FADE IN: INT. MERIDIAN RISK SOLUTIONS, RAY'S OFFICE, FOURTH FLOOR, MORNING A rain-streaked window. Through the glass: grey water, a working waterfront, cranes standing still in the November light. Container ships at anchor. The city behind them, low and practical, the kind of place that does not attract postcards. RAY OKEKE (58) stands at the window with a manila folder. He is reading. His face is broad and deliberate, the kind of face that has learned over many years to give nothing away and has succeeded. He wears a grey suit. The suit is not new but it is cared for. He has the posture of a man who spent three decades in rooms where posture was information. The office is spare. A desk, a chair, a shelf with three physical binders organized by date. A printer he bought himself. No photographs. No diplomas. On the far edge of the desk: a clock. Battery-powered. Cheap white face, black numerals. It ticks. Ray turns from the window. He sits. He opens the folder on the desk and retrieves a small bound notebook from his breast pocket. He uncaps a pen, a ballpoint, the same brand in bulk, and writes the date at the top of a fresh page. He spreads surveillance photographs across the desk. A parking lot. A man carrying a box. The man, in the photographs, is clearly not injured the way his claim says he is injured. Ray examines each photograph through1