Law America, the Devil's Agent

Afternoon, northeast Philadelphia.

Sunlight finally streamed into the Philadelphia Correctional Facility along the interstate highway next to the Holmesburg community.

This complex, consisting of four residential buildings and one administration building, is the largest facility in the Philadelphia prison system.

This seemingly forgotten corner of Philadelphia is where some of the most vicious criminals are imprisoned.

But in this dirty, oppressive, and remote place, there were actually several tents scattered around in the open space outside the main gate.

Several handwritten signs hung outside the tent, the handwriting crooked and messy, but they clearly read:

Protest signs read "Justice Never Sleeps," "A Life for a Life," and "The Blood of the Four Victims Must Not Be Shed in Vain."

Holland Quays was standing at the front of the crowd in the tent, his face flushed and veins bulging, shouting slogans at the prison walls.

His voice was hoarse and high-pitched. With each shout, several volunteers beside him would echo him, raising their signs and waving them twice in the direction of the prison.

He used to be a maggot, huddled in a gray-roofed house, living off community welfare and drugs.

But at this moment, he stood at the forefront of the protesters, like an indignant father, like a tragic hero seeking justice for his dead son.

His eyes were red-rimmed, whether from anger or from the half-bottle of whiskey he had downed that morning, it was hard to tell.

"Nathaniel Hawthorne! You monster! You killed my son! You killed four innocent people! You don't deserve to live—"

He shouted until he was hoarse, repeating his slogans every few sentences as if he were performing some kind of mechanized task.

His mouth was shouting, but his eyes were keenly scanning the prison entrances and exits, glancing at every vehicle approaching the prison gates and every figure trying to walk toward the visitation registration desk.

Seeing that no familiar faces had appeared by noon, he couldn't help but nod slightly.

He then took out his phone from his pocket, whispered a few instructions into the microphone, told the other people keeping watch in the crowd to stay behind, and then quietly left the group and walked towards the back of the tent area.

An inconspicuous dark blue sedan was parked behind the tent area.

The car windows were tinted dark, making it impossible to see inside from the outside.

Holland walked to the car, and the door opened a crack from the inside.

He bent down and crawled inside; there were already two people sitting in the carriage.

  

A man in a dark suit, with a sharp and capable-looking face, was the same assistant lawyer who had received Robinck at the Vanske Law Firm that day.

He is a core confidant of Omir's team.

The other person was wearing a mask and a dark gray coat with the collar turned up high, covering most of their face.

But judging from the gloomy eyes above the mask and the slightly balding forehead, Holland knew who he was—

Alan Morrison.

Chief of the Department of Psychiatry at Philadelphia General Hospital.

The psychiatrist who diagnosed Nathaniel with a mental illness and convinced everyone that he had mental problems.

"Any news today?"

"I asked the assistant lawyer."

"No, sir. We've been keeping an eye on it."

Noon today was the peak visiting time, but neither Nathaniel's family nor his lawyers showed up.

Holland's voice had lost its indignation from when he was out, but his tone had become respectful and light.

He licked his lips and continued:

"I've had a few people keep an eye on things. If they're coming, it should be between 2 and 4 p.m.—"

That's how the previous Robin came to be.

"Robin isn't coming. There's a new lawyer now."

The assistant lawyer's eyebrows twitched slightly as she replied calmly, then she glanced at the doctor beside her out of the corner of her eye:

"Dr. Allen, how is the situation at the hospital?"

We recently informed your court that Curtis has changed his legal counsel.

At this critical juncture, we still need to be cautious.

Alan Morrison removed his mask, revealing a gaunt, pale face.

"After receiving your message, the hospital has strengthened its internal controls."

Recently, all medication management records, surgical schedules, and psychiatric medical records have been reviewed again.

Things that weren't on the books were also temporarily suspended.

I came here today to confirm something in person.

Just how difficult is that new lawyer to deal with?

"More difficult to deal with than Robin Ketchum."

There was not a trace of hesitation in the assistant lawyer's voice:

"We have reviewed his performance in previous cases."

The cases he takes on often seem fraught with difficulties, but he always manages to turn the tide, making him a formidable opponent for us.

Mr. O'Mill's instructions are:

We cannot give him any time or space to turn things around.

Therefore, you need to ensure two things:

First, Nathaniel Hawthorne himself was unable to have any substantive communication with his legal team.

Second, the things inside the hospital must not be discovered by outsiders.

Allen leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and thought for a moment before replying:

"You can rest assured about these things."

Nathaniel Hawthorne was already within my psychiatric treatment system before his arrest, and I used some methods on him.

I have a very clear understanding of his mental state.

His current condition is very unstable, and his response to external stimuli is becoming weaker and weaker.

If he is not exposed to any information that could restore his confidence, he will slowly break down on his own.

As for the hospital, everything is ready.

The assistant lawyer nodded, turned his gaze to Holland Quays, and chuckled:

"Quys, you stay here."

If someone tries to go around the front door, I need you to be the first to spot them.

Your son is a good boy, and of course we must seek justice for him and not let the murderer escape.

Holland nodded vigorously.

He opened the car door and walked back towards the tent area.

Only two people remained in the carriage.

The assistant lawyer rolled up the car window again, then turned to look at Allen:

What do you think Link will do next?

"It was quite a surprise that he didn't show up today, but I think he might try to find a way to bypass our arrangements."

But it takes time.

If he doesn't come, it means our blockade is working.

Alan Morrison raised his sunken eyes, his gaze somber yet steady:

"In any case, Hawthorne's mental state will only get worse."

A person who cannot even speak for themselves cannot defend themselves in court.

The assistant lawyer leaned back in his chair, a cold smile playing on his lips.

"That's right. After all, serial killers like Nathaniel Hawthorne should have been judged by God and the people long ago, and died silently with their sins."

"Yes, that would be the perfect ending for everyone."

As soon as he finished speaking, the two people present burst into laughter in unison.

The atmosphere inside the carriage was light and cheerful.

……

Holland Quays returned to the crowd, still the protest pioneer cloaked in the guise of a "victim's father".

He took the megaphone from the volunteer and was about to shout slogans at the top of his lungs when he suddenly saw a white van appear at the side entrance of the prison.

He squinted, picked up the walkie-talkie, and asked a colleague who was keeping watch beside him:

"What's wrong with that car? I've never seen it before?"

Is that the lawyer's team's car? Should we go ask?

After a long while, a reply came from his companion on the walkie-talkie:

"The linen company's truck comes once a month to deliver bed sheets and duvet covers to the prison. It's registered, so there's no problem."

Holland then relaxed, hung the walkie-talkie back on his waist, picked up the megaphone again, and continued his hoarse performance.

A white truck slowly drove into the prison's unloading area.

The roller shutter door closed at the back of the vehicle, and three figures in gray work uniforms jumped out of the driver's cab and the passenger compartment, quickly looking around.

The unloading area was deserted, with only the occasional sound of prison guards' footsteps echoing in the distant corridor.

The leader took off his hat and sunglasses, revealing a angular Asian face.

Link.

Benny followed behind him, awkwardly unzipping his work clothes.

The third person was tall and thin, with a calm demeanor that suggested he had seen it all before.

Miles White, DEA Sergeant.

Klaus's comrade-in-arms, the man who shared cigarettes with Link in the detention center's break room.

In the shadows of the unloading area, a middle-aged man in a prison guard uniform strode over and headed straight for Miles.

The two exchanged a glance under the lights, then gave each other a tight hug.

"Sonny. Long time no see."

Miles patted him on the back.

"Long time no see, old friend."

Sonny loosened his grip, glanced at the two strangers behind Miles, his gaze lingering on Link's face for a moment before shifting away:

"Are these the two friends you mentioned?"

"Yes. They encountered some trouble at the main gate. Thank you for your help."

Sonny waved his hand, his expression indifferent.

"Let's skip the formalities. The person you're looking for has already been arranged in the meeting room. I've made arrangements so no one will bother you for the time being."

Link took off his linen company uniform, straightened his suit collar, and went up to shake hands with Sonny.

"Mr. Sonny, thank you very much for your assistance."

To express our gratitude, a Philadelphia-based self-service laundry called Sunny Laundry will receive a partnership agreement worth $2,000.

I believe this courtesy is more than enough to make up for the time and effort you spent coordinating for us today.

Sonny's attitude was initially indifferent, but his eyes changed when he heard the words "two thousand dollars" and "laundry room".

He squeezed Link's hand firmly, a genuine smile appearing on his lips.

"That would be wonderful. Thank you, Attorney Link."

Link nodded, released his grip, and turned to Miles White.

"Mr. Miles, thank you for your introduction and assistance. The gift I mentioned will be presented to you in person soon."

Miles grinned and patted Link on the shoulder.

"We'll see. Go ahead, Sonny said the meeting room is ready."

He put his arm around Sonny's shoulder, and the two walked toward the guards' break room, chatting and laughing, like old comrades reminiscing after a long separation.

Link watched them disappear around the corner of the corridor, then turned to Benny. He straightened his suit collar and tucked his briefcase under his arm.

"Let's go. It's time to meet our client."

……

The meeting room was small, with cold gray concrete walls and a faint musty smell mixed with the odor of disinfectant.

In the center of the room was a metal table fixed to the ground, and on each side was a metal chair also fixed to the ground.

A fireproof glass partition divides the room in two, and someone is already sitting on the other side of the glass.

Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Link had seen countless photographs of Hawthorne.

In a hospital promotional photo, Hawthorne stands in his surgical gown in front of the operating table, his eyes radiating a confident and composed light.

In a photo of Hawthorne and his family vacationing at the beach, his smile is warm and reserved.

A photo of Hawthorne and Nick Quixote at a community church event; he looks down at the thin young man with hopeful eyes.

But at this moment, the man sitting across the glass doesn't match any of the photos in his memory.

Hawthorne's shoulders were slumped.

His back was bent, and his fingers were on the table, his ten fingers slightly curled, as if he instinctively wanted to grab something but dared not.

His eyes were unfocused, his lips were dry and chapped, and he occasionally made a muffled sound in his throat, as if he wanted to say something, or as if he was just breathing.

He was wearing an orange prison uniform with a loose collar, revealing a small bluish-purple bruise below his collarbone.

Benny stood behind Link, looking at Hawthorne's appearance with a furrowed brow. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he swallowed it back.

Link pulled out a chair and sat down in front of the glass partition.

He placed his briefcase on the ground, crossed his hands on the table, leaned slightly forward, and spoke in a calm and unhurried tone.

"Mr. Nathaniel Hawthorne."

I am Link, an attorney at the law firm Curtis.

From this moment forward, I will be fully responsible for your case.

This is my assistant lawyer, Benny Frith.

silence.

Hawthorne did not look up.

His gaze remained fixed on his curled fingers, as if he were looking at something unrelated to himself.

"I know your previous lawyer was Robin Klein."

He didn't offer you any real help.

I came here to change that.

Link continued:

"Your family, your wife Eileen, your parents, your children, they are all doing well."

They are now living in your house, and neighbors bring them food every day.

Everyone in your community is waiting for you to come home.

Hawthorne's eyelashes twitched slightly, but he didn't look up.

"The allegations made against you by the hospital are very serious."

The prosecution has charged you with four counts of first-degree murder, four counts of kidnapping resulting in death, and four counts of desecration of a corpse.

The U.S. Attorney’s Office has made it clear that it will seek the death penalty.

You are now facing one of the worst serial killings in Philadelphia in the last two years.

Hawthorne's shoulders twitched slightly.

The movement was extremely light, like a hibernating animal sensing a cold breeze in its sleep.

But he still didn't speak.

Benny couldn't help but step forward and lower his voice.

"Team leader, his mental illness is getting worse."

When Robin came last time, he was in better condition than he is now.

Now they can't even give the most basic response...

"I know."

Link leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

He didn't blame Nathaniel for his mental state, but suddenly remembered the contents of the document:

Alan Morrison.

The name surfaced in his mind like an anchor sinking to the bottom of the water.

This highly suspicious doctor might just be the tool that corrupt hospital network used against Nathaniel.

A psychiatrist knows best how to heal a person, and also knows best how to destroy a person.

Perhaps the regular psychological assessments, each time at the moment when Hawthorne's psychological defenses were at their weakest, used the most professional methods to dismantle his self-perception inch by inch.

That's what made him the way he is today.

Link opened his eyes again and looked at the man curled up in a ball on the other side of the glass.

This man was scapegoated and thrown into prison, his mental state was weakened by three years of diagnosis and medication, he was isolated and imprisoned, cut off from all outside support, and a group of protesters blocked the prison gates, preventing him from seeing his family and lawyer.

All of this was a ruthless and vicious scheme devised by that corrupt network to cover up its crimes.

He took a deep breath, then leaned forward slightly and spoke again.

"Mr. Hawthorne, I don't know what you've been through."

I don't know what that psychiatrist said to you or what medication he injected you with that made you the way you are now.

But I will tell you everything I know.

No matter how many slanderous things you hear, you are definitely not the person they describe.

He placed the first document on the table.

"You began reporting loopholes in the management of anesthetic drugs at Philadelphia General Hospital three years ago."

You sent out a total of seventeen complaint letters, all signed with your own name.

You chose not to remain anonymous, demonstrating your stance. I believe that someone as resilient as you will never be defeated by them.

Hawthorne's eyelashes fluttered again.

"Then you were transferred away from the surgical position."

You are ostracized and isolated.

You are forced to see a psychiatrist.

Your psychiatric colleague, Alan Morrison, and the pharmacy manager you reported are accomplices within the same network.

He recorded every complaint you made as a clinical symptom of paranoid personality disorder.

He locked you in a diagnostic kit, and then everyone believed you were mentally ill.

Hawthorne's breathing became slightly heavier, just a tiny bit. But Link noticed it.

He continued speaking.

"Your original lawyer, Robin C., did not provide you with any assistance."

But I am not him.

I have an informant in the pharmacy, Steve. You should know him.

Hawthorne's gaze finally moved.

It was as if a layer of dust covering the surface of the pupil had been gently blown away.

Of course he knew him, Steve, the pharmacist.

"Steve sent me the hospital's drug inventory records for the past three years."

Records show that controlled substances that should have been destroyed—fentanyl, midazolam, and propofol—

All of them had their consumption records falsified and were transported to the gang's territory through an outsourced waste disposal company.

The pharmacy manager signed it.

A complete chain of illicit drug trafficking exists within Philadelphia General Hospital.

This chain of events is completely consistent with what you've reported over the past three years.

Hawthorne slowly raised his head.

The process was slow, so slow that Benny could clearly see every muscle in his neck struggling to support a head that hadn't been raised in far too long.

"There's someone else you know."

Link placed several photos on the table.

The photo shows the new pickup truck in front of that gray-roofed house, in an abandoned industrial area on the Blood Hands' territory. It shows Holland Quays unloading cardboard boxes from the back of the pickup truck, with the boxes bearing the official seal of the Pharmacy Department of Philadelphia General Hospital.

He pushed the photo in front of the glass partition.

"Holland Quays. Your student Nick's father."

He had a regular business relationship with the Blood Hands gang, and had been transporting controlled drugs from the hospital to the gang for a long time.

Nick has always wanted to be a doctor, and he looks up to you as a mentor. Nick admires you.

He idolized the cleanest surgeon in all of Philadelphia, a man who refused to compromise his principles.

But in the end, he was sold to the hospital's corrupt network as a pledge of loyalty.

The person who betrayed your best friend and student Nick Quix was none other than his own father.

He personally pushed Nick to the killer's feet, then donned mourning clothes and stood in front of the media cameras, playing the role of a father grieving the loss of his son.

Hawthorne's pupils suddenly contracted. For the first time, an emotion unrelated to indifference appeared on his face, which had been numbed by diagnoses and medications:

That was anger.

His hands, which had been resting on his knees, involuntarily rose and pressed against the table. All ten knuckles turned white at the same time.

"Your wife, Eileen, prays for you every day when she comes back from the community church."

Your child has drawn your majestic image on the front porch of that old house.

Your parents are sitting in your living room waiting for you. They're not the kind of country doctors who talk a good game; they just keep telling me about your character.

They were all saying:

You are right, you are clear-headed. They are all waiting for your return.

Hawthorne's fingertips began to tremble slightly.

Something was shimmering in those deep-set eyes—tears.

Link took out his phone, pulled up a photo, and placed it in front of the glass partition.

That was the sketch he had drawn a few days earlier on the front porch of Hawthorne's house:

A father in a white coat and a boy holding a drawing board.

The man in the white coat had two words written in crooked handwriting on his chest: DAD.

Then he turned to another photograph, one he had found in a frame in the Hawthorne's living room:

A photo of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Nick Quix during a church event.

In the photo, Hawthorne is wearing the white coat outside the operating room, with one hand on Nick's thin shoulder.

The thin medical student looked up at his mentor with a bright smile on his face.

Hawthorne stared intently at the photograph. His lips began to tremble, and a hoarse, tearing sob escaped his throat.

Then his fist slammed onto the table, using this crazy and violent action to awaken his mind.

This is the first response a person, stripped of everything, makes to the world upon discovering that they still possess the ability to feel pain.

Link stood up, placed his hands on the metal table in front of the explosion-proof glass partition, lowered his head, and looked directly into Hawthorne's eyes through the glass.

His voice was low and clear, striking Hawthorne's ears directly.

Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Your son is waiting for his great father to return.

Your deceased student is hoping that a reliable teacher will speak up for him and seek justice.

Nathaniel, stop torturing yourself with your twisted mind.

Abandon those so-called human qualities and unleash your wild, bestial nature.

Let's go together and tear apart those self-righteous, hypocritical sons of bitches.

Upon hearing this, Nathaniel stared intently at Link, his bloodshot eyes seeming to regain their clarity.

"I don't care what that psychiatrist did to you, I don't care what kind of bullshit diagnosis those scumbags gave you."

I'm telling you this right now:

"Count me in taking down Philadelphia General Hospital. You only need to do one thing."

He placed his hand on the bulletproof glass, lowered his voice, and his voice possessed a strange, almost seductive power, like the murmur of a devil:

"Be angry for yourself. Then stand behind me."