"I mean, come on!" West said after a bite.

"The last Observer cop reporter screwed us so bad you sued the newspaper."

Hammer did not like to think about Weinstein, the worthless wonder, a criminal, really, whose MO was to walk into the duty captain's office or the investigative division when no one was around. He stole reports right off desks, printers, and fax machines. This collaborative behavior culminated in his writing a front-page Sunday profile about Hammer, claiming she commandeered the police helicopter for personal use. She ordered off-duty cops to chauffeur her and do domestic jobs around her house. When her daughter was picked up for drunk driving, Hammer had the charges fixed. None of it was true. She did not even have a daughter.

Hammer got up, clearly frustrated and disturbed by the mess the world was in. She looked out a window, hands in the pockets of her skirt, her back to West.

"The Charlotte Observer, the city, think we don't understand them or care," she started her evangelism again.

"And I know they don't understand us. Or care."

West crumpled breakfast trash, and scored two points in disgust.

"All the Observer cares about is winning another Pulitzer Prize," she said.

Hammer turned around, as serious as West had ever seen her.

"I had lunch with the new publisher yesterday. First time any of us have had a civilized conversation with anyone from there in a decade, at least.

A miracle. " She began her habitual pacing, gesturing with passion. She loved her mission in life.

"We really want to try this. Could it blow up in our faces? Absolutely." She paused.