We're leaving Tacoma tomorrow to drive down to Frisco for the Meeting to agent provocateur. We got the 26th Floor bar of the Sheraton Tacoma to inaugurate the Jim Bellini, wrapped in Sarin, to celebrate Jim's success at holding twice-daily press conferences in the courtroom. Adam Ciralsky and Declan McCulllagh ask Jim dipshit stegnographic questions, and nobody interferes, except Jim's US Marshal batmen who persist in demanding Adam or Declan inteview them. At one of the rump sessions Robb London said he was going to demand affidavits of everyone about what was being discussed. He was ignored except by a woman who claimed to be Tim May. No shit, I said to her, show me your Claymores. This morning I discovered the jurors' names on the court's public Web site. Holy Tanner I said to my partner, don't look at this. Later, Judge Jack said you put this on the Internet you're chittlins. You understand that, blue eyed devil? We offered to be a witness for Jim Bell, hoping to affirm the government's treating us like terrorists, what we got was demand for cold cash to ride on Jim's train as if what was good for 60 Minutes was the penny ante. It can't be said in public but the jurors are nauseous at the condescension shown them by people in the courtroom on the government fatroll. A group therapy platoon of federal agents appeared today, as testifying witnesses, as courtroom rubberneckers like us. The fear, the loathing. The stellar witness was a reporter from The Columbian who you'd mistake for Jim, in philosophy, in purpose, in looks, in obeying no gyroscope except his own. The most believable witness was Jeff Gordon who affirmed the off-the-record plot to nail Jim unofficially in the honorable northwest tradition of vigilante justice. Ably assisted by Jim as ever. "Let's make each other infamous."