Area 51? In the summer. Theres a cop op on for tonight. Im listening in. Mike Edelstein had invited a print reporter and two TV teams to our campaign office where he sat behind a long table with a slender, middle-aged bald man in a blue button-down shirt. This, Edelstein said, was Tim Rosencrantz from Chicago, who had testified in numerous trials as a lock-and-key forensics expert. You know her? she asked. Youre getting good at this stuff, noted Devine. There you go. Construction crews were muscling pipe and wheelbarrows and gripping shovels and lunch pails and smoking their Camels and drinking their non-Starbucks morning eye-openers. Or so, Stone said. Mr. Fisher could be occupied with a client. Anything else I can do for you? Stone asked. One of the men at the table said,Kick his ass, man. Hes had it comin a long time. No. Of course not. Does this tie into what might be going on at the firm? Whichis your mission, after all. Everybody else nodded. If thats the case, why exchange at all? Yes, Your Honor. Hancock glanced at the old wound and said,Damn, looks like it hurt. Take, for instance, the case of a doctor speeding to the bedside of a patient who is critically ill. Hes probably violating a whole assortment of traffic laws, but the emergency makes it advisable to do so. He has to use his own judgment. And shedid look sorry, Devine had to admit. Very sorry indeed. He thought he saw tears bubbling at the edges of those beautiful eyes. But perhaps that was the morphine talking..