William Fitzgerald is taking pictures of Randy and his newest girlfriend when there’s a tap on his window. It’s a cop; he wants to know what William Fitzgerald’s up to, thinks he’s a peeping tom. His whole solid cop body radiates righteous indignation, outraged modesty. “Move it along, now,” he says, “move it along.”

William Fitzgerald hands him his license. The cop gets if anything more offended, looks hard at William Fitzgerald, wants to run him off, wants more than anything to take him in. “Nice job,” says the cop, and works it so that he spits a little bit on the b in job, just enough that William Fitzgerald has to wipe his face, but not anything that couldn’t be accidental. William Fitzgerald smiles, it’s all the same to him.

He gets the cop’s name and badge number, though, and slips it to Randy’s wife’s divorce lawyer. When the cop takes the stand and swears his way through his story, William Fitzgerald is hunched in the back of the courtroom, smiling to himself, invisible again.