The afternoon sun had finally broken through the clouds over Marina del Rey. The two lawyers greeted each other in the lobby of the Marriott Hotel, overlooking the boat-studded docks. They hugged awkwardly, but the older man lingered, rubbing his hands across the younger man’s back and sweeping in not-so-subtle searching motions across his chest.

“You think I’m wearing a wire!” James Little protested. “You think I’m wearing a fucking wire?”