Westmoreland casually strolls by Michael's cell and drops off the watch. Michael is thrilled. Westmoreland's face is as bleak as the day he found Marilyn. He asks, "The watch: what's it for, anyway?" Michael decides now is a fine time to try on a new, supercilious face. He says, "I thought you didn't want to know any of this." Westmoreland's having none of it; all the twinkly-old-coot camouflage is stripped away and he says, "Things have changed. I want in." Michael is all, "So what are you bringing to the table?" Westmoreland is like, "Money, fool," and Michael wants to know how much. Westmoreland: "I think you know." Michael: "I seem to recall several conversations that ended in 'I'm not D.B. Cooper.'" "I lied," Westmoreland says baldly. "You lied?" Michael echoes. "We're cons. We tend to do that," Westmoreland continues. Michael says he checked the alibi (I guess he contrived a way to get to Lexis-Nexis one night -- or this is the best-stocked prison library on all the American prairie. Take your pick) and sure enough, there was a Charles Westmoreland incarcerated during the D.B. Cooper hijacking. Westmoreland says slowly and clearly, "My father and I share more than a weakness for easy money. We also share a name." Michael continues to marinate in self-satisfaction, and calls Westmoreland something of a liar.
After pissing off the guy who might could bankroll the operation, Michael jerry-rigs his purloined tape recorder and re-stolen watch into some device capable of recording on a time cue.
Some time later, Team Escarpara is busy in the St. Louis building. T-Bag decides that now is a fine time to broaden his horizons. His racist horizons, that is. He inquires, "Hey, Sucre. I got a question about you and the rest of the Mexicans." Sucre growls, "I don't think I'll be able to help, seeing as I'm Puerto Rican." T-Bag shrugs off this ethnic distinction with, "Geographic semantics, amigo. I'm talking general Latino population. How is it that a people so historically lazy make up such a big part of the nation's workforce." Sucre is P-I-S-S-E-D, pissed. He says, "The way I see things, it's everyone else who's lazy. Otherwise, there wouldn't be any jobs for the immigrants. The ones sitting at home collecting unemployment, the lazy ones -- it's not us." T-Bag is temporarily at a loss for words, then swings over to C-Note and says in feigned outrage, "You gonna let him talk about your people like that?" "Whatever, Deliverance," C-Note replies.
Meanwhile, on the outside...it's all very exciting as Quinn chases LJ through the woods. Veronica decides to answer the age-old philosophical question, "If a Veronica screams in the woods, will a Quinn hear her?" She calls for LJ and -- surprise -- gets Quinn. He wanders on over, and by this point I have found his blather too tiresome to bother repeating. The relevant thing is, he's standing on the cover of the dried-up well on the property. Veronica notices this, and immediately after Quinn mocks the notion that he'd be so stupid to trip lightly across this wooden platform, LJ barrels out of nowhere and knocks Quinn into the well. He's like Lassie in reverse!