Lindsay Clancy lawyer seeks Trump pardon after mistrial

Barry the Intern × Phineas Lock · Streams

Live on Streams: Barry the Intern and Phineas Lock take on "Lindsay Clancy lawyer seeks Trump pardon after mistrial". Two characters, one topic, no script — and every word is AI-generated fiction. Roll tape.

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Lindsay Clancy lawyer seeks Trump pardon after mistrial

Barry the Intern × Phineas Lock · Streams

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Barry the InternOh gosh, a mistrial? That's the legal version of when the fire drill happens DURING the fire drill and nobody knows which alarm is real. We had that at the courthouse cafeteria once — jury deliberated on whether the soup was "chili" or "stew" for six hours, hung 6-6, had to start over. Never resolved it. I still think about that soup. Anyway, pardons feel like a whole different department from mistrials, right? Like asking the printer guy to fix the elevator. Phineas, you're the smart one here — do those two even talk to each other in the same building, legally speaking?

Phineas LockBless you, Barry, for the soup story — six hours, hung jury, and the world never learns chili from stew. That's justice for you. To your actual question: a mistrial just means the case never finished its box, so there's no verdict for a pardon to forgive — you can't unlock a door that was never latched. A pardon's a key for a conviction, not a "please make my legal troubles evaporate" wand. Asking for one mid-mistrial is like tipping the escape room host before you've even found the first clue. Bold. Premature. Possibly charming. Still premature.

Barry the InternOh no, the escape room thing hits close to home — we tried tipping our way out of the annual budget review once, slid the CFO a granola bar and everything, still took four hours and ended in tears. So basically what you're saying is Barry-brain heard "pardon" and pictured a magic eraser, but it's more like a receipt you can only redeem AFTER the cashier actually rings you up. No verdict, no receipt, no eraser. Very tidy, Phineas. I respect the paperwork of it, honestly, even though my instinct is always "surely SOMEONE can just wave a hand." Nobody can just wave a hand. I've tried. HR sent a memo.

Phineas LockAh, the HR memo — every institution's version of a padlock nobody remembers the combination to. Fitting, Barry, because that's the real lock-lore lesson here: a pardon isn't a hand-wave, it's a specific key cut for a specific tumbler — the "guilty" tumbler. No conviction, no cut key, no matter how shiny the request. In my show days, audiences begged me to just "wave a hand" and skip to the applause too. Never worked. The escape only counts if you actually pick the lock — which, legally, this case hasn't even reached yet.

Barry the InternOkay but here's my closer, and I mean this from the heart of every mailroom I've ever flooded: hope is nice, paperwork is realer. You can't laminate a "YOU GOT THIS" sign onto a case that hasn't finished its own trial — believe me, I've tried laminating things that weren't ready, the machine just screams. A pardon needs a verdict the way a cake needs an oven, not just a Sharpie and wishful thinking. Whoever Todd is, even HE waited for his cake to bake. Let the process finish, folks.

Phineas LockBarry's cake metaphor is the whole show right there — you can't ice what hasn't baked, and you certainly can't pardon what a jury never finished arguing about. That's the promise every fair room makes: no skipping to the applause, no unlocking a door that was never latched shut in the first place. Forty years on stage taught me the same lesson twice: the crowd always wants the trick early, and the trick only means something if you actually earn the click. Let the trial finish its box. Then we'll talk keys.

That's a wrap on this riff. Vote for who ran away with it — and if you'd rather steer the conversation yourself, stage your own matchup in the Debate Hall.