Law America, the Devil's Agent

Lennon Street, on the edge of the North End.

This street is a gray transition zone between the North District and the city center. On one side are abandoned car repair shops and open spaces enclosed by wire mesh, while on the other side stands a long-established steakhouse.

This restaurant is no ordinary place. It used to be a stronghold for Irish dockworkers, and was later taken over by Italians. It is now a well-known gourmet spot in this gray area.

Many city dwellers and young professionals brave the dangers to come here to eat, which shows just how delicious the food is.

But tonight, the entire restaurant was booked out.

DeSean Washington sat at the head of the long table, unusually wearing an ill-fitting dark blue suit jacket that revealed a blurry tattoo on his chest.

In front of him lay a half-eaten ribeye steak, and the whiskey glass beside him was already empty for the third time.

Seven or eight of his underlings sat on either side of the long table, some loudly playing drinking games and smoking drugs, others with their feet propped up on the table smoking marijuana.

The air was filled with the savory smell of grilled meat, the sweet, cloying smoke of marijuana, and the scent of cheap cologne.

"Another bottle! That one! The most expensive one on the menu!"

DeShawn slammed his fist on the table and roared, his face flushed red from the alcohol.

A white waiter in a black vest nodded expressionlessly and turned to get the drinks.

These waiters were clearly used to this kind of scene:

These underworld gang members, whose livelihoods depend on luck, occasionally squander money and food stamps of dubious origin.

  

They were neither surprised nor welcoming of this; they simply went about their assigned tasks mechanically.

"Boss, this place is fucking awesome."

The dreadlocked henchman sitting to DeShawn's right grinned, his mouth stuffed with crab cakes: "How did you get those food stamps? Will you be able to get them again next time?"

"What a load of rubbish. That social worker project is just a one-time benefit."

DeShawn took a swig of his drink:

"But it doesn't matter, it's not like we have to pay for it ourselves. The city hall is footing the bill, so why not take advantage of it?"

Another henchman next to him, who was puffing on a cigarette, suddenly interjected:

"Boss, where's your woman? Why aren't you coming over for a meal?"

DeShawn glanced into the corner.

Ella sat in the booth furthest from the long table, holding her two-year-old son in her arms.

She was wearing a dark green dress, the skirt was too long, and the sleeves were tight...

That was something DeShawn casually grabbed from some secondhand store, to make the most of this respectable occasion when he brought his underlings along for a team-building event.

After all, he's a boss who loves to show off.

The boy was already asleep, his little face buried in the crook of her shoulder, breathing evenly.

In front of her was a nearly untouched salad, with the knife and fork neatly arranged on either side of the plate.

Her eyes were numb and empty.

She'd been through this kind of thing far too many times. DeShawn and his cronies ate and drank in the front, while she sat in the back watching the children.

No one ever invited her to sit at the table.

No one asked her if she was hungry.

No one asked her what she wanted to eat.

She was merely an accessory, a prop to prove that DeShawn "had a family."

A living thing that can be placed arbitrarily in a corner.

When DeShawn is in a good mood, he forgets she exists.

Of course, this is the best-case scenario, but when he's in a bad mood, she becomes the outlet for all his bad feelings and a human punching bag.

She looked down at Malcolm's sleeping face, her fingers gently stroking his soft curly hair.

This child was her only light, but also the last chain that bound her.

She dared not run away, because she couldn't escape with the child in her arms.

She dared not resist, for the price of resistance was already etched into her very being—

Those old scars, those interrupted nights, the smell of alcohol and sweat mixed together when I was pinned against the wall.

And then there were the underlings. The things DeShawn allowed them to do when she was drunk, things she never wanted to remember.

Her fingertips trembled slightly.

But she didn't cry. Crying in front of DeSean would only make things worse.

Unlike before, at this moment, in addition to numbness and fear, there was a slight flutter in her heart.

She was waiting. Waiting for the lawyer who had offered her salvation in the upstairs bedroom that day.

Just then, a waitress came over and interrupted her thoughts on the face.

She was bending down to clear the almost untouched salad plate in front of her when Ella instinctively pushed the plate towards her and whispered:

"I'm not hungry. Please go and serve the men."

The waitress did not straighten up.

As she cleared the plates, she uttered a soft, almost motionless utterance:

"Nancy... oh no, Ms. Ella."

I'd like to address you this way: I'm an employee of AnDun Security Company, and I'm here to remind you:

Find an excuse to leave. Something's about to happen, so please move away from the table.

It's best to leave through the back door; someone will come to pick you up.

Don't get agitated, don't get excited, please maintain your composure and composure.

Ella's fingers tightened slightly on Malcolm's blanket.

After hearing what was said, she didn't look up or ask any questions; she simply nodded slightly.

The waitress turned and left with the plate; the whole process took no more than ten seconds.

After a while, Ella stood up, picked up Malcolm, and walked to DeShawn's side, her voice low and timid:

"The baby's diaper is wet. I'll go to the bathroom to change it."

DeShawn was chewing on a steak, not even looking up, just waving his hand as if shooing away a flying insect.

Ella turned around, picked up Malcolm, and walked towards the side corridor of the restaurant.

She did not go to the restroom.

She walked through the corridor, pushed open the side door, and entered the alley behind the restaurant.

The night wind was so cold that she shivered, but she didn't stop walking.

A black SUV with its hazard lights flashing was parked at the entrance of the alley.

The passenger door is already open.

Monica.

The middle-aged Black woman who had knocked on her door three days earlier, posing as a social worker, was standing by the car door, reaching out her hand.

"Get in the car, let's go."

Ella handed Malcolm to her and climbed into the back seat.

The moment the car door closed, she heard a series of rapid braking sounds and hurried footsteps in the distance.

ended.

That demonic group and family came to an end, and she seemed to have truly been reborn.

She said to herself.

Whatever happens next, it's over.

……

Inside the restaurant, DeShawn had just stuffed a piece of beef covered in black pepper sauce into his mouth when the restaurant door was suddenly slammed open from the outside.

The two solid wood doors slammed against the walls on either side with a dull thud, shaking the chandelier.

A dozen or so people wearing dark tactical jackets and bulletproof vests with yellow reflective markings poured in from three directions at the same time.

Main entrance, side corridor, kitchen passageway...

Every possible exit was simultaneously blocked.

Their movements were clean and efficient, with their guns lowered and pointed at the ground, but their fingers inside the bow guards, clearly indicating that they were ready to fight at any moment.

"Everyone! Hands on the table! Don't move!"

People from AnDun Security Company.

Some of DeShawn's henchmen tried to reach for their waists, but they were a beat too slow...

They were all wearing suit jackets tonight, but their guns weren't on their waists; they were in the jackets hanging on the back of their chairs.

One of the quickest-reacting dreadlocks had already reached into his coat pocket.

But the next second, an infrared beam struck his forehead.

He slowly pulled his hand out of his clothes and raised it above his head.

"Don't fucking move!"

The uninvited guests roared rudely.

The dreadlocked henchman whispered, his voice trembling without him even realizing it:

"Boss, they..."

DeShawn didn't move. His hand was still gripping the wine glass, his knuckles white from the pressure.

He recognized these people...

Those wearing black tactical vests who stood behind police cars and cooperated with the police while enforcing the injunction in Kingston Gardens.

They are from AnDun Security, subordinates who specialize in handling matters for the wealthy.

Do you have a search warrant?

But even at this moment, DeShawn still asked a question, his voice still retaining the last shred of composure.

Because he knew that these security companies did not have the right to restrain or arrest him.

"unnecessary."

A voice came from the direction of the main entrance.

Somber, brief.

Klaus walked in through the main entrance.

He was wearing a dark blue An Shield tactical jacket.

Behind him were two men in plainclothes, wearing dark jackets and badges around their necks, their eyes calm as if they were attending a routine meeting rather than a raid.

These two people are not from AnDun.

They were federal agents that Klaus recruited from the Philadelphia ATF federal agent office through his old military connections.

It's not the city police department, nor the state police; it's a federal law enforcement officer who reports directly to the FBI's regional director.

Their jurisdiction covers interstate drug and gun crime, and Antion, as a registered federal contractor, is authorized to provide tactical support in assisting federal law enforcement operations.

All of this is based on law, and all of it can withstand court scrutiny.

"Desean Washington,"

Klaus's voice echoed in the suddenly quiet restaurant:

"You are suspected of violating the federal Controlled Substances Act and the Gun Control Act by trafficking illegal drugs and firearms across state lines. We are arresting you today while you are meeting with the dealer."

"Two federal felonies are on the table, and I want to cooperate with the investigation; that's your only option."

"Interstate drug trafficking?"

DeShawn stood up, his glass rolling off the edge of the table and shattering on the floor, whiskey splashing onto his brand-new crocodile shoes.

"You guys are crazy! We're just fucking eating here today!"

This is a family dinner for me, my wife, kids, and my buddies!

What evidence do you have?

"Do you need evidence?"

Another voice came from behind Klaus.

Link walked in through the main entrance.

He walked in casually, wearing a charcoal gray custom-made suit and a dark blue tie tied meticulously.

His gaze swept over the mess of plates and the dumbfounded gang members, landing on DeShawn's face, and then he smiled slightly.

"Mr. DeShawn, it's nice to see you again."

DeShawn's eyes widened instantly.

He recognized the person:

That Chinese social worker with glasses who looks like a nerd!

That skinny boy who seemed frail and weak in his eyes.

But the person in front of me is completely different.

A suit, a tie, the AnDun security guards and federal agents following behind him, and the calm and composed look in his eyes that had transformed from timidity to composure.

"It's you! That club..."

"It's me. Link, the intern social worker."

Link straightened his cuffs, his tone casual as if catching up with an old friend: "You have a good memory."

"You said you're a recent college graduate! You said it's your first job!"

"Yes. My social work internship was my first internship."

Being a lawyer was my first formal job.

Link pulled a business card from his pocket and waved it at him from a distance; the gold-embossed name of the law firm on the card gleamed slightly under the restaurant lights.

"We have to make the customers happy, don't you think?"

Mr. Winthrop is my client; they asked me to take their daughter back.

"You've detained their daughter for so many years, someone has to come and talk to you."

DeShawn's face turned from red to purple.

His fists were clenched, but he dared not make a move.

Klaus and the two plainclothes agents were standing behind Link, while the AnShield tactical team members' guns remained steadily pointed at everyone present.

"You have no evidence."

DeShawn forced out these words through gritted teeth:

"We didn't bring anything with us today, so you're accusing us of something!"

No goods, no guns, nothing.

Search all you want.

If they can't find anything, it's an illegal arrest. I'm going to sue you...

"Oh, you need evidence?"

Link turned around and waved towards the door.

Two members of the AnDun Company's operations team walked in through the back door carrying several black evidence boxes.

The box wasn't large, but it was quite heavy, making a dull metallic sound when it was placed on the ground.

Upon opening the lid, several rows of sealed plastic bags and a few handguns were neatly stacked inside.

The plastic bag contained white powder, and the pistol was a Glock or Smith & Wesson, the kind of pistols that DeShawn's gang usually used; the serial numbers had been worn down to just shallow dents.

Each of the plastic bags had a label attached and was sealed with a federal evidence seal.

The source of these pieces of evidence:

DeShaw's row house, the Ace Tire shop, and several other locations where DeShaw and his crew had been hiding goods for a long time, which had been under surveillance by the Anton investigators...

"Mr. Deenshaw, take a look at these,"

Link pointed to the boxes: "These are illegal items seized by federal agents during the investigation, and they are closely related to you and your men."

In addition, we are also working diligently to collect evidence related to interstate trafficking of controlled drugs, illegal possession of unregistered firearms, witness intimidation, and violations of federal anti-extortion and anti-corruption organizations laws.

Either one of these will be enough for you to stay in for a while; we've thoughtfully prepared everything for you.

DeShawn stared at the boxes, a muffled sound escaping his throat as if he were being choked.

None of these items belong to me!

It was clearly a premeditated frame-up by them!

He abruptly looked up, glaring at Link, his chest heaving: "You framed me!"

"No, sir? These are all yours."

Link answered easily, then tilted his head slightly, that damn smile still lingering on his lips.

"You fucking...you fucking are an animal!"

You filthy yellow-skinned thing!

"Mr. Desean Washington,"

Link's voice remained gentle, but with a hint of seriousness: "Sir, insults are meaningless."

You have the right to remain silent.

If you waive this right, everything you say can be used as evidence in court.

You have the right to hire a lawyer. If you cannot afford one, the court will appoint one for you.

Did you understand the above reminders?

This isn't reciting lines; this is completing the formal legal procedures for Miranda's warning.

Regardless of right or wrong, this case has now entered the legal process.

Everyone in the restaurant fell silent, even the dreadlocked waiter who had been muttering curses under his breath shut up.

DeShawn stared at him, panting heavily, his lips moving but unable to utter a single word.

Klaus nodded to the federal agent behind him. The agent stepped forward and took out steel handcuffs from his waist.

"Desean Washington, you have been formally arrested on suspicion of violating federal law."

Turn around and put your hands behind your back.

The click of the handcuffs snapping shut was particularly crisp in the empty restaurant.

As DeShawn was being led towards the door, he suddenly turned around abruptly, staring intently at Link with bloodshot eyes.

He opened his mouth as if to curse, but in the end he said nothing.

Link watched as Klaus led DeShawn past him and straightened his tie.

He dropped his smile and replaced it with standard, lawyer-like, official language—the kind of language used only after an engagement agreement has been reached.

"AnDun Security Company, in conjunction with federal law enforcement agencies, assisted in the arrest of nine suspects and associates from an interstate criminal gang."

"Mr. DeShawn, see you in court."

……

Two hours later, at the AnDun Company base.

Link sat in the old leather chair in Klaus's office, holding a cup of hot tea.

The long table in front of them was covered with documents that needed to be signed after the operation:

Arrest report, list of evidence, and ATF federal agents' joint operation confirmation.

He turned the pages one by one, writing his signature with a fountain pen wherever it was needed.

Then the door opened.

Samuel Winthrop stood in the doorway.

He was wearing an overcoat, his hair was slightly disheveled by the night wind, and his wife Margaret followed behind him.

Link stood up.

"Ella is already in the safe house, and the baby is healthy."

"Can we see her?"

"She needs time, sir. She wants to see you, but not tonight."

"Okay, Attorney Link. We understand."

Margaret's voice trembled.

Link capped his pen: "I suggest letting her decide the time and place of the meeting. She's been arranged for too long in her life. Let her do it herself now."

Samuel paused for a moment, then slowly nodded.

Margaret reached out and grabbed her husband's arm, buried her face in his shoulder, and began to sob silently.

At this moment, Klaus slowly walked in, came to the edge of the desk, and crossed his arms:

"DeShawn is in detention now, but he's not behaving himself."

I think he'll definitely try to pass on a message to Clemons; that congressman hasn't officially stated his position yet.

"He will make a statement, Mr. Klaus."

Link picked up the suit jacket from the back of the chair:

"Seventy-two hours haven't passed yet. Let him think about it first. Clemons is a smart man, and the thing smart men are best at is jumping off shipwrecks."

Klaus nodded.

Samuel said, "Thank you for your hard work, Attorney Link."

Link replied with a smile, "It's just a lawyer's professional ethics. I need to go back and draft a court hearing plan as soon as possible. The sooner this Deenshaw matter is resolved, the better; otherwise, things might change."

"Okay, let Daniel take you home. A security team will be stationed downstairs to protect you."

Goodnight, both of you.

He walked toward the door, pausing briefly as he passed Daniel.

Daniel leaned against the doorframe, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He grinned as he saw him approach.

"Next time you try to extort money from a congressman using an empty USB drive, remember to tell me beforehand."

"It won't work if I tell you."

Link patted him on the shoulder, pushed open the door, and walked into the hallway.

"Let's go, take me back. We need to discuss how to deliver the final blow in court."