Wade and Cross have given up on Childress for now, but as they walk across the bullpen, Cross still doesn't get why Childress didn't shoot Ruiz at the drop. Uh, because Childress wasn't there? Wade argues, "His brain is scrambled. You read the notebooks. And he quoted his notebooks to Daniel Frye. Dialectics and that nonsense." Cross knows that, and Wade reassures her that they got him. Kitty happens along after an absence of a couple of episodes, and Wade wheedles a victory cigarette out of her, even though he quit. He tries to get Cross to join him, but she's still not feeling it. Not that feeling a lot of anything is her strong suit.
Instead, she returns to Childress in the interrogation room and asks him about his earlier reference to people stealing from him. "Did they steal your notebooks?" she asks. Good question. That would certainly explain a few things. Childress lifts his head off the table and says yes, as what he assumed was part of his past harassment by law enforcement. "Because you were hunting immigrants?" Cross asks. Childress prefers the terms "tracking" and "escorting." Notice that, still, nobody has used the word "poisoning."
Cross sits back down across from him to find out more about this harassment and who was behind it. Childress says it was the feds, storming his place and hauling things away. "Did they give some of them back?" he asks himself rhetorically, like a cast member on a reality show. "Yeah. But some things, including my…key writings…they kept." Childress says that power-tripping is human nature. "I don't think that's true," Cross says, like they're actually in a pot-filled dorm room instead of a place that just sounds like one, but Childress is rolling again. "Slaves dream not of freedom but of becoming masters," he quotes. Cross decides to leave it alone for now, probably because she's dreaming of not being in a room with this stinky weirdo any more.
Ray appears to have the ranch to himself. Or at least he'd better, when his gun-running buddy Tim from Florida drives an ice cream truck with Florida plates onto the property. The two lowlifes greet each other heartily, and Tim goes around to open the back gate, revealing a stack of locked wooden crates the size of small coffins. Ray's pretty impressed, but his buzz is killed when Tim says he's only delivering to Ray, not shipping to Mexico. Ray's going to have to move them himself. And given that these crates don't look light or even easy to remove from the truck, that's going to take some doing. Between all the manual labor and lingual labor this sideline is turning out to entail, Ray must really want to sell some guns.