Roosevelt finally realizes why he's in the room: all of this is going down in San Joaquin County. "Yes, most likely, all of this is happening in your back yard," Potter says diffidently. However, that's not the only reason Roosevelt's now dealing with this legal oddball: Because Roosevelt has ten years of street experience in dealing with the gangs in Northern California, and that is something the room full of conspicuously Caucasian dudes in suits lacks. Roosevelt looks at the two walls bearing the faces of those who create, profit by or abet mayhem and says grimly, "Count me in."
We transition from a photo of Wursky to the man standing against a wall at the Jellybean, no doubt trying not to catch hoof-and-mouth disease. The world's least enthusiastic stripper lists against a pole. How unenthusiastic is she? Hint: She is still fully clothed. Anyway, Putlova greets Clay, Jax and Opie, and after some insincere small talk in re: Jax's recovery from his shivving, Clay gets to the point: "You've been taking 80 percent of the Irish stock for your customers up north." Putlova points out that by handling all transport and storage, the Russians have been assuming approximately 80% of the business risk. Clay says, "Well, now it's time for that equal share scenario to kick in." Putlova says jollily, "Yes, as we discussed, you'll get 50 percent of the hardware. But if we continue to transport and store the guns, we need to be compensated." Clay informs Putlova that so far as SAMCRO is concerned, the terms of the deal are going to be rewritten, and that's it. Then it's vodka shots for everyone! How fortunate for everyone involved that because of the local PD up on SAMCRO's tail, there's no chance to sample the new merchandise now. Jax and Opie invite Putlova and his crew to Opie's party, telling him it's a good cover for "checking out the operation." Then everyone toasts to a long and profitable relationship. Hands up, all of you who think this deal with either long or profitable.
Gemma has driven to the middle of nowhere, forest edition, where an Airstream trailer is parked in a sandy clearing. It's surrounded by all sorts of domestic detritus that suggests the occupant knows he or she is supposed to make a home here, but doesn't have the will or energy. Gemma gets out, pounds on the screen door (which is about to fall off the hinges), and we see the erstwhile Sheriff Unser. He looks about as good as his surroundings. He berates Gemma for knocking so loud, and she says, "I thought you might have up and died on me." "If I did, knocking louder ain't gonna help," he snaps. "I've been known to wake the dead," Gemma says. Then she pushes her way in with a "Jesus, Wayne! You told me you were going to hire somebody to help you out." Unser blusters some, and one look around the trailer -- framed commendations, a fishing trophy on the wall, stacks of detritus everywhere -- suggests he's in a bad way. That Unser's hair is a mess and he's in a stained, holey t-shirt and completely unaware of what day it is only underlines that point. He's gone to pieces since losing his job. He may also be incredibly stoned. Gemma asks how Unser's new meds are, and he says he quit taking them. "Wayne --" Gemma beseeches, and Unser says, "I can't afford them, the coverage is shit, so ... all they do is make me puke and sleep." So I'm wondering if he lost his benefits when the San Joaquin sheriff's department took over, or if Charming PD lacks the kind of effective union that guarantees sterling medical coverage and pensions for retired public servants. Eh, it's all academic. The point here is that Unser's a cold mess -- divorced, dying, despairing. Gemma hands over a giant baggie of pot and says, "I noticed your plants weren't doing so well out there." Unser breaks into sobs and says, "Everything is just kind of dying on me." He cries on Gemma's shoulder as she kisses the top of his head.