Law America, the Devil's Agent

Philadelphia, South Side street corner.

As dusk fell, the neon sign of the "Polaris" drive-in restaurant shimmered pink in the afternoon sunlight.

In the parking lot, several old cars covered in dust were parked crookedly, riddled with gunshot wounds and dents.

A few idle young people stood on a street corner in the distance, their eyes lazily sweeping over every passerby.

This isn't the place for serious conversation, which is precisely why Los chose it.

Link sat in a donut shop across the street, with a cold Americano in front of him.

From this vantage point, you can clearly see everything happening at the window seats on the second floor of the drive-in restaurant through the glass window:

Los leaned against the railing, a cigarette between his fingers, looking as relaxed as if he were waiting for an old friend.

Meanwhile, the "hospital mole," wearing a faded hoodie and with his hands in his pockets, was walking briskly up the stairs, head down, through the parking lot.

"I'm very nervous, and I'm not very brave."

This was Link's first impression of him.

A person with nothing to hide wouldn't walk so fast in a parking lot in the afternoon.

He put the coffee cup back on the saucer and pushed the Bluetooth earphone further into his ear canal.

The sound of Los's breathing came through the headphones, along with the sound of the wind in the second-floor corridor of the motel.

"Why did you ask me to come over at this time? Are you running out of stock?"

The breathing in the headphones suddenly became rapid, followed by an unfamiliar, tense male voice.

"no."

Los turned around, leaned against the railing, and said in a heavy tone:

"I'm in a bit of trouble lately; the Drug Enforcement Administration and the Drug Administration are keeping an eye on me."

I almost couldn't get out last night!

When they pinned me down in the bar booth, I saw two whole police cars.

  

Guess what my first reaction was? I thought you were being targeted and had given away my name.

"Fuck! Me? Impossible!"

The doctor's voice suddenly rose a little, then, as if realizing he had overreacted, he lowered it again, but his speaking speed actually increased after lowering it:

"I'm always cautious, how could I possibly be targeted?"

If there's a problem, it's because something went wrong in your process!

No one noticed me at the hospital, and no one else ever knew about our deal!

"Weren't you arrested? How did you get out?"

"Bail. Someone helped me out."

Los flicked his cigarette butt downstairs and put his hand on the doctor's shoulder:

"However, what I just said about the problem you encountered was not without basis!"

Because I heard a name in the interrogation room:

Philadelphia General Hospital.

The corridor fell silent.

A pigeon took flight from the concrete ground of the parking lot, its flapping wings making a particularly loud noise in the quiet.

Link picked up his coffee cup, squinted, and looked at the doctor's profile through the glass window:

The corner of that face twitched, and for a moment it was filled with an undisguised fear.

"The Hawthorne incident..." the doctor blurted out.

"Thump—"

Link's finger rested on the rim of the coffee cup.

"They said there's a problem with your hospital's pharmacy."

Anesthetic drugs and prescription drugs are flowing out of the country.

They spoke with such conviction, as if they already had evidence.

Los flicked the cigarette butt down the stairs, his voice suddenly dropping even lower:

"They mentioned the pharmacy manager. They mentioned people in your department."

It even mentioned... a murder case!

The doctor's face turned ashen in an instant. His shoulders trembled slightly beneath his hoodie.

He's not the kind of person who can handle pressure, which is evident from his appearance.

He wasn't some airtight intelligence officer; he was just a cowardly and greedy ordinary doctor.

Having spent their entire lives in a comfortable, safe zone, all you need to do is give them bad news, and they'll instinctively conjure up the most terrifying version in their minds.

This is precisely why Link chose to have Los deliver this message:

Fear is more effective at prying a person open up than any precise evidence.

"What did they ask you?"

The doctor's voice was trembling.

"They asked me everything."

Where did the medicine come from? Who gave it to me? How much did it cost? How many times? I said I didn't know and made up a few fake names...

But as you know, my relationship with you is a genuine transaction.

If they catch you and me making a deal…

Los sighed and shook his head:

"In short, the situation is complicated. You are a doctor, you have a proper job."

I can't let them trace it back to you.

But I can't keep bearing this burden for you forever.

"Then find me and let me out..."

The doctor paused here, as if suddenly realizing something, and took a half step back:

"Are you trying to trick me? You want me to admit it so you can make a deal with them?"

"I didn't think that way."

Los raised his hands, making an innocent gesture:

"I asked you to come out because someone wants to see you."

He can help you. He can help me too.

"Who?"

"I."

Link's voice came from the direction of the stairs.

The doctor whirled around, his shoulder slamming against the corridor railing with a dull metallic sound.

Link walked up the stairs at a leisurely pace, carrying a briefcase in his hand.

He nodded slightly to the doctor across the two tables, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Good afternoon, doctor.

My name is Link, and I am Mr. Los's lawyer, and also...

Legal counsel investigating the illicit outflow of medical supplies from Philadelphia General Hospital.

The doctor's pupils contracted sharply.

He instinctively took another half step back, his back hitting the railing, with nowhere left to retreat.

He didn't hear Link's introduction at all, and just hurriedly said, "You're a police officer? You're a federal agent? You—"

"I'm not, doctor. I'll repeat myself:"

I am not a police officer, not a drug enforcement officer, not an AED, and not a member of any law enforcement agency.

I'm just a lawyer.

I can help you take care of those little troubles between you and Mr. Los.

The doctor did not speak.

His lips were trembling, and his fingers were clenching and unclenching in his hoodie pocket.

To reiterate, he is not someone who can remain calm under pressure; his fear is written all over his face.

Seeing his expression, Link's smile grew even wider.

The other side of fear is weakness, and weakness can be guided.

"Let me start with a simple question. Which department in the hospital do you work in?"

"Medicine...the pharmacy. I'm a pharmacist."

Link nodded.

Pharmacist:

A position that is neither too high nor too low.

They have access to all drug inventory records, but no right to sign off on them; they can see the whereabouts of every batch of drugs, but are not responsible for the disappearance of any batch.

This is the best information node, but also the easiest role to be overlooked.

"I have a general idea of ​​the scale of the deal between you and Mr. Los."

Steroids, painkillers, hallucinogens.

Each session costs approximately a thousand US dollars, and it happens several times a month.

Link's tone was as if he were reading a financial statement:

"These things are nothing compared to the real big business your hospital does."

I've seen similar cases in federal files, and even some more unusual ones.

You should know better than I do what I mean.

The doctor closed his eyes. His shoulders slumped completely.

"have."

He finally spoke, his voice hoarse:

"Yes, we have all of those. We have everything you're talking about at our hospital."

Anesthetic drugs are the most common. The pharmacy manager personally signed off on a batch of expired anesthetic induction agents, changing them to "available in stock," and then transported them out through an outsourced waste disposal company.

Surgical medications were being replaced in bulk; new drugs were being sold off, and old drugs were being brought in to make up the numbers. I've seen all of this.

Link looked up at the pale face. He didn't urge him, but waited quietly.

"besides."

The doctor licked his lips, lowered his voice, as if uttering a word he shouldn't have:

"There are systematic discrepancies between the data from the organ transplant coordination center and the hospital's death records."

Some patients were listed as "transplant candidates" before they died.

But I have never seen these surgeries actually take place in the operating room.

Just a record. Only a record.

The air in the corridor seemed to freeze.

The sounds of traffic from the street corner in the distance suddenly became blurry and distant.

Live organ trade.

Link sighed inwardly, then put it aside for the time being.

This might be a clue for a later case, but for now I need to focus on the main storyline.

"doctor."

He placed his briefcase on the ground and slowly approached him.

"I am now representing Nathaniel Hawthorne. Do you recognize this name?"

The doctor's body stiffened as if he had been electrocuted.

His lips opened and closed, then he quickly avoided Link's gaze and moved a few steps to the side.

"I...I don't know him."

"You're lying, doctor."

Link's tone remained unchanged:

"When Mr. Los mentioned the DEA's investigation into Philadelphia General Hospital, your first reaction was to mention Hawthorne's name."

You don't know my relationship with Mr. Los, nor do you know the true purpose of today's meeting.

But your first reaction has already told me that there is some connection between Hawthorne and the outflow of medical supplies from hospitals that you take for granted.

All I need is for you to tell me the contact information.

The doctor did not answer.

He lowered his head, trembling all over, as if standing in the face of a storm that had already begun, with nowhere to hide.

"Or you don't want to say it, or you're afraid to say it."

"Then I'll do it for you. I'll tell you a story, and you just need to tell me if it's right or wrong, okay?"

The figure opposite finally nodded.

"Nathaniel Hawthorne began reporting problems with your hospital's anesthetic management three years ago."

Link's voice was steady and cold:

"He reported the pharmacy manager and the head of the psychiatry department, Morrison."

He wrote numerous whistleblower letters and sent them to the Philadelphia Department of Public Health and the Pennsylvania Medical Board, but all of them went unanswered.

Then he was transferred away from his surgical post, ostracized, isolated, and forced to see a psychiatrist.

Now he sits in a Philadelphia jail on four murders he denies.

He turned his head to look at the doctor's profile.

"Tell me. Was the person who escalated things to this point all because of Hawthorne?"

What did he do that required so many people to unite and set this trap for him?

Why would the people in your hospital—the pharmacy director, Dr. Morrison, the hospital board—do this?

Is it really because he's the 'serial killer' you're talking about? Or is it because he reported your illegal dealings and exposed the shady profit chain you were most afraid of being exposed?

The doctor remained silent for a long time.

Then he took a deep breath, and his shoulders stopped trembling.

He leaned against the railing, looking like a deflated balloon.

Nathaniel Hawthorne,

He spoke, his voice hoarse and weary:

"He doesn't work at our hospital..."

What I mean is, he wasn't like us before he came here.

He came from a small, rural medical family; both his parents were village doctors from Kentucky.

He was admitted to medical school at the age of sixteen and graduated with the highest score in the entire state.

His skills are truly excellent—you have to admit that.

During his three years in cardiothoracic surgery, the failure rate of the surgeries he performed was the lowest among all hospitals in Philadelphia.

He was recruited because Philadelphia General Hospital had received national funding for its thoracic surgery program and needed a good reputation.

He licked his lips, his eyes shifting from fear to a more complex weariness.

"But ever since he came here, he's been 'meddling' in other people's business."

He reported abnormal pharmacy inventory, falsified surgical records, and excessive use of anesthetics.

Each report was written in great detail, with data, time, and signature.

He absolutely refuses to remain anonymous—he says that a whistleblower letter without a signature has no credibility.

He felt that as long as he acted uprightly, no one could do anything to him.

He thought hospitals, like courtrooms, were places where evidence mattered.

The doctor gave a wry smile as he said this.

That smile contained helplessness, mockery, and a hint of barely perceptible jealousy.

"He's too naive."

He had no idea what he was facing.

The pharmacy manager, a few anesthesiologists, and maybe even board members—how many years have they been in this business?

He spent sixteen years in the operating room, saving countless lives, but he had no idea how to survive in a hospital, no idea that a hospital is more than just a hospital.

This is Philadelphia, not his rural clinic in Kentucky.

There are gangs and the city government here, federal and congressional funding, organ transplant brokers and pharmaceutical representatives, and networks of relationships you can't touch, ask about, or talk about.

What makes him think he can be that clean person?

The more he refuses to compromise his principles, the more he makes others appear corrupt.

Those who are filthy cannot tolerate a clean point of reference.

The doctor turned to look at Link. His eyes, hidden in the shadow of his hoodie, suddenly looked exhausted.

He shouldn't be here.

He should go back to Kentucky and continue being that—clean—small-town doctor.

He doesn't belong here.

The corridor was quiet for a few seconds.

Link memorized both pieces of information and then looked at the doctor again.

He has more cards to play, but that will be faster and more ruthless.

"Doctor, I don't need you to change your appearance and become a hero."

I don't need you to testify against anyone. I just need you to confirm a few things for me at the appropriate time.

For example, whose name was signed on which documents; which batches of medicine were shipped to which places:

Which surgical records do not match the actual surgeries performed?

You do what you're supposed to do, and I guarantee you won't be held accountable.

If you refuse, I will leave; there has been no conversation between us.

However, if the Drug Enforcement Administration later discovers a case involving the outflow of medical supplies from hospitals, and your name happens to appear in that case, I will be unable to provide you with legal assistance.

The doctor looked up, his lips trembling, but there was something new in his eyes—

That might be a long-lost courage.

The moment his mental defenses completely crumbled, Link caught that gaze.

He pressed his advantage, adding that he was ready to strike right at the doctor's most vulnerable spot.

"You are useful. I will keep you safe."

The related compensation and expenses will certainly not be small.

He turned his head and randomly pulled out a check.

The man looked down:

5000 dollars.

The doctor felt as if he were in a dream.

Link watched his performance, a very faint smile appearing on his lips:

"Trust me. Trust my abilities."

The doctor's shoulders stopped shaking.

He slowly leaned against the corridor railing, looked up at Link, and saw that the fear in his eyes was still there, but something new was slowly solidifying above that fear.

That was the instinctive dependence that a person, tormented by fear for too long, felt after finally finding someone to rely on.

"What do you need me to do?"

"You don't need to do anything for now. Go back to work."

If someone asks you where you went today, just say you went to South Philadelphia to visit a friend.

The rest, wait for my call.

The doctor nodded.

He didn't ask any more questions, but simply pulled down his hat brim, turned around, and walked down the stairs.

Link watched his figure disappear around the corner of the parking lot, then leaned against the corridor railing, took out his phone, and opened Benny's chat window.

He typed: "I understand the situation inside the hospital. Arrange an appointment with Hawthorne's family for me right away."