My name is Saul Goodman, and I'm here to talk about a kid named Jesse Pinkman. No, scratch that, I'm here to talk about a MAN named Jesse Pinkman. Because I've watched Mister Pinkman grow and mature over these many...months, to the point where I wouldn't just call him a client; I'd call him my favorite client.
(He winks at Jesse, who shakes his head in resigned embarrassment. On the table, there are two files. One is a massive accordion file, bursting at the seams with paperwork. The other is a thin manila folder)
Now I could go through these trumped up charges from the DEA. (He pats the giant file) I could pick at them like the scabbed over zits on a teenager's face, but why bother? All that ever does is leave scars. And look at that face; it's been battered and bruised more than a Japanese businessman's ass in a Louisiana whorehouse -- yet even with the horrors that have been visited upon it by both gangsters and federal agents alike, it's still a handsome face. A sweet face. And most importantly, an innocent face.
They say he's a drug dealer. They claim he's part of the biggest meth manufacturing and distributing operation in the Southwest. Well, I can say he's an extra-terrestrial and claim he was marooned here by his fellow aliens who one day will return for him. You can say or claim ANYTHING. But guess what? My client doesn't have fingers that light up like glow-sticks, and he's not sitting in a prison cell either. Because there's one thing the APD, DEA, FBI or even the ever-loving IRS don't have: one shred of evidence.
Just what is this case built upon? Hunches? Guesses? Instinct? These are the same geniuses who couldn't catch a whiff of meth behind all those buckets of chicken Gus Fring was serving up to them year after year. Why trust them now? They've had a hard-on for my client for so long they haven't peed straight for a year, but being obsessed with someone doesn't make you right. It makes you nuts.
I don't know about you, but I'm not one to accept the word of the certifiably insane. Because THAT would be JUST as crazy. So this case (Saul picks up the fat file and dumps it into a wastepaper basket) goes up in smoke.
(He strikes a match from a "Better Call Saul" book and tosses it into the pail. The file ignites immediately, as though it had been previously doused in lighter fluid or some other flammable liquid for such a clearly pre-planned stunt)
Goodbye Fat Man, hello Little Boy. Now what do we have here? (Saul opens the manila folder, skimming over the pages inside) Wait a second, these aren't charges -- it's a list of condolences! Look at this -- lousy parents, fell in with a bad crowd...but always tried to do the right thing. Looks out for the safety of children all the time, found his girlfriend dead in bed when he woke up, has gone through rehab, abused by the authorities...did somebody switch my arguments with the peoples' case?
(Saul turns to Jesse)
Kid, the people love you. You're the polar opposite of the woman who was just sitting in that chair. To win this case, all we gotta do was sit here and smile. (whispers) Just don't mention anything about trying to deal drugs to people in recovery, because that plays way worse than killing a guy to save someone else's life. No "greater good" argument for that one.
My Dad used to say two things to me all the time. One was "Stop trying to dress like that guy on WKRP, you idiot." But the other thing he always said was, "Know when to shut up."
Based on what I've seen here, no more needs to be said to defend my client, so I'm gonna heed those words of wisdom and shut up.
The defense rests.