The arrest of Nicolás Maduro and his transfer to federal custody in New York has triggered a predictable storm of legal, political, and moral debate. Supporters call it an illegal abduction. Critics frame it as long-overdue accountability. What is often missing from the public discussion is a sober look at what actually matters now: not the politics surrounding Maduro’s fall, but whether the U.S. legal system can and will prosecute him successfully.
Maduro now faces federal charges in the United States related to narcoterrorism and large-scale drug trafficking. His legal team is expected to deploy several familiar defenses. The most prominent is sovereign immunity: the claim that, as a sitting head of state, he cannot be prosecuted by a foreign court. That argument, however, runs into an immediate obstacle. Since 2019, the United States has explicitly refused to recognize Maduro as the legitimate president of Venezuela. Without recognition, the shield of head-of-state immunity collapses. This was the same failed defense invoked decades ago by Panama’s former strongman Manuel Noriega, whose case remains one of the clearest precedents for what lies ahead.
Another line of attack will focus on the manner of Maduro’s capture. Critics describe the operation as a violation of Venezuelan sovereignty and international law. That criticism may resonate politically, but U.S. courts have long separated questions of international legality from criminal jurisdiction. Under the Ker–Frisbie doctrine, American courts may proceed with prosecution regardless of how a defendant is brought before them, even in cases involving abduction abroad. The U.S. Supreme Court has repeatedly upheld this principle. From a legal standpoint, the road that led Maduro to New York matters far less than the evidence awaiting him there.
Jurisdiction will also be challenged. Maduro’s lawyers are likely to argue that U.S. courts lack authority over crimes allegedly committed outside American territory by a foreign official. Yet U.S. narcoterrorism statutes are specifically designed to address this scenario. When criminal conduct abroad is aimed at the United States—by flooding its streets with drugs or financing terrorist activity—American courts have consistently asserted jurisdiction. Time and again, those claims have survived appeal.
Finally, there may be attempts to undermine the case on due process grounds, questioning witness credibility or the handling of evidence. Such arguments can succeed only if prosecutors committed serious procedural errors. At this stage, there is no indication of that. On the contrary, reports suggest the Department of Justice has spent years building a detailed and document-heavy case.
Taken together, the legal landscape is not favorable to dismissal. Analysts overwhelmingly agree that precedent supports prosecution, not immunity. The Noriega case looms large, not as history, but as a legal roadmap.
This is why it is misleading to frame the Maduro trial as merely a political spectacle. It is also a test of how far U.S. law extends when global organized crime intersects with American courts. Whether one views Maduro as a dictator, a criminal, or both, the trial will send a clear signal: power may delay justice, but it does not guarantee escape from it.
For countries in the Caribbean, including Curaçao, the implications go beyond Venezuela. This case will help define how international criminal networks, state power, and foreign courts interact in an increasingly unstable region. That makes the outcome not just a Venezuelan story, but a regional one—and a global one as well.