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

After leaving Thomas's apartment, the first thing Sean did was take out his phone and open his YouTube account.

He found a relatively quiet street corner and had Matthew record a short video for him.

"Hello everyone, I'm Sean Penn," he said to the camera. "Today I want to talk to you about a man named Thomas Reynolds. He was an ordinary American worker who worked at Bethlehem Steel for thirty years. He was swindled out of his savings by the Avalon Fund and then found dead in his bathtub early this morning."

"The police say it was suicide, but many people believe it was homicide, and some even think I'm the mastermind. In any case, we have reason to believe that things are not that simple."

"I'm not defending myself. I just want people to know that in this country, every day, people like Thomas are forgotten, abandoned, and silenced. Their voices are ignored, and their deaths are ignored."

"But I care."

"If you care too, please help me share this video. Let more people know the name Thomas Reynolds. Let those hiding in the shadows know that the truth will not be hidden forever."

After recording the video, Matthew did some simple editing, added a few photos of Thomas from his lifetime, and then uploaded it to Sean's channel.

"Hopefully this will get some attention," Matthew said.

"Yes, it will." Sean watched the upload progress bar slowly complete. "People love conspiracy theories, especially those involving celebrities."

He wasn't saying he despised the general public, because everyone knows that the news media and various forms of sensationalist literature are the real culprits. But now, he's going to use that method too.

They then returned to Gloria's apartment.

"Madam," Sean asked bluntly, "when Thomas went to California for the promotional tour, did anyone else go with him?"

Gloria thought for a moment, "Yes. The foundation selected several success stories to promote. Thomas told me about a man named Jerome Washington who also came from our community."

"Jerome Washington?"

“Yes, he’s an old friend of my husband,” Gloria said. “They should both be with the union now.”

Which union?

"The Philadelphia Transport Workers Union," Gloria gave them an address, "is in North Philadelphia, not far from here. My husband's name is Marcus Williams; you can ask him for help."

"Thank you, Ms. Williams," Sean said earnestly. "You've been a great help to us."

"No need, please find out the truth." Gloria's eyes were a little moist. "For Thomas's sake."

……

Meanwhile, Vincent decided to take a different path.

"I'll go to the police station and see if I can find any inside information," he said. "I still have a few old connections there; maybe I can get some information out of them."

"For example, why was that phone 'missed'?" Sean asked.

"For example, why was that phone 'missed'?" Vincent nodded. "And who ordered the case to be closed so quickly?"

"Be careful," Sean said. "If I'm not mistaken, the person behind this has connections everywhere. If you're asking around at the police station, you might get watched."

"I've been a lawyer for twenty years, Mr. Pan," Vincent said with a faint smile. "Being targeted is a regular occurrence for me."

The three parted ways at the street corner. Vincent drove his old Honda Accord toward downtown, while Sean and Matthew hailed a taxi to the union building in North Philadelphia.

……

The headquarters of the Philadelphia Transportation Workers Union is a three-story red brick building with a huge banner hanging on its exterior wall that reads:

"In memory of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. - The dream is not yet realized, the struggle continues."

The parking lot was full of cars, mostly older American models that were over ten years old. Music and laughter drifted from the open gate.

Sean and Matthew stood in the doorway, looking at each other in bewilderment.

"Mr. Pan, are you sure we want to go in?" Matthew asked.

"What else?" Sean looked around. Although almost all the people coming in and out were black, the two of them, one white and one Asian, stood at the door like two sheep that had wandered into a pride of lions.

"We're here to find someone, not to cause trouble," Sean said seriously. "Let's go."

As expected, the moment they stepped through the gate, they felt countless gazes directed their way.

Long tables were set up in the hall, laden with food and drinks. Photos of Martin Luther King Jr. hung on the walls, along with records of important moments in union history. Dozens of people gathered in small groups, some eating, some chatting, and some watching the television on the wall.

A news program is playing on TV, and the host is discussing the latest economic data.

"...According to the latest report from the Bureau of Labor Statistics, last year's inflation rate reached 6.5 percent, a 40-year high..."

"Prices have gone up again." A middle-aged Black man in a union jacket shook his head. "How are we supposed to make a living?"

"That's right," another person chimed in. "I remember five years ago, a gallon of gasoline was only a little over two dollars. Now? Almost four dollars. But wages haven't increased at all."

"A wage increase won't help," the third person interjected. He looked a bit older. "You don't understand economics. When wages go up, business costs go up, and then they pass those costs on to consumers. In the end, prices rise even higher, and all the little bit of wage increase is eaten up."

"So, according to you, shouldn't wages be reduced?" the first person retorted, unconvinced.

"Congratulations, you've invented the Great Depression." He waved his hand. "Of course, I'm not being sarcastic. I'm saying that just raising wages won't solve the problem. We need to change things at their root, and we need to stop those big companies from being so greedy."

"Tell big companies not to be greedy? You might as well let the sun rise in the west."

"That's why we need unions," someone else said. "To unite and fight against the capitalists. Isn't that what Martin Luther King Jr. did?"

"Dr. King is fighting against racism, not capitalists."

"It's all the same," the man said. "In the end, it's all about rich people bullying poor people, or rich white people bullying us black people."

Sean and Matthew stood at the edge of the crowd, listening to their conversation.

Just then, a burly Black man noticed them.

He was in his fifties, his hair was already gray, but he was still very strong. He was wearing a polo shirt with the words "I Have a Dream" printed on it, and a badge of the steel industry union pinned to his chest.

"Hey, you two." He walked over, looking Sean and Matthew up and down. "Are you looking for someone, or have you come to the wrong place?"

"We're here to find someone," Sean answered frankly. "Is Mr. Jerome Washington in?"

The man narrowed his eyes. "What do you want with Jerome?"

"We want to ask him some questions about the Avalon Foundation," Sean said, "and about Thomas Reynolds as well."

The man's expression changed upon hearing Thomas's name.

"Thomas..." he whispered, "I heard he did this morning..."

“Yes, we went to his house this morning.” Sean nodded. “That’s why we’re here. We want to know what really happened back then.”

The man was silent for a few seconds, then reached out his hand.

"My name is Marcus Williams."

"Oh, you are Ms. Williams' husband."

"It seems you've already met her. By the way, you look familiar."

"Yes." Sean shook his hand. "My name is Sean Penn. This is my assistant, Matthew Chan."

"Then I know who you are." Marcus gave a gentle smile. "Your face was all over the media around Christmas. Jerome's in the back lounge. Come with me."

He led Sean and Matthew through the crowd toward a door at the back of the hall, with Matthew following behind, looking at the number [50] hanging above Marcus's head.

People around them cast curious glances, and some whispered among themselves. Sean heard someone say, "Isn't that the actor?" and others say, "What's he doing here?"

But no one stopped them.

Marcus pushed open the door to the lounge, where several people were sitting and playing cards.

"Jerome," Marcus called out, "someone's looking for you."

A thin Black man looked up. He was about fifty years old, and his eyes were full of vigilance.

But when he saw Sean, that wariness turned into something more complex.

"Sean Penn?" Jerome stood up, scattering his cards on the table. "What do you want?"

“Mr. Washington,” Sean stepped forward, “I want to talk to you about what happened in California in 2021.”

Jerome's expression changed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you know that Thomas Reynolds died this morning. Before he died, he was supposed to testify against me. And you, you went to California with him and did promotions for the Avalon Foundation together."

"I need to know if anyone has contacted you, asking you to be a witness against me. Just like they contacted Thomas, and where are the people who invited you to California in the first place? Are they still in the country...?"

Jerome looked at him, as if he were thinking about something.

Everyone else in the lounge stopped what they were doing, and Marcus, seeing this, quickly said:

"Jerome, Thomas is dead. If you know anything, now's the time to say it."