the image of Paul Calder Le Roux, a man who presided over a criminal conglomerate worth hundreds of millions of dollars, re- fusing to pay two dollars to launder his shirt.

That afternoon, Klaussen's driver took him and Le Roux to a nearly empty hotel, where they'd set up to meet the Colombian. When they arrived, Pepe was waiting for them in a room with tile floors and a pair of maroon leather couches, arranged perpendicu- lar to each other. Klaussen gave him a hug. Le Roux shook his hand and settled onto the larger of the two couches, facing Pepe, who sat with the window at his back. Both Klaussen and Pepe were outfitted with watch cameras, but that was overkill: The room itself was wired and the agents were waiting next door.

“I can see why you picked this place,” Le Roux said. “Because it's chaotic, it should be easy to move in and out, from what I've seen.”

“Very easy,” said Pepe.

“Very few people, not too many eyes. It looks like the right place.”

“Trust me—what's your name again?”

“Paul.”

“Paul, trust me, it's the right place.”

The next half an hour was, as far as the law was concerned, largely unnecessary. Le Roux could have been arrested based sim- ply on the meth samples he'd sent, and the conversations he'd had with Klaussen about the shipments bound for New York. But the Southern District prosecutors wanted evidence supporting as many charges as possible: drug dealing, money laundering, arms dealing. So Pepe bounced around details of the drug deals with Le Roux: how and when the meth would be delivered, the possibility of pay- ing in gold or diamonds. With each word, Le Roux seemed to be turning the locks that would keep him in an American prison for decades.