Law America, the Devil's Agent

After the interrogation video finished playing, the air in the conference hall fell into a brief but absolute silence.

Everyone was still reeling from the shock of Holland Quays’s tear-streaked face and Gerard’s calm, almost indifferent confession.

Link didn't give the shock time to subside.

He stepped forward, pulled the microphone closer, and the debate continued.

The current situation is like a ship seeing a gap torn open in an endless fog, leading to the truth.

He needs continued guidance.

"I'm sure you all know who this person on the screen is."

Holland Quays.

He is Nick Quix's father.

The fourth victim in the so-called serial murder case.

Over the past few months, he has stood in front of the camera countless times, holding up his son's portrait, tearfully accusing my client of being a murderous monster.

But I'm sure you're all curious about how he was discovered.

He raised his hand and pressed the remote control; the screen switched to a new display.

Photos from the joint operation by the DEA and FDA, an aerial view of the Blood Hands headquarters, and close-ups of boxes of controlled drugs being sealed with federal evidence.

This stemmed from a conflict between the FDA and the DEA over gangs entrenched in Philadelphia.

The Blood Hand Gang's purge operation.

During the operation, federal agents seized a large quantity of controlled drugs that should not have been found on the streets.

While tracing the source of these drugs, they discovered an unexpected name.

He pointed to the middle-aged man on the screen who was crouching next to a police car with his hands cuffed behind his back:

Holland Quays.

He was not only the Bloodhands' drug mule, but also a peripheral node in the corruption network of Philadelphia General Hospital.

The reason he became this pivotal figure was because he personally handed over his own son as a ticket to enter this evil deal.

The content on the screen continued to scroll.

The timing of Holland's first drug delivery for the hospital, and the intercepted communication records between him and the Blood Hand Gang...

Finally, a comparison chart was included...

Photos of him directing protesters outside prison gates and carrying medicine on Blood Hands territory...

This comparison is like a heavy blow.

"The culprit who caused the destruction of these four lives and four families"

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—It's not the same person!

Nick's death has been independently confirmed by the testimonies of Gerard, the leader of the Bloodhands, and Holland, and is unrelated to Nathaniel.

But this case, which had absolutely nothing to do with him, was meticulously woven into the chain of evidence against him.

Then, along with three other murders he was unaware of, he was labeled a "serial killer."

This is slander.

This is a lie.

This is an organized, premeditated, and systematic frame-up.

The entire hall fell silent. No explanation was needed; everyone understood what this meant.

Link didn't linger long at the peak of the revelation.

He raised his hand and pressed the remote control, and the projection screen behind him slowly lit up.

What was on it was no longer the cold light of the interrogation room, nor the countless numbers in the ledger, but a photograph.

A photograph of Nathaniel Hawthorne wearing a white coat standing at the door of an operating room.

His hair hadn't been shaved short yet, his shoulders hadn't been flattened by the prison uniform, and a carefree smile, the kind only someone who truly loves their work would wear, graced his lips.

"Now, please allow me to reintroduce someone to you all."

He was not a serial killer. He was not mentally ill either.

It is not a collection of ugly labels on any forged medical report.

What I'm introducing to you is—

Nathaniel Hawthorne. A hero.

His voice suddenly changed.

The volume started to increase, and the rhythm became more rapid.

In a small rural town in Kentucky with only three thousand inhabitants, there lived an ordinary doctor couple.

Their clinic is located on the only paved road in town, and the waiting room is always crowded with farmers, miners, and their children who cannot afford the bills for big hospitals.

But they can still receive treatment.

The couple has an only son.

He was admitted to a very good university when others were still in high school, and eventually gained admission to a prestigious medical school with his outstanding graduation grades.

From this perspective, his future is undoubtedly bright.

He could have gone to New York, to Los Angeles, to any place that would have brought him fame and fortune.

But he chose Philadelphia General Hospital. He chose to stay in a place where he could personally touch patients, just like his parents.

This is the legacy of kindness.

The screen switched to a photo of Hawthorne at a community clinic, where he was listening to the heart sounds of an elderly person, surrounded by a group of young mothers holding children.

"Here, he spent sixteen years becoming the youngest deputy director in the history of cardiothoracic surgery."

His surgical failure rate has been the lowest in the city for many consecutive years.

Do you know what this means?

This means that more people survived his attack than all those present combined.

He was religious. Every Sunday, he would sit on the last row of pews in the church without fail.

He doesn't attend high-society parties, doesn't drink with pharmaceutical representatives, and doesn't play golf with those "businessmen in white coats" wearing custom suits.

He was so upright and kind!

Everyone was immersed in the passing down of family virtues, but Link changed the subject.

"But his integrity and kindness are ultimately incompatible with this rotten society!"

The next thing that appeared on the screen was a close-up of a handwritten letter, a copy of Hawthorne's first letter of denunciation.

The handwriting was neat and clean, without any corrections, and each line was filled with precise data and timestamps.

This was his first whistleblower letter.

He discovered irregularities in the narcotic drug inventory. He found that controlled substances were being transported out of the hospital and onto the streets after their consumption records were falsified.

He discovered that federal healthcare subsidies were being stolen by a group of greedy parasites.

He can pretend he doesn't see it.

He bowed his head like everyone else, signed his name, received a decent salary, and lived a decent life.

But he didn't.

Because he believed in the Lord and in the Hippocratic Oath.

Because he learned more from his parents in that rural clinic than he could in any upscale restaurant in Philadelphia—

That is, if your hands are clean, you cannot tolerate dirt.

If you have even a shred of strength left, you cannot stand idly by.

He turned around and pointed to the scrolling messages of whistleblowing on the screen.

Every letter, every signature field, bears the same line—

Nathaniel Hawthorne.

One letter, two letters, three letters.

He wrote up to the seventeenth letter. Each one was signed with the same name.

He is not anonymous.

He said that a whistleblower letter without a signature has no credibility.

Ladies and gentlemen, can you imagine?

One person, all alone, against a huge and corrupt medical interest group!

What he signed on every page was practically his last will and testament!

This is more than just bravery!

Courage is fleeting; a hero can make a courageous move in an instant and then turn away.

This is not it; it is a long and lonely perseverance.

This is a choice made by knowing one has no armor yet still stepping into darkness.

This is the fanaticism of a saint.

It's an Odyssey-like solitary journey—

However, his Troy wasn't on the distant Aegean Sea, but right there on the signature board of the pharmacy manager on the third floor of Philadelphia General Hospital!

His speech slowed, gradually becoming low and melancholic, to emphasize the hero's tragic grandeur.

"But then... he was transferred away from his surgical post."

Being ostracized. Being isolated.

I was forced to see a psychiatrist.

A golf buddy of his, a pharmacy manager he had reported, gave him a psychiatric diagnosis, using a series of leading questions to record each of his complaints as "clinical symptoms of paranoid personality disorder."

They said he had paranoia.

He tried to argue, he tried to struggle.

But it was to no avail.

In the end, he, who was clearly the most normal person, was ruthlessly diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder by that psychiatrist.

But... on what basis is this?

Finally, Link's voice suddenly rose, like a boulder that had been suppressed for too long finally rolling down a hillside.

"He dedicated his most precious talents to the operating room and to every stranger lying under his knife."

He dedicated his most devout soul to the Lord and to the patients in the basement of the community church who couldn't afford the free medical care.

He dedicated his purest courage to the truth, to those seventeen letters of denunciation, each bearing his own name.

And what did he get?

He was kicked out of the operating room by the hospital he had sworn to protect. He was utterly betrayed by the professional ethics he had upheld throughout his life.

He was imprisoned by his most trusted colleague—the psychologist who was supposed to heal his emotional wounds—with a forged diagnosis.

He was beaten, verbally abused, and isolated in prison by inmates who were acting on his orders.

His family and lawyers, those who could defend his rights and uphold the law, were kept out of prison by forces that had orchestrated all of this.

He sat alone, quietly and heavily behind the bulletproof glass, awaiting the pre-arranged trial, awaiting the indictment of a crime he had never committed to be branded on his name.

He stopped. The entire venue was so quiet that you could hear someone in the back row breathing heavily.

"It seems like all he can do is acquiesce..."

Then his voice lowered again, to an even lower pitch than he usually spoke.

Everyone else followed his lead and became depressed.

"But I won't allow it!"

Justice will not allow it. The truth will not allow it.

Those who have received his favors are not permitted to do so.

He waved his hand, pointing to the side door of the guest area.

Benny stood in the doorway and slowly pushed it open. Community leader Lewis helped an elderly Black woman in, followed by a dozen or so neighbors—

Some people were wearing their best prayer clothes, while others were still wearing aprons that they hadn't had time to take off.

They walked quietly into the conference hall and stood quietly in the guest area to the side of the podium.

The screen was playing synchronized clips of home videos brought by Lewis and his neighbors.

The images are not clear; most were taken with a mobile phone.

Nathaniel was providing free medical care in the church basement, bending down to take the blood pressure of a homeless man sitting on the floor.

Nathaniel is taking a heart check on a shy little girl at a community health day, while a group of children are fighting over his stethoscope.

Nathaniel was surrounded by a group of neighbors chatting at a street party on a summer night, holding a glass of lemonade in his hand, his smile honest and warm.

One after another, every frame features the same person.

A neighbor who had lived with them for seven years.

A man they called "our doctor".

Then the image on the screen switched again.

It was a dark and cramped prison visiting room.

Nathaniel Hawthorne sat behind the blast-proof glass, his orange prison uniform hanging loosely on his thin shoulders. His eyes were sunken and his lips were chapped, but when he spoke, his voice was steady and clear.

He talked about his relationship with Nick—

How did that thin but idealistic young man come to regard him as his mentor in life?

He recounted the hospital corruption he discovered: the pharmacy director, Thomas Sherol, was able to steal controlled drugs and falsify inventory records.

Logistics Director Lydia Wylant had the manpower and channels to transfer patient information within the hospital and assist in fabricating evidence of body disposal.

There is one more person—

Link paused the recording, looked up, and slowly scanned the entire venue.

Then he extended his right hand, pointing straight to the corner of the media area at the back of the aisle with his index finger.

"Alan Morrison. Specially Appointed Psychology Director."

It was he who used those professional techniques to psychologically coerce and control Nathaniel for three years!

Without presenting any objective examination evidence, they issued a completely invalid and misleading false mental diagnosis certificate.

This diagnosis later became the core weapon used by prosecutors to attack the credibility of Nathaniel's testimony.

This diagnosis was the only written evidence that the police determined Nathaniel possessed "psychological characteristics of a serial killer."

Am I right, Mr. Alan Morrison?

Everyone's eyes turned in the direction Link was pointing.

Alan Morrison is no longer in his original seat.

He quietly got up from his seat at some point, bent over, and tried to crawl along the shadows in the corner toward the door.

He was rooted to the spot by Link's voice, and every pair of eyes in the hall was on him.

The flashbulbs were going off like crazy.

He stood there, bent over, maintaining that comical pose, without saying a word.

At that moment, the side door to the guest area was pushed open.

Eileen Hawthorne came out, followed by her parents and her sister.

She held a bound document aloft, the cover bearing the gold lettering of "Pennsylvania Federal Court".

"This is a mandatory review order issued by the court!"

Complete medical records of three generations of the Hawthorne family, a joint assessment report from three independent psychiatric evaluation agencies, and raw data from the psychological tests conducted on Nathaniel after his imprisonment—

Everything is here!

The conclusion is:

Nathaniel Hawthorne never suffered from any mental illness and did not meet the diagnostic criteria for any mental disorder!

The Hawthorne family has no history of mental illness, neither in the past nor now.

Those so-called "psychiatric diagnoses" were all fabricated by Alan Morrison from beginning to end!

As she finished speaking, Link had already walked back to the center of the podium.

He stopped looking at Alan Morrison and instead addressed the camera, beginning to release key pieces of evidence in a calmer and more composed tone than before.

The list of unusual drug inventory at Philadelphia General Hospital provided by Steve appeared on the screen, clearly marking the abnormal flow of multiple batches of fentanyl and midazolam.

Holland Quays’ full confession summary followed, detailing how the father lured his own son into a trap and how he continued to act as a drug mule for the hospital after his son’s death.

Then there were the transaction records extracted from Gerard's private database, showing drug transactions between the Bloodhands and Philadelphia General Hospital totaling millions of dollars.

Link explained the source and significance of each piece of evidence at a measured pace, with his logic progressing step by step.

As the last piece of evidence disappeared from the screen, Link took a half step back, straightened his suit collar, and then moved closer to the microphone.

"On behalf of Nathaniel Hawthorne, I am formally filing a civil lawsuit in the U.S. District Court for the District of Philadelphia against Philadelphia General Hospital for malicious accusations, fabrication of evidence, violation of civil rights, and systematic conspiracy to create a wrongful conviction."

The specific defendants include: Thomas Sherrell, the pharmacy manager; Alan Morrison, the appointed psychological director; and Lydia Wylant, the logistics director.

And other hospital management personnel whose identities have not yet been fully confirmed.

Before the words were even finished, the two doors on the side of the conference hall were pushed open simultaneously.

Outside a door, Elena White, dressed in a dark prosecutor's suit, walked into the room in orderly steps, holding a stamped indictment document and followed by a team of investigators from the district attorney's office.

Outside another door, Miles White, dressed in a DEA uniform, stood with several federal agents in similar uniforms behind him, their DEA badges gleaming coldly under the lights.

The two groups of people walked towards Alan Morrison, one on the left and one on the right.

Elena stopped in front of everyone and unfolded the documents in her hands.

"On behalf of the Philadelphia District Attorney's Office, I hereby formally announce the indictment of the defendants in connection with the Philadelphia General Hospital drug corruption case, as well as the related charges of fabricating evidence and obstructing justice."

The list of defendants includes Thomas Sherol, Alan Morrison, Lydia Wylant, and others involved in the case.

Prosecutors will seek the maximum statutory penalty for all defendants.

Miles followed closely behind, gesturing for the two federal agents behind him to step forward and walk straight up to Alan Morrison, who was still standing frozen in the corner of the corridor.

"Mr. Alan Morrison, you are now formally arrested on suspicion of violating the Federal Anti-Extortion and Corrupt Organizations Act, interstate trafficking of controlled drugs, falsifying medical records, and obstruction of justice, pursuant to a joint investigation order from the DEA and the FDA."

You have the right to remain silent, but everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.

The handcuffs clicked shut.

Alan Morrison lowered his head, his eyes completely vacant.

In front of him were federal agents' holsters and handcuffs, while in the conference hall behind him, flashbulbs were going off wildly for his last photo taken when he was free.

Link concluded his presentation, leaning slightly forward as his gaze swept across the room one last time. He said:

"Philadelphia General Hospital, today I stand here as Dr. Hawthorne's legal representative."

From tomorrow onwards, I will stand in the plaintiff's seat, waiting for you to come.

There was a moment of silence, followed by a flurry of camera shutters clicking.

Then the reporters split into two groups like a tide, one rushing toward Alan Morrison, who was being escorted out of the venue by federal agents, and the other surrounding Elena and Miles.

The indictment from the district attorney's office and the arrest by the DEA occurred simultaneously.

This is definitely the most sensational legal headline in Philadelphia this year.

Link stepped down from the side of the podium, squeezed through the crowd, and walked to the back row of the media area.

Quinnil stood up from his seat with a livid face and stuffed his phone into his suit pocket.

When he saw Link walking over, the composure on his face had vanished without a trace.

"Mr. Quinnil, I'm so sorry I haven't greeted you yet."

Link straightened his tie, which was slightly wrinkled by the flash of the camera, and a relaxed smile appeared on his lips:

"Are you satisfied with today's press conference?"

Quinnir simply uttered a cold sentence:

"What does 'Attorney Link' mean?"

What I mean is—

Why doesn't Omir come to see me in person?

"You sent me something like this to fob me off."

Quinnil's face twitched, but Link had already waved his hand and turned to leave.

"It's okay, good food is worth waiting for."

"I hope Mr. O'Mill is well-prepared and will be waiting for me in the dock."

He paused at the entrance of the passage, turned his head, and glanced at Quinil out of the corner of his eye:

"I haven't had enough fun yet."