Law America, the Devil's Agent

Three days later, at dawn.

Link was holding the steering wheel with one hand and holding a sandwich in his mouth with the other.

The Corolla's engine groaned like an old ox in the morning traffic as it leisurely made its way toward the law firm.

The driver's side window was rolled down a crack, and a cold wind carrying the smell of diesel fuel rushed in.

He pulled a coffee cup from the paper bag on the passenger seat, took a sip, and the bitter taste exploded on his tongue, easing his lingering drowsiness somewhat.

The Philadelphia sun rarely peeks out from behind the clouds, shining on the windshield and illuminating the fine scratches clearly.

The car was just picked up from the repair shop, and the malfunction indicator light on the dashboard was finally off, but there was still a faint smell of engine oil wafting from the air conditioning vents.

"Damn it, once we finish this job, we definitely need to get a new car!"

That Corolla is a piece of shit! Anyone who drives it again is a son of a bitch.

He stuffed the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, freeing his hand to reach for his phone to check his schedule reminders for the day.

That's when I realized the screen was black.

I pressed the power button twice, but there was no response.

He then remembered:

I worked overtime until the early hours of the morning last night, and when I got home I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. My phone was plugged into the charger, but the socket on the other end of the charger wasn't actually plugged in.

  

Plus the iPhone's battery life...

Ah, forget it.

He tossed his phone back into the passenger seat, not paying much attention to it.

It's nice to finally have some peace and quiet, so I can go over today's plans in my mind again.

This morning, I asked Celine to compile the list of abnormal drug inventory sent by Steve into an evidence summary.

In the afternoon, I met with Benny and Los to cross-reference the clues from the Blood Hand Gang with the hospital's internal financial data.

Then... if there's enough time, he needs to start preparing the first draft of the counterclaim.

Every word in this document must be precise and accurate, without any loopholes, because once submitted, it will no longer be a defense, but a counterattack.

He mentally reviewed the logical framework of the counterclaim, from confirming the defendant's legal standing to arranging the evidence list, from the wording of the claims to the selection of the court with jurisdiction.

This was a habit he developed in a law firm in the Celestial Empire in his previous life:

Once a case enters a critical stage, I have a living legal document in my mind, which I can retrieve and modify at any time.

The Corolla turned at the last intersection in the old town and drove into the parking lot behind the Curtiss law firm.

Link turned off the engine, tossed the coffee cup into a paper bag, and opened the car door.

A cold wind blew in his face. He straightened his suit collar and was about to walk around to the front door to enter the law firm when he saw two figures standing at the entrance of the parking lot, waving frantically at him.

Benny, his usually calm and reserved assistant lawyer, was now standing on tiptoe, clutching a rolled-up newspaper, seemingly searching for something.

Beside him was Celine, his personal assistant, whose burgundy short hair was slightly disheveled by the wind. She was holding a notebook in her arms, and her face was full of anxiety.

Link stood there, somewhat bewildered.

What's going on here?

Why did you suddenly come out to pick me up today?

He instinctively reached into his pocket, wanting to contact them—

It's empty. My phone is out of battery.

He then realized that all his contact with the outside world had been cut off that morning.

"Team leader! Don't come, don't go..."

Benny's voice was carried away by the wind.

Link hadn't even heard what he was saying, nor had he had a chance to ask why...

Suddenly, a blinding white light shone from the shadows of the parking lot.

Link instinctively covered his eyes and saw:

More than a dozen mobile phone fill lights, camera flashes, and portable LED panel lights emerged simultaneously from behind the walls on both sides of the parking lot entrance.

It was like a group of predators who had been lying in wait suddenly pouncing on their prey.

……

"Attorney Link? You're Attorney Link!"

I'm a reporter from the Philadelphia True Story channel. As the lawyer representing the Philadelphia serial killers, are you really planning to plead not guilty...?

……

"Lawyer!"

A commentary in the Philadelphia Inquirer this morning stated that Hawthorne's psychiatric records were sufficient evidence of his violent tendencies. Do you think these records are credible?

……

"Hello Attorney Link, this is Annie's social media channel. The families of four victims are saying you took money from a murderer to clear his name. How do you respond?"

……

"I heard that when you were an intern lawyer, you single-handedly presided over the Winthrop case, which made you famous overnight."

Everyone thinks you are a rising star in the legal field and an embodiment of justice.

But now you're rashly defending a serial killer; have you forgotten your fundamental principles as a lawyer?

……

"Hawthorne killed so many people, didn't you feel any remorse when you defended him?"

……

Countless questions and a cacophony of noise surged in from all directions, filling Link's vision with the swaying phone screen and the microphone.

Some people are live streaming, some are recording, some are holding selfie sticks in front of him, and live comments are scrolling across the screen.

He tried hard to discern, quickly scanning the crowd:

Most of the people carrying professional cameras were reporters from local Philadelphia tabloids and news websites.

Those holding up their phones to do live streams are social media bloggers on TikTok and Instagram.

These people did not know each other, but the questions they asked were very similarly worded.

This is not random interviewing; it is a targeted, concentrated attack.

Link turned his head to look at Benny and finally saw clearly the newspaper he was handing over.

The front page featured a photograph of Hawthorne and a bold headline:

The trial for the serial killer is about to begin, and psychiatric records reveal violent tendencies.

A comment was attached, with the title:

Who will seek justice for these four broken families?

Link looked away, folded the newspaper, and tucked it under his arm.

He turned around to face the shaky cameras and microphones, suppressing his emotions.

His expression showed no anger or panic, only a professional calm.

"Everyone, everyone!"

Regarding the Hawthorne case, the case is currently in the trial stage, and all relevant information will be made public in court through formal legal procedures.

Please pay attention to the court proceedings, not unverified rumors. Thank you.

His voice was loud and clear, ensuring that every word was heard clearly.

However, just as he turned around to take a step, the sound behind him not only did not subside, but surged up even more violently.

……

"Attorney Link! Are you not answering questions because you're feeling guilty...?"

"Has your client ever confessed to his crimes? Is he begging for everyone's forgiveness?"

……

"Some people say you received a six-figure legal fee and many benefits to take this case. Is that figure accurate?"

Are you the kind of lawyer who would do anything for money?

……

"Don't you think defending a serial killer is yet another form of emotional torture for the victims' families? I think you're now an accomplice to that serial killer!"

……

The questions became increasingly exaggerated and explicit, as if they were no longer an interview but a trial.

The selfie stick was extended even closer, and the white light from the fill light was almost touching Link's cheek.

Someone squeezed in from the side, their phone camera almost touching his nose.

Link even clearly saw on some people's phones that someone was spamming the live stream chat with the following message:

"Break his nose," "Let's see if this yellow-skinned lawyer can walk out standing up."

Such violent remarks were made, and some people in the crowd were even looking for opportunities to attack.

Link's gaze turned serious as he activated [Crisis Premonition - Expert Level].

He could clearly sense that the crowd was narrowing, both physically and psychologically.

The voices were no longer scattered questions, but merged into a continuous, malicious roar.

Link remained standing in the same spot, his expression unchanged, his back straight, but his eyebrows were lowered slightly.

But at that moment!

A deep engine roar came from afar!

That's the sound of a heavy motorcycle exhaust!

His deep, dense aura carried a certain unadorned aggressiveness!

The crowd instinctively turned their heads, and a black heavy motorcycle was hurtling towards them!

Ignoring what lay ahead, it didn't slow down at all and rushed straight toward the crowd, the engine sound echoing like a deep thunderclap on the narrow street in front of the law firm.

The crowd began to stir.

The few self-media bloggers standing on the outermost edge instinctively took a step back, their hands holding the selfie sticks trembling slightly.

Someone tripped on the steps, stumbled and bumped into their companion, almost dropping their phone.

"Get out of the way!"

Kona's voice came from behind the full-face helmet, muffled but sharp.

The motorcycle's front wheel rolled over the edge of the sidewalk, making a screeching sound as it rubbed against the sidewalk.

The crowd finally parted like butter being sliced ​​open:

Some people jumped into the green belt, while others barely managed to avoid the rearview mirror by holding the camera high above their heads.

The motorcycle traced a very short arc in the middle of the parking lot and came to a steady stop between Link and the group of people.

One man can hold the pass.