Sideshow (S07E15)
Airdate: 19 February 1999
Written by: David Simon
Directed by: Edwin Sherin
Running Time: 43 minutes
By mid-Season 7 of Homicide: Life on the Street, it had become glaringly evident that the show’s days were numbered. Despite its critical acclaim and enduring reputation for gritty realism, declining ratings and shifting network priorities spelled its doom. NBC, however, made a last-gasp effort to prolong its life through a familiar strategy: a two-part crossover episode with Law & Order, its more popular and politically potent sibling series. This was the third such collaboration between the two procedurals, following the 1996 For God and Country and 1997 Baby, It's You. The formula remained unchanged: the first instalment aired on Law & Order to lure viewers to the second, which aired on Homicide. Sideshow, however, proved less than triumphant. Its plot, steeped in political scandal and partisan mudslinging, felt both overly derivative and overly specific to the era’s controversies, leaving the episode as a decent but ultimately forgettable footnote in the series’ legacy.
The episode’s central narrative revolves around the murder of Janine McBride, a high-ranking federal official whose death sparks a joint investigation between the NYPD and Baltimore Police Department. The first part concludes with the death of Chelsey Purcell, a Black prostitute and murder suspect, killed by Ned Burks (Adam Grupper), the victim’s unhinged ex-boyfriend. Yet the investigation persists due to a cryptic detail: Purcell’s phone contained an unlisted White House contact number. This revelation sets off a chain of events involving Independent Counsel William Dell (George Hearn), a ruthless prosecutor determined to dismantle the Clinton administration. Dell’s relentless pursuit of political leverage overpowers the homicide unit’s efforts, as he commandeers witnesses and evidence, prioritising partisan gain over justice.
The truth eventually surfaces: Purcell was a part-time assassin working for Walter Boyce (Charles Malik Whitfield), a Baltimore drug lord serving a life sentence. Boyce, seeking a lighter sentence, admits to orchestrating McBride’s murder as a favour for Theodore Dawkins (Jimmie Ray Weeks), a former DEA agent-turned-private investigator connected to the White House. Dawkins, in turn, was acting on behalf of Carla Bernardi (Tammy Arnold), a White House aide whose lesbian relationship with federal official Katherine Ranner (Julie Nathanson) was threatened by McBride’s blackmail. Despite Dawkins’ arrest, Dell’s manipulative legal tactics ensure the case remains weak, with seasoned prosecutors such as New York’s Jack McCoy (Sam Waterston) and Maryland’s Ed Danvers (Željko Ivanek) dismissing it as politically poisoned. The episode’s climax underscores Dell’s cynicism: he offers Dawkins a plea deal, not to secure justice, but to fuel his own vendetta against the administration—a move that will likely end without justice being served.
Sideshow is unmistakably inspired by the real-life Monica Lewinsky scandal, which had dominated headlines from 1998 to 1999. President Clinton’s impeachment and Senate acquittal in early 1999—just days before Sideshow’s February 1999 broadcast—looms large over the episode’s themes. David Simon, Homicide’s co-creator and writer, adopts the same ideological stance as Law & Order’s René Balcer in the first instalment: the “real” scandal was not the president’s personal misconduct but the partisan witch hunt led by Independent Counsel Kenneth Starr. In Sideshow, Dell serves as Starr’s fictional doppelgänger, a figure consumed by ideological zeal and willing to weaponise legal authority to dismantle political opponents. The episode frames Dell as the true villain, indirectly responsible for three deaths (McBride, Purcell, and Burks) through his McCarthyist tactics, which pit friends, lovers, and colleagues against one another.
Simon’s script, however, does little to innovate. The parallels to the Lewinsky affair are overt and unambiguous, with Dell’s tactics mirroring Starr’s exploitation of Clinton’s personal life to overshadow broader systemic issues. The narrative’s progressive bias is clear: the “scandal” is less about the president’s transgressions than the hypocrisy of his accusers. Yet this stance, while politically pointed, lacks nuance. The episode glosses over Clinton’s own moral failings, instead casting him as a victim of partisan overreach—a perspective that, especially now, in light of the Epstein scandal, feels dated and one-dimensional.
Sideshow’s chief weakness lies in its subplots, which strain to add depth but instead dilute the main narrative. One such thread involves Lt. Al Giardello (Yaphet Kotto) and his son Mike (Giancarlo Esposito), an FBI agent assigned as liaison to his unit. Their fraught dynamic—rooted in mutual distrust and competing jurisdictions—could have explored themes of generational conflict and institutional loyalty. Instead, the subplot is underdeveloped, reduced to a handful of tense exchanges that hint at deeper tensions without resolving them. Similarly, Ed Danvers’ subplot—his nomination for a judicial appointment derailed by Dell’s sabotage over a decades-old race-related crime—feels tacked-on. The revelation about Danvers’ past, while provocative, is underexplained, reducing it to a melodramatic plot twist rather than a meaningful exploration of race and justice.
The episode’s most glaring misstep is its side story about Detective Sheppard (Michael Michele) grappling with trauma after being beaten and disarmed on duty. Her discussions with Detective Stivers (Toni Lewis) about gender inequality in policing are repetitive and poorly integrated. Scenes of the duo drinking at the Waterfront Bar, where Sheppard drunkenly vents about male colleagues’ condescension, feel contrived. Michele’s performance, while earnest, struggles to elevate what reads as a token nod to feminist themes, particularly given the show’s sparse representation of female perspectives elsewhere.
Ultimately, Sideshow’s greatest flaw is its over-reliance on topicality. The Monica Lewinsky scandal, while fresh in 1999, now feels like ancient history, stripping the episode of its intended urgency. Even at the time, its partisan critique risked alienating viewers unfamiliar with the era’s political nuances. Simon’s script, for all its ambition, lacks the layered storytelling that distinguished Homicide’s earlier seasons. The crossover format, once a clever narrative device, here feels formulaic, with Law & Order’s procedural tone clashing awkwardly with Homicide’s character-driven realism.
By Season 7, Homicide’s creative energy was undeniably waning. The show’s final season, cut short by cancellation, lacked the cohesion and innovation of its earlier years. Sideshow, while competently executed, epitomises this decline. It is a solid procedural with political ambitions but lacks the emotional resonance or narrative complexity that once defined the series.
RATING: 5/10 (++)
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