Zhaan paces in her cell and hallucinates that Aeryn, D'Argo, and Crichton have come to her rescue. Her whimpering, "I need you here to rescue me," is very telling. Whenever rescuing needed to be done, one or all of those three did it. It's now time for Rygel and Chiana to step up. As the hallucination fades, Zhaan collapses into tears. A Crichton vision comes and sits with her, explaining that she has to accept that he, Aeryn, and D'Argo are dead. As Zhaan clings to his arm, the Crichton vision sits there with a simpering, bland, unconcerned smile on his face. After Crichtonvision leaves Zhaan to her misery, Jiffy-Pop pays her a visit and tempts her to escape by melting a cell bar and giving her a map out of the city. Zhaan briefly wonders why Jiffy-Pop is helping her before accepting the map and escaping.

In the streets, Zhaan finds Chiana and Rygel (good!) but trips over a dead body (bad!). Convenient cops rush to arrest her, but Zhaan resists this time. The map has already burned up in her hands. Ah, self-destructing evidence, only a lawyer planet could dream that one up. The guy Roman was talking to earlier watches as Zhaan is once again subdued by cattle prods. He announces she's under arrest for murder.

Back in her cell and back with her original lawyer, Zhaan insists she was set up and did not murder the individual known as Wesley Kenn, who is, I'll have you know, a "rising young equal rights advocate for the Utilities." The "Utilities" are what they call the poor un-argumentative sods that make up the other 10% of Litigara's pop. They are the bartenders, the cooks, the barristas. They are as blue as blue collar comes. Zhaan stands accused of crushing Kenn's neck with her bare hands -- something she already tried to do to Dersh. In Litigaran society, those blue collars are beholden to the lawyer class. In San Francisco, we have the reverse effect. See, those bartenders, those cooks, those barristas, well, they stand between the white Arrows, Gladstones, and Etons and their hand-crafted cocktails, their home-schooled potatoes, and their $20,000 cups of H.G. Wellsian coffee. It does my light blue heart good to see the hand-tailored shirts panting at the bar, desperately trying to get love and liquor from a thoroughly aware yet unrushed 'tender.