Law America, the Devil's Agent

Two days later, in the Chesternut Hills community, a western suburb of Philadelphia.

Benny drove the black Ford provided by the law firm and parked it in front of an old Tudor Revival-style house.

The exterior walls are a dark brown half-timbered structure, and the weathervane on the spire is rusted.

Benny turned off the engine and turned around.

"Team leader, we've arrived," Mrs. Hawthorne said on the phone. "The whole family is here today."

They said they were all waiting here for Attorney Link.

Link nodded and opened the car door.

A cold wind carrying the scent of withered leaves rushed towards him. He buttoned up his suit jacket and walked toward the oak door.

The door opened.

The woman who opened the door was in her early thirties, with light brown hair, no makeup, and wearing a simple dark green sweater.

Her eyes were slightly red, but her face was calm, as if she had cried all her tears out.

"Attorney Link?"

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The housewife spoke softly, but her handshake was firmer than expected.

"I am Eileen Hawthorne."

Nathaniel's wife. Please come in.

The living room wasn't big, but it was very clean.

A row of picture frames sat on the fireplace mantel:

A professional photo of Hawthorne in surgical scrubs, a photo of the couple on the beach, and a boy of about seven or eight years old holding a golden retriever with a gap-toothed grin.

An elderly couple sat on the sofa. The old man was wearing a faded plaid shirt, and the old woman was clutching a handkerchief. Both of them sat very upright, as if they were going to church.

Standing beside him were two men in their thirties and a young woman, who were Hawthorne's two brothers and sister, respectively.

In the corner, a little boy was drawing something on a drawing board with his head down. Hearing someone come in, he looked up for a moment, then lowered his head again to continue drawing.

Link stood in the center of the living room.

All eyes were on him.

These gazes contained doubt, scrutiny, and even more so, a long-suppressed expectation, a hope that had been almost too great to bear.

"I am Link, Nathaniel Hawthorne's attorney. The previous attorney, Robinck, has stepped down for various reasons, and I am now in charge!"

Everyone then took a closer look at him, because he was much younger than Robin.

It's normal to have some underlying distrust.

Link sensed the atmosphere and continued:

"I know you've been waiting for many days."

I also know that the previous lawyer didn't give you any substantial progress.

I'm here today to change that.

The voice wasn't loud, but it was full of determination.

He sat down on the sofa, and Benny sat next to him, opening his notebook.

"So, fellow Hawthorne, let's cut to the chase."

I need to learn as much as possible about you in order to piece together the character and personality of my client who is already imprisoned.

This allows me to prepare mentally before actually interacting with him, and also helps me design a button-pressing technique.

Link's gaze swept over every face, finally settling on Eileen Hawthorne's face.

"First, Mrs. Hawthorne, I'll ask a few key questions."

These questions may be somewhat repetitive, but each answer could become evidence in court.

I need you to answer me honestly.

Eileen nodded.

Does your husband have a history of mental illness?

Have any of his parents, grandparents, or siblings been diagnosed or treated for mental illness?

"no."

Eileen's voice was soft, but without any hesitation:

"Nathaniel was never diagnosed with a mental illness. He was definitely not the kind of person they described."

Her lips trembled slightly, but she quickly regained her composure:

"His parents are both retired village doctors, and they live there."

She looked at the elderly couple on the sofa.

"I have never had a history of mental illness, nor have I taken any antipsychotic medications."

Those diagnostic records, those prescriptions for risperidone and sertraline, were given to him by the psychiatry department of Philadelphia General Hospital after he was reassigned.

He was forced into it. Because he refused to see a psychiatrist, the hospital accused him of non-cooperation and threatened to suspend him.

The old lady on the sofa finally spoke, her voice hoarse but firm.

"We have no family history of genetic diseases. Neither my husband, nor my parents, nor my husband's parents have any."

Nathaniel was a quiet child from a young age.

He enjoys reading and studying surgical videos, and he never causes trouble.

He's not crazy. He's just too serious.

Link nodded and quickly jotted down the information in his notebook.

He drew a highlight under each of the two items: "No family history of hereditary diseases" and "Overlapping timelines of psychiatric diagnosis and job transfer".

"The second question."

After he was transferred, did he tell you about the specific situation at the hospital?

Did you hear any names? Did you discuss the trouble he's facing?

"He said that."

Eileen's fingers were intertwined, her knuckles turning slightly white:

"He used to be very quiet and wouldn't bring work-related issues home. But he changed during that period."

He told me that it seemed to be... the pharmacy manager!

I don't quite remember what the man's last name was, but I do remember him saying that the man was a "businessman in a white coat."

He said that person treated the hospital's anesthetic drugs as his private warehouse.

There's also Dr. Morrison, a psychiatrist.

He said that the person was an old acquaintance of the pharmacy manager, and the two were very close.

He said that after being reassigned, he had to go to Morrison regularly for psychological evaluations, but each evaluation felt like an interrogation.

They asked him if he was hallucinating, if he had paranoia, or if he felt that his colleagues were ostracizing him.

He said, "Of course I feel that my colleagues are ostracizing me—because they really are."

However, Morrison included this statement in the diagnostic record as a "clinical symptom" of paranoid personality disorder.

Did he mention anyone else? The academic affairs committee? The board of directors?

"Yes. He mentioned someone on the academic affairs committee, but without naming them, he directly rejected his last internal appeal."

That appeal was submitted before his job transfer, and it detailed all the data regarding the abnormal anesthetic inventory.

The committee's written reply to him consisted of only one line:

"After investigation, the problem you reported does not exist."

There was no signature, and no date.

"Has he mentioned to you any personal conflicts with specific people within the hospital?"

It's not a difference of opinion on a professional level, but a conflict between people.

"Yes. The pharmacy manager."

Eileen said:

When Nathaniel first discovered the discrepancy in the anesthetic inventory, he went directly to the pharmacy manager to confront him. The manager told him, "Mind your own business."

Nathaniel later told me about the way that man looked at him—

It's like looking at a dead person.

And Dr. Morrison.

During one of his psychological evaluations, Nathaniel was somehow provoked into anger by Morrison, which then spread throughout the hospital.

My husband's mental health issues were transformed from a private matter into widespread public knowledge.

"Has he taken any further measures?"

Besides the internal whistleblowing, does he have any plans to make this public?

For example, contacting the media, contacting federal agencies, contacting medical associations?

He sent whistleblower letters to the Philadelphia Department of Public Health and the Pennsylvania Medical Board.

He didn't remain anonymous; he signed every single one of them.

Eileen's voice rose slightly, as if she were angry on behalf of her husband:

"But later, none of those letters received a reply. He said they might have been intercepted, or the people at the hospital might have been more complicated than he thought."

But he had no evidence. He was just a surgeon; he didn't understand politics.

Link wrote in his notebook, "Whistleblower's identity exposed + no political protection = perfect scapegoat."

Then he turned to a new page.

"I need to ask you some questions about those four victims."

These questions may be difficult to answer, but I need you to try your best to recall them.

Eileen's expression stiffened slightly, but she nodded.

What was the relationship between the four victims and Dr. Hawthorne before their deaths? Did he mention them to his family?

"He only mentioned one of them."

Eileen said:

"The boy was a young man who was probably in his early twenties."

Nathaniel said the boy was a patient he had heart surgery on a few years ago. He recovered very well and would always make a detour to his clinic to say hello whenever he came to the hospital for a check-up.

He said the boy was his "little admirer" because he saved the boy's life.

He also said that the boy wrote him a thank-you note, which he posted in his office.

"What was his tone like when he mentioned that boy?"

"Happy."

Eileen's voice suddenly lowered, as if she were recalling something she had lost for far too long:

"He said the boy made him feel that he still had a reason to stay in this hospital."

Link's fingers paused on the notebook for a moment.

"That boy was the fourth victim."

The DNA found under his fingernails was on his body.

"I know."

Eileen's voice was almost inaudible:

"Nathaniel performed a cyst removal on him. It was an outpatient procedure. The surgical record should have the date and time."

"The hospital claims that the surgical record is abnormal and its authenticity cannot be confirmed."

"They're lying."

Eileen's voice suddenly stopped trembling, and she raised her head to look into Link's eyes:

"Nathaniel performed surgeries for sixteen years. He signed every single surgical record, and every single one was filed."

If there's a problem with that record, the problem isn't with him—it's with them.

Link looked at her, then wrote the last sentence in his notebook:

"Possibility of surgical records being tampered with."

The hospital's unusual behavior of proactively submitting mental health records.

The two clues are pointing in the same direction.

He closed the notebook.

"There's one last question."

The time of death of the four victims—do you have any evidence that Nathaniel was not present?

Even just a vague memory?

Eileen was silent for a few seconds, then slowly nodded.

"The night the third victim was discovered was the date recorded in the police record—"

Nathaniel was at home.

That day was our wedding anniversary.

He made dinner, we watched a movie together, and then he helped the kids with their math homework.

I have no photos, no videos, no receipts, nothing to prove it.

But he was home that night. He was home all night.

Link stood up, bowed slightly to her, and then walked towards the door.

He paused for a moment as he pushed open the door.

The blond boy sat in the rocking chair on the front porch, still drawing with his head down. Link crouched down to be at eye level with the boy.

"What are you drawing?"

The boy turned the drawing board over.

The drawing depicts a man in a white lab coat and a boy. On the man's chest are several letters written in crooked handwriting:

DAD.

"I'm drawing my dad," the boy said, "waiting for him to come home."

Link looked at the painting, remained silent for a moment, then placed the sketch next to the drawing board, squatted down, and picked up a pencil.

A quick sketch was quickly produced, depicting his father. But at that moment, his father's face was filled with a serene smile.

The little boy was amazed by Link's painting skills. He stared blankly at the father on the table and was stunned for a moment.

Link said softly to the boy:

"Look, I also drew one. Your father is doing very well now, but he has been framed by bad people. We need to rescue him as soon as possible."

From today onwards, we are all your father's lawyers.

You're at home, I'm in court. We're both waiting for him to come home.

The boy looked up, and his eyes suddenly lit up.

Link stood up, pushed open the door, and stepped into the cold wind of the front porch.

Then he stopped.

Dozens of people were standing on the lawn in the front yard.

They were dressed in simple winter clothes, some even wearing aprons, clearly having hurried out of their homes.

Their faces were calm; no one shouted slogans or held up signs. They just stood there, waiting quietly.

A white man in his sixties stood at the front of the crowd, wearing an old wool coat and holding a faded baseball cap in his hand.

Seeing Link come out, he took a step forward.

"Attorney Link?"

"I am. And you are—"

"My name is Lewis, and I am the head of the Chesternut Hill Community Board."

He reached out and grasped Link's hand. His hand was rough and strong, covered in calluses.

"We were all Dr. Hawthorne's neighbors."

He tilted his head slightly toward the crowd behind him, whose faces were watching them silently.

"Nathaniel has lived in this community for many years. Every year on Community Health Day, he provides free medical consultations in the church basement."

He didn't receive a single penny.

He performed heart auscultation on my daughter, measured the blood pressure of old Mrs. McDonald across the street for three whole years, and once, at two in the morning, the neighbor's child had a fever and convulsions, and he ran out in his pajamas with a coat on.

Lewis's voice was hoarse but firm:

"We've known him for seven years. Seven years. He's not the kind of person they say he is."

We also know that boy:

That was the fourth victim.

He was both Dr. Hawthorne's patient and a little admirer of Dr. Hawthorne.

Hawthorne treated him like a student, and he liked Dr. Hawthorne very much. If you ask me, he would never harm this little boy he spent every day with.

They could be considered friends despite their age difference.

I hope you can find out the truth as soon as possible; everyone in the community is waiting for his safe return.

Link looked at him without saying a word.

"Sir, we're not here to cause you any trouble."

Lewis folded the baseball cap and held it in his hand:

"We just wanted to tell you one thing. We are willing to do anything to help Dr. Hawthorne:"

Writing letters, signing documents, appearing in court to testify—anything.

If you need someone to vouch for his character, you can call the whole community.

Link's gaze swept past Lewis and across the faces in the front yard, reddened by the cold wind.

They stood quietly in the afternoon sun, showing no sign of leaving.

"Mr. Lewis, I need evidence to prove his innocence."

The clues I have now are not enough to completely overturn the case, and the pressure from the prosecution and the hospital is constantly tightening.

I need to find something beyond the police investigation report that they overlooked.

He looked up at Lewis:

"The boy you just mentioned, where does he live?"

Lewis paused for a moment, then turned and pointed to the fork in the road at the end of the community.

"The Quixes house. Go three blocks east, it's the gray-roofed house on the corner."

Link tilted his head slightly.

"Does their family also live in this community?"

Yes. Their family has always lived here.

Their family is one of the more disadvantaged households in the community.

But recently…

He paused for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly, as if recalling a certain detail.

"It seems like their family has become much better off financially recently."

We got a new TV, and there are new beer crates piled up in the yard.

I thought it was his son who had found a job elsewhere, but I never expected to hear such devastating news.

Link didn't wait for him to continue. His gaze fell on the row of oak trees, landing in the direction of the gray-roofed house.

"Take me to see it," he said.