We have dedicated our lives to lifting up this community—” I stood near the back of the room, in a crisp charcoal suit, holding a manila envelope, and I listened to her say those words, dedicated our lives to lifting up this community, over the very ballroom where they had laundered the money stolen from that community’s children, and I felt no anger, only a deep and settled calm, the calm of a person watching a long, patient piece of work arrive, precisely on schedule, at its conclusion.

And then the heavy oak doors at the back of the ballroom burst open.

Chapter 15 — The Doors Burst Open

A dozen federal agents in dark blue windbreakers, stamped in gold letters with IRS-CI and FBI, marched down the center aisle, flanked by four uniformed Denver police officers.

The room went dead silent, and then erupted, flashbulbs firing in a frenzy as the assembled reporters swung their cameras toward the back of the hall, sensing, with the instinct of their profession, that the story they had come to cover had just become a vastly different one.

Agent Croft stepped up onto the stage, a thick red folder in her hands, and her voice boomed out over the sound system.