Once inside, Galen persists in hammering on how this cartel deal is really just bad news all the way around, and Jax is in the unenviable position of having to defend it. It is the biker equivalent of a middle manager having to defend his idiot supervisor's dumbest decisions at a company board meeting. Anyway, the Irish belabor the whole "cartels = bad" point with a little bonus racism thrown in on the side and a cheap shot about Tara's health, and Clay decides that really, it's in nobody's best interest to keep harping on how the cartel monkeyshines nearly killed Tara. But rather than point out that he is the one who made that call, Clay breaks out a lesson from Algebra I: The transitive property. He says, "Look. You trust me. I trust Galindo. We're talking about a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here." We cut to Bobby Elvis, who is openly rooting for the Irish to walk away. Jax jumps in to make another sales pitch, but it's Chibs who finally seals the deal by pointing out that big guns fired in Mexico rarely will make a bunch of Irish terrorists look bad in Ireland. (He does not add, "Besides, you all need no help in looking bad, you terrorists.")
Anyway, the camera focuses on Juice listening intently as Galen and Clay agree to meet on the Indian reservation at 3 p.m. tomorrow. Then we zip to the war room, where Potter is chillaxing on an inversion table as all the other besuited Feds look busy in the background. Suddenly, Potter's laconic demeanor makes so much more sense. Have y'all ever tried one of those inversion tables? You will emerge from the experience floating on a cloud of I-don't-care. Anyway, Potter orders the suits to deal with the Corrections Department in order to get Lenny the Pimp his privileges, as time is of the essence on this deal. Before Grad (the suit) can give Potter too much pushback, a lady Fed comes over and hands Potter a Post-it bearing the transcription of a text. Why she couldn't flash the phone is a mystery, but the upshot is that Juice has just delivered the date and time of the meet to the Feds, per his agreement. Potter sits upright, brandishes his cigarette like a magic wand and announces in pop-eyed excitement, "Juan Carlos just locked down our Irish-cartel gun meet." The Feds are not similarly jazzed.
We cut to Juice in the bathroom, clicking a button on his phone. Here's hoping the club's intelligence officer has the brains to erase the texts he's sending. Oh, wait -- I'm talking about Juice. Anyway, he's staring at himself in the mirror with a mixture of resolve and self-loathing, and outside the door, his best father figure calls, "We're heading out the door, Juicy!" One more glare in the mirror and Juice catches up to the graybeards, many of whom are vaguely optimistic that they may not be killed at the hands of the cartel after all. Chibs says cheerily, "Shite's in the rearview now, boys!" and flings his arm around Juice's neck. Oh, Chibs. When the Feds snag you thanks to Juice's information, it's going to be so tragic.