Writers counsel each other, “Write what you know.” If I were smart I’d stop now. This is a confession of ignorance.

Considering the subject matter, my project was born in an unlikely scene: Tuscany. A villa sitting on a hill. Aperol spritzes on a summer afternoon, fried zucchini flowers, dinner concluded with a frosty limoncello digestivo. I’m at a long table lined with American attorneys, all of them whistleblower lawyers. They are encouraging me to shoot a documentary on whistleblowers, and saying that they will hook me up with their clients.

Journalism usually doesn’t happen that way. Projects aren’t commonly born at villas, and lawyers don’t often extend their clients to us so easily. But they weren’t ordinary lawyers, and