How to Get Away with Murder

Every year, I choose four students to come work for me.

The top student gets this.

Previously on "How to get Away with Murder"...

- Oh, my God. - Get the hell out.

Wes. He's in your wife's class, too.

I'm sorry. Who's your wife?

Professor Keating.

There she is.

Rebecca, I kind of had a weird night.

- Could use a drink. - Sorry.

Police are confirming a woman's body was found on middleton's campus.

I bet you the boyfriend did it.

- Either we all agree or we stop right now. - Just do it.

It's the only way to destroy the DNA.

He should be here by now.

- It's fine. - What if it's not?

Michaela.

What if they got caught or went to the police

or she convinced him to pin it on us?

Wes wouldn't do that.

He wouldn't, but she would.

Stop, okay? It's going to be fine.

No, think about it.

How we got here... It's all her fault.

It's not her fault. We're all to blame.

- No, I'm gonna call Aiden. - Michaela!

No, I never agreed to this!

Because you had a meltdown!

You could barely form a sentence.

So shut up, sit down,

and stop acting like a little bitch baby.

Do not tell me how to feel right now!

Hey! Aah!

Sorry it took so long.

I went back for this.

Nothing new?

Doesn't look like it.

Makes sense.

All the time her body was in that water tank

probably destroyed any evidence.

I'm gonna be home late.

Dean jovich wants me at the meeting

about how to handle the grief counseling.

Really? Because you knew her?

Because he wants someone there from the psych department.

Mm.

But who knows?

Maybe that's part of it, too.

I've got class.

The question I'm asked most often as a defense attorney

is whether I can tell if my clients are innocent or guilty.

And my answer is always the same.

I don't care.

And it's not because I'm heartless,

although that's up for debate, but because my clients,

like all of us here in this room, lie.

And that makes them unknowable.

Take Mr. Millstone, here.

Are you really who you say you are,

or are there other sordid details that we're missing?

Criminal record, divorce, an actual skeleton in your closet?

I can assure you I've, uh, I've never hurt a fly.

So you say.

Look around you.

At the quiet girl you share notes with,

the cute guy you have a crush on,

the gunner who talks too much in class,

and ask yourselves, do you know who anyone really is?

Your instincts better be good,

or you'll find yourself choosing the wrong people

to make a study group with, to sleep with, or even marry.

Just ask Marjorie St. Vincent,

heir to her family's billion-dollar department-store fortune

until she was stabbed 16 times

in the master bedroom of her gladwyne mansion.

The alleged killer... Her husband, of course.

Max St. Vincent.

I met Marjorie in Paris.

I was shopping for my daughter Eloise's fourth birthday.

My wife had just passed.

I needed something special.

When Marjorie saw me

struggling to speak to the owner in French,

well, from the minute she opened her mouth to translate,

I knew this was the woman for me.

And 20 years later,

she's still the only woman who knew how to make me happy.

Well, as much as anybody can be happy

in an institution as barbaric as a marriage.

Don't you agree, Ms. Keating?

Let's keep it moving.

I asked Max to preserve the crime scene until after the trial was over.

You never know what forensic clues you'll find

to help our case later.

And the room needed some color, anyway.

You gonna throw up?

No. I'm good.

Look around, take photos,

be the fresh eyes we need to help this case.

- Is it time? - I think it is.

I need a volunteer.

Ladies?

I'll do it.

Very well.

You're about as pretty as my wife was.

Yeah.

Now...

On the bed.

The forensic report claims

that Marjorie was in bed reading

when I joined her with, uh... ah!

Your pen, dear. Pen.

The knife, which I hid, like this.

Then I pretended to initiate sexual relations.

And just as we were about to kiss...

I struck.

But missed, hitting the carotid artery,

which was now squirting like a loose fire hose, hence the walls,

so then I struck again, number two.

Hit here.

Followed by number three, here.

Number four, five, six, seven.

16.

Sheesh.

Or so that's the prosecution's theory.

Theory?

Good luck proving that, huh?

Oh.

The murder book, given to us by the prosecution

with all the evidence they've gathered in Max's case.

Go through it.

Find the holes to help get our guy a "not guilty."

Max said there were three officers at the scene,

but only two were on the report.

We need the originals.

I was thinking we send the puppy.

Smart.

Mr. Gibbons, my office... now.

- What do we think is going on there? - What do you mean?

We all earned our spot here, right?

But wait list?

Don't call him that. Maybe he's her secret baby,

like she gave him up for adoption and he doesn't even know.

Because all black people are related.

What? No. I-I wasn't...

My point is, something is going on.

Otherwise, why would he be here?

Why are any of you here?

That's the question I'm still asking myself.

Frank says that you're having second thoughts

about the job.

And what Frank thinks, I usually agree with.

So...

Is he right?

Are you regretting your decision to join us?

No.

I'm happy to be here.

Good.

Let's give you more responsibility, then.

Go to this police department

and get the supplemental arrest report for Mr. St. Vincent.

Don't give your name or mine.

You think you could handle that?

Yes.

Thank you.

Now get out.

I just need the supplemental arrest report on Max St. Vincent.

Are you flipping kidding me?

- What? - Of course you're not.

Lucinda teaches you this

when you start working for her, right?

That the rest of us only exist to serve the DA's office?

DA's office?

It's like that woman looks for ways to waste my time.

You can tell that to Lucinda, okay?

Sure.

The dumb strippers upstairs

must have flushed their drugs down the toilet,

because now there's disgustingness

coming out of my shower drain. Can I use yours?

- Uh... - I'll just be a minute.

I can't sleep till I've washed all the beer

and frat-boy stench off of me.

Right.

Wow. No offense.

I think I liked Rudy's setup better.

Uh, Rudy?

Yeah, he's the freak who lived here before you.

You actually kind of remind me of him.

Probably because you both have that crazed look on your face all the time.

It's probably a law-school thing, right?

I guess.

Uh...

I should get back to this work.

Shut up! Shut up!

It's two against two.

We have no other choice. We flip a coin.

That is the dumbest thing you've ever said.

I'm not letting a freaking coin decide whether or not I go to jail tonight!

We don't have time to fight!