Juels and Pock sat in the crowded and noisy Cracker Barrel restaurant on the eastern outskirts of Tuscaloosa at Exit 76 off I-20. The loud customer chatter around them covered and smothered their conversation, which was the reason they chose to meet there. Pock wore a floppy green hat baring the sharpie message in his own hand, The Devil Is The Details. Pock never removed his hat in public because his moonscape, disfigured, crater-dominated face brought unending, intrusive attention, visual brouhahas, long stares of dismay and disbelief in adults and fright in children. He hid, as best he could, inside a floppy hat, keeping others at bay, Pock not wanting to play the river rat attending your tea party, a practice of camouflage Pock had employed most of his life. He coveted the shadows and privacy offered by his hats, especially in the company of Juels, whose presence and conversation he sought and relished without the burden of rude behavior from people staring at him in public. "It was Brock who sent the pipe bomb that killed Clara," said Juels. "What are you going to do about it?" asked Pock.

He did not question Juels about the source of this knowledge, her telepathic abilities or her sixth sense. He fully appreciated and placed store in her prescient, disarming and acute paranormal gifts of clairvoyance, channeling, and psychic acquisitions. None of which he ever would comprehend or grasp. Just marvel. "I want him to live long enough so I can kill him," said Juels.