In which another Knicks win is reported as a crime — but who is the victim and who is the perp?

FADE IN

EXT. MADISON SQUARE GARDEN - NIGHT

DETECTIVES HART and THIBODEAU crouched over a dead body on the sidewalk. OFFICER LEIGHT stands behind them.

HART

Time of death?

LEIGHT

Approximately 10:30 p.m.

HART

How many is that now?

LEIGHT

Six. In 18 days.

HART

Jesus. 

HART pulls something from the pocket inside his trenchcoat. Mike & Ike’s. Pours a few into his hand, then offers some to THIBODEAU, who declines. HART pops them into his mouth.

HART (CONT’D)

Any witnesses?

LEIGHT

Reliable witnesses? 

LEIGHT raises an eyebrow. HART gives a wry grin. The trio duck under the police tape and at the back of a parked ambulance find REGGIE MILLER, a paramedic hooking him up to an IV.

MILLER

Five on eight, I’m telling you! Five on eight! It’s all rigged — all of it! 

LEIGHT

Mr. Miller. Detectives Hart and Thibodeau here would like a word with you.

MILLER

You’re damn right “Mr. Miller.” I used to be a big shot here! 

MILLER points to MSG.

MILLER (CONT’D)

That building? That one right there? I used to own that building. Thirty years ago. People feared me. They respected me. Before the flies stopped buzzing.

HART

Mr. Miller?

MILLER

You ever notice how quiet the flies have become versus when you were young? Wanna know why?

MILLER taps his head hard three times, jabbing his finger into it.

MILLER (CONT’D)

It’s ‘cuz they know. The buzzing? That was them asking the same question, over and over for all time. Now they know the answer, so no more buzzing.

HART

Glad to hear it. You told Officer Leight here you saw the murder.

MILLER

David Letterman . . .

HART

What about him?

MILLER

I was on his show. The David Letterman Show. He asked me how it felt to–

THIBODEAU grabs MILLER by the neck and shakes him, hard, F-bombs and spittle flying.

HART

Hey, come on! Simmer down! Simmer!

THIBODEAU releases MILLER, walks away to cool off. 

MILLER

Your partner’s crazy, man!

HART

Lotta that going around. I’ll ask you again. You saw the killer?

MILLER doesn’t move for a beat. When he sees THIBODEAU circling back, he nods.

HART (CONT’D)

What’d he look like?

MILLER

White dude. Tall. Rich. Skinny. Bald.

HART and THIBODEAU look at each other.

HART

We know any tall, rich, skinny, bald white dudes at Madison Square Garden last night?

THIBODEAU grunts. The detectives walk off together. LEIGHT approaches the PARAMEDIC, out of range of MILLER’S hearing.

LEIGHT

Hey, he didn’t report any injuries. What’s the IV for?

PARAMEDIC

Look at him. Guy looks like he hasn’t eaten since Letterman. Figured he could use the help.

CUT TO

INT. INTERROGATION ROOM

HART enters the dim, fluorescent-lit room first, followed by RICK CARLISLE. Last is THIBODEAU, who paces while chewing an unlit cigar. In the center of the room, a small gray table with a tape recorder on top and two chairs, one on each side.

HART

Can we get you anything? Would you like some coffee? 

CARLISLE

No thank you. 

HART 

Why have you waived your right to an attorney, Mr. Carlisle? 

CARLISLE 

I have nothing to hide. 

HART sits, followed by CARLISLE across from him, who pulls a long cigarette from a surprisingly elegant holder, crossing his left leg over his right.

HART

There is no smoking in this building, Mr. Carlisle. 

CARLISLE

What are you going to do? Charge me with smoking? 

He blows smoke toward HART, then without breaking eye contact crosses his right leg over his left.

HART

Where were you last night between 8 and 11 o’clock?

CARLISLE

You know. You saw me there. 

HART taps the recorder.

HART

We need it on the record.

CARLISLE

I was at Madison Square Garden. Where for three hours, 20,000 people cheered my team get set up, beat up and robbed. Where were you then, Detective Hart? When we were getting slaughtered? And the zebras in on it, too?

HART

Got a complaint? File a report.

CARLISLE (muttering)

78 complaints this week. Where were you then?

THIBODEAU flies at him, lunging across the table and clawing at his face, F-bombs and spittle flying, knocking the cigarette loose. HART pulls him off and get him out into the hallway to cool off, then returns to his seat across from CARLISLE.

CARLISLE

I admit it. I hated Game 2. But that’s not a crime. And I didn’t kill it.

HART

Sitting T.J. McConnell late’s a strange way to try and keep it alive.

CARLISLE

McConnell’s defense on Brunson wasn’t better than anyone else’s. Plus if he’s in the game, you’re not playing him off-ball. If we need our backup point guard to run the offense and save the defense . . .

CARLISLE makes the sign of the cross.

HART 

Why should I believe you?

CARLISLE looks down. It takes a few beats before HART understands.

HART (CONT’D)

Because you know. You know, don’t you? Who was it, Rick?

CARLISLE looks up at the ceiling, trying not to cry.

HART (CONT’D)

Tell me. We can keep you safe.

CARLISLE closes his eyes, laughing silently for a beat. Opens them.

CARLISLE

Look at you. You’re playing 48 minutes a night while everyone around you’s dropping like flies. You can’t help me. You can’t even save yourselves. Big-market cops gonna help the little guy? Yeah right.

HART jumps up from his chair in anger, grabs CARLISLE by his collar, looks down at him.

HART

Who is it, Rick? Who’s the real killer?

CARLISLE looks up, smiling weakly, defeated.

CARLISLE

Haven’t you heard, Detective? White dude. Tall. Rich. Skinny. Bald.

CARLISLE suddenly bites down hard. His body begins to shake as his mouth foams.

HART

Medic! I need a medic in here, now!

Three medics rush in. HART watches them try but fail to save CARLISLE. He finds THIBODEAU out in the hallway and speaks without breaking stride or looking back.

HART

You heard what he said. You know who that means.

THIBS

Next man up.

CUT TO

INT. COMMISSIONER’S OFFICE - DAY

HART and THIBODEAU enter a palatial office, led in by an obsequious, hunched-over GARY BETTMAN. The room is filled with sunlight and sleek, modern furniture, all-white with splashes of red here and there. The pictures hanging on the walls are lurid and roiling, like bruises come to life.

BETTMAN

Can I get you gentlemen something to drink? A professional hockey team in Utah, perhaps? Candy?

HART spies a bowl filled with Mike & Ike’s and takes a handful. THIBODEAU grunts. As BETTMAN leaves, ADAM SILVER enters the room, brisk, beaming. He almost seems to float above the ground.

SILVER

Detective Hart. Detective Thibodeau. Please. Sit.

SILVER sits behind an opulent desk the size of some studio apartments. He’s surprised to see the men still standing, despite the luxurious seating he’s offered them. He motions to the chairs.

HART

That’s all right. I sat some earlier in the week; that’s as much rest as I can take. And my partner always says he’ll have plenty of time to rest when he’s dead.

THIBODEAU grunts. SILVER folds his hands together in front of him, as if praying.

SILVER

So. Is this about the body at MSG?

HART

You’ve been named.

SILVER seems surprised, though not displeased.

SILVER

I’m a suspect?

HART

You’re a person of interest.

SILVER smiles and walks over to a panoramic window with a view of midtown Manhattan. He looks out the window while he speaks, as if in a trance

SILVER

They said it was cursed, you know. The Garden. Not in some prehistoric ancient time. Just ten years ago. It hurt the Knicks, they said. Road teams were geeked to put on a big show. The home fans weren’t partisan enough. Can you believe that? Blaming the victims? Human history is such a queer thing.

HART

A rich tapestry, I’m sure. I’m mostly interested in where you were last night between 8 and 11.

SILVER

You missed it, you know. He tried to tell you. The flies. That was your chance, really.

HART

Who? Who “he”? Wait, you mean R–

SILVER

You want my alibi, detectives? Here it is. I was here last night between 8 and 11. There’s an entire skyscraper’s worth of witnesses and surveillance technology to confirm that fact. Once you do, I invite you to ask yourselves – why did you end up here? Today. In my office. Almost as if someone had aimed and shot you here themselves. That’s the way of the world. Reality not what you’d hoped? Deny it. Scapegoat your enemies. Anything’s better than the truth.

SILVER turns from the window and walks behind his desk to a small bar, where he makes himself a drink.

SILVER (CONT’D)

A 6-seed trailing a 2-seed 0-2 warrants investigating? Don’t you have students protesting genocide somewhere to brutalize? No, I didn’t kill the Pacers in Game 2, gentlemen. It died of natural causes.

HART

Rick Carlisle doesn’t seem to think so. Or didn’t.
 

SILVER stops stirring.

HART (CONT’D)

Oh, you didn’t know? He killed himself. Cyanide capsule. Right after he aimed and shot us here. To you.

SILVER turns and faces them.

SILVER

And let me guess. We’re at the heart of some giant conspiracy to screw the small markets. Is that it? That’s why every single collective bargaining agreement we’ve ever reached benefits the small markets over the big ones? All right, detectives, I confess: the NBA powers that be are actually an extraterrerstial species masquerading as a sports league, pushing all the success to the biggest markets until one day humanity is bunched together in a few fat metropolises, like ticks in summer, and we’ll feast on them. You caught us red-handed.

HART

If you wanna trade campfire stories, we can do that down at the station. Or you can tell me what I wanna know, here. Now.

SILVER

Are we off the record?

HART looks at THIBODEAU, who grunts. HART nods at SILVER.

SILVER (CONT’D)

I know what everyone’s saying. The Knicks keep getting away with murder and we’re either encouraging them to or covering it up. It doesn’t add up. The NBA cheats to make sure the Knicks win? Why? Because they’re a big market? Why does that matter now, in 2024? Why didn’t it matter the past 25 years?

HART

There’s a new media rights deal pending. Biggest one yet, I hear. Juicing the ratings gives you a leg up in negotiations.

SILVER

Don’t be common, Detective. That’s 20th-century thinking. There aren’t big markets and small markets anymore. The NBA isn’t about Indiana versus New York. It’s about the Lakers versus Real Madrid, Wembanyama versus Mbappé. The real games aren’t at Madison Square Garden. We’re competing against global soccer in China, India, Brazil. We’re a monopoly, detectives. If we had any competition, maybe there’d be reason to steer certain outcomes. But look around the league. The L.A. teams are both out, beaten by Denver and Dallas – two smaller markets now struggling in the second round against Oklahoma City and Minnesota — two even smaller markets. 

HART

So Carlisle . . . he killed himself for nothing?

SILVER

He did what good coaches do. He made the conversation about something other than his team’s failings. You wanna stop some actual crime? Look into Indiana shooting 8-of-24 in the third and missing six of seven threes — against a team that was shorthanded even before losing three players from a seven-man rotation in 72 hours.

THIBODEAU laughs, a rich, roaring brass note. It is jarring. Still, HART and SILVER laugh, too.

HART

Well, thank you for your time, Commissioner.

SILVER

My assistant will see you to the elevator.

BETTMAN eagerly leads them away. HART looks back over his shoulder. SILVER points to BETTMAN and, smiling wickedly, makes the “too small” gesture. As the three recede, so does his smile. SILVER returns to his desk and presses a button on its underside, sliding the bar behind the desk out of view and revealing a hidden room. SILVER enters. The 76ers lie on a gurney, dead and pale. Flies whirl about, a cloud of squiggles.

SILVER

We’ll have to speed things up.

He presses his left temple. It glows blue.

SILVER (CONT’D)

Make sure Scott Foster’s on Game 3. Whatever it takes. It doesn’t matter how it looks anymore. We’re too far along to stop now.

He leans down, mouth open, gently feeding on the carcass, the banquet quiet as the grave.