America: From a Fallen Child Star to the Head of the University of the West

Chapter 120 Right in Front of Us

(Wishing everyone a Happy Chinese New Year)

The next morning.

Sean got into the car and placed the half-cold coffee down. Rachel sat in the passenger seat, her blonde hair casually tied up in a bun.

As for the driver this time, it was naturally Vincent Carter. He was now sitting in the driver's seat, his hands on the steering wheel.

Their bodyguards followed closely behind in another car.

"Mr. Carter," Sean rubbed his eyes, "did you work on Travis's case last night?"

Vincent nodded and drove out of the block where the campaign office was located: "I was out until 2 a.m. The LAPD's internal investigation concluded that it was a reasonable use of force," so the district attorney's office refused to prosecute, and the civil suit was dismissed by the federal court due to insufficient evidence—

"Is there any possibility of overturning the verdict?" Rachel asked, turning her head.

"It's difficult." Vincent's voice carried a professional restraint. "Three years have passed since the incident. Some key witnesses have moved away, and others are unwilling to testify again. The surveillance footage was not preserved due to technical malfunctions. Legally speaking, Travis's sister's case is essentially over."

Sean paused for a moment, then said, "So his sister died in vain?"

Vincent didn't answer immediately. The car entered the highway, and the skyline of Los Angeles gradually receded in the rearview mirror.

"In a purely legal sense," Vincent finally said, "yes."

That's really a pity.

"But from an election law perspective," Vincent changed the subject, "we can offer another form of assistance."

"How so?"

Vincent adjusted the rearview mirror: "The Federal Election Commission's definition of 'voter assistance' is quite broad. We can, on behalf of the campaign team, provide Travis with job training advice, help him write his resume, and connect him with businesses willing to offer him a second chance. These are legitimate voter outreach activities, as long as they don't directly cover his personal living expenses or legal costs."

"What about the court costs?" Sean pressed.

“This is a bit more complicated,” Vincent said. “If we are to hire lawyers for him to reopen the civil lawsuit, the money must come from an independent nonprofit organization, not from campaign funds. I can help connect him with a few public interest law firms, but it will take time.”

"I'll cover the expenses," Sean said with a smile. "From my personal account."

Vincent glanced at him in the rearview mirror: "Mr. Pan, I don't recommend doing this. If it's discovered that you personally funded a lawsuit related to your campaign, the other side will accuse you of making disguised political donations."

"Then let him accuse me," Sean said calmly. "I'd rather be accused than do nothing."

""

Does he care about those two charges? The so-called legal risks have existed since the first day he transmigrated!

Rachel turned her head and looked at Sean sitting in the boss's seat. After thinking for a long time, she still didn't say anything.

Vincent paused for a moment, then sighed and said, "We can do this: first, connect Travis with the Community Action Network and have them initiate a new appeal process in the name of the community organization. Once there's enough media attention and enough political pressure, we can intervene on the grounds of public interest."

"This would be cleaner from a legal standpoint."

"Okay, let's do it this way." Sean's eyes lit up.

The car left the highway and entered a landscape completely different from Los Angeles.

There are open farmlands, scattered warehouses, and faded GG signs.

"We're almost there." Rachel pointed to the navigation, "Bakersfield, the heart of California's 18th Congressional District."

Vincent slowed down and drove into the town's main street.

The street scene was completely different from yesterday's Watts district. There were no dense graffiti and abandoned vehicles, but a different kind of desolation was evident everywhere: a former hardware store was now closed, with faded posters announcing its closure and clearance sale in 2019 still pasted on the glass.

The coffee shop next door was still open, and several middle-aged white men in overalls and baseball caps were sitting at the entrance.

"Harris Crane has watched this district get re-elected for several terms," ​​Rachel read from the data on the tablet. "For the past twenty years, his vote share here has never fallen below 65 percent. The main industries here are agriculture and oil and gas extraction, and the unemployment rate has long been higher than the California average."

"His core support base," Sean stated.

"It could also be the forgotten backyard." Rachel glanced at him. "According to your theory, Sean."

Vincent parked the car diagonally opposite the coffee shop. The three of them got out of the car. Sean wasn't wearing a suit, just a dark jacket and jeans, trying to make himself look less like an elite.

Their original plan was to meet with the head of the local community center first, but in order to truly reflect public opinion, Sean ultimately decided to change the order of their work.

So he led the group toward the coffee shop they had just seen.

The middle-aged men who were drinking coffee looked up, their eyes filled with instinctive scrutiny and wariness. One of them was wearing a red baseball cap with slogans embroidered on it.

The man looked Sean up and down, then continued drinking his coffee.

Sean stopped a few steps away, not going directly at them.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Sean began. "I'm Sean Penn. I don't know if you've heard of me, but if you have, it's probably not for anything good. So I'd like to get straight to the point: could I buy you a coffee and then take ten minutes to chat?"

The man in the red hat looked up; the number above his head was [15]. He didn't reply.

A middle-aged man in a plaid shirt with gray hair spoke up: "We know who you are. You're that actor who hangs out with Musk."

"Strictly speaking, it wasn't a mix of people, but rather a debate," Sean chuckled.

The man in the white shirt snorted but didn't laugh. The number above his head was [10].

"What do you want to talk about?" the third man asked. He was younger, looked to be in his early thirties, and had sunburn marks on his face. "How did you end up leaving Hollywood to become our president?"

A few cold laughs came from the entrance of the coffee shop.

Sean didn't back down: "I want to talk about jobs here. I just drove in and saw that half the shops on Main Street were closed. I checked the data; the town's unemployment rate is nine percent, double the California average. I'd like to know, where do you think the problem lies?"

The young man with the sunburn scoffed, "The problem? The problem is that someone like you comes here, takes a few photos, goes back to a fundraising dinner and says, 'I've been to Bakersfield, I talked to the workers,' and then that's it."

The man in the red hat finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse: "Before the last election, a Democrat came here. He stood on this street, promising to bring manufacturing back, to train workers, and to make everyone's lives better. Did he win the election? No, because none of us believed him."

He stared directly at Sean, and the number above his head dropped from [15] to [10].

"You don't need to believe me," Sean said, "but I do have a question for you."

No one responded, but no one left either.

"You pay taxes every year, right?"

"nonsense."

"Ahem," Sean continued, "federal taxes, state taxes, sales taxes. Your communities are redrawn every ten years, and your representative has been sitting in Washington for twenty years. You use your tax money to pay his salary and give him the privileges of a senator. And then what do you get?"

The man in the red hat paused his finger on the coffee cup.

“You know who I’m talking about, your representative” is: Senator Harris Crane. “Gentlemen, when was the last time he held a public town hall meeting in Bakersfield? Has any of you seen him in person? Not on TV, not in a campaign video, but face-to-face, in this town.” Sean narrowed his eyes. “When was the last time he held a public town hall meeting in Bakersfield? Has any of you seen him in person? Not on TV, not in a campaign video, but face-to-face, in this town.”

silence.

The man in the red hat's expression didn't change, but his favorability rating changed from [10] to [8].

"You're talking badly about Senator Crane," the man in the red hat said. "Do you think we'd join you in criticizing him?"

“No,” Sean said calmly. “I’m just stating the public records I can find. Senator Crane has held seventeen public events in his own district over the past five years. Seventeen events in five years: two in affluent suburbs outside Bakersfield, three at the military and police association, two at the headquarters of large agricultural and livestock companies, and zero on Bakersfield’s main street.”

He took his phone out of his pocket, opened a webpage, and then turned the screen towards them.

"This is his official archived schedule, which is publicly available. I didn't forge anything."

The man in the red hat wasn't looking at his phone, but the number above his head changed from [8] to [5].

"What exactly do you want?" He looked up, his eyes no longer filled with simple wariness, but with a more complex emotion. "You came here and said Senator Crane hasn't done anything for us in twenty years. And then what? You want us to vote for you? Are you just an actor?"

“Reagan was an actor too,” Sean said, “and I’m not here to get your votes for me.”

The man in the red hat frowned: "Then what are you doing here?"

"I'm here to know," Sean said earnestly, "what it feels like for the people living in a district that's called a 'stronghold'."

No one answered.

Sean didn't care about the drop in his favorability rating.

Because he was trying to create opportunities by descending.

When the number drops from 15 to 5, the process itself is the answer.

"You want us to feel like we voted the wrong person," the man in the red hat finally said. "You want us to admit that we've been voting wrong for twenty years."

“I hope,” Sean said, “not that you acknowledge anything. I’m just thinking about this: what if Senator Crane knew that in his core constituency there’s a group of voters facing daily shop closures, limited healthcare, and children who have to move to find jobs after graduation—he knew all that, and then what?”

He paused for a moment.

"And then what did he do? What did he do in those twenty years?"

A gust of wind blew from the end of the street, swirling up an old newspaper. No one spoke at the entrance of the café.

The young man with the sunburnt face looked up; the number above his head was still [5], but he spoke: "Do you know why we voted for him?"

Sean waited for him to continue.

"Not because he's the best," the sunburnt man said, "but because the other side is worse."

He looked at Sean, his eyes filled with weariness and stubbornness: "When the Democrats came, they said they wanted to save us, help us transform, and make us embrace new energy sources, just like your good brother Musk! Fuck! Embrace new energy sources? Do you know how many people here rely on oil and gas for their livelihood? You come and tell them: your jobs aren't environmentally friendly, and we're going to give you new jobs. What do you think they'll think?"

Sean pretended to think for a moment: "So they, or rather you, chose people who at least won't directly take away your jobs."

"Yes," the other person replied, "and every year there are still a few fewer jobs, and a few shops still close down. But at least he doesn't point at us and say: 'You are the problem.'"

Sean remained silent for a few seconds.

"If there were someone who neither takes away your livelihood nor pretends that it will never break, and who tells you that oil and gas will become increasingly scarce—not because of any partisan conspiracy, but because technology is changing, markets are changing, and the world is changing—but who doesn't force you to become solar panel installers overnight, but instead asks you: What skills do you have? What new things are you willing to learn? What kind of training do you need to smoothly transition from today to tomorrow?"

He paused.

"Would you even consider listening to someone like that for ten minutes?"

The man in the red hat looked at Sean, his favorability rating hovering at [5] for a few seconds before slowly climbing back to [10]. He didn't say anything.

The man in the draped shirt sighed. "You're quite the talker, kid. But where is that person you were just talking about?"

"In fact, sir," Sean smiled slightly, "this person is standing right in front of you."

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