Q: As it turned out, Greg would have had a hard time canceling the check, even if he'd changed his mind. Chloe's crew had already sprung into action as soon as they left the building. The company used a computer controlled switchboard to route phone calls and this immediately went down, same for their Internet access. Meanwhile, a crude but effective denial of service attack was launched against their company Web site. If Greg decided to use his cell phone there wasn't much they could do, but the hope was that he'd be so tied up with all this other crap that he wouldn't have time to think of that. Paul didn't think any of that was necessary. Greg had given in and he wasn't going to call and cancel the check now. He'd agreed for a reason, and once Greg had a reason for making a decision it was usually impossible to change his mind. And it didn't make sense anyway. All he would have done is buy himself a little more time. Chloe and Paul would just march right back in and start all over again - probably after sending out pics of Evan in drag to all the employees. From his point of view, there was no reason for Greg to do that. Of course, it was still a huge risk for Chloe and Paul. If Greg just wanted a delay to get the lawyers involved, then they were in trouble. Chloe and he had broken a fist full of laws in the past twelve hours. They needed to cash that check and disappear as soon as they could. The bank put up a bit of a fuss about the check, which was one more reason Paul hated Bank of Fucking America. They always had some rule to screw a customer. But Chloe made a bunch of noise and actually jumped up and down at one point and eventually they walked out of the bank with a cashier's check. Question: Who is Evan? === The answer to the above question is
A: not enough information

Q: I was one of the best fingerprint examiners in the world. I could do things the FBI thought impossible. I could memorize fingerprints. The nearby agencies, including local offices of federal agencies that had their own labs, came to me for help. One day in a trial a new-hatched defence attorney tried to make me seem neglectful because I hadn't sent the prints from the crime scene to the FBI for verification. The FBI will not look at prints that have already been identified locally. I tried to get that across to him. Finally I said, “Sir, you don't understand. I don't ask the FBI for help. The FBI asks me for help.” The courtroom went dead silent. The lawyer choked a bit and looked frantically at the judge, who knew me quite well. The judge slowly nodded. The lawyer choked a few more times, said, “No further questions,” and returned to his seat. I was the only person in the five-state area in which the silver burglar was hitting who got him on fingerprint evidence. He never left fingerprint evidence . . . except when he did. Every other police agency quit looking, because his MO was unmistakable. We didn't. A detective got prints from a bamboo tree he had used to climb in a window, and I got several prints from items he had handled inside the house. After the trial he was being led back to the jail and I was walking down the hall. He stopped and said, “I want to talk to that lady.” The bailiff told him he couldn't talk to the witness, but I said I wanted to hear what he had to say. He said, “Lady, you're the smartest cop I ever saw, and I hope to God I never see you again.” I think that was the best compliment I ever got. I have other accomplishments. But I consider my police work the most important. Question: The silver burglar probably feels what towards the fingerprint examiner? === The answer to the above question is
A: admiration

Q: I’ll go one farther back than that. I almost never had a first date. A young lady I met in the hospital cafeteria where I worked as a pharmacy intern (she was an X-ray tech) I asked out on a date. Would you like to follow me home? she asked. I said SURE! She got in her car, hit the freeway, went over the top of the hill..and was gone. I went 75 mph desperately trying to keep her tail lights in my line of sight while swerving in and out of traffic. I thought if you don’t really want to go out with me, just tell me, don’t try to ditch me! I finally caught up with her but found out she always drives that way. If Janet Guthrie wasn’t the first woman to drive in the Indy 500, she would have been. Over the years as she got older, collecting speeding tickets got old so she became a more responsible driver. I’m glad, because I had to help pay for those tickets over the last 30+ years we’ve been married. Glad I caught up to her that one night on the freeway. EDIT, AND BACKSTORY: She ate lunch with her X-ray tech coworkers. She left the table first and I approached the others and asked what was her name, the girl that just left. They told me, and about a half hour later called the radiology department from the pharmacy phone and asked for her. She said all the girls in the department were huddled around the phone and giggling while we talked. It’s the handsome blonde intern in the pharmacy, they told each other. Oh, you mean THAT one?! Ooooh! Like the final scene from “An Officer And A Gentleman.” Pretty funny. Question: The author asked the X-ray tech coworkers for Janet's name: === The answer to the above question is
A: After she had gotten up and left the lunch table.

Q: It's axiomatic that all cultures reserve a special place for food in their daily and social lives. For something as simple as a cuppa joe, we schedule and juggle our time to meet at predetermined locations to share conversation and libation. Meals require even more effort and the social ramifications increase. One is expected to show up on time, sometimes dress to certain standards and bring one or many bottles of wine as a thoughtful gift to the hosts. And of course, the food is just an excuse to get together with friends to enjoy a meal, share stories, to discuss or seduce, to seal an agreement or act as a prelude to a severance of relations (frequently unintentionally). I was first introduced to dining for pleasure as opposed to sustenance while at the University of New Brunswick. I lived in Bridges House, one of the men's residences. The young, eager, bright-eyed students in each residence were kept more or less in check by a Don. Each residence had its share of maniacs and troublemakers who were at university to get some form of education, alcohol poisoning or a social disease; sometimes all three. The Don's job was to act as a mentor and prison warden. Imagine a building housing up to 100 young adult men. It doesn't take much to start a riot. In our case, the Don was Locutus. When we met him, he must have been in his forties but looked to us adolescents to be older than Father Time. He was immediately dubbed 'Grandpa Munster'. With the tender sensitivity of males of our age, we didn't bother to hide this from him and he took it in good humour. In point of fact, Locutus was a great Don; firm when he needed to be and understanding and helpful as appropriate. You crossed this guy at your peril, but he was generally pretty tolerant. Question: The author lived in Bridges House: === The answer to the above question is
