More than race and class, though, what made the case truly difficult for the defense was Snipes’ behavior. The actor asserted that he was not required to pay taxes because of something called the “861 position,” a reference to a section of the federal tax code that some have interpreted to say that domestically derived income is not taxable. During the six years that he did not file returns, Snipes kept in contact with the Internal Revenue Service. In one 600-page diatribe, he described himself as a “nonresident alien” and said the I.R.S. had violated his 14th Amendment rights. “Gibberish,” said prosecutors.

Undeterred, the Bobs told the all-white jury that Snipes was a seeker of truth, a man so committed to determining what was right that he even asked the I.R.S. to audit him.

Snipes, who declined to comment for this article, did not testify in his own defense. In fact, the Bobs called not a single witness—a rare “penthouse or shithouse” move, as Bernhoft described it. Either the jury would see that the government had failed to prove its case or Snipes would go down hard. Blogger J.J. MacNab, an expert on tax protest, called the strategy “a big, high-risk poker bluff” that works only “every blue moon.” But the jury chose the penthouse. The Bobs were one step closer to liftoff.

“Crazy ain’t a crime,” Bernhoft had told the Snipes jury in his opening argument. “If it were, half of Hollywood would be in prison.”

But are entertainment-industry executives crazy enough to embrace two up-from-nothing litigators from flyover country? The Bobs are optimistic.

“As soon as I came out here, I knew L.A. was a natural home for what we do,” Barnes tells me one day on the terrace at the Malibu Beach Inn. “We are legal mercenaries. What we have is a creative, independent, professional, eclectic, antisystem, antitraditional approach to life, philosophy, and the law. We have personalities that are predisposed to being outsiders. And that makes sense here.”

But does it? The fraternity of attorneys that serves Los Angeles’ mogul class is as insular as it is competitive, with a few top dogs representing most of the power players. Bert, Skip, Jake: Many of the heaviest hitters are known by their first names, and being represented by one of them (Fields, Brittenham, Bloom) is itself a signifier of clout. In the entertainment capital of the world, a lawyer’s multilayered loyalties are seen as assets. As the producer and former studio chief Joe Roth once told the Los Angeles Times, in Hollywood, “if you’re not conflicted, you’re not wired enough.”

Fields regularly switches sides, representing people (like Bob and Harvey Weinstein) he once faced off against. Brittenham represents both 20th Century Fox co-chairmen, Jim Gianopulos and Tom Rothman. When it’s time to renew their contracts, he fights for their interests; other times, he negotiates with them on behalf of others.

Relationships are currency here, and the lawyers who have them are perceived to be the most effective. The Bobs have zero relationships. “We can’t call up Ben Silverman and have a chitchat,” Bernhoft admits, referring to NBC’s entertainment president.