Law America, the Devil's Agent

Omir's smile froze for a very brief moment, then he laughed and patted Link on the shoulder.

"Lin Ke's sense of humor is even better than I thought."

"Shall we talk another day?"

"Let's talk another day."

Link returned the same smile, then turned and walked away.

Several security personnel from AnDun quickly moved from the side corridor to protect him, scanning the shadows across the street warily.

Cona, Benny, and Celine quickly followed, no one saying a word, they simply and tacitly jumped into the car.

The engine starts.

The car drove out of the restaurant parking lot and merged into the sparse traffic of Philadelphia at midnight.

Only after the restaurant sign behind them had completely disappeared around the corner did Kona turn around from the passenger seat and ask with concern:

"Are you alright? They did bring people with them. You were right to call the people to settle things."

He didn't pull any tricks inside, did he?

"A trick?"

Link gripped the steering wheel with one hand, a cold smile playing on his lips:

"He's almost frantic. Omir is the real person in charge behind the scenes."

And here they are, shamelessly spouting empty words at me.

"Did you get him to calm you down?" Kona asked.

"I made him change 'appeasement' to 'surrender'."

Link turned the steering wheel, rounded an intersection, and the headlights swept across the sycamore trees lining the road, casting long shadows on the asphalt.

  

"All due compensation will be given in full, and all those who are obligated to pay will be held accountable."

Benny leaned out from the back seat, his face showing disbelief.

"Team leader, how do you know he'll agree?"

Link glanced at the rearview mirror and smiled slightly.

He'll agree. Because he has no other choice now.

The carriage was quiet for a moment. Then Benny leaned back in his seat and let out a long sigh.

"So we won this covert battle."

"We won."

Link rolled down the car window a crack, letting the cold midnight wind rush in:

"And the victory was more decisive than I had imagined. Before Omir came to me, I thought he would come with some kind of equivalent bargaining chip to negotiate with me."

He brought a basket of gifts, only asking me not to dig any further.

He smiled slightly: "It seems that the lashes Holland received that night in the abandoned building were more important than we thought."

Benny and Celine both burst out laughing.

The atmosphere in the car finally relaxed from the tension that followed the press conference.

"I saw Quinnir was about to wet his pants."

Benny joked with a smile:

"When he stood there and saw people appear from across the street, his face turned pale."

"He's not afraid of our people."

Kona leaned back in her chair and added in a lighthearted tone:

"What he fears is Omir."

"Didn't you see the look O'Mir gave him after he smashed the cup? Tsk tsk tsk, when he gets back, it'll probably be more than just wetting his pants."

The carriage was filled with a cheerful atmosphere.

A few days later, at the Philadelphia Correctional Institution.

Sonny Kowalski stood in the corridor of the prison administration building, holding a release order stamped with the federal court seal.

He had been a prison guard for over ten years and had handled countless release procedures, but this one was different.

He looked down at the name on the release order—

Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Then he looked up at the cell door at the end of the corridor, which was about to open.

The news had already spread throughout the entire prison area.

Those hardened criminals who usually don't care about anything are now gathering in twos and threes during their exercise time, discussing the same thing in hushed tones.

A healthcare system corruption case leads to a whistleblower being falsely accused and imprisoned, a lawyer holding a press conference to overturn the verdict, and federal agents arresting a psychiatrist on the spot.

These stories spread like wildfire within the prison walls through limited weekly visits and newspapers smuggled in.

How many of these prisoners have spent hours waiting in the emergency room corridors, ignored by everyone?

How many people have crumpled up their prescriptions and thrown them in the trash because they couldn't afford the medication? How many families have missed the best time for treatment because insurance companies refused to pay out?

For them, Nathaniel Hawthorne's name was not an abstract legal term; he was a hero who stood up for everyone.

Nathaniel took the brown paper bag containing his personal belongings that had been confiscated when he was imprisoned from Sonny.

He wasn't wearing the orange prison uniform today; instead, he had changed into a dark blue shirt and a pair of crisply ironed khaki trousers that Eileen had sent him in advance.

The shirt had a crisp collar and well-fitting shoulders; it was the one he often wore outside the operating room.

He looked down at the stopped watch and the switched-off phone in the paper bag and remained silent for a long time.

"Saint, sir!"

Sonny leaned against the doorframe and broke the silence with a name that had never appeared in the prison guards' handbook:

"I'm so glad to have been under the same roof as you for this period of time."

Thank you for your service.

He stretched out his hand.

Nathaniel grasped his hand. That hand had held a scalpel for sixteen years, its palm covered in calluses whitened from being soaked in disinfectant.

At this moment, it was being held tightly by another rough, calloused hand.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end he just nodded vigorously.

Sonny took a half step back and waved towards the end of the corridor.

One by one, the iron gates of the prison ward opened, and behind each gate stood a prisoner—

Some people leaned against the door frame, some put their hands on their prison uniforms, and some just stood quietly, nodding slightly at him.

Nathaniel walked slowly down the corridor, each step deliberate, as if he wanted to memorize the path forever.

As he walked to the last iron gate, applause suddenly rang out behind him.

That wasn't the fake applause you get when you're surrounded by the media at a press conference.

They are rougher, more serious, and more sincere.

Rough palms clapping together echoed between the concrete walls for a long time without stopping.

Nathaniel stopped, turned around, and looked at the faces he had once thought he would never be accepted, his eyes slowly reddening.

He nodded slightly, waved to them, and then turned and walked toward the last door leading outside.

The door slowly opened.

The sunlight was so bright that he instinctively raised his hand to shield his eyes.

The sky was a deep blue, washed clean by the rain, with a few white clouds drifting lazily by, and the air carried the earthy scent of late winter and early spring.

He hadn't smelled this scent in a long time.

Then the flashes came like a tsunami.

Countless microphones, cell phones, and cameras protruded from behind the cordon, the sound of shutters clicking so densely it was like a downpour hitting a tin roof.

Reporters crowded behind the makeshift isolation barrier set up by prison guards. Some even tried to bend down and squeeze through, but were unceremoniously pushed back by the guards.

They were calling his name—

"Dr. Hawthorne!"

"Nathaniel, look this way!"

"Mr. Saint, please say something to the camera!"

These sounds merged into a noisy ocean, and he stood in the middle of it, unsure of where to go.

Then he saw them.

At the end of the cordon, his wife Eileen stood there, holding the blond boy's hand.

The boy was wearing a brand new shirt today and holding a painting in his hand—the painting he had painted countless times, with the word "DAD" written on the chest of a man in a white coat.

Standing next to Eileen were her parents; her father was wearing a faded plaid shirt, and her mother's handkerchief was soaked with sweat.

His two brothers and sister stood behind them, and everyone's eyes were red.

Nathaniel strode over, and Eileen opened her arms and threw herself into his embrace.

Her forehead pressed against his collarbone, her shoulders trembling violently, but she made no sound—

That was a cry that had been suppressed for too long; it was every tear she forced herself to swallow during countless nights she faced alone and countless mornings when reporters besieged her door.

The boy hugged his legs and buried his face in his waist. Nathaniel bent down, lifted his son with one arm, and put his other arm around his wife's shoulder.

His mother stepped forward, cupped his face in her wrinkled hands, looked at his thin cheeks and sunken eyes, and silently slid tears down her hands.

"My child," she whispered, "let's go home."

……

Nathaniel eventually answered a few questions from reporters—in his usual awkward way, as he was not good at facing the camera.

Then he raised his head, his gaze passing over the crowd and looking towards the parking lot.

A matte black Aston Martin was parked under a patch of dappled shade.

The hood reflected the afternoon sun, and a person leaned against it.

The young man was wearing a dark gray suit jacket and holding an open bottle of ice-cold beer.

He looked relaxed, as if he had been waiting there for a long time.

He didn't come over. He just held up the bottle of beer from a distance and waved it in Nathaniel's direction.

Nathaniel looked at the figure, and a slow smile curved his lips.

He raised his hand and waved it in that direction.

Link raised the bottle, facing the figure who had finally returned to the sunlight, and whispered:

"Respect for freedom."