‘Presumed Innocent’ Episode 7 Recap: The Stand

Well, that’s one suspect we can rule out!

On my personal whodunit list, prosecutor and bolo tie–wearing dingus Tommy Molto had slid down a few places in recent episodes. Alternate suspects abound, but in addition to the obvious ones, my own suspicions had fallen on Rusty’s psychiatrist (Lily Rabe? Sus!) or his colleague Eugenia (let’s put a pin in her for now). So I have to hand it to the Presumed Innocent creative team for making me feel four or five different ways about Tommy’s guilt in that final sequence before the truth is finally revealed.

Has his behavior been bizarre and vindictive? Yes, of course, including in this episode. His memories of Carolyn are of rejection and humiliation. He personally removes her clipped-tie trophy card from the prosecutors’ wall of victories, like a trophy of his own. All very odd.

But when he’s taking the L home and smirking, hey, that could simply be because he seemingly trounced Rusty in court, making him seem — accurately — like a guy prone to violent rages, lately at least. Even Nico, who’d not exactly been thrilled with Tommy’s performance up until then, gazed at him with sincere amazement and admiration. Maybe he’s just riding high.

Then he gets back to his place and someone has broken in and ransacked it, though his adorable cat is mercifully home and unharmed. Either someone is afraid of some file or evidence he has in his possession, or someone wants to make it look like Rusty is afraid of it and had the house broken into, or…

Hey, wait, is that a fire poker on his countertop?

Since director Greg Yaitanes stages this moment with both Tommy’s face and most of the poker obscured, we can’t see that he’s scared and confused rather than gloating, and that there’s a post-it note on the poker reading GO FUCK YOURSELF. So for just that moment…well, as my notes put it: “A FIRE POKER! HOLY SHIT IT WAS TOMMY THIS WHOLE TIME!” 

Unless he’s breaking into his own house and leaving taunting notes on murder weapons for himself in a psychogenic fugue, however, Tommy’s not the culprit.

In fact, I’m leaning harder than ever toward the Eugenia theory. Her accusatory, puritanical tone in the car with her supposed friend Rusty when he’s trying to get intel on what their colleague Rigo will say when she takes the stand is bizarre, almost frightening. We know she hates Tommy; assuming she has feelings for Rusty, it would make sense for her to fuck up the case by leaving the murder weapon — thus ruling out Rusty — while simultaneously adding a note to rub it in Tommy’s face. The prosecution rests, your honor.

Of course, Eugenia, if it is Eugenia, is assuming that Tommy will dutifully hand over the evidence, instead of hiding it so he can get the win over his nemesis after all. That’s assuming a whole lot, if you ask me!

Up until those last few minutes, courtroom theatrics are the name of the game here. Rusty decides to represent himself in Ray’s absence, against the judge’s impassioned advice. Tommy and Nico butt heads over whether to continue the trial until Rusty announces his intention to represent himself, at which point the skeptical Nico gets on board, thinking it’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel.

A lot hinges on Rusty not introducing his own theory of the case and thus making himself subject to cross-examination as a witness. (Defendants can’t be compelled to testify, but witnesses can.) Rusty does exactly that by making a big production out of his cross-examination of Carolyn’s son, prompting an outburst and a rush to the front by his angry dad. 

When he insists on testifying rather than accepting a mistrial, Mya quits…then comes back. Rusty watches the trial from his hospital bed…then comes back. This all happens the very morning Rusty’s slated to take the stand. It’s like watching the Avengers assemble, even if they’d all been together as recently as like 33 minutes of screen time earlier. (In other words, I know it’s a cheap ploy, but it worked on me.)

However, I think the real action is elsewhere. It’s a challenge to put together a suspense sequence like the one described above, relying so much on facial expressions and camera placement and movement to yank the audience’s suspicions back and forth. But it’s an exceedingly well made show in that way. Yaitanes gets some really lovely shots of the Chicago cityscape that tilt nauseously, or do the Vertigo track-zoom shot with a drone camera, something I’ve never seen done before. There’s visually ominous sex dream, too.

And I still can’t say enough good things about the performances. The way O-T Fagbenle slowly emits the word “fuuhhhcked” from his mouth has to be heard to be believed. Peter Sarsgaard is like the Gollum of legal thrillers. Jake Gyllenhaal maintains an intensely physical vibe through careful placement of intense workouts and equally intense snippets of his sex life with Carolyn. You need to feel that passion, as he puts it on the stand. You need to feel how it’s both exciting and destructive. 

Sean T. Collins (@theseantcollins) writes about TV for Rolling Stone, Vulture, The New York Times, and anyplace that will have him, really. He and his family live on Long Island.