On the shoulder, just behind the half-mile notice sign for the exit, Trooper Hollifield sits in black glasses and radar gun pointing at random cars. Not quite random really; he actually likes to hone in on the sportscars, particularly red ones, and the large minibuses driven by overstressed mothers between dropping the kids off and getting to work. He finds them reluctant to admit to the personal failure of earning a ticket and more than willing to deal.

He watches the flow, not real anxious to join it, not needing to make up the numbers. He can, he decides, be picky as hell.