Speaking of Alicia, when she does indeed give her voluntary deposition to Mr. Dubeck, she is in full Warrior Princess Mode, pwning Mr. Dubeck like a goddamn boss. It is the satisfying can of whoop ass we’ve wanted to pour over this guy’s head for weeks. He tries to shake her at one point by asking if she and Will were lovers, but this only makes her stronger, angrier. Her eyes are dark sockets of fiery coal. He only actually shakes her when he reveals multiple surveillance videos of the ballot box full of Peter Florrick votes being moved on election night, different angles she’s never seen before, each video stacking up evidence against her husband. But she, Alicia, is still not taking your shit, Dubeck, and her face, good god, can we give the woman an Emmy already? I mean, like, another one?
At the courthouse, Will believes Kalinda has scrounged up a promising lead, about Jeffrey and Dani being treated by the same paramedic on the day of her murder. Will congratulates Kalinda on the job well done, and approaches the judge about entering in the new evidence. He also tells Jeffrey that he’ll do something about how he’s being treated in holding, as he has shown up at court today with another cut on his cheek. Even though Jeff has protested that they’ll put him in solitary and that’s the worst thing that could happen, Will still says it’ll be better than this.
It’s at this point, when Will is up at the judge’s bench with opposing counsel, discussing the newest developments, that Jeffrey’s eyes start to look especially desperate, distant, confused. He glances at the cop standing next to him. He looks at the jury. He twists to look around to the doors of the courtroom. Tense music has started to play in his head again—or is it in our heads?—drowning out everything else, and we start to really, truly understand that something isn’t right with him. Is he going to try to bolt? His eyes are a watery mess, his face both vulnerable and dark. A tear drips down his cheek.
And then his eyes fall to the cop again. They focus on the gun shining in his holster, a mere arm’s width away.
Diane is in a courtroom a few doors down, arguing against a DUI of a businessman. We are staring at the back of her beautiful neck when we hear the first shot.
The gaps of time that fill the spaces between the following shots are random, unplanned, disorienting, haphazard. Just when you think they’ve stopped, another one bursts out, shattering glass, shattering nerves.
Hasn’t someone tackled him by now? What is going on? Why are there so many shots? Why?
Kalinda is in the hall, dials 911. Diane remains frozen for a few minutes, her knees locked, as the cop in her own courtroom flashes by her, as everyone else ducks under their benches, as a few terrified cries peel out from a distant din.
And then Diane moves, and she and Kalinda collide in the hall, people fleeing and streaming past in a sea around them. Kalinda tells Diane to wait, and pushes through the crowd to Will’s courtroom, against cops’ protests. We don’t know if there’s more than one shooter, they tell her. The last shot was mere seconds ago. We don’t know if there’s more coming. A frantic man bursts out of the room, barely missing a bullet. But Kalinda is focused on shoes.
Her eyes scan past the door of the courtroom to the floor. She sees a pair of men’s brown leather shoes she recognizes, one lying alone in the aisle in front of a smattering of blood. She pushes past the cops and walks in alone, slowly, upright.
The only thing she hears now is a repetitive clicking. Jeffrey Grant sits against the judge’s bench, the gun held to his chin, futilely attempting to empty a chamber that is now bulletless into his muddled head, over and over and over.