Fade up on Augustus "Congressional Filibuster" Hill, using the cumulative store of words with which he has at one time or another become acquainted throughout a lifetime's exposure to the English language, and manipulating the order of the entirety of said words to form a speech about the human inclination toward mercy. Teach us, oh ye breaker of fourth walls: "Mercy is the compassion we feel for someone else's misfortune. Mercy compels us to alleviate that misfortune. Mercy is the child of charity but the sister of justice because both are about the invisible link that exists between people." And while Hill continues to ponder the genealogy of charity's child and justice's sister, and how pity is the wacky neighbor who drops in three or four times a day to borrow a cup of flour, and altruism is that annoying cousin from Duluth who shows up uninvited with her six kids for what seems like the entire summer, I muse as to whether there isn't a heavy-handed thematic link to be drawn between this little homily and the plot-driven actions taking place within the episode itself. Ah, here's our answer now.
Over in a drab gray room with a guarded door and clouded glass on the single barred window (does that help narrow down the current setting for everyone? Good, then), Suited Lawyer Man brings Beecher, his parents, Sister Pete, and Ray up to date on the facts of his children's kidnapping. As Beecher's kids were on their way home from school, a man in a blue van drove up to them and, with his best hey-little-kids-you-want-some-Pokémon-cards bravado, convinced them to get in the van and drive to some as-yet-undetermined death-acquiring locale. We learn from Suited Lawyer Man that "Gary was reluctant at first, but eventually the man persuaded him using [glacial, Dragnet-esque, dun-DUN-duuuuuuuuun pause here] Pokémon cards." As if the law-abiding, accountable, over-seven-years-old population of the planet Earth didn't already have enough reasons to blame the collective ills of our entire society on Pokémon. And I thought Beecher was in Oz for drunk driving. The court papers neglected to mention the far greater crime of spawning a child after 1990 and still, disturbingly, deciding to name him "Gary." No wonder things have been turning out the way they are, really. Sister Pete wants to know just what is being done to track the kids down, and Suited Lawyer Man shows no sympathy in telling them that all they can do is wait. Over in the Strasberg-esque improvisational exercise where the pacing and the furrowed brow and the biting of the lower lip means that he's right in the middle of that thing called ACTING, Beecher sarcastically suggests "milk cartons" as a tracking device before busting into a little tantrum beginning, "Come on, Schillinger did this!" Suited Lawyer Man suggests that the kidnapping is an unrelated ransom situation based on Beecher's wealthy family, causing Beecher's mini-tantrum to erupt into a full-scale raging assault on every inanimate object in the room. Beecher smashes, knocks over, rips, and mutilates every object he can get his hands on, unleashing his fury and wailing, "This printer kidnapped my kids! No, no, these books kidnapped my kids! Wait a sec, I think it was THIS TABLE!" Actually, he just screams, "Find my kids, find my goddamned kids" over and over and over again, but those books sure do look away with any number of guilty stares. The guards step lively to sequester Beecher, who continues to want us to "find [his] kids," just before he gets around to tearing the posters off the wall in an obvious indictment of the wall hangings and their own role in the conspiracy to abduct Beecher's children. Damn coy posters.
Cut to Suited Lawyer Man in conference with Schillinger, the latter offering his always convincing doe-eyed gaze of innocence (don't smile don't smile for the love of all things holy please don't smile again please) with the defense, "Beecher and I have one thing in common, too. We're both fathers. I lost a son. I know what he's going through." Slippery as his morality so frequently is, I'm going to leave out the lengthy diatribe I had prepared that the only similarity between the death of Schillinger's son and the disappearance of Beecher's kids is the fundamental role that Schillinger played in both of them. But he spared us the ghastly smile this time, so I'm willing to grant him temporary absolution, as he has done for us. No more smiling. My spine can't take it. It's been forced to ration its few remaining tingles for emergency situations only.
Over in the visiting room, Beecher apologizes to the elder Beecher, and Mr. Beecher suggests that he and his wife (the lovely and talented Mrs. Beecher) feel responsible for Beecher's alcoholism, the death of the girl, and the subsequent incarceration. "We failed you growing up," he frets. Beecher heads him off at the pass with a little "and art therapy also calms me right down" patented prison remorse: "As much as I'd like to blame you for the miserable spithole [only he doesn't say...okay, yeah, I'll shut up now] my life has become, what's wrong with me is inside me. I own it. And either I have to control it or it will control me." Right on, Beecher. I too have trouble seeing exactly how Beecher Senior could be implicated in the drunk-driving accident that landed Toby in there to begin with. Unless the grandparents were granted full authority to name the grandchildren. And if so, I hope there's room for a roll-away cot inside of Beecher's pod. 'Cause they're guilty guilty guilty. "Gary"? Is it 1950? Is this The Music Man?
Speaking of problematic relationships with well-intentioned fathers (or, in the current example, not so much) the crime non-fighting duo of Satan & Son share a brief visit, in which Schillinger Senior tells Hank that "it's time to kick this thing into overdrive. I want you to send the package." Hank tells his dad that though he's never had trouble breaking the law before, "this kind of thing is really not [his] style." I'm guessing it's because, I don't know, the helpless victim is white this time? My, what a family.
Lunch time. Beecher saunters over to a table at which Steven King's even more unkempt imprisoned doppelganger sits alone reading a comic book. ["Somewhere, New York Dolls fans weep." -- Sars] Beecher inquires as to whether the man is a "Les Hibitz," and doppelganger responds in the affirmative. Beecher sits down and gets right to the sleuthing: "I understand you did some Fed time for kidnapping, right?" Beecher tells Les that his two children were abducted and wants to know if he could ask around to find out if someone was hired to do the job. Hibitz tells him that he'll look into it before moving quickly into the chatty, non-sequitur small talk of the week: "So, you like Def Leppard?" Beecher adopts that "I was really more of a Kenny G kind of guy on the outside" stare and we're out of the dining room in a flash.
Hill: Flimmity flammity flam flom flum flomp mercy flimp. Ain't that the truth.
And we're downstairs in the TV room, where Chris "Poke A Mon" Keller returns to the fray of Oz after a short stint in the hospital. The walking wounded approaches Beecher from behind (I'm just gonna leave that one right where it is and slowly. Walk. Away.) and places a caressing hand on the back of his head. Awwwww. The song "Love Will Keep Us Together" inexplicably rages in my head. I love that song. Beecher, wound up as he has been, recoils ever so slightly before turning around to note Keller's presence, and they hug rather knowingly for a moment before a guard, apparently lacking in the soothing balm of the soul that is the music of the Captain and Tennille, has seen enough and yells for the two to "break it up." And so they retire to their pod, where Keller does the noble thing for an audience desiring such treatment after such a long absence and immediately takes off his shirt. He's bandaged. He's injured. Beecher asks if he's okay, and Keller plays the tough man in letting us know that "they stab me, they shoot me, I ain't goin' down." Hey, Keller? Just to avoid any further confusion: I'm really, really glad you're okay and all, but as far as the award for indestructible super hero, that mantel is eternally carried by the battered, bruised, but never broken Miguel Alvarez, okay? You're a good guy and I wish you well. But I knew Miguel Alvarez. I have worked with Miguel Alvarez. And you, sir, are no Miguel Alvarez. In other news, Beecher tells Keller about his kids, but Keller already knows. Beecher removes the bandage to see the damage on Keller's chest. Ow ow ow. Keller missed Beecher. Beecher missed Keller. Beecher kisses the wound, and my back arches involuntarily and I find cause to yell "ow" that one more time.
Schillinger sits gratuitously on the toilet inside of his cell in a possible attempt to become less, well, full of shit than his inherent nature would otherwise indicate. Another Nazi Skinhead Freak enters the cell to inform Schillinger that "the two lovebirds have reunited." Schillinger comments that he hopes the two enjoy their evening together. Awwww. See, he's coming around and...oh, wait, there's more: "It's gonna be the last night of sleep, of peace, that Beecher's gonna have for a long, long time." Nazi Skinhead Freak smiles at the wacky hijinks of it all.
Em City after dark. Keller sits on the floor of his pod, unconvincingly smoking a cigarette (non-smoking actors beware -- smokers and former smokers can inherently tell when you're faking. Inhale a lot deeper or ask the director to write it out of the script. Really) and quite a bit more convincingly bummed about the current state of his unhappy existence. Beecher wakes up to find his roomie sitting in an almost fetal position on the floor, and when Beecher joins him there, Keller launches right in: "Toby, I died. And there's no white light. I was there but they brought me back but I was there, Toby, I was in hell and I felt everything. I felt the pain and I felt the fire for all eternity." Yikes-o-la. Just when you thought things couldn't get any heavier. Pain and fire for all eternity. Beecher tells Keller that if all that's left for them in this life is Oz, they have to start thinking about what comes after. They hug and hug. A guard bangs on the glass. Can't two lovers get any privacy anymore? Didn't the guard see the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door to the pod? No maid service! Turn down the beds later! Ah, the star-crossed love of it all.
day, Beecher is at work in Sister Pete's office. She enters and finds him there, much to her surprise. Beecher tells her that work helps to keep his mind from caving in, and she wholly concurs, even tying in the lingering Shirley Bellinger subplot and the crowd of protesters outside the prison. Beecher needs a favor. "If I can, you know I will," she responds. He wants her to talk to Chris, and Pete launches into an all-too-true reality check about Keller's inherently manipulative ways: "He tried to use me to get to you." Yup. "Now he's using you to get to me." Yup again, sister. "I will not play his game." Oh, but you will. You probably, probably will. Beecher divulges that Keller is afraid of burning in hell, and that he feels his fate is sealed if Sister Pete leaves the convent. Sister Pete confirms that Keller will, in fact, burn, but that it will be because of his indiscretions against other people and "all of the lives that he destroyed. Including yours." The scary music you're hearing alerts me to the fact that the plot is ever so much thicker than it was just moments before.
Maybe Keller should have reconsidered his whole "not dying" decision after all. Back in the ambiguously gray room containing Suited Lawyer Man, Beecher, and his parents, the damning implications that Keller is a bad, bad man continue in the form of Suited Lawyer Man's "findings" that if anyone on the inside could be responsible for the disappearance of Gary and Mabel or Bertha or Muriel (or whatever antiquated prewar grandma name the girl has been cursed with. Oh, wait, it was Holly. Holly is a very pretty name), all signs point to Keller. Beecher tells them all that this is impossible, once again expressing his certitude that Schillinger is responsible. Back story, folks? Come along, with Suited Lawyer Man as your guide: "Keller broke every bone in your body...armed robbery, assault, kidnapping. Police suspect him of raping, torturing, and murdering several homosexual men." But it's not him who had the kids kidnapped, y'see. Mom wants to know how he can be so sure. Well, mom, y'see, it's like this. He knows Chris "intimately." Eh? "He's my lover." Wow. If you want to shut up a room in a hurry.
In a scene that plays almost like straight-up slapstick, in which two devious criminals run amok in the mail room while the dunderhead guard dawdles on the side as packages containing guns, knives, and nail files buried in conspicuous birthday cakes glide effortlessly into Oz, Schillinger's young sidekick notes a package regarding some actual concern and calls Vern over. Schillinger regards the x-ray screen for a moment, utters a pretty authentic version of surprise, and calls Officer Claire "Is a Fat Girl's Name" Howell over from the constant tending it must take to keep up such unfluctuating bangs to show her the what's what. What the bloody heck is that? Oh, that? Well, that's a child's hand. Cue Beecher in his pod, lamenting the badness further, holding a pillow and rocking and moaning. Keller lies awake. Across the way, Morales lies awake. Upstairs, Said prays. In my apartment, no hilarious punch line on the status of things with Beecher immediately jumps to mind.
Glynn enters the hole to acquaint Mobay once more with the lost luxury that is his clothing, and Mobay puts the ol' government-agent spin on things by telling Glynn that "a few days in the hole only increases [his] credibility with Adebisi, Pancamo, and Morales." I can barely even hear the dialogue that ensues over the loudly ticking clock that is Mobay's remaining time alive. Hello, Toledo? We can see it coming. It can leave the station now. Just thought you should know.
Back in Em City, Poet apprehends Mobay to tell him that Adebisi still isn't convinced of Mobay's fortitude and, more importantly, his integrity. He has to take another test. Cut to Adebisi and his posse in the gym, telling Mobay that his test is to find out if he can "take a punch." He requests gloves. Tough guy Pancamo steps in to tell him that they won't exactly be sparring, and that Mobay's idea of the fight (y'know, the one where he has any method of defense at all) is ever so slightly inaccurate. But Pancamo's got gloves. And they're going to use Mobay as "a heavy bag." Then they kick his ass in fifteen seconds. Dissolve to Mobay's pod, where the lawman lies dazed on his bed. Poet enters with a little gift to "soothe" his "wounds," leaving him with a small baggie filled with a telltale white concoction of drugs and, well, just drugs. Mobay leaps off the bed and snorts the confection with nary a moment's pause. At which moment Hill wheels himself in, fresh from talking at an unsuspecting group of exhausted strangers (called, familiarly, "us") about the manifold glories of mercy in its numerous forms, and finds Mobay in the process of using and losing. He asks didactically just what the hell Mobay is doing. Oh, Hill. Just relax. I half expect him to launch into the McGruff the Crime Fighting Dog song shown ad nauseam during Saturday morning cartoons back in my own heady "Just Say No," "this is your brain on drugs" childhood. It was a catchy song. But a song with a message. See if you can figure out what that message might be:
Users are losers, and losers are users
So don't use drugs, don't use drugs
Users are losers, and losers are users
So don't use drugs, don't use drugs
[Bridge]
If you know a user even part of the time,
Tell him to quit, take a bite out of crime!
Users are losers, and losers are users
So don't use drugs, don't use drugs!
[Cue the epiphany-oriented eyebrow-raising of a nation of impressionable children thirsting for life's lessons via the proven teaching acumen of an animated mongrel. And if you think McGruff is a civic-minded pup now, you should hear his extensive thoughts on fire safety. You'll never leave a stove unattended again. Anyway.]
Hill wheels around and leaves their shared pod in disgust. Mobay comments as he climbs back into bed that he's having a "breakfast of champions." I'm just impressed that he can keep his accents straight when he's that high. When I used to smoke pot, it took me a half an hour to make a bowl of Ramen noodles. ["He can't keep his breakfasts straight either -- everyone knows the one, the only breakfast of champions is a fine little lager I like to call 'Budweiser.'" -- Sars]
Cut to Mobay walking into a pod containing Pancamo, Adebisi, and Morales. They tell him that they have taken "a straw poll" on Mobay's merits. Pancamo voted yes, Adebisi voted no, and Morales settled for an abstention. And there's only one way to break the tie and solidify their trust. He has to kill somebody. He agrees to do it. Because McGruff the Crime Fighting Dog never wrote a song about contract killing, I imagine.
Ray enters the kitchen to let Sister Pete know that he has some bad news -- "The Cardinal is coming" to Oz so he can "say a mass, meet with the staff, and then with some prisoners." Apparently, Ray used to work in the Cardinal's office, but was transferred to Oz when he questioned authority too frequently. Sister Pete plans to make herself ten different kinds of scarce that day, because she is considering leaving the convent, because Chris Meloni picked some lint off her sweater once last season, but Ray lets her know this won't be possible, as the Cardinal has specifically requested to see her. Eh? "Well, apparently this whole thing started because his eminence received a letter from a prisoner." Anyone want to guess who that prisoner is? Anyone need me to tell you? Fine. It was Keller. And now you know.
Cardinal Stubing (that's right, folks, it's The Love Boat's venerable helmer and Mary's wacky sidekick Murray from The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Gavin MacLeod! All hail!) enters the chapel at Oz and greets Ray. He tells him in this segue-free zone that he transferred Ray to Oz because he had a big ego. Short scene. Onward!
Cut to the "Body of Christ" wafer offering part of the service. Sister Pete takes communion, and we cut again to Cardinal Stubing and Sister Pete sitting alone in a room. He tells her that the God grapevine has it that she's been questioning the convent, and he tells her of his first unpleasant experience as a priest, way out in the country, where it was hard to turn the world on with a smile or even take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile. Sister Pete understands. And you should know it. With each breath and every little movement she shows it. He tells her to pray. She says she is constantly praying. She throws her hat up toward the ceiling of the room and the frame freezes on her liberated self. Actually, that was just the opening theme song from Mary Tyler Moore. Except for the part where he tells her to pray. Which she really is doing. Go, Sister Pete. You're gonna make it after all! She kisses his ring, and Cardinal Stubing utters a hearty "God bless you, sister." Sister Pete walks through the prison and is offered a slightly more weighted "God bless you, sister" from Keller.
Said is telling a group of familiar faces about the prisoners' victory in their case against the state, to the tune of $45 million. But the state is appealing, he tells them, a particular issue considering that this is an election year and Devlin would never agree to give them their money before he's back in office. Rebadow observes that the prisoners of Attica waited thirty years for their money, and O'Reily pipes up with a derogatory joke about Rebadow's advancing age. The meeting breaks up, and the old man sticks around to ask Said if he has ever killed anyone. Said hasn't, he says, but I imagine the intent behind the question was rhetorical anyway, as it opens the door for Rebadow to introduce a flashback from the Short Attention Span Theater, as we are treated to a rather vivid retread of last week's neck-compromising of Hernandez via Rebadow's ice pick. It's yucky to watch. Again. Said offers a variation on the ol' "and you're telling me all of this because...?" argument, and Rebadow turns the topic to Jason "The Boy Formerly Known as Boy" Kramer (turns out he has an actual name after all. My bad, really), telling Said that he had a premonition that Jason will go free. Not a good thing, he adds. Said knows he is guilty and, based on the overwhelming evidence against him, he will certainly be convicted again. Rebadow asks if this entire crusade to get the wronged man a new trial is merely "theoretical," and Said spits out a favorite line of this week, which I rewind and repeat numerous times because I like feeling like an overly righteous, self-empowered tough guy sometimes, too: "There is nothing theoretical about justice." Said tells Rebadow that there is no way Jason Kramer will go free. Rebadow, always creepy but most often only creepy in a really good way, tells him to pray that he's right.
Gym. Said tells The Boy Formerly Known as Boy that the homicide detective who arrested him has dropped by for a meeting. Cut to aforementioned detective, a man so decrepit that the pallbearers for his own funeral are standing outside of the prison's front gate, antsily checking their watches. He only has a few months to live, his doctors say, so he wants to clear the air ASAP: he tampered with the evidence in The Boy Formerly Known As Boy's trial and had a friend in forensics doctor up the results to make it look like TBFKAB's fingerprints were all over it. Oops. He still knows that the "cocksucker" (I'm sorry, were the results of this case motivated by homophobia? That hadn't been made crystal freakin' clear. Thanks for clarifying) is guilty, but he wanted to clear his own name, because we're thematically required to think of absolution before death a lot this week.
TBFKAB charmingly reports to Said after the meeting that when they "go public with this information, the press will get a seven-inch boner." Wow. No, he really said that. Because it's not TV. It's HBO. Said, knotty moral ambiguities finally catching up with him, goes all Allah on TBFKAB's ass and recuses himself from the case. "Immediately." Wherever will TBFKAB turn now? My guess is right out of the gates of Oz before this episode ends, and then right back in during an upcoming, Megyn-recapped episode like, say, week. Sorry, Boy. But this ain't over. Cut to the TV news telling us that TBFKAB's case lasted twelve seconds and that he is now innocent. Furrowed brows ahoy. Jason packs his thing (y'know, the "Boy" shirt) and he's gone.
Said spots Glynn somewhere gray with bars all around and calls him over for "a word" about the hiring of a replacement for Tim McManus. Too late, Glynn shoots back, he's already hired someone. Cut to this new hire, an arguable political pawn (he's African-American) wearing such a widely-lapelled sports jacket with small white spots on it and a black mock turtleneck under it and a goatee of such outmoded proportions that I wonder if this "Martin Querns" hasn't fashioned his entire aesthetic after a Lionel Richie-circa-1984 photo shoot when he hosted the American Music Awards. Querns thanks Glynn for the opportunity to shape up Em City, which Glynn calls "a failed experiment," and Glynn shares with him that his top priorities in running Oz are "one, keeping a lid on the racial tension, and two, keeping a lid on the violence in general." Querns concurs that these are his top priorities as well (shouldn't this all have been covered in the interview? What'd they talk about during that lengthy process? The surprising platinum sales of his solo albums? The best Commodores song to perform at karaoke night? Is "Hello" really about a blind girl?), requesting a "free hand" in trying out his own style in running the place. Glynn tells him that's exactly what he had in mind: "Until you fuck up." They shake on it.
Cut to Querns making an impression on the prisoners, introducing himself with a low, growling, Vincent Price-esque vocal cadence, in which he tells them all, "I'm not some candy-assed white liberal looking to turn you into better citizens." Hmmmm...sound like anyone you know? He's going to meet with each prisoner individually eventually, but until then, he wants them all to remember one important principle: "Don't fuck with Querns." Furtive where-the-hell-is-that-candy-assed-white-liberal-when-we-need-him looks are exchanged plentifully around the floor.
Cut to Querns in McManus's old office, meeting with Adebisi. He's indulgently telling Adebisi about his own drug-dealing history, as if he's expecting Adebisi to lean forward and offer him a hearty, "Hats off to you, new friend!" He doesn't. Querns tells him that he was never caught for his underworldly deeds of yesteryear, and that he knows every trick Adebisi can try. He then utters a true fan favorite line of dialogue when he stands above Adebisi, regards the hat warily, and looks with both his eyes and his hands in inquiring, "How do you keep that thing on your head?" Exactly. Adebisi stands, and Querns sits him right back down. And thus his radical ideology as unit manager is presently set forth: "To my mind, drugged-out prisoners make for a quiet cell block. So you can sell whatever the fuck you want to whoever you want to sell it to, I don't care." On one condition: no violence. Is this wise? Lionel, it's not wise. Hello? I just got to let you know. Cut to Adebisi, Pancamo, and Morales deciding that they trust the motives of Querns. They're totally okay with this plan. Easy, as they say, like a certain Sunday morning I might mention here.
Tim McManus has peeled himself off the back of the unemployment line and dropped into Glynn's office for a visit. He admits that after Frenchy's shooting and the disappearance of Carmela Soprano to an HBO lot just across town (er, I mean, the highly plausible "London"), he just went plum crazy. He even apologizes for his much-heralded singing at the downed officer's memorial service back in Episode 2, and I think he should hold his tongue on the "sorry, boss" for providing arguably the most entertaining moment this season has seen thus far. Anyway, he wants his job back. But, as we've recently learned, a certain platinum pop sensation of the seventies and eighties has swooped callously into town to ensure that that won't be happening. Tim nearly breaks down, saying that Em City is his life. He brings up Clayton Hughes and blames him explicitly for getting the gun into Oz. Glynn fills in the blanks: Hughes has been charged and is out on bail until his trial starts, just so there are no incredulous shouts of "hey..." from the home viewing audience when Hughes shows up, not-in-jail-style, in a future scene. McManus wants his old unit back. Glynn says no ten or twenty more times. Then he offers McManus Unit B, the light-free basement hell hole and current home of a certain Nazi Skinhead Freak, who laughs (I said keep that smile to yourself, villain) at the new unit manager's arrival and adds, for good measure, "Well, well. Look who's here to join the party." At least he and the new cat up in Em City can put together some killer vocal duets for the yearly, much-awaited Oz Employee Talent Competition. That should take his mind off the hellbound nightmare his life has otherwise become since last I put my recapping shoes on two weeks ago.
Glynn is in full politico mode as he and Devlin discuss current issues at the prison in the middle of a smiley, hands-a-shaking photo shoot somewhere near the entry of the prison. Devlin lauds the capture of Busmalis and Cardinal Stubing's visit, telling Glynn that there is a bit of backlash, what with the upcoming execution and the fact that Alvarez is still on the loose. Wendy spouts statistics and makes Hillary Clinton-esque faces to complement the hair. Devlin tells Glynn to track down Clayton Hughes and tell him to stop talking to the press about the governor. Glynn recounts his relationship with Clayton's father, and Wendy's heartlessness and political motivation is unsubtly alluded to when Glynn reveals that Clayton's father died in his arms and she observes, "We could use that." Anyway, Devlin tells Glynn to shut Hughes up. And while he's on his way to find him, Glynn might want to stop by his local book retailer and pick up a copy of Catcher in the Rye and a biography on John Hinckley. I see Hughes doing something real radical in the future. And it's not "campaigning strenuously for the opponent."
Hughes and Glynn walk through the prison, and Hughes fairly freaks out when Glynn tells him to "cool the rhetoric." Hughes counters that Devlin represents "all that is evil in white society" (did he fail to meet Schillinger during his entire season in Oz?), and Glynn counters that Hughes only sees the world in extremes, as black and white. "Trust me," Glynn continues, "Life is gray. As gray as these fucking walls!" Wait, which walls are those? Oh, that's right. All of them. Clayton says that somebody "must stop him. And soon." Better put a rush order on that book.
The Alvah Case political ad blares on the Em City television as Stanislofsky comments to the O'Reily brothers that elections don't make countries great, but "to be ruthless" does. Cyril comments that he doesn't "know anybody named Ruth." Then he drops a box of toothpicks and counts them with expeditious speed before loudly insisting that it's time to watch Wapner. Okay, most of that doesn't really happen. The "Ruth" part does, though. Sadly. O'Reily leans in and tells Stanislofsky that they could make a lot of money renting out the threadbare leitmotif cell phone to the others in Oz. Stanislofsky doesn't want anybody to know about the phone. The he leaves. Ryan comments under his breath that he wants to find the cell phone. Cyril innocently (because what other emotion is there for Cyril, really) asks if he can be of help on this "treasure hunt." Cue almost "zany" montage of Cyril overturning desks, knocking books off shelves, and searching through other people's laundry to find the phone. All that's missing is the heavy-on-the-horns, up-tempo vaudeville soundtrack and the slapstick sequence where Cyril is reporting the missing cell phone by yelling into the very cell phone it is he's looking for, and this caper would be nothing short of wacky. Back in their pod, Cyril reports that he hasn't found it.
Gloria Nathan shows up at Glynn's office, sunglasses barely concealing the beating she's taken over her left eye. She tells him that she wants to come back to work, and that she wants to do it right now. Glynn tells her that "healing is a process," and she retorts that the only thing that will make her feel better is to confront Ryan O'Reily. Let's cut right to that, shall we? Over to Sister Pete's office, where Gloria starts right in on Ryan that she knows he is responsible for her getting raped. She wants him to admit it. Fine. He admits it. She rails that all he ever wanted was her love (awwwwww), but that she's come here today to tell him, "That will never, ever happen. In fact, it's the opposite. I hate you. I will always hate you until we are both dead in the ground." Ryan goads, "Fine. Then tell me something else. When he was fucking you, did you think of me?" Doctor Gloria Nathan, consider yourself zinged. She lunges at him, and the guards pull him out. Tears and more tears.
Hill tells us to comfort the afflicted. Sing it loud and proud, narrator man. Back in Sister Pete's office, the nun tells Ryan that Gloria is planning on pressing charges, so he's looking at another five years on his sentence. Three cheers for Dean Winters's contract renewal! Sister Pete tells Ryan that she doesn't think he had anything to do with Gloria's rape. He counters, "I say I did it. I did it. Okay?" Okay.
Over in the laundry room, Cyril asks Ryan when they'll be seeing Gloria "and those nice people" again. Ryan has a mean man's rare moment of clarity in telling Cyril that he, Ryan, is to blame for Preston's death and also for Khan's. Khan. Almost forgot about him. Cyril recounts a story about remembering how their mother took them to confession when they were very young. He remembers, "We'd go in the big wooden box and tell all our sins. And mom would say by telling God, all our sins were washed away." I think I finally figured out why I have such the soft spot for Cyril. He speaks so slowly that I can transcribe every word he haltingly deigns to say really, really easily. And with ten minutes left in this episode, I'm not even taking the requisite time to breath or blink, much less rewind until the analog tape finally wears away completely and snaps from its black plastic casing, just plain bursting into flames. The mentally frail: a lazy recapper's dream. And so Ryan (with ten minutes left, talks too fast) stops by for a confession with Ray (with ten minutes left, too long-winded), telling him, "Today I lied. I told someone I did something that I didn't do." Why? "Because it's what she wanted to hear. Because it's what she needs to know to make herself whole again." Cue shots of Gloria back at work, beaten and bruised and very, very broken. Could this episode be any more disturbing?
The Em City TV tells us that authorities are still hot on Alvarez's non-trail. Just at this moment, Hill happily observes, "Look who's out of the hole," just as Busmalis walks back into Em City to raucous applause. The careful observer will note that one of his numerous hammy responses includes, "Anybody here from Cleveland?" which is a very funny and necessary respite from the writhing sadness which has overtaken me for the better part of the last hour. Deep sighs everywhere Chez Djb. Over in the cafeteria, Busmalis tells his arbitrary audience of Rebadow, Stanislofsky, and Hill that though he had no money and no coat, it was truly an amazing experience to be free for a few hours. He even stopped "in the middle of the street and did a little dance," which he then rises to indicate, moonwalk-style. It is, it cannot be denied, a funny little dance. That moment of letting one's guard down when you're a seventy-year-old on a prison break is when they usually catch you. And so they caught him, outside of Miss Sally's house. All this talk of the outside world prompts a discussion of being free. Busmalis asks what Rebadow misses most, and the old man (no, not him. The other one) responds, "I have nothing to say to you." He gets up from the table and leaves. Trouble in geriatric paradise?
Cut to later that night, the two in their pod. Busmalis observes that "this silence is grueling" and wants to know why Rebadow is so mad. Rebadow counters with the spurned lover stand-by of your-not-knowing-makes-it-even-worse, and I notice that without his little hat on, Busmalis resembles Rebadow quite strongly, and that the two of them together look more than a little like the two crusty old guys who sit up in the balcony and hurl sarcastic comments about the hijinks taking place on stage on The Muppet Show. ["Waldorf and Statler, two of my personal heroes." -- Sars] Rebadow is pissed off that Busmalis never told him that he was digging another tunnel, and didn't ask him to come. Busmalis frets that Rebadow would have slowed him down. Rebadow insists that he's as vital as ever, and that he "even killed a man." Busmalis is happy for him. Busmalis feels bad. Up in the balcony, Busmalis would say something like, "Say, this show sure has a lot of rough moments going on in the shower." And up in the balcony, Rebadow would respond, "Taking a shower there is like watching it on TV. I've never seen a bigger pain in the ass!" Then they'd crack each other up with many the "ha ha" and even more of the "ho ho." Up in the balcony, there are happier times.
Em City TV again. The newsman tells us that Shirley Bellinger is scheduled to be executed at dawn for the drowning of her eight-year-old daughter. She has chosen to be hanged. Everyone agrees that her death is "depressing." Hill helps the ol' disturbing death plot along in informing us that "they get a doctor to decide where the knot on the noose should be, depending on the person's height or weight, so that the noose snaps the neck in the right place." Yeah, save it for the fourth wall, Preachy.
Over in Schillinger's cell, he observes that he was hoping to see Shirley one more time, but that the guards have cleverly "delayed all mail deliveries to death row until after the execution." She reminds her of his late wife, he would like to add. Thanks for that, Satan.
Glynn is holding a staff meeting, and as soon as he brings up Shirley Bellinger's execution, Sister Pete rises to go. Glynn tells her that Bellinger has asked Sister Pete to collect her belongings after her death and dispose of them in whatever way she sees most fit. And she has requested that Ray come to her cell and pray with her. Is she really going to die? I'm finding this almost impossible to believe. Over in the doomed woman's cell, a news crew asks if Shirley has any thoughts on her impending, um, non-living situation. Her response, a beauty: "I'm wondering why anyone cares what my thoughts are. Sure as hell didn't care when my husband was drunk and beat me. Or when my father-in-law raped me. It wasn't until I killed my daughter, until I did something horrific, that what I think matters. All I wanted was for someone to pay attention. And now that you finally are, I see that my life then or now isn't worth shit." Oops. Can't play that song on the radio. She expresses remorse for her profanity-spewing ways and apologizes to the reporter that she can't use the tape. She looks down mournfully as if it's the worst thing she has ever done. When it is perhaps only the second worst. Meanwhile, Glynn and Ray sit and don't face each other in Glynn's office, and Ray asks Glynn if he is curious to know who got Shirley pregnant. Glynn does not care. Back on Death Row, Moses rises and asks how Shirley is feeling. She woke up with a crick in her neck, but you have to give her credit for remaining glazed and optimistic in observing that "the hanging will take care of the crick." For her last meal, Shirley enjoyed a Slim Fast milkshake. So I guess that shake was for breakfast, so she'll have another one for lunch and a sensible meal in hell.
Glynn and Ray enter Death Row, and LoPresti opens the cell door. Shirley regards Glynn and informs him placidly, "Warden, Officer LoPresti has been coming to my cell every night and fucking me." Heh. LoPresti denies, denies, denies. Speaking of which, Ray wants to know who impregnated Shirley. Schillinger? Her lover "was Satan in the form of a man." Ah, hmmm... Schillinger? She tells him that she is way too proper a lady to reveal such secrets, but she'll furnish them with a hint: "Neither rain nor snow..." Schillinger. Creeeeeeeeepy. She bids her Death Row mates a fond adieu. Let the prayers commence. Everything seems to be going well. She walks through the valley of the shadow of death and everything. It's all fine fine fine. Then she sees the noose hanging from the stark white ceiling and the witnesses sitting passively through the glass. The fineness comes to an abrupt halt, and her noble intent to die by hanging suddenly deserts of her. She freaks. She makes a run for it; the guards hold her down. She wails and apologizes for all of her wrongdoings as they place the mask over her head and affix the noose. It is both cruel and unusual. The floor drops out from below her. Goodbye, Shirley Bellinger. The cuckoo clock tolls for thee.
As she promised she would, Sister Pete collects Shirley's belongings. Hill tells us that we must pray for the dead because "we, ourselves, want to be saved." Bummer.