The Accused Is Entitled

Episode Report Card
Mr. Sobell: A | Grade It Now!
Science on trial

Ah, the life of a bachelor! All-night poker parties. Sports on the television set 24-7 and a cold beverage within arm's length of the La-Z-Boy. And of course, meticulously recapping a CBS prime-time drama in order to fulfill your wife's contractual obligation to a website.

Huh? Those Coors Light commercials didn't mention anything about that when touting the merits of single life.

Yes, Sobell's away, and, thanks to an obscure subsection of our marital vows that fell somewhere between the part about sickness and the part about for better or for worse, it falls to me, her ever-loving husband, to recount this week's CSI adventure. The transition should be relatively seamless and altogether painless for you, the home viewer, with one notable caveat. While Sobell is extremely well-versed in the science geekery that is CSI's stock-in-trade, the only thing I know about DNA is my genetic predisposition against comprehending anything more complicated than "fire is hot" and "atoms are tiny." I guess I should have paid more attention during those elementary school filmstrips on "Our Friend, The Radioactive Isotope" and "Evolution -- Nature's Way Of Letting God Sort 'Em Out." At any rate, perhaps Sobell can weigh in from the wilds of southern New Jersey with a thought or two about tonight's episode...

...which begins with a shot of the Vegas skyline at night. Man, that's new.

A band of unkempt minstrels is rocking the casino floor with a jaunty tune about flaming hills and cracked streets and driving rain. It's the Wallflowers bringing us this apocalyptical vision of rock 'n' roll, and the only reason I know that is because CBS tells me so. If it's not Frank Sinatra backed by the Red Norvo Quartet, I'm afraid I'm out of my depth. Boy, I hope Jakob Dylan doesn't turn out to be the suspect in this week's case -- that would just devastate Bob. That would make him incoherent with grief. As opposed to what's making him incoherent now. But I kid our nation's folk singers.

Half a dozen groupies wearing the finest selections of Donna Karan's But I'm With The Band collection make their way to the casino floor where The Wallflowers are holding court. Just a rapid pan away from the bandstand, some people are shooting craps. And not even a minute into tonight's episode, we have our first comical break with reality -- I've spent more time than I care to admit without a court order inside casinos, and I can tell you that if a band were playing as loudly as the Wallflowers are right now, the gamblers would not be going obliviously about their business. They would ask the young musicians very politely to keep it down, and failing that, they would then strangle Jakob and the gang with a couple of guitar strings before the next deal.

But the focus of our episode -- a young man who looks like the product of a Brad Pitt-Ethan Hawke breeding experiment -- doesn't seem the least bit perturbed by the Wallflowers' song about blood and tears and how everybody should get out of the water. And why not -- he's just made point on eight. The scruffy young man -- Brad Hawke? Ethan Pitt? Uma Aniston? -- is Tom Haviland, one of the more noticeably insipid groupies informs us. "I love him in I-95 and that other movie with Julia Roberts," she exposits. Oh God, it really is Brad Pitt. Or Kiefer Sutherland. Kiefer Pitt?

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