Team Scylla is now parking by some electrical switch boxes and planning some sort of mayhem. That Michael, he's good with the bold-cutters.
We cut to Don Self in his office. He dials his voicemail -- "To listen to your messages, press one" -- and the first one is from a woman who cheerily announces, "Hey, honey, it's me. I'm at the grocery store. I was planning on making those grilled pork chops, unless you're not in the mood for them. I hope you're having a great day." As Don listens, he sort of smiles, and he holds the framed picture of a beaming, chestnut-haired woman. I'm going to go ahead and wildly speculate here: that's his wife (we saw a wedding band on his nightstand in a prior episode, but he never wears it), she's dead and it's the fault of the One World Conspiracy. Once Don's done listening to that message, he fires up his computer to see what those scamps on Team Scylla are up to, and notices five of them clustered around a building in downtown L.A. Out comes the speed-dial: "What are you guys doing?" Michael answers brusquely, "We'll call you when we're done." Aww, it's sweet how he's helping Don Self maintain plausible deniability.
We cut to the courtroom where Mahone and a few other people are getting arraigned. Mahone looks like he's seen the Grim Reaper which, come to think of, he sort of has. The hulking mass of flesh next to Mahone sheepishly waves at the saucer-eyed sweetie who is waving at him. Mahone, however, does not wave at Agent Blots Out the Sun. Instead, he looks like he's fighting the urge to levitate out of his seat and go after the man's throat with his teeth.
Speaking of people who would rip out a man's throat with their teeth, here's Gretchen. She's trying to get Whistler's effects released from the Los Angeles county coroner, but he's immune to the ersatz tears of an ersatz widow. The coroner is not, however, immune to a vicious haymaker. He goes down like the stock market and Gretchen takes off with Whistlers effects, including a mobile phone. She checks the message, which gives her the address for the apartment Whistler had set up. Oh, this is going to be good.
Mahone and Agent Blots Out the Sun are still engaged in a staring contest when Dr. Sara walks in, looking all sassy with some serious Pantene glossy hair and a smart black suit. She makes her way over to the table where the lawyers are and says, "I'm representing Frank Zwan. I'm going to need his jacket from you." The public defender says, "I thought he was indigent." Dr. Sara smoothly lies, "He was. His mother in Santa Barbara, however, is not, and she retained me this morning." The defender's like, "Suits me," and tosses over the file. (On a side note: if I were Michael, I'd be very nervous about my lady's ability to lie like a fine Persian rug.)