What can you say about a handless dead guy named Charles Turner? Other than the fact that he's a career felon who has no ties to Pope whatsoever. The biker brain trust is stunned -- stunned! -- that the one black crime lord they know may not actually be responsible for this latest assassination attempt. Then Margaret interrupts to let everyone know Gemma's awake. Unser and Bobby Elvis share a mutter of trepidation; Bobby because he knows Jax is in a killin' mood and Unser because he knows Gemma was higher than a Rastafarian in Statue of Liberty's crown.

Jax rolls over to the room, takes in Clay standing vigil over Gemma, then coldly asks, "What happened? Were you drunk?" Gemma can't even look at Jax, so Clay smoothly lies that the "guys in a van" came after her and ran her off the road. Jax switches to being concerned, then asked if Gemma got a look at her assailants. Gemma can truthfully say she did not. Jax instantly switches into solicitous son mode, assuring Gemma that the boys are okay and saying that this whole incident is his fault. To Gemma's credit, she protests that assessment vigorously. Clay, who is standing in the door, is all, "...Yes. Be distracted. Overthink this. And soon, it will all be mine again!" The bikers whom I have begun to think of as the "senior bikers" -- Chibs, Tig and Bobby -- come in to verify that Gemma's alive and well, and Chibs gallantly blows her a kiss before they all stomp off again.

Out in the hall, Clay trots out the misdirection ploy again: "Only one guy we know gets off on dead kids." A quick shot to Tig, but it is worth noting here that Clay's the one who began killing gangsters' children first. Anyway, everyone is all, "Yes, let's all go meet with Pope and accuse the millionaire Bay Area developer-cum-drug lord of having nothing better to do with his time than repeatedly try to kill us, then deny it." And honestly, at this point, if I were Damon Pope and some hairy unwashed biker looked at me from beneath the Neanderthal ledge of his beetled brows and mumbled for the umpteenth time about how every black person in California is surely on Pope's payroll and therefore out to kill bikers, I'd be all, "You want me to kill you and your friends that badly? GAME ON." And then I'd hire Aryans to do it, just to mess with SAMCRO's collective head.