Law America, the Devil's Agent

The press conference started in the afternoon and didn't really end until near dusk.

But not a single journalist or social media blogger left the Curtiss law firm's meeting room after the meeting ended!

They just moved to a different place to continue working.

In the corridors, in the tea room, and on the steps at the entrance of the law firm, editors were sitting on the floor typing on their laptops, and bloggers were holding up their phones to do live summaries.

Their enthusiasm far exceeded the expectations of the Curtiss law firm's administrative team.

Celine ordered three more cases of coffee and two more cases of bottled water, but they were all sold out in less than an hour.

The speed at which the message spreads is completely uncontrollable.

It didn't even wait until the next day!

At midnight, Philadelphia's major legal news websites updated their headlines almost simultaneously.

Without exception, Link's press conference to prove Nathaniel became the focus of everyone's attention.

Public opinion on social media underwent a complete reversal within just a few hours.

Those voices that questioned Link's "whitewashing of serial killers" before the press conference were swallowed up by a larger and more angry wave of public opinion!

That's the story of Hawthorne!

That brilliant surgeon who came from rural Kentucky!

That devout believer who provides free medical consultations in the basement of the community church!

The "whistleblower" who wrote seventeen signed letters of denunciation and was then personally sent to prison by the hospital he swore to protect!

It is spreading simultaneously across all platforms at a rate of wildfire.

  

People have long harbored resentment towards the corruption in the country's healthcare system.

Those bills rejected by insurance companies, those nights spent waiting in the emergency room corridors until dawn, those prescriptions that had to be reduced in dosage due to soaring drug prices...

This anger had been buried deep in the hearts of every ordinary person, and Nathaniel Hawthorne's story was like a match that ignited all of this anger.

No one can stop this anger, and no one can stop the spread of this name.

Devout saints!

The great Philadelphia whistleblower!

These are all used to refer to Nathaniel Hawthorne.

This headline was used simultaneously by countless independent media outlets and mainstream media, and was refreshed on the homepages of major news websites every hour between midnight and dawn.

From a former maniacal serial killer to a saintly hero, the entire public opinion landscape was completely reversed in less than twelve hours.

Although it was getting late, the enthusiasm of countless people remained undiminished.

This was destined to be an unforgettable evening.

……

The next morning.

A black Cadillac Escalade slowly drove through the streets of downtown Philadelphia.

Omir Sadic in the back seat had his eyes closed, but the driver could see in the rearview mirror that his eyelids were twitching slightly.

This driver has been working for Omir for several years.

In his memory, the lawyer always appeared confident and calm.

But today, the man in the back seat seemed somewhat unfamiliar to him.

Omir's tie was askew, stubble was growing on his chin, his eyes were sunken, and he looked as if he had aged several years overnight.

He forced himself to stay alert, gripping his phone tightly, as if waiting for a call he had to answer but didn't want to face.

The phone vibrated. Omir pressed the answer button almost simultaneously.

"Prosecutor Mings, thank goodness you finally answered the phone."

It is I, Omir of Vansk.

Regarding the hospital serial murder case, I also—"

"Damn it, Omir!"

The roar on the other end of the phone was so loud that even the driver in the front seat could faintly hear it:

"I only agreed to work with you on this prosecution case because of our friendship."

What did you say to me back then?

If you ensure everything goes perfectly, you can pocket the credit without any surprises.

And now? Damn it!

One family completely turned against them!

The whole incident has completely reversed!

Do you know what the people in the prosecutor's office think of me now? Damn it!

They're all laughing at me!

This morning, some people came to my office door and blocked me—the families of the other three victims, and a group of self-media reporters who appeared out of nowhere!

The evidence they brought was so clear that I couldn't deny it!

I'm the one with a headache right now, do you know that?

Fuck!

"Mings, calm down, listen to me."

Omir's voice carried an almost pleading tone that he never used in public:

"This matter is absolutely not my responsibility."

It was a group of people from Philadelphia General Hospital who acted on their own initiative and without authorization.

That Alan Morrison, and that pharmacy manager, they never revealed any information about the Bloodhands network to me from beginning to end.

This completely disrupted my plans and our understanding.

I'm trying to fix this, please give me some time—

"When? What time do you need?"

You'd better start thinking of a solution.

Omir, did you hear me?

If you can't save this boat, I'll jump off right now.

I have done more than enough, old friend.

"Beep beep—"

The call ended. The busy tone echoed in the carriage.

Omir slowly put down his phone.

He didn't curse or smash anything; he simply closed his eyes and silently leaned back in his seat.

……

After a long while, the car stopped.

The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror and spoke cautiously:

"Mr. O'Mr., we've arrived at the Twin Peaks."

Omir opened his eyes. Thick bloodshot eyes and reddish whites revealed his exhaustion.

He nodded.

The driver quickly got out of the car and opened the door for him.

The moment the car door opened, the flashes of light seemed to come from a group of hunters who had been lying in wait, and they all pulled the trigger at the same time.

A dozen microphones and cell phones were thrust out at once, and behind the cameras were faces contorted with excitement.

……

"Mr. O'Mir!"

What is your response to the allegations made at yesterday's press conference? Did your client, Philadelphia General Hospital, withhold crucial information from you?

"Attorney O'Mill! There's been a major twist in the Hawthorne case. Will you continue to represent Philadelphia General Hospital?"

"Mr. Omir! There are reports that your team organized protests by victims' families outside the prison. Does this constitute obstruction of justice?"

Omir did not answer any of the questions.

Security guards from the Twin Peaks rushed out of the revolving doors and, together with several assistants from O'Mill's team, tore a gap in the crowd to help him retreat awkwardly into the lobby.

The glass door closed behind me, blocking out the harsh questions, but the flashes of light continued to pierce through the glass.

Omir stood in the center of the lobby, his tie askew and his suit jacket stained with a coffee mark of unknown origin.

His face was extremely gloomy.

He has handled countless high-profile cases and made countless front-page news stories, but never before has he been besieged, questioned, or chased like prey in this way.

He straightened his tie and walked into the elevator without saying a word.

The entire team followed behind, no one daring to utter a single word; a sense of oppression and stagnation enveloped everyone like a soaked blanket.

The elevator doors opened on the thirtieth floor. Omir stepped out of the elevator, walked down the corridor, and pushed open the door to his office—

Then he stopped.

Quinil stood in the doorway, his face showing a mixture of weariness and helplessness, trying to deal with an obese, balding middle-aged man.

Robin Klein.

He was wearing a wrinkled dark blue suit, and the fat on his face was flushed with excitement.

As soon as he saw Omir walk in, he pushed his way through, opened his arms, and shouted in an almost fanatical tone:

"Mr. O'Mir!"

Did you see that?

That yellow-skinned monkey is absolutely insane!

He slandered you and your client at the press conference, using fabricated evidence—”

Omir did not answer.

He simply stood there, looking at Robin with an expression Quinil had never seen before.

It's a kind of indifference that comes from being so exhausted that you don't even bother to muster any emotions.

But Robin continued rambling on.

"I told you long ago that Link is not to be underestimated."

You won't listen to me.

You didn't give me a position back then, so be it—we can still work together again!

I'm the person who knows him best. I know all his weaknesses. I can help you—"

"Shut the fuck up! You're a piece of trash."

Omir interrupted him with a harsh roar.

The entire room fell silent.

Robin's mouth was still open, like a catfish suddenly pulled ashore.

"None of the information you gave me is correct."

His personality profile, his thought patterns, his weaknesses—it's all rubbish.

You said he knew nothing about the inside of the hospital, but he turned out to be completely ignorant of Alan Morrison's inner workings.

You said he was just an opportunistic nobody, but he tore apart my carefully constructed public opinion defenses, built up over three months, in a single afternoon.

And you—you didn't even figure out who he was after working under you for half a year.

When you gave me these things, you should have jumped out of this window.

Now, take your fat and your stupidity and get out of my law firm.

Robin's face turned from red to white, then from white to green.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Omir had already turned around and waved to the security guard at the door.

Two security guards stepped forward, grabbed Robin, and dragged him, who was still struggling and shouting, toward the elevator.

The office door closed gently as Robinck's final shout was cut off by the elevator doors.

Omir walked into his office and sat down behind his desk.

Quinil followed him in and carefully closed the door behind him.

Tell me what you saw at the scene.

Quinil took a deep breath and began to report point by point.

He described Link's complete rhythm during the press conference:

From calmly responding to interference, to the progressively precise timing of releasing evidence, and finally, the accurate control of the entire room's attention when locking onto Alan Morrison with his finger.

He recounted the timing of Elena and Miles's simultaneous entry through both doors, and the words Link spoke to him after everything was over.

Faced with such provocation, Omir showed no emotion, but the clenched teeth on his face betrayed his state of mind.

He paused for a moment after speaking, then added:

"Sir, the hospital is hiding something from us."

Allen and his team never revealed a single word to us about the Blood Hands' so-called drug distribution system.

They are not on our side.

"If they had told us about the Blood Hand Gang earlier..."

That's enough.

Omir interrupted him, his voice unusually calm.

The office remained quiet for a long time.

Then Quinnil seemed to remember something and spoke in a more hesitant tone:

"Throughout Alan Morrison's arrest, Thomas Schell and Lydia Wylant were deeply troubled."

They couldn't get in touch with Morrison, and they didn't know who the federal agents would investigate next.

They came to me for advice, wanting to ask... what they should do.

Upon hearing this, Omir, instead of being angry, laughed:

"Let them all die! What's the point of them living?"

"Isn't saying that a bit too hurtful to them?"

Omir suddenly stood up, grabbed his coffee cup, and smashed it hard against Quinil.

In an instant, papers flew through the office, coffee cups shattered on the floor, and brown liquid splattered on the white walls.

His chest heaved violently, and his bloodshot eyes seemed to be dripping blood.

"I'll hurt your mother's head!"