J.B. smiles, glances back toward Skeeter. That’s the usual signal. Skeeter
realizes what’s coming. Stop cam, close eyes. He briefly shuts down the Sony
atop his helmet, too. When he re-engages, a faint cloud of some damn golden 
particulate stuff, glinting with tiny motes of light, is drifting around the 
cop’s face. The cop is now smiling. J.B. lifts her mike.