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How much do I love Quinn? Answer: A lot. The man look like a sap, but operates like a shark. He's the new babysitter for Agents Hale and Kellerman, and apparently connected to some driving force behind this whole kill-Lincoln-Burrows thing.
Also, how much do I love C-Note? Answer: nearly as much as Quinn. The con manages to find the big, honkin' hole in St. Louis and bullies his way on to Team Escarpara by the end of the episode. You can imagine the everlasting joy that white supremacist T-Bag feels over this development. It's nearly as great as Michael's.
And in Scofield-related developments this week, he manages to pull Abruzzi's fat out of the fire and produce a location for Fibonacciâ¦that turns out to be false. However, the ruse is set up in a way to permanently take care of Philly Falsone while keeping Fibonacci safe; it re-establishes Abruzzi as the boss on the inside; and it gets Team Escarpara back on PI and in St. Louis. In between these elaborate schemes, Michael has time to lay down some origami on the good Dr. Tancredi. Want more? The full recap starts right below!
Tonight's episode begins in the past. Sadly, it's not far enough in the past to justify shooting the whole thing in sepia tones and putting everyone in Olde Tyme Costumes. It's only far enough back to show Michael getting some playing cards tattooed on his arm: three of hearts, one of clubs, two of hearts, nine of spades, a bunch of numbers I can't see, then ending with a three of clubs, a five of clubs and a two of clubs. I have no doubt these specific suits have some tremendously significant meaning. I just don't know what it is.
We transition from Michael's inking to the prison yard, where Abruzzi's laying out a hand of solitaire and glaring balefully at the new, non-Team Escarpara PI crew. Inside the St. Louis building, the PI crew is doing all sorts of demolition-related work and managing not to find the big honkin' hole in the middle of the floor. We see one fireplug of a worker go tromping all over it, but the fire-damaged plaque miraculously holds his weight. Maybe if Michael's feeling generous, he can leave an escape note advising Pope et al. to rebuild St. Louis entirely out of meaningless award plaques, so it'll be stronger than ever.
In the yard, Abruzzi's trying to get Bellick's attention so we can transition that much more quickly into this week's scene establishing that verily, Bellick delights in the suffering of others. What will it be this time -- denying transplant patients a new organ while snacking on a plate of liver 'n' onions? Stacking school boards with creationists? Nothing so spectacularly evil, I'm afraid: Bellick just wants his bribes. "You think I like getting piss thrown at me? Spit on? These other chumps might do it for the 40 grand a year and the little blue uniform, but I'm not that dumb. Falzone's envelope is the only reason I come through that fence every day, and it's the only reason I'm going to keep coming through that fence until I have enough money to buy that house on Lake Gray. I'm thinking early retirement, John. And you're interfering with that." Bellick stomps off. Abruzzi collapses against the fence in a sebaceous swoon.
In another, less oily part of the yard, Michael's standing around and staring. I can't believe his habit of going pop-eyed at the slightest provocation hasn't weirded out the other inmates yet. Abruzzi comes over, saying testily, "They're gonna find it. The longer they're in there, the sooner they're going to find it." Michael does not reply, "Well, if someone hadn't put all his accounts in his corrupt boss's name, this wouldn't be a problem, would it?" Instead, he settles for stating the obvious: they have to get back in there. Abruzzi says, "I'm going to say something crazy to you." "Surprise, surprise," Michael sneers. Abruzzi continues, "I don't give a damn about that Fibonacci anymore --" "You're right. That is crazy," Michael jeers. Abruzzi continues, "Because I got bigger things to think about in here, like survival. You see, I'm kind of short on friends in here, in case you haven't noticed." "Well, have you maybe tried asking people about their interests? Refrained from cutting off their toes when they tried to reply?" Michael asks. Or not. Abruzzi says he just wants out alive. Michael's all, "Don't you try to be all subtle with the Fibonacci mention when what you really want is for me to give him up to Philly Falzone for you." Abruzzi's like, "Okay then. I'll just let my accent get a Eurail pass and travel all over. How du yew like me nooow? Neuw koan we tuk about Feeeebonahhhhci?" Michael looks at him, clearly thinking, Pick a diphthong and stick with it.
Some short time later, we're in the prison's airy and elegantly minimalist chapel, where the mere handful of inmates concerned about the state of their immortal souls are listening to Reverend Lovejoy drone on about the meaning of Job's torment. Linc would rather dwell on his own craptacular situation. He tells Michael flatly to give up Fibonacci; Michael hisses back, "If I do, they'll kill him." It's worth noting that he's sitting behind Linc, with his head propped up on his folded arms like a sleepy kid in class; it's a nice contrast to Linc's weary, erect posture and a nice commentary on the roles the two assume around one another. Linc decides that this man he's never met and knows nothing about deserves to die. Michael sets him straight: "That's the thing -- he doesn't…he was working for the Mafia, he just didn't know it. Otto Fibonacci is just like you. An innocent man caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was middle management at one of Abruzzi's warehouses. Just a normal guy, working class, religious -- and somebody who couldn't turn his back on murder. He realized that Abruzzi and Falzone, the men he worked for, were killers. That he had the key to all their dealings -- things that could put them away for life. The judge asked him why he was coming forward with all this information. He said it was because it was the right thing to do."
Linc asks, "What's the right thing to do now, Michael?" Michael admits he doesn't know, but if he doesn't give up Fibonacci, the whole breaking-outta-jail thing is over. Linc concludes, "You're telling me, if I'm to live --" "A good man has to die," Michael concludes.
Commercials. Oh, Johnny Depp. Your protean ability to swing from Captain Jack Sparrow to Ms. Anna Wintour -- excuse me, Willy Wonka -- delights and frightens me.
Meanwhile, on the outside...Agents Hale and Kellerman are waiting in a swanky hotel suite. Hale's picking at a hamburger and fries, and Kellerman's on the phone with his dark mistress. Or is that Madame Vice President Dark Mistress? Anyway, she's telling Kellerman that a friend of hers will be along shortly, and Kellerman skeptically asks, "A friend?" Apparently I'm not the only one who can't imagine her having social relations that don't end in knifeplay. Over the course of the conversation, Madame Vice President Dark Mistress makes it clear that she thinks the two agents have bumbled through this like it's amateur hour, Kellerman tries to knock her off that track so he won't have to, you know, hustle to cover up how he lied, and Madame Vice President Dark Mistress more or less tells him to cram it. Hale listens to all this and begins looking progressively more worried.
Kellerman clicks off the phone, and boy, is he pissed. He tells Hale, "She's bringing someone in." Hale wants to know what that means, and Kellerman snots, "Something in her tone changed." Hale immediately goes to his unhappy place: "You think she knows about the kid? We shouldn't have lied. We shouldn't have told her we had the kid." Kellerman gets pissy because he knows Hale's right, and Hale sighs, "I swear to God, it just gets deeper and deeper." Kellerman snaps, "What's that supposed to mean?" Hale says, "It means, if I'd have known how this whole thing was gonna turn out, I'd have gotten some crap job with the Feds -- push pencils, drink coffee all day long behind a desk. God, that sounds good." Kellerman stalks across the room, then turns around to say, "Keep talking like that, I'll be forced to put a bullet in your head." Hale turns to look at him, all, You sound a little too happy about that prospect. Then Kellerman decides they'll just work around their dark mistress's friend.
Back on the inside, Sucre collects Michael from his staring spot in the yard so they can go shout oblique inquiries at the PI crew like, "Hey, are you planning on putting that carpet in the guard room? You find anything in the floor yet?" After Sucre finishes quizzing the PI crew, he increases the pressure on Michael with, "We gotta do something." Why not riot? It worked so well last time.
Inside the prison, Linc and the man who would be warden (the False Pope?) have a little chat wherein the CO wants Linc to fill out his request card for his last meal and Linc is all, "I don't plan on being he-- I mean, I don't wanna!" The CO leaves the card just in case. These are the nicest death row guards, what with the giving people illicit cell phone calls and second shots with meal cards. Why aren't THEY featured on the magic plaque?
Back out in the yard, C-Note drifts over to the fence closest to St. Louis and calls to Gus. The one-eyed monster comes over and the two exchange ethnic slurs before getting down to business: C-Note will pay him $150 a month in exchange for getting on the PI crew. Looks like someone watched his Shawshank Redemption before heading into the pokey, and has it in mind to make the guerilla sequel.
While all this is going on, Michael catches up with Abruzzi on the other side of the yard and tells him to set up a meeting with Falzone, because Michael wants to talk to Falzone tonight. Abruzzi says, "Falzone doesn't talk to guys like you. Water signs make him nervous -- he's more compatible with fire and air." Michael's says, "If he wants Fibonacci, he's going to have to [talk to me]."
Commercials. A Burger King commercial without the King? How is this possible? Please tell me this was my doing. And then tell me who you want me to eliminate . We need to test the boundaries of my new power.
When we get back, the ostensibly Italian Abruzzi is still frolicking amidst the diphthongs of Northern Europe as he cajoles Philly Falzone into coming to prison for a chat with Michael. Abruzzi assures him that Michael is indeed capable of human interaction beyond staring, and Philly exults, "You did something right for a change! Guess I'll have to call off those guys I hired to shank you." Abruzzi's smile abruptly slides off his face. On the other end of the phone, Philly continues, "That was a joke, John." To make sure Abruzzi appreciates the difference between humor and solemnity, he then threatens to castrate Abruzzi. Oh, Philly, you send such mixed signals. Abruzzi hangs up the phone and stumbles over to Michael. There's barely any menace in Abruzzi's voice as he says, "He's coming. Don't mess this up."
Michael signals that he understands by staring extra-hard. Once Abruzzi's wandered off, he ambles over to the phone. We see him stretch out the arm that's got the cards tattooed on it, and he dials the numbers in order: 312-909-3529.
Meanwhile, on the outside...the phone rings in what looks to be a brothel. A woman who's dressed for the setting -- and how fortunate for her, because wouldn't that feel awkward otherwise? -- picks up the phone and says hello in a generic Eastern European accent. We can't see too much of her face because the camera would rather show the giant, gilt-edged mirror and gaudy lamp with fringy shade. Why do brothels have this décor? Would it be too much to expect a Chicagoland house of ill repute to maybe show some architectural awareness and take its design cues from the Prairie School? Anyway, we establish that the lady's been expecting the call, and Michael asks, "Remember when I said I might be calling you on Fibonacci?" We get a shot of the lady's face; she looks wary, but she remembers. Michael tells her, "Well, it's time."
The camera closes in tight on the bouquet to the lady, then zooms out again so we can see that we're now looking at a different flower arrangement -- one in Dr. Sara's clinic. She's bandaging Michael's foot and lamenting that the two of them don't talk like they used to: "You seem distracted." He tells her he's got a lot on his mind. She asks, "Have anything to do with the people who took these toes?" "Nice flowers," he replies. Sara's all, "Eh," and Michael tries for flirty but skids over to "bitchy" when he asks, "Do we have an admirer?" Sara says they're from her father. Michael's still wearing what he thinks is the flirty face, and he asks what the occasion is. Sara admits it's her birthday today, and Michael actually drops the smirk and says sincerely, "Happy birthday." Sara doesn't reply. And Michael notes, "Birthdays aren't usually a sore subject...unless the celebrant is feeling her age. Which I don't see how you could be."
Sara turns up from her clipboard and looks at him for the first time. She says, "I'm 29 years old, Michael." And this is the point in the episode where I tried to figure out how she could have gone through college, med school and internship and become an old hand in this gig by the time most would-be doctors are just finishing up year three of their residency. Is there an edict in place on most shows that women over 30 are shriveled, sexless crones who should either distract people from their decrepitude by donning haute bag lady ensembles a la Carrie Bradshaw, or apologize for having the nerve to age linearly like Catherine Willows? Is this why the good Dr. Tancredi can't be, oh, 32 or 33?
Anyway, the reason we find out Dr. Sara's 29 is so she can enforce the idea that 30 = deserves to be put on a ice floe and pushed out to sea, and so she can carp about how her dad's been AWOL on 23 of her birthdays, he sends flowers every year, and then they wither and go away because they're as impermanent and unreliable as Daddy's love. Michael's all, Wow, you have baggage. I like that in a woman. Still doing her best to avoid eye contact with him, Dr. Sara boots Michael from the clinic. As he walks out, he tells her, "I'm sorry you feel that way. About the flowers, I mean." Sara watches him go, but she looks less lovelorn than usual. She must really have birthday issues.
Down in St. Louis, C-Note has just figured out exactly what Michael's been doing with all those pebbles he's dropping in the yard. He looks pretty darn happy as he surveys the hole.
Meanwhile, on the outside...we transition to the Unalawyer cabin, where LJ is sitting outside on a log, wondering why freaky recluses never have washing machines hooked up, while Veronica and Nick fret about him inside. Veronica hypothesizes that it must suck to watch your mom get murdered a week and a half before your father's due to fry. Nick looks at her, but he seems really riveted by the fact that Robin Tunney's face seems to be sliding to the left. Seriously. What is going on? She was so freakin' saucy in Cherish -- also about someone who's wrongly accused of a murder they didn't commit, I might add -- and here, it's like they ran her through a giant Clairol flatiron before each take.
Anyway, Nick heads outside to talk to LJ -- or to seize the opportunity to endlessly blather on about his dad some more. Potato, po-tah-to. The whole point to this scene is to allow Nick to sit around in a wifebeater and extra muscles ("I'm every bit as attractive as those guys in prison! I am! I am!") and preach, "Every day was a lost cause, but we kept fighting. What else you gonna do when you love somebody -- you gonna let them down? So you fight. You keep fighting. You never give up." Then there's a nice moment where Nick claps LJ on the back and the kid leans into the comfort.
Still on the outside...there's a knock on the door of Agents Hale and Kellerman's suite, and when Kellerman opens it up, a very mild-looking man is standing there. He says hello with a curiously amiable reticence, and immediately heads over to the picture window to check the view. Kellerman's left off-balance. Hale, as we all know, is perpetually off-balance, so this is all routine for him. Kellerman asks for a name and the guy says, "Quinn." Kellerman keeps trying to grab control of the situation with, "Would you mind telling me what we're doing here?" Quinn chuckles and says, with no small dollop of self-deprecation, "You can probably tell just by looking at me, I'm not a wave-making sort. Just think of me as a supervisor. Just here to make sure things are under control as we approach -- well, you know. The big event." "I wasn't aware that things were out of control," Kellerman blithely lies. Still playing the role of agreeable bumbler, Quinn says, "Well, you'd be the one that would know, wouldn't you?" There's some nervous laughter.
Quinn plops into a chair and says, "The reason I'm here is because there's a discrepancy between what you know and what you have said to the vice president. The lawyers you tried to blow up -- they're still running around, healthy as thoroughbreds. You know it, I know it. Same thing goes with the kid, who you were silly enough to tell the old lady you were actually in possession of --" The camera cuts to the agents' faces: Kellerman is still wearing his I'm-humoring-you look, and Hale's expression is a mixture of wariness and vindication. Quinn continues, still smiling and enthusiastic, "Now everything I'm saying boils down to this: you gotta hand the reins over to me now so that I can save your ass."
This chaps Kellerman's ass, so he smirks and chuckles, walks over to where Quinn is sitting, and says, "First of all -- AIIIIIGH!" That yell's because Quinn just grabbed his outstretched index finger and snapped it. Kellerman collapses to the floor, groaning in pain. So, Big K, is now a bad time to tell you that I've just dumped you for Quinn? A girl can only be faithful to one magnificent bastard per show. Hale rushes over and Kellerman waves him off. Quinn says, "See? You made me make a wave." He stands up impatiently and tells Hale over Kellerman's outraged moans, "You and your partner are [off] the job until further notice. That doesn't come from me, that doesn't come from the White House, it comes from the company. You understand?' Hale nods. I think he secretly digs being bossed around. As Quinn shambles to the door, he turns around and tells Kellerman, "Your proximal and medial phalanges are broken. Just ice it for 45 minutes, then splint it. That's what a doctor would do, so you don't need to go see one." Kellerman does not look grateful that Quinn's just saved him a trip to the HMO. But I don't care, because I LOVE QUINN. Oh, you magnificent bastard, you can snap proximal and medial phalanges around me all day! Just don't snap mine.
Back at the Unalawyer cabin, Veronica's gaping at a computer screen. Nick comes over and we see that she's reading through EcoField's SEC filings. Veronica reasons that Terence Steadman was murdered so the information from his indictment wouldn't be made public, ergo the numbers might hold some clue as to the wrongdoing. Their first indication: the U.S. government gave EcoField over $500 million in grants for alternative fuel research, but the company produced vaporware. Veronica wonders what the company was really doing.
Finally, we're back in the prison. Michael and Abruzzi walk into the visitor's lounge to meet with the ever-dapper Philly Falzone. After the (lack of) niceties, Philly asks how Michael found him. Michael snots, "I did my homework." Philly replies, "You get elliptical with me for one more second, and I will cancel you." He sounds like a network exec threatening a TV show. Abruzzi urges him, "Give it up, fish." Michael monologues in a monotone: "Before someone's transferred to the U.S. Marshal Service and placed in witness protection, they're guarded by a local sheriff from the county where the trial will take place. If the sheriff was available, then he wasn't the one guarding Fibonacci. There were only four sheriffs in the county, and since Pronzo was the one who wasn't in his office and his wife and kids were waiting for him at home, I knew he was the one with Fibonacci."
Both Mafia guys are impressed. Michael continues, "Thing is, sometimes it takes weeks for the Marshal Service to set up a new identity. So some local sheriff's stuck in the middle of nowhere with Fibonacci. He gets lonely. He calls home. A lot. I called the phone company and said I was Pronzo and I'd lost my bill. I asked for another copy. It seemed Mrs. Pronzo was receiving dozens of calls from an area code a long way from Chicago. I went online, reverse-traced the number and voila, there was Fibonacci's exact location."
Philly wants to know how they can be sure Fibonacci's still there. Michael says he has someone looking after Fibonacci. Of course he does. Philly finally asks, "This is about money, isn't it?" Contempt reeking from every pore, Michael says, "You're an astute man, Mr. Falzone." Falzone has the nerve to be outraged at what he perceives as extortion. Michael points out that his post-prison prospects are considerably diminished and he wants a nest egg of $200,000. Abruzzi threatens to kill Michael and he coldly spits back, "Quid pro quo." He should have said, "Quid pro TOE." Abruzzi then snarls, "Well, I'll give you some quid pro quo," and slams a picture of Veronica on the table. A rousing cheer goes up in the forum. Michael asks, "Where did you get this? Who took this picture?" Abruzzi and his road-tripping vowels slur, "Since you took it upon yourself to have someone watching over our interests, we took it upon ourselves to have some people watching over yours. So who's it going to be? Fibonacci or your pretty little girlfriend here?" The forum begins chanting, "Ve-RON-i-ca! Ve-RON-i-ca! Give us Veronica!" Abruzzi's little snigger makes Peter Lorre seem suave. Even Philly seems repelled. We close in on the photo. Poor Veronica. Even in still photos, the wardrobe people dress her like she's mentally disabled.
Commercials. Oh my goodness, Duracell's using penguins to sell their batteries. Adorable, swimming, waddling penguins. I'm nearly incoherent with delight. Penguins!
When we get back from commercials, Abruzzi is busy carrying on about how Michael needs to be careful about who visits him. Michael growls, "If you touch her, I'll kill you myself." Philly dismisses that as an empty threat and presses for the address. Michael dithers for a moment, then says, "Promise me it'll be quick and painless." Philly elects to laugh instead. Michael persists. Philly's not having it, and Michael says, "Canada. 345 Hamilton Avenue, Thunder Bay, Ontario." I can't tell you how disappointed I am that nobody thought to put Fibonacci in a house with a Fibonacci series for an address...358 Main Street, for example.
Anyway, Michael stalks off and Abruzzi looks relieved. Philly's fallen in love with him all over again. The two kiss and make up, and Abruzzi gets Falzone to rectify the PI situation that day.
Meanwhile, on the outside...we're in Montgomery, Illinois, which is a Rockwellian small town currently grappling with the menace of star-spangled bunting. A wider camera pan reveals that this is but one tentacle of the many-armed monster known as a political media event. It's also the setting for Kellerman's snippy conversation with Madame Vice President Dark Mistress. She's already in a testy mood, having ripped off the head of a speechwriter and nibbled on it (stupid Atkins diet with its protein-based snacks). He's fairly testy too, with what his fractured phalanges. She snaps, "Remember who you are talking to. I am the vice president of this country." Kellerman contradicts her: "No, actually, you're Caroline Reynolds, from Montgomery, Illinois. I know exactly who you are." Couldn't she be both? Apparently not, if her reaction is any judge. Madame Vice President Dark Mistress -- friends call her "Caroline," but I don't think we're that close yet -- tells Kellerman that if he had done his damn job, she wouldn't have called in Quinn. He tells her in all seriousness, "You woke a sleeping beast when you called those guys in." Those guys? What guys? Amway? The Promise Keepers? Raider Nation? Kellerman continues, "They have a bigger agenda than any of us, and they get real nasty, real quick." Yeah, that's still not clearing it up for me, Special K. The upshot: now that Quinn's on the scene, nobody's safe. From...who knows what.
Speaking of my new magnificent bastard crush, there he is, hanging with Veronica's old flame, Victor Von Doomed. We see him talk his way into Victor's apartment with a clever blend of truth (Veronica's apartment exploded; there were fatalities) and lies (Veronica's insurance company needs to find out if she's okay). Victor does not think to ask why Veronica wouldn't have gotten in touch with her insurance company following an incident that would, at the least, have had her maxing out the deductible on her renter's insurance. Such is the power of Quinn!
Meanwhile Linc bounces around his cell. It's a very kinesthetic method of emotional actualization, but if it works for him, okay. He flings himself back on his bunk and picks up the report he was sent in the last episode. After a second of staring at the page, he's back to hopping around like an espresso-addled marmoset. Then Linc stares at the page again, with an expression like, If! I! Could! Only! Read! We switch to the outside of the hall, where the False Pope is taking roll call. Linc's last-meal request shoots out. The False Pope says, "Blueberry pancakes, huh? All right, man. You got it." Then he scampers off for another quickie with Becky.
Meanwhile, on the outside...night's fallen on the Unalawyer cabin. Both Nick and LJ are passed out cold; Veronica's still combing through SEC statements. An IM window pops up, and we see that it's Victor Von Doomed, asking if she's okay.
At this point, anyone with the memory span of a mayfly would recall the conversation that went like this: "Hey, now that the Feds think we're dead, why don't we fly under the radar so they don't find us?" "Okay!" But this is Veronica we're talking about, so she immediately replies. We see the rest of a terse -- but unusually well-punctuated -- IM conversation, then the camera pulls back so we can see Victor Von Doomed's computer, but it's being operated by Quinn and Von Doomed's bleeding quietly on the floor, having finally lived up to his eponym. And that's how Quinn got the IP address for the Unalawyer cabin, which he then uses to trace the physical location.
Back in the prison, Michael's lying on his bunk, fidgeting with something in his hands and making lemon faces.
Meanwhile, back on the outside...the entire Chicagoland Mob's converged on 345 Hamilton Avenue, Thunder Bay, Ontario. They're all giggly and excited about the impeding murder when the floodlights switch on and approximately four dozen law enforcement types spanning who-knows-how-many different police departments and federal agencies converge on them at once. This scene would have been really tense, what with it having been intercut with shots of Fibonacci kissing his kids goodnight and planning to take out the trash, but the architectural details in his house were totally different from the house shown in the Ontario location, and the lighting was different as well. It turns out Fibonacci's hanging in Topeka.
Anyway, the upshot to this whole deflated sequence is that Michael somehow planned ahead to this possibility, set up a person on the outside with a phone number he then tattooed on his arm, then had them drop a dime on the mob. I think. But if smartypants Michael could anticipate the Fibonacci query and build failsafes into his plan there...why didn't he do it on vital things like getting access to the St. Louis building, or the wall where they had to drill? This makes sense only in a world where fully-educated, professionally-seasoned doctors just turned 29.
Commercials. Reason No. 27 to love living in California: The minute it looks like rain, entire telecasts are dedicated to the dread possibility of liquid falling from the sky. Reason No. 45: The way our governator refers to the state he's ostensibly running as "Kuh-lee-FOR-nee-ah." Well, I think it's amusing.
The morning, Abruzzi's on the phone. Some voice on the other end tells him, "You hear the news? Falzone got popped up in Canada last night. International gun charges, parole violation. He's in deep." Abruzzi gazes across the yard at Michael (who's being escorted to the clinic by a guard) and slams down the phone.
Michael says to Dr. Sara, "You threw away your flowers." She doesn't even look up as she replies, "Like I said, they don't last." Michael eyes the still-vibrant bouquet sitting in the trash can and says, "I don't think they're dead yet." Dr. Sara finally gives him a look and she says, "I don't like getting attached to things if I know they won't last." Michael looks thoughtful. Then he asks, "Why are you so cynical?" "Because I work in a prison and prisoners lie to me all the time?" she shoots back. Oh, of course not. Dr. Sara looks all over the place as she explains that there's cynicism and realism. Then the man who's all, "The swell fella I used to be died when he came in here! I'm a bad guy! I swear! I don't need no stinkin' compassion from you, lady!" has the nerve to tell Sara, "There's optimism, hope, faith." Dr. Sara averts her gaze from the relentless Blue Steel and snaps, "This coming from an eight-toed guy in a penitentiary." Michael shrugs and says toes are overrated. Sara puts in a cork in the conversation with, "Thank you for trying to make me smile. Not today." Michael actually smiles at her and says, "You never know." Sara's not having it. Assuming Dr. Sara doesn't spend the rest of her days hunting down the escaped Michael like Carrie Fisher did John Belushi in The Blues Brothers, she will have reams of raw material for that upcoming best-seller Don't Do Life In The Prison Of Love.
Anyway, Michael gets up and walks out, and the camerawork is deliberately vague on this point, but moments after he walks by her desk, we see that there's a red-and-green origami rose sitting on top of a pile of paperwork. Dr. Sara notices it and melts. Oh, it's back to "Mrs. Dr. Tancredi-Scofield? Dr. Mrs. Scofield? Dr. and Mr. Michael Scofield?" doodled on lab charts for her!
Abruzzi shoves his way through cellblock A on his way to Michael's cell, and boy, is he looking miffed. Maybe it's because he's looking less sebaceous than usual and he's confused when he's not leaving oily films on everything. Abruzzi looks around to make sure he's in no danger of finks, then swings into the cell. He leans into the bottom bunk where Michael's woolgathering, and snarls, "You and I have a lot to talk about, don't we, fish? Seems Philly Falzone ran into some problem up in Canada, just because of the information you gave him." Michael's curious as to what kind of trouble. Sadly, he is not curious about which country Abruzzi's vowels are currently hailing from. Abruzzi elaborates, "International gun charges, parole violation -- oh, he's going to go away for a long time." Abruzzi's practically choking on the last phrase. Michael asks how Abruzzi feels about that, and he cocks his head at a 90-degree angle before grinning and saying, "Pretty darn good." Psych!
Michael smiles too, and it becomes abundantly clear that the two of them set Philly up. While I appreciate the episode's twist and all, I really would have loved to see how Michael sold this idea to Abruzzi. And I would have loved to see one or both of them thinking, "Hey, what's to stop the organization from ordering a hit on us after Philly goes down?"
The rest of the scene's devoted to establishing that Team Escarpara is back on PI, the photo is Linc's, and Abruzzi still wants Fibonacci once they're on the outside. I wouldn't be too worried about that -- no doubt Michael has another contingency plan tattooed somewhere. Abruzzi walks off with the photo of Veronica as insurance.
We switch to Lincoln's cell and promptly fall into a flashback that explains why he chose blueberry pancakes for his last meal: apparently, when he had LJ on weekend visits, one of their rituals was a blueberry pancake breakfast every Sunday morning. Linc's valiant legion of fans can all swoon over their sweater-wearing idol a) cooking, and b) being a sensitive parent type. Linc snaps out of that flashback and looks deeply regretful, either about the plaid pajamas he was wearing with the sweater or about not being able to revisit those placid breakfasts.
And now, Team Escarpara's back on their game. Abruzzi's sent Gus crying within seconds and reasserted his dominance over the Mafia goons. Unbelievable -- nobody has linked Abruzzi with the bad information Philly got? Michael's hanging out with Westmoreland -- and wow, is it strange to see the older man without a cat cuddled to his chest -- and the old head wryly comments, "Looks like he got his throne back. Something tells me we may have you to thank for that." Michael makes a move on the checkers board and says, "You don't want to know." "You got that right," Westmoreland agrees. He also doesn't want to know why C-Note's just told him to take a walk.
The inside's rebuttal to a free market system sits down, drops a handful of concrete pebbles on the table, and says, "Now, we gotta have us a lot to talk about, don't we?" Michael sniffles, then sweeps the table. "I got nothing to say," he replies. He stands up, and C-Note meets him: "You think you can play me, Snowflake? 'Cause you got college? Big school learnin', huh? Well, let me school you. Darwin wins inside these walls. Not Einstein. Darwin." Michael looks at him all, Why can't they co-exist? It's not like the theory of relativity threatens the theory of natural selection. Now, if you had wanted to get into it regarding punctuated equilibrium versus phyletic gradualism, then it would be ON. C-Note prepares to walk off and says, "I'm not done with you, fish." "You never even got started," Michael replies. That's not a very good comeback.
Within seconds, we're in St. Louis. Team Escarpara's just widened the hole, and Michael tells them they'll be through by Friday, so start making travel arrangements. Sucre hustles off singing, "Maricruz, here I come, baby!" Abruzzi says, "Sardinia, here I come!" "Oak Lawn Senior Prom here I come!" T-Bag sings out. Kidding! He's nowhere to be found. Lincoln asks Michael where the two of them will end up, and Michael whispers, "Panama." "Panama?" Linc asks in his indoor voice. "Panama," Michael whispers again. He continues, "Darien Gap, south of the canal. No roads, no electricity, no cops. Nothing but white sand beaches and ice-cold beer." Linc sulks, "Well, that's nice, but what about our lives?" He is the biggest ingrate sometimes! Michael shrugs, "I dunno. We'll open a scuba shop." "I don't know how to dive," Wet Blanket Lincoln says. Michael rebuts, "Neither do I, but we'll have plenty of time to learn." He sounds positively giddy at the prospect. Just then, T-Bag knocks and swings in to deliver his one line of the episode: "Bulls."
It's a good thing the floor's all covered up, huh? Bellick brings in C-Note and the music gets all ominous. Bellick grunts that C-Note says he's on the job; Abruzzi says he's not, and Bellick smacks C-Note as he tells him, "You heard the paisan. Move your ass." C-Note shrugs that off and strolls right over to where the hole in the floor is, thus instantly grabbing the attention of everyone in Team Escarpara. He then taps his foot on the floor, asking, "Are you sure about that? You sure you can't use an extra hand?" Abruzzi asks, "You know anything about construction?" C-Note gleefully replies, "Concrete's my specialty. Can you dig it?" Haaaaaaa! I love it. Now they are six.
C-Note catches Michael's eye and says, "Looks like Darwin wins after all, hey, fish?" Michael glares all We still haven't resolved the punctuated equilibrium versus phyletic gradualism models, so let's see how this plays out, chump.
Meanwhile, on the outside...it's morning at the Unalawyer cabin, LJ's nowhere to be found, and Nick's carping about how he can't see the big picture with EcoField's financial shell game. Ah, but trying to figure out the quarterly figure by generally accepted accounting principles versus raw numbers isn't the biggest of his problems. Nor is being partnered with Veronica. Nope -- his new biggest problem comes moments after he figures out that the vice president was using her brother's company to fund her presidential campaign war chest. And that big problem is Quinn, who's standing outside the window, watching them watch the vice president on television.