Law America, the Devil's Agent

The following morning, at the Philadelphia Detention Center.

The corridor of the visiting area was filled with an unpleasant smell, and the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed.

Link slowly entered the visiting room and looked up to see Los Thomson behind the explosion-proof glass partition.

The black drug dealer was no longer the arrogant man he was in the booth last night; his eyes were bloodshot.

As soon as he saw Link walk in, he excitedly rushed to the partition, the handcuffs scraping against the metal table with a piercing noise.

"Attorney Link, you're here! You have to help me..."

"Don't worry, Mr. Los. I'll help you, but you have to let me understand the situation first."

Link pulled a few documents out of his briefcase, but before he could open them, the door to the visiting room was pushed open.

A narcotics officer in a dark blue uniform walked in.

He was tall and thin, with sunken cheeks and prominent brow bones, and the holster on his waist gleamed coldly under the light.

"You're his lawyer?"

The sheriff's voice was cold, and his gaze swept over Link:

"Mr. Link? There's nothing to discuss in this case."

Your client was caught red-handed at a bar last night with prescription drugs worth over $3,000, containing multiple federally controlled substances.

He has a prior criminal record, and this is a repeat offense. The prosecution will not agree to a reduced sentence, much less drop the charges.

Los's face turned pale instantly.

His lips trembled as he tried to say something, but the sheriff's imposing presence rendered him speechless.

Link didn't refute it, but simply placed a document on the table, opened to the first page, and pushed it in front of the sheriff.

"Sheriff, before that, there's something I need you to answer first."

The sheriff's expression stiffened for a moment, but quickly returned to normal; he hated law enforcement officers the most. The lawyer cited legal provisions.

"According to Section 5503 of the Pennsylvania Criminal Code, obstructing official business is a third-degree misdemeanor."

Specifically: If law enforcement officers refuse a suspect and his/her lawyer a confidential meeting without due process and without an emergency while performing their duties, it constitutes a procedural violation.

My client has the right to communicate with his lawyer at any time without being monitored, and law enforcement officers may not suspend or delay this right on the grounds that "there's nothing to discuss in the case."

The sheriff's lips were pressed into a thin line.

"I didn't stop him from seeing you."

"Oh? Although your body camera didn't light up red when you came in, I still have the recorder in my hand. You haven't forgotten what you just said."

Link pointed to the black body camera on the sheriff's shoulder, then slowly pulled out a black voice recorder. His tone was completely flat:

"If what you just said:"

  

If saying "There's nothing to discuss in the case" or "The prosecution won't agree to a reduced sentence" isn't hindering my actions, then I have nothing more to say.

If you only said these things to me without turning on the recorder, then procedurally, these words were never recorded. Can I consider this a professional error on your part?

I believe that procedural lapses within the law enforcement system, especially in federal cases, tend to be subject to more rigorous scrutiny.

I believe you are fully aware of this regulation.

There was a silence in the visiting room for about three seconds. The sheriff stared at Link, his lips moving slightly.

Then, when he reached out and put the document back on the table, his movements were much gentler than before.

"I'll give you ten minutes," he said.

After saying that, he walked outside.

He closed the door behind him as he left the visiting room.

The door clicked shut, leaving only Los on the other side of the glass.

The black drug dealer's mouth was agape in an exaggerated "O" shape.

He looked at the closed door, then at Link, and his expression completely changed!

The panic from before was still there, but now there was an emotion on top of it that was completely different from his own.

That was amazement, that was awe.

"Damn... how did you do that?"

That's a sergeant from the Narcotics Bureau!

The way he looked at me just now was like he wanted to devour me alive, and you let him leave with just a few words?

"This is the law, bro. You must learn to use the law, Mr. Los."

Link put the documents back into his briefcase, his movements as calm as if he were organizing a routine file.

"Law? Does America still have laws for us?"

The law is not... I mean, I'm Black, and you are...

Los, who lacked finesse in speech, stopped mid-sentence, seemingly realizing that what he was about to say was inappropriate.

"I am of Asian descent."

In this country's power structure, my skin color isn't much worse than yours.

Link finished speaking for him:

"But sometimes legal documents and social classes don't discriminate based on skin color. The former only recognizes clauses, precedents, and procedures. The latter only recognizes: connections, power, background, rights, and money."

You'll understand later.

Los leaned back in his chair, his eyes filled with complex emotions.

He has seen all of these things in his life:

The violence of gang leaders, the guns of police officers, and the money of casino owners.

But he never imagined that an Asian lawyer sitting in a plastic chair, using a few sheets of paper and some legal jargon he didn't quite understand, could make a DEA sheriff back down.

A strange, inexplicable ambition welled up inside him.

A few minutes later, the sheriff pushed the door open again.

This time he didn't come in; he just stood at the door and nodded to Link.

"Come out for a moment. Let's talk."

Link stood up, straightened his suit, and followed the sheriff into the break room at the end of the corridor.

The door closed behind me.

The narcotics officer who had been as cold and hard as iron suddenly relaxed, leaned against the wall, pulled a crumpled bag of Marlboro cigarettes from his pocket, and waved it at Link.

Link slowly took the cigarette, pulled out a lighter from his suit pocket, lit the sheriff's cigarette first, and then lit his own.

The two men stood facing each other in the break room, each exhaling a puff of smoke.

The tension that had been building in the visiting room had completely dissipated in the smoke.

"What's your name?" Link asked.

Miles White.

My name is Link.

"I know."

Miles grinned. "Commander Klaus and Daniel have both mentioned you to me."

Link chuckled to himself.

"It seems you are comrades-in-arms."

"Yes. Daniel was my classmate in the Marine Corps."

Miles' tone suddenly became casual:

"You know, when the old boss speaks up, you have to give him face. But it's not all about face—"

I'd like to get to know you myself.

You know Daniel, he's the proudest man. There aren't many people he can respect.

He kept telling me your story, saying you're a very capable lawyer, a lawyer who can solve problems.

"Daniel is too kind."

Link said, "I was just doing my job."

"no the same."

Miles exhaled a puff of smoke and shook his head:

When he talked to me about you, it wasn't in the tone of someone saying, "You found a good lawyer."

I'd only ever heard that tone of his voice in the barracks. I can't quite explain it, but I know what it means.

Link looked at the narcotics bureau chief in front of him:

His facial features were rugged yet sincere, and when he spoke, he liked to look directly into the other person's eyes, without flinching or beating around the bush.

This is a typical law enforcement officer with a military background, accustomed to distinguishing enemies and allies in the most direct way.

"We've gotten to know each other today." Link extended his hand. "If you have any legal issues in the future, you can come to me."

Miles grasped his hand, a hand as rough and strong as Klaus's.

"Okay. To tell you the truth, in our line of work, no one can guarantee that they won't run into trouble one day."

What procedural violations, excessive enforcement...?

Having a trustworthy lawyer is more important than anything else when the time comes.

Link nodded.

Another node has been added to my network of relationships.

"That guy inside."

Miles flicked his cigarette butt into the trash can and gestured with his chin toward the visiting room:

"He's not a big shot. We've been keeping an eye on him for a while."

The outer members of the South African gang are timid and their main job is to resell prescription drugs.

We are aware of the doctors who are connected to him, but they are just minor figures.

The real big stuff is in the hospital.

"I want this one," Link said.

"You want to check Philadelphia General Hospital?"

Link didn't answer; he simply flicked the cigarette butt into the trash can and stomped it out with the sole of his shoe.

Miles shrugged and didn't ask any further questions, simply saying, "Alright, his matter is pretty much settled."

You can leave after posting bail. I have other things to do, so I'll have to go now.

"Okay. I'll keep in touch."

Link watched him disappear at the end of the corridor, then turned and went back to the visiting room.

Fifteen minutes later, Los signed a bail document, paid the money, put his fingerprint on it, and then followed Link out of the detention center.

The midday sun made him squint. He took a deep breath of the outside air, and a hint of relief at surviving the ordeal finally appeared on his anxious face.

"Attorney Link, I really don't know how to thank you."

Link shook his head, then handed over a bill, politely replying, "You're welcome, it's a business transaction after all. Here's the list of lawyer fees, take a look."

Upon hearing this, Los's smile faded, and after taking a look at the bill, a wry smile appeared on his face:

"To be honest, Attorney Link, I just handed over all my savings as a deposit."

I have absolutely no money left; I can't even afford to eat.

I need you to wait for me; I'll pay you back the legal fees soon!

"No rush. We can discuss the legal fees later."

Link waved to interrupt him, as if he already knew his predicament: "You haven't eaten a single meal until midday, have you? Come on, it's my treat. Beer and fried chicken?"

"Beer and fried chicken! That would be perfect."

Los's eyes lit up.

……

The commission has been completed.

Customer satisfaction: Completely satisfied.

[Rewards are being processed...]

[You have received: 100 Faith Points (Your current Faith Points have reached 500, unlocking the next tier of Faith Ability...)]

[Extracting abilities...]

Link closed the panel, temporarily ignoring the floating text, and focused on the black drug dealer in front of him who was stuffing fried chicken into his mouth.

They sat in a small restaurant three blocks away from the detention center, with two plates of fried chicken and two pitchers of beer on a plastic tablecloth.

After wolfing down his third chicken leg, Los finally leaned back in his chair and let out a satisfied burp.

After eating and drinking his fill, he relaxed a lot and started talking non-stop.

"What did you just ask me? Philadelphia General Hospital?"

"Yes. The drugs you were talking about with people in the bar."

The so-called "high-potency drugs directly from the lab." Who gave you those drugs?

Los put down his beer glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, hesitated for a very short moment, and then, as if he had made up his mind, put the glass on the table.

"I've already told you. Anyway, you're my lawyer."

He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice:

"I am an outer member of the South African gang, mainly operating in the southern region."

Once, while I was working as a bouncer at an underground casino in a gang's territory, I ran into a doctor.

That guy works in the pharmacy at Philadelphia General Hospital—I saw his name tag.

He had a bad day and lost a lot of money; his face turned pale.

You know the casino rules: if you can't pay back your debts, they'll cut off your hand.

"You helped him out of that predicament."

"right.

I helped him out and enabled him to recover his losses.

We connected after that.

He said he worked at a pharmacy and managed the drug inventory, so he could get his hands on some things that were hard to find on the market.

Steroids, painkillers, basically just small stuff.

"Who else knows about your relationship?"

"Nobody knows. He's very cautious; he always changes the location when they meet."

Los picked up a fry with his fingers, dipped it in ketchup, and his tone slowly turned into a more subtle complaint:

"I only cooperated with him for some pocket money."

"Attorney Link, to be honest, what we have is just petty theft, nothing serious at all."

He lowered his voice, as if to share industry insider information, and said:

"He told me that some people in his hospital were much more ruthless than him. I'm just a nobody compared to him."

Did he mention who it was specifically?

"No. He's very tight-lipped, probably afraid of getting into trouble. He only mentioned their superiors and people above them..."

Link picked up his beer glass and slowly spun it around.

A thin layer of foam clung to the glass of golden liquor.

Pharmacy supervisor. Head of Psychiatry. Hospital Affairs Committee. Whole cases of anesthetic drugs were leaked...

Each of these items seems like an isolated clue, but piecing them together might yield some unexpected insights…

Behind this complete picture might just be the mastermind.

He put down his beer glass, wiped his fingers, and looked up at Los.

"I have a job offer here, I don't know if you'd be interested."

Los's finger stopped on the fried chicken, and he looked up at him.

"What kind of job?"

"Informant."

Los immediately placed the chicken leg on a plate, wiped his hands with a napkin, leaned back in his chair, and looked at him intently:

That face, glistening with the grease of alcohol and fried chicken, suddenly became clearer than ever before.

"I knew it."

You listened to what I said in the bar, helped me get out of jail, and treated me to this meal—it wasn't just to make friends.

You need me. You need the information I have.

"I need you to help me find out exactly who is dumping medicine at that hospital."

In exchange, I will help you with your current bail situation and, in accordance with regulations, apply for informant fees for you.

Los was silent for a moment, then replied:

"Deal made, but there are some things we need to clarify first."

"explain."

"First, how are informant fees calculated?"

I want to be paid weekly, not monthly.

Five hundred US dollars every week, cash, no tax return.

Second, I will only provide information; I will not appear in court to testify.

I don't understand your lawyers' stuff, but I know what the consequences of standing as a witness are: I won't be able to work in the Southern District anymore.

Third, if I get arrested by the police, you have to represent me in court for free, without charging legal fees. Fourth…”

He licked his lips, a barely perceptible glint of greed in his eyes: "If this information helps you solve any big cases, I want an extra bonus."

Five percent. Not much, just five percent.

The restaurant was quiet for a few seconds.

Link didn't say anything.

He slowly placed the beer glass on the table, the bottom of the glass making a slight thud as it touched the plastic surface.

"Mr. Los."

He finally spoke, his voice very low:

"You seem to have misunderstood something."

"It was me who got you out of jail this morning and cleared a charge that could have put you in five years in federal jail, not your bargaining skills."

Los's smile froze slightly, but greed had blinded him to many things.

He shrugged and spread his hands as if to appear relaxed:

"I didn't say it wasn't. I just felt the deal should be fairer."

You help me, I help you.

You need my information, and I am now your only source of access to Philadelphia General Hospital.

Is this channel worth the price I mentioned?

I think it's worth it.

Link looked at him. After a few seconds of silence, he suddenly smiled.

The smile was faint; the corners of his mouth curved slightly, but his eyes did not smile.

Those deep black pupils appeared exceptionally calm in the dim light of the restaurant, as calm as the sky before a storm.

You make a very good point.

Link picked up his beer glass, took a sip, then put the glass down and leaned forward slightly.

"But there's one thing you still don't understand."

As soon as he finished speaking, Los suddenly felt that the atmosphere around him was full of malice, and he looked around to see where it was coming from.

suddenly!

He looked up at Link sitting opposite him:

The Chinese-American lawyer who was just chatting with him has completely changed.

Los saw a flushed face, with a prominent brow and deep black pupils that pulsated with an ancient, ominous dark red light.

"Oh shit—"

Los instinctively leaned back, his back hitting the plastic chair back, almost causing him to fall over.

He opened his mouth as if to scream, but Link raised a finger and gently pressed it to his lips.

Los's voice was instantly stuck in his throat, unable to make a sound.

Then his entire body slowly began to spiral out of control.

"I don't need to haggle."

Link's voice was so soft it was almost a sigh.

But every word was etched deep into Los's consciousness, leaving an indelible mark.

"What I need is loyalty."

After a long while, Los slowly sat down.

Link's face returned to its usual appearance.

【Devil's Servant - Activated. (1/1)】

[Skill Description: For clients who have accepted the commission and have a clear intention to obey, the host can apply a mental imprint by making direct eye contact.]

Those branded will instinctively obey the host's commands and will experience a complex mix of awe, trust, and obedience when facing the host.

This effect is not limited by spatial distance, cannot be detected or interfered with by a third party, and cannot be reversed by hypnosis, psychotherapy, or drug intervention.

[Note: The devil doesn't need slaves. The devil only needs willing followers.]

This is the second faith ability he awakened after the "Devil's Eye".

Link swiped past the floating text in his field of vision, picked up his beer glass, took a sip, then stood up and picked up his coat from the back of his chair.

"Let's go, Los."

Los slowly stood up.

His posture became restrained and respectful.

"Yes, sir."

Link draped his coat over his shoulders, pushed open the restaurant door, and sunlight streamed in from the streets of Philadelphia.

"It's time to go see your friend at the hospital."