The calm, bored quality of his voice surprised me. I blinked thinking how I had imagined dark things happened when someone like Pablo Escobar spoke—thunder, disembodied snickering, the sound, far off, of clashing cymbals. Instead, he spoke with the rote boredom of someone passing the time, as if he was reclined, too, in a hammock, and, I imagined, squeezing a stress ball.
