Dick: So what did this Chris foster do?
Irving: Telemarketing fraud.
Dick: Well, how will they prove-
Irving: Shh! We're not supposed to talk.
Dick: [inner monologue] Chris Foster, snake oil salesman with the salad oil hair, an Armani-clad, private-jet-piloting huckster who gets his kicks flying mom and pop into the poorhouse. Well, fasten your seat belt, Foster, I'm bringing you down. Deplane. It's judgment day.
Judge: Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and the defendant will rise.
Dick: [inner monologue] That's right. Show your ugly face, you fiend.
Foster: Your honor.
Dick: Oh, my God! It's that nice man from the vending machine.