In fact, he found it patronizing. Glover might have been black, and he might have been a pirate, but that didn’t make him a thug. He was playing it straight these days. He spoke in a friendly basso profundo with a rural Southern accent. He lived in a small town, he liked to fish, and he attended church regularly. On weekends, he raced quad bikes through the Appalachian mud. Sure, he liked Tupac—who didn’t?—but he also liked Nickelback, and he had grown up driving a tractor. His friends called him a “black redneck.”

So when Kali tried to be “down,” Glover had to roll his eyes. He’d given up on such posturing years ago. He liked white people just fine: his girlfriend, Karen Barrett, was white, and so was his friend Tony Dockery, and so were many members of the Quad Squad. In fact, Glover thought the way Kali talked was a manipulative ploy to establish racial solidarity based on what Kali thought it was like to be a black American. For, while he sensed that Kali probably wasn’t white, Glover knew he wasn’t black either—his hip-hop affect was entirely too phony.

Glover decided to do a little investigating. He typed the name “Kali” into a search engine and was presented with an image of the four-armed, black-skinned Hindu Goddess of Death. Was the guy on the other end of the line South Asian, maybe Indian? If so, Glover had a supremely odd image of his own Kali: the Hindu God of Leaking, a stoned Desi wigger who lived at home in the Valley with his mom.

This was the guy at the top of the pyramid, and Glover, along with Dockery, had the distinct privilege of answering to him directly. But this cutout in the command hierarchy came at a price: Glover was not permitted to interact with the other members of the group. This prohibition extended even to the group’s other leader, a guy who had been promoted to the position of “ripping coordinator” after years of service. His online handle was “RST,” but his real name was Simon Tai.

Tai lived in a different world than Glover and Dockery. He was an Ivy League biology student who came from a background of privilege. He was raised in Southern California, then matriculated at the University of Pennsylvania in 1997. As a freshman on campus with a T1 Internet connection, he’d watched RNS from the sidelines, feeling a bit in awe of the group and wondering how he might contribute. After hanging around in the chat channel for nearly a year and completing various menial technical tasks, he was given an invite.

Simultaneously, he applied for a DJ slot at the school’s radio station. For two years Kali had waited patiently as Tai made his way up the ranks. He’d cultivated Tai’s interest in rap music and directed him to make connections with the promotional people at the relevant labels. Finally, in 2000, as a trusted senior, a 21-year-old Tai was promoted to music director and given a key to the station’s office. He now had direct, unmonitored access to the station’s promo discs. Every day he checked the station’s mail, and when something good came in, he raced back to his dorm room to upload it as quickly as possible. Victory sometimes came down to a matter of seconds.

Tai scored two major leaks that year, back to back: Ludacris’ Back for the First Time, and Outkast’s Stankonia. The albums shifted the regional focus in rap music away from New York and Los Angeles and toward Atlanta, and they were massive gets for RNS. Kali was delighted with his apprentice, and over time Tai came to realize that he was being groomed as his replacement. His promotion to ripping coordinator was the dark-world mirror to his position at the campus radio station, and soon he was delegating orders to the RNS rank and file. Kali began to include him in higher-level discussions with the leaders of other Scene groups, and he was given privileged information about the location and management of the group’s topsites. He even came to know some of the other members’ real names.

For the next two years Tai managed RNS’ roster of leakers. Along with Kali, he carefully tracked the major labels’ distribution schedules and directed his sources to be on the lookout for certain hot albums. Matching sources with albums was an inexact science, particularly since RNS had international scope with potential at every level.

First there were the radio DJs, who could provide access to their respective station formats: “MistaEd” in Baltimore for underground hip-hop, “BiDi” in Georgia for mainstream R&B, “DJ Rhino” in Minnesota for independent rock.

Then there were the British music journalists “Ego_UK” and “Blob.” Like Tai, they relied on promotional connections at the major labels and focused on whatever rap artists Universal hadn’t managed to snap up. Their greatest coup was 50 Cent’s “lost” debut, Power of the Dollar, scheduled for release in 2000 by Sony, but canceled after the rapper was shot. Never officially released, it fell on RNS to make sure the album saw the light of day.

Then there were the Japanese. Presence here was a must, as albums sometimes launched in Japan one or two weeks ahead of the U.S. release date. And even when trans-Pacific launches were simultaneous, the Japanese editions often contained bonus track rarities that appealed to Scene completists. Tai relied on “kewl21” and “x23” to source this material, one an expat, the other a native.

Finally there were the Tuesday rippers. These were the foot soldiers who spent their own money to purchase music legally the day it appeared in stores. “RL,” “Aflex,” and “Ziggy” weren’t even leakers really, just enthusiasts. This was the lowest level of access, whom Tai directed to scoop up whatever fell through the cracks.

In 2002, Kali offered to step down and let Tai lead. Tai, now 23, had graduated and was suffering from postcollege malaise. He still lived near campus and worked in the school’s IT department. He’d been relieved of his position at the radio station upon graduation, but he’d managed to keep the key to the office. He had a laptop now, and by night he snuck into the station to make copies of the promotional CDs.

It was a tempting offer, but for some reason Tai turned it down. In later years he struggled to remember why. It wasn’t fear exactly—at that age he still felt invincible. And he had grown close to Kali, with whom he chatted daily. The group had given Tai a sense of belonging, and he would maintain a presence in its chat channels for years to come. But, for whatever reason, at the age of 23 he opted for retirement. He was given the title “leaker emeritus.”

And yet, through it all, even from this privileged position of confidence, Tai had no idea that Dell Glover existed. He knew of Dockery, vaguely, and was aware that the group occasionally sourced leaks from inside Universal’s manufacturing plant. But he had no knowledge whatsoever of the quiet presence named “ADEG,” who was in fact the group’s best asset. He had managed the leakers for two years, and almost led the group himself, but even he was in the dark. Kali’s greatest coup was a secret he kept to himself.

Kali told Glover this was done for his own protection. Glover didn’t buy it. He suspected the real reason Kali kept him isolated was that he didn’t want a rival Scene crew to poach him. But he went along with it, because he needed Kali too. Estimates were difficult, but at any given time global Scene membership probably comprised no more than a couple of thousand people. Kali, with his worldwide network of leaking insiders, was the elite of elites, close to the very top. He had helped to draft the mp3 leaking standards himself. Being Kali’s source was definitely worth the headache. A typical Scene pirate, bribing record store employees and cracking software, might be granted passwords to only three or four topsites. By 2002, Glover had access to two dozen.

He parlayed this access into the bootleg movie hustle. The growing trade in pirated movies paralleled the rise of pirated music, and in 2001 the home DVD burner debuted. The move from the inferior VCD to the rental-quality DVD brought an explosion in business for Glover. He built another tower to replace the first, with seven DVD burners replacing the CDs. He upgraded his Internet connection from satellite to broadband. He downloaded the last few years’ most popular movies from the Scene topsites to his home PC, then burned a couple dozen copies each. He printed the movies’ titles on the mailing labels and then affixed them to the discs. For each film he also now printed out a full-color cover sleeve and stuck that into a photo album to create a makeshift catalog. During the sales process, customers selected the movies they wanted by pointing to the posters, and, as always, Glover then retrieved the counterfeit discs from “inventory” in the trunk of his car.