Millerlight was going to make a great witness at trial.

CENTER CITY

Lead prosecutor Barbara Cohan was an unrepentant workaholic, but now she was working until 2 or 3 in the morning. A good day ended by midnight, enough time for her to drive up Interstate 95 to her tan-and-brown Northeast Philadelphia split-level, sleep four hours, shower, and return by 7 a.m.

At 30 days to takedown, there was too much to do. Produce search warrants. Read e-mail wiretaps, and write regular reports for the judge. Coordinate agents. Write the indictment. Draft a news release.

Making the case especially difficult, the details kept shifting, the numbers kept growing, the suspects kept traveling.

Every few days, Jim Pavlock, the prosecutor for money-laundering, would walk down the hall to Barb's cluttered office, with its 14 gargoyles and glass paperweights, and crow, "I've found another account!"

So far, he had traced $7 million. Each new account led to another rogue online pharmacy, adding another branch to DEA's investigative flow chart. Prosecutors were already talking about a second and third round of indictments, once Akhil's network was taken down.

Not everything had gone so well. Barb had spent weeks writing an application to tap Akhil's cell phone. Everything in Philadelphia had been approved and the paperwork was being faxed to Washington when suddenly Akhil canceled his service.

Barb freaked. Was Akhil wise to the investigation? Was he pulling a typical drug-dealer stunt, switching cell phones every few weeks? But really, she didn't think so. He was probably trying to duck his clients.

In one secret report to the judge, Barb wrote: "E-mail messages intercepted between March 3 and March 12 disclose an organization in chaos... . Complaints from... customers... shipments have been delayed, tracking numbers have been late or erroneous, and the organization's U.S. depot has been out of stock of frequently ordered drugs."

Barb faced another, more personal, deadline.

After 24 years on the job, she planned to quit once Akhil had been arrested. She would bake desserts for her husband's French-Mexican restaurant, Paloma. She would make glass beads and jewelry. She would read. She would spend time with her elderly parents.

Someone else could prosecute Akhil.

JFK AIRPORT

Trips to India usually refreshed Akhil. Dad would dote on him; Mom would feed him. He'd return ready to resume his studies, eager to succeed.

But when his fiancée, Foram Mankodi, met him at the airport, his brown eyes no longer sparkled. He was not the cocksure man she had fallen for two years ago. He looked defeated.

As they drove the SUV south to Philadelphia, he told Foram he might quit Temple and return to India.

"Maybe I'll go and not come back," he said in Hindi.

She changed the subject. Arguing was pointless.