Law America, the Devil's Agent

Three days later, in North Philadelphia.

The dilapidated row houses are crammed together, and the walls are covered with gang graffiti.

In the corner of the street, a few idle young Black men leaned against the darkness, their eyes scanning every passerby like wild dogs hunting their prey.

A white van with the words "Philadelphia Children's Health Charity" printed on it slowly pulled up to the side of the road.

A Black woman in a blue social worker's uniform got off the bus carrying a file bag, walked to a row house, and knocked on the door.

The door opened a crack.

A young man with tattoos covering his neck peeked out and scanned Monica from head to toe.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Monica, a social worker for the municipal children's health program."

She held up her employee badge hanging around her neck and smiled:

"Mr. Washington's child meets our criteria for free developmental screening. He came today to complete the basic registration and also to receive free nutritional supplements."

"Boss, it's a social worker!"

Upon hearing this, the young man with the dreadlocks shouted into the house.

A moment later, the door was fully opened.

DeSean Washington stood in the doorway.

The 1.85-meter-tall, muscular man looked at Monica with an undisguised scrutiny in his eyes.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

  

His voice was deep and rough.

Monica repeated her purpose.

DeShawn's gaze lingered on her for a moment, his lips twitched slightly, and he stepped aside to let the door open.

The room was filled with the smells of marijuana and fried food.

The two younger brothers were huddled on the sofa playing video games, with beer cans and playing cards scattered on the coffee table.

DeShawn gestured for Monica to sit down at the table, while he stood up and looked down at her.

"You said you're a social worker, and another social worker came last month. But she said a lot of things she shouldn't have."

Monica's fingers tightened slightly on the file folder.

She tried to calm herself down, but the oppressive presence of the leader in front of her made her back break out in a thin layer of sweat.

"I'm just conducting a health screening for children, Mr. Washington, that's all."

"yes."

DeShawn picked up a can of beer from the coffee table, pulled the tab, and took a sip.

He then placed the beer can on the table, pulled out his pistol from behind his waist, and placed it next to the beer can.

The sound of metal clashing was particularly crisp in the living room.

Monica's expression changed.

"I don't like social workers."

DeShawn said, "My mom was also harassed by social workers before. They always tried to break up other people's families."

Are you here to break up my family?

"I……"

DeShawn suddenly picked up his gun and fired a shot into the ceiling.

Gunshots rang out in the confined space, causing the chandelier to shake violently and plaster to fall from the walls.

"SHIT! What's fucking doing?"

Monica screamed and crouched down, covering her head with her hands, the documents scattered all over the floor.

DeShawn watched her curled up on the ground, trembling, and a satisfied smile curved his lips.

He put the gun back on the coffee table, squatted down, and leaned close to Monica's ear.

"Now tell me, who are you?"

"Click—"

The door was suddenly pushed open.

"Who is it!"

Deenshaw quickly pointed his gun at the door!

The imagined real guns and ammunition did not appear; instead, he was confronted by a refined-looking staff member.

Link stood at the door.

He was wearing a social worker's uniform, carrying a briefcase, and wearing glasses.

This was specially made for him for this operation, to make him look more like a harmless clerk.

"What happened?"

His tone carried just the right amount of confusion and concern: "Monica, we still have to go to the next place to register the child. What was that noise just now?"

DeShawn stood up and looked Link up and down.

His gaze swept over the thin Asian man twice:

No tattoos, no muscles, no menacing aura. Just a typical Asian nerd.

"Who are you?"

"Link, Executive Assistant for the Children's Health Program."

Link adjusted his glasses, pulled a form from his briefcase, and spoke in a businesslike tone:

"Mr. Washington, I apologize for disturbing you today."

Yes, in addition to free screening, we also have a subsidy quota for low-income families.

If you register today, you can receive an extra $2,000 monthly childcare allowance, two boxes of baby formula, and lots and lots of food stamps.

"Two thousand dollars? Food stamps?"

The ruthless thug was immediately drawn to the scene, and his henchmen around him also turned to look.

"It worked! Money really does work."

Link breathed a sigh of relief, thinking to himself.

"Yes. The money will be deposited directly into your account; no preconditions are required."

Link pulled out a subsidy application form from the list and handed it over with both hands: "You just need to fill out a form, sign it, and confirm that your child has been screened."

There are only a few spots left.

DeShawn looked at the form, then at Monica huddled by the dining table, and then at Link.

He's a big spender and he won't let any money slip by.

This money meant he could go to the pharmacy and buy some marijuana and other illegal drugs to have some fun.

"you."

Deen Shaw raised his chin: "Why do you still look like a chick in school?"

"I'm a recent graduate, sir. This job at the welfare agency is my first job."

Link's smile was humble and appropriate.

DeShawn stared at him for a few seconds, then let out a muffled laugh.

A skinny, bookish Chinese man who couldn't fight, couldn't handle guns, and didn't even have calluses on his hands.

He could snap this person's neck with one hand.

What does he have to worry about?

"Alright."

After holstering his gun, he gestured with his chin towards Monica: "You mean that subsidy? Where do you register for it?"

"I can explain the process to you in detail."

Monica stood up from the ground, trying to keep her voice steady, and tidied up the scattered documents.

Taking advantage of the moment, Link picked up his briefcase and headed for the stairs:

"I'm going to get my child screened. Is it upstairs?"

DeShawn was about to stop her, but Monica just in time pushed a subsidy form in front of him:

"Mr. Washington, this part requires your signature for confirmation..."

DeShawn glanced at her, then at Link's thin back, and finally sat down and picked up his pen.

upstairs.

Link pushed open the half-closed bedroom door.

The curtains in the room were drawn tightly shut, with only a sliver of grayish-white sunlight squeezing in from the edge.

The air was filled with a mixture of smells of smoke, mildew, and baby powder.

Ella sat on the sofa, holding a two-year-old boy in her arms.

She was wearing a faded gray sweatshirt, and her dark brown hair was haphazardly tied into a ponytail.

Her face was pale, and there was almost no flesh under her cheekbones. Only her light gray eyes still retained a faint, not completely extinguished luster.

When she saw the stranger come in, she hugged the child even tighter.

"Don't be afraid."

Link gently closed the door and sat down on the edge of the sofa furthest from her.

His movements were slow and gentle, as if he were afraid of startling a bird that was used to being frightened.

"I'm not one of DeShawn's people. My name is Link, and I'm a lawyer."

Ella did not answer.

She just stared at him, her eyes filled with alertness, fear, and a numbness and indifference.

That's not low intelligence, numbness, or sluggishness, but rather a self-protective mechanism that people develop under long-term high-pressure environments.

She remained silent in the face of any external stimuli, because silence was the only defense she had learned.

"My mother was also a single mother..."

Link began to speak:

She moved with me many times.

I know that feeling. You're afraid to speak to someone you don't trust, afraid to ask questions, because saying even one more word might get you into trouble or even a beating.

Ella's fingers twitched slightly.

It was just a small movement, but Link noticed it.

He didn't rush to advance the topic, but simply sat there quietly and non-aggressively, letting the silence in the room slowly settle down.

This is the ability he received from Martha.

[Emotional Resonance - Beginner Level]

This is how it is displayed on the system panel.

This is the reward he received from the third client:

It was that single mother in the gym who, through countless years of struggling to survive on the edge of poverty, developed a keen sensitivity to the emotions of others.

It's not mind reading, but a simple ability:

Perceive the other person's current emotional state, adjust your own pace, and resonate with them.

What Link needs to do is let the other person decide for themselves whether to speak without being forced.

At this moment, he was letting silence itself become an invitation, and he awaited her response.

"Who are you?"

Her voice was soft and slightly hoarse.

"My name is Link, and I'm a lawyer. Your family and biological parents have asked me to come and find you."

"These...these aren't it, I didn't..."

"You have.

Your name isn't Nancy Washington, it's Ira Winslow!

When you were eight months old, you were kidnapped by your family's nanny and sold to Marcus and Gloria Washington.

You are not Nancy. You were never Nancy.

That's a name someone gave you; it's a label they put on you after you were stolen.

Ella's lips trembled slightly.

She wanted to say something, but couldn't say anything.

Link took the first birthday photo out of his briefcase and placed it on the coffee table between the two of them.

Then he took out the second document:

Application form for a habeas corpus, and a pen.

You have a choice.

Link said:

"You can sign this document. After you sign, the court will issue an emergency protection order."

DeShawn can no longer be near you, can no longer be near your children.

A car will come to pick you up and take you to a place he can't find.

Then you can decide who you want to be, what your name should be, and who you want to live with.

All I need is for you to sign it.

Ella's hands were trembling as she held her son.

Her eyes reddened, but she didn't cry out.

Crying in front of DeShawn would get you beaten up, so she'd learned how to swallow her tears.

But at this moment, facing this stranger she was meeting for the first time, the things she had swallowed were slowly rising back up.

He will…

She spoke, her voice hoarse:

"He'll find me. He knows a lot of people. He'll beat me, torture me..."

"He won't."

Link placed the pen on the coffee table and pushed it toward her:

"What I need is your choice."

What I need is for you to believe me.

You wanted to escape from here anyway. Just say so, and we'll take care of the rest.

He looked into her eyes, his voice steady but unwavering: "You only need to make one decision. Not for this lifetime, not for tomorrow, but right now."

Ella looked at the pen on the coffee table.

Her right hand was still holding the child, her left hand reached out, her fingertips touched the pen, and then she pulled it back.

Another roar of an engine came from outside the window.

Startled, she flinched and instinctively pulled the child into her arms.

Then she reached out again and picked up the pen.

……

After a long while, she let out a long sigh of relief, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

Link took back the documents and pen and stood up.

"I will come back to save you, I definitely will," he said.

He opened the bedroom door and went downstairs.

Monica had just finished filling out the last line of the form for DeSean, and when she saw him come down, she breathed a barely perceptible sigh of relief.

DeShawn leaned back on the sofa, still holding the can of beer in his hand, and gestured with his chin towards Link:

"Is it all done?"

"The child is very healthy."

Link smiled and closed his briefcase.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Washington. The subsidy will be deposited into your account next month."

"Um."

Link and Monica stepped out of the row house, closed the car door, and started the engine.

After the bread truck drove two blocks and turned onto the main road, Monica finally breathed a sigh of relief, her hands still trembling.

"That shot just now... I almost..."

"You did a great job. Go collect your payment later."

Link said.

He took out his phone and dialed a number.

"I got it. She signed it."

His gaze fell on the briefcase, where the signed writ of habeas corpus and Ella's handwritten testimony were located:

"The battle has now officially begun."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Then Samuel's voice came through, carrying a suppressed, almost trembling calm:

"Thank you, Attorney Link."

"It's not time to thank you yet, sir."

Link hung up the phone, leaned back in the passenger seat, and let out a soft breath.

The first step was successful.

……

The next morning, in the same block, in front of another row house.

"Knock knock—"

There was a knock on the door.

The exterior walls of the house are faded brick red, and one of the wooden steps on the porch is rotten and has been temporarily nailed up with a piece of plywood.

It was clear that no one had taken care of it for a long time, and it looked dilapidated and decaying.

Thick blackout curtains hung on the windows, obscuring the view inside.

Link was wearing a charcoal gray custom-made suit and carrying a briefcase.

Daniel stood half a step behind him, wearing an Antenna tactical jacket, his gaze calmly sweeping across both ends of the street.

The door opened.

Gloria Washington stood in the doorway.

She was in her sixties, with dark brown skin, gray curly hair, reading glasses, and a simple house dress with flour still stuck to her apron.

"Ms. Gloria Washington?"

Link flashed a standard professional smile:

"I'm Link from the law firm Curtis. I'm here on behalf of the Winthrop Family Trust to initiate initial discussions with you regarding a research contract concerning community college healthcare resources."

You should have already received an invitation from the foundation.

Upon hearing this, upon hearing that familiar family name, her expression changed.

It was an instinctive alertness that came from having a long-hidden secret touched upon.

Gloria's gaze fell on the voluminous tender document Link handed her, then she looked at the gold-embossed "Winthrop Family Foundation" logo.

The silence lasted for a few seconds.

Then she turned to the side.

"Come in."

The living room wasn't large, but it was exceptionally tidy.

Religious prints and several family photos hang on the wall.

Link's gaze lingered on one of the photographs for a long time:

It was a photograph of Gloria, a deceased Black man, and a white girl who looked to be about ten years old. The girl had light gray eyes.

Ella.

Gloria noticed his gaze and stepped aside to block the photo.

Would you like some tea?

"No, thank you."

Link sat down on the sofa, took out the tender documents and a standard-format letter of intent from his briefcase, and spoke in a formulaic tone:

"This contract is about research on the localization of community colleges, and the foundation plans to fund an independent research report."

Your name has been recommended by several community leaders as a project advisor…

"Attorney Link."

Gloria interrupted him, her voice calm but with a barely perceptible tremor:

"You don't need to beat around the bush with me. I know why you came."

"Oh? Well, you seem quite perceptive, ma'am."

Link closed the file:

"Then let's get straight to the point."

I'm here because of Nancy Washington... oh no, I should say Ira Winthrop.

Gloria's hands clenched tightly on her knees, her knuckles turning white, but her expression remained composed.

She is a woman who has lived in a grassroots community for nearly seventy years and has seen too many ups and downs.

Crashing was not an option for her.

"I know," she said.

Do you know her current situation?

"She is my daughter."

Gloria's voice finally showed a slight change:

"I've raised her for over ten years. When she was sick, I stayed by her side at the hospital; when she gave birth, I was outside the delivery room..."

"No, ma'am, I think you've got it wrong."

You are the one who bought her.

Link's tone wasn't harsh, but every word felt like a nail driven into his chest.

The cracks on Gloria's face finally became apparent; the deepest scars in her heart were torn open in a bloody manner, and her face showed unconcealable pain.

"That wasn't something I did alone. Marcus... he's dead. I couldn't do anything about it while he was alive."

"What have you tried?"

Gloria fell silent.

Link waited a moment, then stood up and walked to the family photo.

He looked at the ten-year-old white girl in the photo, his back to Gloria, and spoke:

"Ms. Gloria, I'm not here to arrest you."

The statute of limitations for prosecuting human trafficking cases has long expired.

I am not a police officer, nor a prosecutor; I am a lawyer.

My clients don't want to ruin your life. They just want Ella to know she has a choice.

"She has a choice now."

Gloria said:

"She's an adult, she can..."

"What can she do?"

Ubiquitous surveillance? Control that leads to death? Endless domestic violence and a breeding machine?

Her ID card listed her as "Nancy Washington," which wasn't even her real name.

Link turned around:

"Tell me, what choices does she have now?"

Gloria lowered her head, her shoulders trembling slightly.

"DeShawn won't let her go."

She finally spoke, almost in a whisper:

"He is not Marcus."

Marcus did bad things, but he treated Ella like a daughter.

But DeSean is different; he treats her like property, and with his congressman uncle backing him, he's become even more reckless. "If you take her away, he'll—"

She looked up, her eyes brimming with tears.

"He will kill her."

Link did not back down.

He walked back to the sofa, sat down again, took a business card from his briefcase, and placed it on the coffee table.

"Ms. Gloria, what if I told you I could make sure Desean Washington could never touch her again? I need your help."

"How did you do that?"

Link did not answer.

He simply picked up the cup of tea, which had gone cold, took a sip, and then put it down.

"I need you to appear in court to testify."

I need you to tell the truth:

You were involved in buying a trafficked child who was forced to marry DeSean, who abused her for a long time.

If you were to say these facts, the judge and jury would hear them.

This is the only thing you can do for her right now.

Outside the window, the sound of police sirens could be heard in the distance, growing louder as they approached and then fading away.

"I did those things,"

Gloria's voice was hoarse:

Will I go to jail?

"The statute of limitations has expired. You won't go to jail."

Link stood up and straightened his suit:

"But you will lose some things: your reputation in the community, what your neighbors think of you, and the 'good mother' image you've cultivated your whole life."

This is the price you paid. Ella paid eighteen years. Your price is much lighter than hers.

Think about it and give me a call.

He walked towards the door, his hand already on the doorknob.

Gloria's hoarse voice came from behind.

"I agree. I will testify."

But you...you must get her out of here safely.

Link didn't turn around, he just stopped walking.

"You will see, Ms. Gloria."

He opened the door and went out.

Daniel followed him, and the two walked toward the SUV parked on the street corner under the gray Philadelphia sky.

The car door closed, and Link glanced at the faded brick-red row house in the rearview mirror before looking away and at the street stretching towards the city center.

Step two, done.