I
The Assistant U.S. Attorney doesn't tell Donna to take a seat when she enters. Probably because she shouldn't have to; Donna has become well acquainted with the lone chair situated in front of the intimidatingly large desk and sits there as if she's entitled to it.
Anita Gibbs' strategy is silence. A boundless quiet Donna is meant to spend squirming in anticipation of the interrogation she'll be receiving. Instead, Donna focuses on the sound of the radio in the background—Maurice Ravel's Bolero is rising in a continuous crescendo—and then the pictures behind the desk catch her attention: a collage of Gibbs' grandkids she assumes. One does soccer, another plays cello. The oldest has graduated Jr. High by the looks of it. She has Gibbs' small, thin lipped mouth and it's wilting under the force of a long held smile. Just take the picture! Her eyes are saying. There is a quote above the collage: Family is Forever. Very large. Very bolded. It feels to Donna like a command rather than a heartwarming inspirational quote, and she finds herself thinking of Harvey, who is the closest she has to family at the moment. She entertains the idea of spending eternity with him, stuck forever in a will-he-won't-he limbo, and finds this horrifying.
She begins to squirm.
As if on cue, Gibbs raises her eyes from the paperwork in front of her—sharp, blue, inquisitive eyes that become fixed on Donna from behind a barrier of rectangular reading glasses. She asks Donna how she's doing. She says fine. She asks if she's been staying out of trouble, and Donna finds this odd question, not just because it makes her feel a bit like a child, but because she's sitting in the U.S. Attorney's office, obviously in some kind of trouble, but she gives the affirmative and the conversation moves forward.
With the formalities now out of the way, Gibbs takes out her tape recorder. Her face has grown solemn, her tone grave. "You're on a sinking ship, Donna," she says (Donna appreciates the metaphor—this is exactly how she feels). "Crooked father. Crooked Boss. Can't say I was surprised to find out about your link to Jonathan Martell. And, you know, it makes me wonder…" Gibbs leans forward, her voice lowered as if to conspire, "What if I was wrong about Harvey Specter? What if he isn't the masterful criminal I thought he was, but more of a puppet on a string. What if this whole time I've been after the wrong person…"
"Then I'd say you're probably not very good at your job," Donna tells her plainly.
Gibbs glares off the remark and tries a different approach. She hands Donna a stack of papers—she's gone ahead and highlighted the areas of interest. Donna takes a moment to look the document over in another bout of silence.
Bolero ends. A clock somewhere in the room ticks loudly around them. Donna had seen this coming, had been preparing herself for it for years, and still she is dizzy with shock. Her heart seems to have risen to her throat. Her pulse whooshes through her ears. "If you have all of this on me then why haven't you charged me yet?" she asks, sounding a little breathless.
"Because I don't want you. I want Jonathan and I'm willing to throw you a life vest if you're willing to cooperate."
"And if I'm unwilling?"
"The official version of that will be filed with the court."
Donna nods in understanding. "Then let's get this over with."
Gibbs hits record and Donna Paulsen states her name for the record.
II
"There's good news and there's bad news."
"Go on," Harvey says, walking with Mike into his office.
"Baker Engineering is clean. I went through the documents last night and it's all pretty unremarkable."
"And the bad news?"
"The other two companies have contracts with Duke-Sanger's special shop in India."
"Shit."
"Yeah, it's not looking good."
Harvey takes a seat behind his desk. He tries to get his mind to focus on their next move but all he can think about is Wethersfield, Connecticut and how he looked at the map last night and discovered a town a tenth of the size of Manhattan with a single stoplight intersection. It's exactly the type of town where everyone would boast of knowing everyone, and he just can't get around the fact that Donna didn't seem at all surprised to get that subpoena. In fact, he might even say she was expecting it.
"You know, there's something I don't understand," Mike says, pacing the floor in front of Harvey's desk.
Harvey drags himself up, thinking finally, the kid's caught on. "What's that?" He tries not to sound anxious but there is a conflict rising inside of him: one half wishing Mike would confirm his suspicion, the other hoping desperately that he doesn't.
"Why is Gibbs wasting her time deposing Donna?" The young attorney searches Harvey's eyes, trying to gauge his reaction. Feeling confident he hasn't overstepped, he continues, "This is a massive case and I get that she hates you, but—I don't know— don't you think it's just a little excessive?"
"Yeah," Harvey admits, not at all relieved by Mike's thoughts. "It is extreme."
Mikes waits for him to offer up some sort of explanation, but Harvey doesn't have one. They leave the subject, put it out like a soiled trash bag, but the foulness of it still lingers.
III
It is midday and she is still gone. His lamb with a wolf, undefended. How could he have been stupid enough to let her go alone? Harvey tries his best not to stare out at the empty cubicle but his eyes keep ending up there anyway and it is in one of these moments that he sees that wolf, Anita Gibbs, walking down the hallway toward his old office. He bolts up, practically charging after her.
"What the hell are you doing here, Anita?"
The Assistant U.S. Attorney spins around, her expression smug as ever. "I'm looking for your secretary."
Losing his anger to confusion, he asks, "Wasn't she at your deposition?"
"She was. And as you probably already know, that redheaded wench of yours pleaded the fifth. So as promised, I am here to serve Ms. Paulsen and her attorney, Ms. Zane, a copy of the charges I filed against her."
"Charges?"
"Oh, don't act surprised."
Hearing the commotion, Mike and Rachel come spilling out of their offices, both wide-eyed and unnerved. Gibbs hands her summons over to Rachel, who accepts it hesitantly.
"Gibbs, seriously, I'm at a loss here," Harvey says, his tone sincere. "Donna worked at Duke-Sanger years ago. What can you possibly charge her with?"
Anita searches Harvey's face as if seeing him for the first time. "You really don't know? The best secretary in Manhattan and it never occurred to you to ask this woman where she came from?" The Assistant U.S. Attorney almost sounds amused, as if she believes Harvey is being deliberately thick. "Donnas aren't born, Harvey, they're made, and all the things that she does that you're so fond of, she did for someone else before you. Aiding and abetting, coercion, conspiracy, fraud—none of this was new to her when she came to you."
Clearly she's got the wrong person, some naïve, childish voice inside Harvey is saying. This is Donna. Of course he knows where she came from. Wethersfield, Connecticut, and yeah, it happens to be the same town as Jonathan Martell, but it's a small world…
"This has to be a joke," Rachel is saying, looking up from the document Gibbs handed her with horror striking her features. "I mean, Conspiracy to Defraud the U.S.—what kind of charge is that and on what grounds are you making it?"
"I suggest you speak to your client, Ms. Zane, because as much as I would love to ruin all of your days with an explanation, I couldn't bear to steal the opportunity from Donna."
Anita Gibbs walks off and for a long time the three attorneys stare stupidly after her. When Harvey finally regains at least some of his composure he heads straight for the elevators.
"Where are you going?" Mike asks after him.
"To find Jonathan Martell."
"You're not serious?"
"I am." Harvey shoves the down button for the elevator, then turns on Mike. "You got a problem with that?"
"Don't you think we should wait and talk with Donna first?"
"Why? So she can lie to us some more?"
"Lying to us and keeping things from us are not the same thing."
"They are to me." The elevator doors open and Harvey steps inside. "Now are you coming with me or not?"
Mike steps into the elevator without pause.
IV
Duke-Sanger's corporate office is located at the edge of the Financial District, a towering platinum building overlooking the East River. From the few times he's visited over the years, Harvey has in his memory a grand lobby, packed full and bustling, not chaotic, but alive. A well-oiled machine. Now the place looks deserted and overly large, all white marble and echoes, abandoned by the rich business class because who can risk being affiliated with the headline Duke-Sanger Finances the War In the Middle East.
The lawyers reach the gates of reception. The woman sitting behind the front desk is small and redheaded, wearing a prim white dress that nearly blends into her pale skin.
Harvey tells her, "I'm here to see Jonathan Martell."
"Okay." The girl smiles at him. Her blue eyes sweep him up and down. Deciding he's legitimate, she says, "He's on floor fifty-five."
What a terrible secretary, Harvey thinks and lets Mike throw the girl a quick thanks. They're halfway to the elevators when they hear at their backs. "I'm assuming you have the code…"
Harvey turns around. The redhead is still smiling, but he catches something mischievous in it. "You have to have a code to get to floor fifty-five," she elaborates.
Harvey walks toward her, fighting to keep his annoyance at bay. "I must not have received that information. I'm Mr. Martell's attorney, Harvey Specter, and this is sort of urgent so I would appreciate it if you would just"—He can't stop it from coming out as a command— "give me the code."
The girl sighs, seems to mull it over, and then she's grabbing a sticky-note and writing something down. She folds up the piece of paper and passes it to Harvey over the desk.
In the elevator Harvey hands the note to Mike and tells him to punch it in. He's beginning to feel ill. He loosens up his tie and takes a deep breath, but that tight chested feeling won't go away.
"Yeah…" Mike drawls. "I think we've been duped."
He hands the slip of paper back to Harvey. There is a sad face drawn on it, little tears falling out of the eyes and all. Harvey crumples the note in his fist and tosses it to the floor, muttering obscenities, trying to catch his breath. He starts back toward the woman but Mike is there, shoving him back, saying "Harvey, sit down. I'll handle this." And the kid is right, he needs to sit down because he's about to throw up.
No more than ten minutes pass when he hears Mike triumphant voice call out, "Got it."
Harvey looks over, face ashen but breathing a little easier. "Took you long enough. What did you do—sleep with her?"
"I don't have to cheapen myself to get what I want. I was just nice. You should try it some time."
Harvey calls for the elevator. "I don't need to be nice," he tells the kid. "I'm tall and good-looking."
"Said the old, wrinkled man…"
Harvey smiles to himself, feeling a sudden surge of affection for the young lawyer as he punches the code in. He gets a positive chime of acceptance, and the elevator begins to rise.
Mike says absently, "And I asked myself, 'where would people never notice a town full of robots...'"
Harvey finishes the quote, saying, "Connecticut." and they exchange shit-eating grins.
"You got the vibes too then?" Mike asks.
"That that receptionist was like a cheap Donna? Yeah. I got it."
"Maybe that's what this is all about," Mike ventures. "Donna's a robot. It wouldn't be the biggest stretch in the world. I mean, she does do that weird thing where she knows everything. Plus she's got like perfect—" He stops himself abruptly, clears his throat. But Harvey's already filled in the blank for him, picturing Donna's pale chest rising out of that dangerously low cut navy dress she doesn't wear often enough.
Harvey frowns. "Perfect what?"
"Huh?"
"She has perfect what, Mike?"
"Uh…hair?" he offers, shrugging, and he's out of the elevator as fast as the doors can open.
He knows Donna isn't a robot, but Harvey can't say he isn't little bit relieved to see a brunette secretary at floor fifty-five's reception. She lets the two men know that Martell is in a meeting and offers to direct them to a break room to wait in.
On their way down the hall, Mike asks, "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Harvey doesn't answer and instead asks the brunette whether the large room they are passing is the conference room. The secretary nods offhandedly and continues down the hall. Mike follows a step and is then jolted back by Harvey's hand tugging at his suit jacket.
"I'm sure," he says and as if to further his point he shoves the conference room door open.
Behind the door, a dozen businessmen are huddled around a large table. There is a projection at the front of the room showing a conference video of another room, also filled with suited bodies. The men, stunned by the intrusion, turn their attention toward the attorneys at the doorway.
With a casualness equal to pulling someone aside on the street and asking for the time, Harvey says, "Which one of you assholes is Jonathan Martell?"
A trim and well-dressed man with dark hair and pale eyes rises. He says, with a casualness reciprocating Harvey's, "That would be me."