“Where were you parked?”

He turns and points, and I decide to move his truck and Slade’s van to keep them out of the frame. Relying on my vast directorial skills, I want to shoot an action piece with Nathan approaching the scene on foot and the camera right behind him. We practice this for a few minutes, then begin rolling. Nathan is doing the narrative.

“Louder, Nathan. You gotta be louder,” I bark from the side.

Nathan is walking toward the scene and talking: “It was about two in the morning when we arrived here, me and Gene. We were in his truck, I was driving. As we pulled up, right about here, we could see the other vehicle over there, backed into those trees, where it should have been.” He keeps walking and pointing. “Everything appeared normal. We parked near the other vehicle, and our man, let’s call him Joe, so Joe gets out and says hello. We say hello and walk to the back of Gene’s truck. In a locked toolbox, there are about ten pounds of meth, good stuff, most of it cooked by Gene himself, and under a sheet of plywood there is a small cooler, also with about ten pounds. Total drop was roughly twenty pounds, with a wholesale value close to $200,000. We got the stuff out of the truck and moved it into the trunk of Joe’s car, and as soon as he slammed the trunk, all hell broke loose. There must’ve been a dozen DEA agents all over us. I don’t know where they all came from, but they were quick. Joe disappeared, never to be seen again. They dragged Gene over by his truck. He was cussing Joe and making all sorts of threats. Me, I was just so damned scared I could hardly breathe. They had us, dead guilty, and I knew I was headed to prison. They handcuffed me, went through my wallet, my pockets, and then led me down the trail over there. As I was walking away, I looked over my shoulder and I could barely see Gene on the ground, with both hands behind his back. He was angry and still cussing. A few seconds later, I heard gunshots, and then I heard Gene scream when he got hit.”

Loudly, I say, “Cut,” and walk around in circles for a moment. “Let’s do it again,” I say, and we go back to the starting point. After the third take, I’m satisfied and seize upon the next idea. I ask Nathan to stand on the spot where Gene was lying the last time he saw him. We place a folding chair there and Nathan sits down. When the camera is rolling, I ask, “Now, Nathan, what was your initial reaction when you heard gunfire?”

“I couldn’t believe it. They threw Gene down, on the ground, and there were at least four DEA agents standing above him. His hands were already behind his back, not yet handcuffed. He had no weapon. There was a shotgun and two 9-millimeters in the truck, but we had not removed them. I don’t care what the DEA said later, Gene was unarmed.”

“But when you heard the gunshots?”

“I stopped in my tracks and yelled something like, ‘What is that? What’s happening?’ I yelled for Gene, but the agents shoved me forward, down the trail. I couldn’t look back—I was too far away. At one point, I said, ‘I wanna see my brother,’ but they just laughed and kept pushing me into the darkness. We finally got to a van and they shoved me inside. They drove me to the jail in Bluefield, and the whole time I’m asking about my brother. ‘What happened to my brother? Where is Gene? What have you done with Gene?’ ”

“Let’s cut for a minute,” I say to Slade. I look at Nathan. “It’s okay to show some emotion here, Nathan. Think of the people watching this film. What do you want them to feel as they listen to this awful story? Anger? Bitterness? Sadness? It’s up to you to convey these feelings, so let’s try it again, but this time with some emotion. Can you do it?”

“I’ll try.”

“Roll it, Slade. Now, Nathan, how did you first learn that your brother was dead?”

“The next morning at the jail, a deputy came in with some paperwork. I asked him about Gene, and he said, ‘Your brother’s dead. Tried to run from the DEA, and they shot him down.’ Just like that. No sympathy, no concern, nothing.” Nathan pauses and swallows hard. His lips begin to quiver and his eyes are moist. Behind the camera, I give him a thumbs-up. He continues: “I didn’t know what to say. I was in shock. Gene didn’t try to run. Gene was murdered.” He wipes a tear with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, and the kid is really in pain. There’s no acting here, just real emotion.

“Cut,” I say, and we take a break. Gwen rushes in with a brush and some tissue. “Beautiful, just beautiful,” she says. Nathan stands and walks to the creek, lost in his thoughts. I tell Slade to start rolling again.

We spend three hours at the site, shooting and reshooting scenes that I create on the fly, and by 1:00 p.m. we’re hungry and tired. We find a fast-food place in Bluefield and choke down burgers and fries. Riding back to Radford, the three of us are silent until I tell Gwen to call Tad Carsloff, one of my partners in Miami. Carsloff’s name was mentioned by the CRS secretary when Nathan called our home office number two days earlier.

Feigning a real conversation, Gwen says, “Hello, Tad, it’s Gwen. Great. You? Yeah, well, we’re riding back to Radford with Nathan. We spent the morning at the site where his brother was murdered, pretty powerful stuff. Nathan did a fantastic job of narration. He doesn’t need the script, it just comes natural.” I sneak a look at Nathan behind the wheel. He cannot suppress a smug little smile.

Gwen continues with her one-way dialogue. “His mother?” A pause. “She hasn’t budged yet. Nathan says she wants no part of the film and doesn’t approve. Reed wants to try again tomorrow.” A pause. “He’s thinking of going to their hometown, to film the grave site, talk to old friends, maybe some guys he worked with, you know, that sort of thing.” A pause as she listens intently to nothing. “Yes, things couldn’t be better here. Reed is thrilled with the first two days and Nathan is just wonderful to work with. Really powerful stuff. Reed says he’ll call later this afternoon. Ciao.”

We ride in silence for a mile or two as Nathan soaks up the praise. Finally, he says, “So we’re going to Willow Gap tomorrow?”

“Yes, but you don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” I say. “I figure after two days you’ve had enough of this.”

“So you’re finished with me?” he asks sadly.

“Oh no. After tomorrow, I’m going home to Miami and I’ll spend a few days looking at footage. We’ll begin the editing, trying to whittle things down. Then, in a couple of weeks, whenever you can work us in, we’ll be back for another round of shooting.”

“Have you told Nathan about Tad’s idea?” Gwen says from the backseat.

“No, not yet.”

“I think it’s brilliant,” she says.

“What is it?” Nathan asks.

“Tad is the best editor in the company, and we collaborate on everything. Because this film involves three or four different families, different murders, he has suggested we bring you guys together, same place, same time, and just let the cameras run. Put you all in a room, in a very comfortable setting, and let the conversation begin. No script, no direction, just the facts, as brutal as they are. As I’ve told you, we have researched half a dozen cases, and they are all remarkably similar. We’ll pick the best three or four—”

“Yours is definitely the best,” Gwen interjects.

“And let you, the victims, compare stories. Tad thinks this could be beyond powerful.”

“He’s right,” Gwen chirps. “I would love to see it.”

“I tend to agree,” I say.

“Where would we meet?” Nathan says, practically on board.

“We’re not that far along, but probably Miami.”

“Have you been to South Beach, Nathan?” Gwen asks.

“No.”

“Oh, boy. For a single guy, thirty years old, you will not want to leave. The partying is nonstop and the girls are … How would you describe them, Reed?”

“Haven’t noticed,” I say, on script.