The document that came to be known, in internal network memos, as "the Western Avenue Treatment," was discovered on the upper level of a Los Angeles strip mall, its pages scattered across the carpet of an abandoned office suite, apparently spit out by a nearby fax machine.

At least that's the story Renee Alcala eventually told the network.

Between acting jobs—and the gaps had been growing longer—Renee Alcala worked as a rental agent for several commercial real estate companies. On December 3, 2002, her work brought her to the office suite in question for the first time. It was just a preliminary visit to assess the space before she could begin showing it to prospective lessees. Now of course it wasn't Renee's job to do the cleaning, but her ability to close a deal depended on the property looking sharp, so she kept a small plastic crate of cleaning supplies in the trunk of her car. On the morning of December 3, Renee was hopeful that the space might almost be ready to show—she had a lead on a massage therapist who was looking to relocate—so she took the crate of supplies from her trunk and climbed, in her high heels, the outdoor stairs to the upper level.

The office space, 750 square feet, was located on the second story of a strip mall at the intersection of Lemon Grove and N. Western Avenues, above a lavanderia, and next door to a nail salon. As she climbed the stairs, a car pulled into the parking lot below, a pop song blaring from its windows. The song seemed familiar to Renee, but in a second-hand way, as if it reminded her of another song, a song she hadn't heard yet, a song still to be written, the inescapable pop song from some season in the future, the song that would always cause Renee to remember this moment, these stairs, this crate of cleaning supplies. The music stopped as she reached the top step, and a car door slammed.

Outside the office, Renee set down her crate and looked around. The outdoor walkway was clean and well-swept, with only a few cracks in the concrete. The office itself had floor-to-ceiling front windows, obscured by closed curtains—ecru, woven fabric, decent shape. Renee could smell the moist soapy air from the laundromat below, with only the faintest tang of nail remover mixed in. All in all, the front-door-impression wasn't too bad. As she took out the keys, she noticed a business card taped on the inside of the glass door: "Terrapin Pictures, Hollywood, California."

Technically true, thought Renee—this side of Western was in the 90038 zip code.