“There was no design regarding who I met and who I didn't meet. Anyone was able to come and speak to me at any time. My door was always open.”

The defense attempted to portray Le Roux as both a monster and a man who would say anything to get out of prison. Samia's attorney spent the first portion of his cross-examination goading Le Roux to admit that the password to his laptop, when he was arrested in Liberia, had been “HITLER.” But establishing that Le Roux lacked remorse was easy enough. “Fair to say that you were planning on murdering anyone that you had determined had double-crossed you?” Hunter's attorney asked.

“That's fair to say, yes,” Le Roux said.

Later, Samia's attorney picked up the same line of questioning. “After you killed the first person, did you ever feel bad about it?” he asked.

“I felt bad about the victims, yes.”

“It didn't stop you from killing the next one or the next one or the next one, did it?”

Le Roux paused before responding. “It did not.” He admitted that at the time he was committing the crimes, he was uncon- cerned about the consequences in the Philippines. “I didn't care who knew what, whether people knew the crimes were happening or not because I had the police on the payroll,” he said. “I was protected.”

The bulk of the cross-examination, by three different attorneys, was spent on Le Roux's decision to cooperate. He appeared well- practiced in his answers concerning his agreement with the gov- ernment. The crimes to which he had pleaded guilty carried a sentence of ten years to life, he said, but he would never be prose- cuted for most of what he'd done, from violence to drug dealing. And if he told the truth and provided substantial assistance, they could choose to write his judge a so-called 5K1 letter—named after a clause in federal sentencing guidelines—asking for a re- duced sentence. If they did, the judge could venture below the minimum, and even give him time served. But they weren't re-