He has a broken wrist and he hit his head," he intones. "He gets hurt all the time," sighs Mr. Scott. "More and more since his Mom left." Luka coughs that the x-rays reveal older, more suspicious injuries. "He doesn't pay attention," shrugs Mr. Scott. Then, he realizes what Luka's implying. "Are you suggesting that I hurt my own son?" Luka snarls, "Do you?" Mr. Scott deeply resents this accusation, especially because, hello, the kid got hurt when only the babysitter was home. Does Luka think Mr. Scott climbed through the upstairs window just for the privilege of cracking his son's head and getting away with it? Points for effort, Luka, but...wuh?
Susan and Pratt counsel Doug about his mother -- evidently, the antibiotics still might not improve her chances. Adele is there, too, explaining that she's present to try and determine what's best for the moppets. She asks Doug point-blank if he's a good choice to be their guardian. "Probably not," he says, flustered. His eyes are teary. "So I should find someplace else for them to stay?" Adele presses. Pratt snaps. "Wait, you're not trying to keep them together?" he asks, bewildered. Adele leans back in her wheelchair, staring at Pratt with unmasked irritation. "Is this coming from you?" Pratt spits at Susan, who sighs that Doug clearly agrees that foster care is a better and safer option for Rachel and Marten. Pratt shouts that he knows foster care means the kids might get separated. Adele stresses that they try their hardest to make sure that won't happen. To Doug, Pratt says, "Know what that means? They're going to get split up." Pause. This is where Susan interrupts and tells Pratt to piss off. "Their mom's dying, and they're gonna be separated," Pratt continues. Pause. No, this must be where Susan grabs Pratt by the collar and screams at him to stop putting pressure on the punk. "Living with strangers!" Pratt yells. Wait -- do I see Susan dragging him out of the room by the ear? No? How can that be? "Is that what you want?" Pratt finishes, sheathed in a lovely dress knit together from the strands of his self-righteous anger. Susan sets the dress on fire and locks Pratt in a closet. Seriously, I know she's showing a remarkable lack of faith in Doug, which may or may not be justified, but she's not being nearly as aggressive as Pratt is. It's kind of inappropriate to rail on Doug the way he is -- Pratt should accept it if Doug's not ready to shoulder the load.
But, of course, Pratt would rather take well enough out to dinner and a movie than leave it alone. As Doug stalks mulishly out of the hospital, Pratt gives chase. "Your mom might die," he yells. "They love you, man!" Doug laughs hollowly and turns. "Right, the dumb stoner who makes them laugh," he spits. Well, sure. Pratt insists that Doug cares about them. "I can't take care of two kids!" he yells. Which is probably true. He looks as if he has trouble taking care of his piercings. "You'd be surprised at what you can do," Pratt says calmly. Doug reiterates that he can't do it. "Trust me. I know. You just need to step up," Pratt says, getting an anvil out of his pocket and trying to hang it from one of Doug's earrings. But it's misguided -- Pratt and Leon weren't druggies when Mrs. Pratt died, presumably, and so Leon was probably in a better place to take care of Pratt. Also, Pratt wasn't as young as Rachel and Marten are and could therefore be a bit more self-sufficient. But Pratt is determined to pollute the scene with anvils, so he keeps shaking them out from his trouser leg. "You never should've called me, all right?" Doug weeps. "My mom's right. They're all right!" Pratt urges him to make them wrong. Dodging the anvil being chucked at his ass, Doug screams, "I can't, all right?" He runs away. We fade to black wishing Pratt would stop presuming that he knows best all the time, because he's frequently wrong, and tiresome.
Kerry tries to hide the guilt in her eyes with a smile, asking a friendly lab tech if she can delete lab records because the sample was mislabeled. The woman pleasantly lets Weaver sign the papers. "Is that it?" Kerry asks. "That's it," smiles the woman. Weaver seems surprised that it was so easy to compromise her integrity this time.
Carter and Abby stand outside the event, neither looking at the other. Carter half-heartedly offers to take her to dinner. "I'm not hungry," she sniffs. "Not hungry, or pissed at me?" Carter asks, still staring in the other direction and not sounding terribly concerned either way. Abby ignores him. "Look, I'm sorry, but I don't think you have any right to lecture me about my family," he bristles. Abby swivels and stares at him in disbelief. "Was that an apology?" she asks. "I don't owe you an apology," he says calmly. Ooh, bitchy. Carter argues that he doesn't want to become a clone of his father -- a lifeless shill doling out checks to museums -- and Abby suggests that he sack up and join the foundation and try to effect change. They're both kind of right. Carter should get off his high horse about his wealth and, if he resents the way they use it so much, he should try to take a role in directing the money toward better causes. But Abby shouldn't meddle and assume she knows best if she's going to turn around and get resentful and bitter when Carter shows an interest in her family problems.
"Change [the foundation's] priorities," Abby continues. "Give the money to health care, education, needle exchange -- anything you feel passionate about." Carter feels most passionate about his work at County, and doesn't want to give that up. Abby doesn't see why he has to choose, and can't understand why Carter acts so ashamed of having been born wealthy. He lies that he isn't ashamed. "No? You drive a Jeep. You wear a cheap watch. You rent a two-bedroom apartment," Abby ticks off a list. He does? I thought he still lived with Gamma. Maybe that was temporary, while she was sick. Who knows. "What do you want me to do, drive a BMW?" Carter sneers. "No. I don't care. I couldn't care less," Abby swears. "But you care a lot. You want everyone to think that you're just like them, and you're not. You just signed a check for ten million in there, and you didn't even blink." Hey, Abby? That giant check? It wasn't a real check. Rich people only figuratively have huge pocketbooks. Carter prefers to see himself as an altruist -- a crusader for the public who donates time and skill instead of money, but Abby points out that money could buy a lot of positive societal change. Finally, Carter whirls and spits that the money came from his great-grandfather cornering the coal market during the depression. "In the winter of 1933, children froze to death and my family made out like bandits," he hisses coldly. Then quit your crying, rich boy, and give the money back to starving families. Abby agrees with me. "You can't give it back now," she says. "Why not give it to people who really need it? There's still lots of kids freezing to death every winter, Carter." He stares at her like he doesn't know her, then whirls and gets into his Jeep.
Weaver checks on the alderman. "How do we stand on the medical-records issue?" he asks in a low voice. "It's been handled," Kerry chokes. "Good, good, thank you for your discretion," he smiles. Weaver fumbles her way through a "you're welcome" that seems really tenuous and guilty. Laura Innes is a fine actress; Kerry Weaver, not so much.
Outside, Weaver mentions to Susan that she discharged Bright. Then, she lies that his syphilis test was negative, which is the stupidest thing because there's a huge trail of people who can catch her in the lie about the mislabeled swab, not to mention Chuny, who first delivered the news that he was positive. Weaver's lying really, really indiscriminately. It's only a matter of time before someone catches a whiff of that moldy breadcrumb trail. Susan can't believe it was negative because his sore was a textbook example of the disease. "He's fine," Weaver bleats. "He could have untreated syphilis," Susan argues, suggesting they run the test again. "He's FINE. Let it go," Weaver barks. Susan's alarmed, but lets it go.
Mr. Scott tries to convince Luka to let him see his son, but his attempts fail when the cops show up to arrest him. "This is crazy! I have never hurt my son!" he wails, threatening to call a lawyer as he's dragged down the hall. Weaver watches this with interest. "What's that?" she asks. "Father abusing his son," Luka says shortly. "Where's DCFS?" she asks. "They were busy," he replies. Weaver can't believe Luka leapt to calling the police. "Did you even talk to the child?" she gapes. "Of course I did. He was scared," Luka says, walking away. Sigh. I'm tired of Luka being all fucked up inside. Somebody needs to fix him, stat. By an extraordinary stroke of luck, I am between jobs, and therefore available indefinitely.
Weaver sidles into David's room and warms him up with small talk before finally asking him about his injuries. "I don't pay enough attention," he says brightly, parroting what his father says. "Did you really fall out of bed today, David?" Weaver asks, gently. "I...jumped," he confesses. Weaver, startled, asks if that's true, and David nods sadly. Well, that was easy. Luka must've been questioning him in Croatian.
Carter parks outside Ed Asner's clinic and pushes his way inside. "We're closed," barks Ed. Carter weaves his way into the back office, where he reintroduces himself to the gruff doctor and warns him that his diabetes is completely out of control. "I take my Orinase," Ed insists. "They still make that?" Carter gapes. Ed sneers that it works for him just fine, thank you, despite the tests proving otherwise. Boring. Does anyone care? Carter is taking baby steps toward his first Carter Family Foundation Crusade, and all he does here is look around at the shabby clinic and write a check to Ed for some basic but expensive essentials. Ed, calling it "white liberal guilt," tears up the check. "I'm not here to make you feel better," he says quietly. Carter's all, No, you're here to be my Bishop. Carter pleads with him, begging for a chance to help. "You can sweep," Ed says gruffly, tossing him a broom and exiting. Carter smiles at him -- you know the smile; it's the "dawn of respect" smile that Pratt wore last week and which everyone wears around gruff but lovable old men whose prickly exteriors mask mushy hearts of molten gold. It's the way of things.
Doug slips back into the hospital and finds Pratt. "She still alive?" he asks. "You came back," Pratt says happily. "I never really left," Doug confesses. Pratt stares at him, as if he's not really sure what to do with his haphazard whim now that it's paid off and he's down one foster family and up one stoned punk. To paraphrase one of the world's wisest poets, Kenny Rogers, Pratt should've known when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. "She says I was the biggest mistake of her life," chokes Doug. "I don't want to let them down, you know, but I don't know if I can do it." He seems scared and nervous, and genuinely tortured. Pratt steers him toward the kids. "HE came back," observes a passing Susan acerbically. Pratt apologizes to her for being out of line, which you know he never would've done had his gamble not paid off and Doug not returned. Very convenient apology. "Whatever. I'm an adult. I can handle it," she shrugs. "You should worry about those three kids."
As usual, Pratt gets a call. As usual, it's a Leon-related disaster. As usual, Pratt flees the hospital before his shift is over. As usual, there is no comeuppance. Paging Comeuppance! There's a Cocky Bastard Special on aisle five. "Was that Pratt leaving again?" Weaver asks. Jerry confirms that he had to leave early, but didn't say why. "Well, guess what, I want to go, too," Kerry snaps, erasing the board angrily. "Maybe I should just leave. What do you think? Just leave, because I feel like it." Then she shouts at Luka for misreading the child-abuse situation, stunning him with the revelation that David hurts himself so his father will stay home and hang out with him. Dr. Elizabeth "Here" Corday "Gone Tomorrow" appears to bitch at Luka for not sending Tom Callahan up to surgery fast enough; he'll be fine, but they're all irritated by the delay. Finally, Weaver brats that he should've called DCFS before calling the cops. Luka absorbs all this without defending himself, and you can sense there's some introspection going on, although it probably involves what kind of beer he's going to use to drown his sorrows.
Sadly, Luka enters Trauma Yellow and whispers to Jessie that Tom will be okay. "You can let go now," he says.
Susan cruises into the lounge, where Weaver is getting ready to go home. "Pratt left again?" she gripes conversationally. "Man, when I was an intern, it was a full-time job." She babbles about wanting to get in bed with Antonio Banderas. Whatever. He'd come up to her shoulder. Then, brightly, Susan whips out a wrapped gift for Weaver. "I know it's a little early, but I was in Fields buying a gift for my niece, and I saw the infant stuff..." Weaver stares at her in utter dread as she realizes what's going on, and how totally awkward this moment's going to be. Finally, after Susan goes on about clothing colors, Weaver gets in a word: "I'm not pregnant anymore," she whispers. "I miscarried." Susan's face falls. "Oh, God, Kerry, I'm so sorry," she flushes. Weaver blurts out some statistic about miscarriages being common among IVF patients. "Thank you for the thought," Weaver says uncomfortably. "Sure," Susan says, unsure where to look or what to think.
Pratt is at the police station. A cop is explaining that Leon was brought in because of a stolen car that had a shotgun inside; Leon's pals have records, but Leon is clean, so they think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nonetheless, he's in the slammer. The cop gives Pratt some time to chat with Leon, who sobs that he was just telling Dukey and the thug gang all about his new job. The cops came while he was sharing. Pratt can't believe he was with the guys who just stabbed him, but then changes tacks and makes Leon simply promise not to talk to anyone until they get him a lawyer. Innocently, Leon asks him to apologize to his boss and pass along the promise that he won't be late again. "You probably lost that job!" grieves Pratt. "You didn't show up!" Leon can't believe it. He cries, which is basically all he does, ever. Pratt promises to bail him out first thing in the morning. "I can't spend the night in here! I don't know these people!" bawls Leon. Pratt leaves, because he has to, while Leon clings to the prison bars and cries and cries, screaming Pratt's name and begging him not to leave.