Law America, the Devil's Agent

Link paused for a moment, then nodded.

"It's all...it's all in the past."

The two sat down at the conference table. Nathaniel seemed to be organizing his thoughts, or perhaps trying to suppress the emotions that were about to overflow.

After a long pause, he finally spoke:

I don't know how to thank you.

But I still feel I must express my heartfelt gratitude!

After saying that, he stood up and bowed deeply to Link.

Link quickly helped him up.

"When I was in prison, I thought this was the only way I would ever live my life."

I've prepared for the worst.

He looked at Link, his eyes devoid of tears, filled only with unwavering resolve and gratitude:

But none of this happened.

A young lawyer, a complete stranger to me and whom I had no high hopes for, sat on a plastic chair in the meeting room, holding my case file, and told me—that he was angry at himself.

I saw a glimmer of hope again.

Link listened without interrupting.

He simply listened quietly until the end, and then spoke:

"Mr. Nathaniel, everything I did was what a lawyer should do."

  This book was first published on 101kanshu.com, a website dedicated to solving your reading slump. It's incredibly useful, offering a reading experience with error-free and orderly chapters.

I just did my job well.

Nathaniel shook his head.

"I know what kind of responsibility lawyers should bear."

But what you did later:

They handled my appeal, held a press conference, and perfectly resolved my case.

Even after the case is closed, they will guarantee my escape route and future, and secure the greatest possible benefit for me through the forces behind that hospital...

Your professional ethics are beyond question, and your personal character is even more beyond question.

I think we should change our title: Attorney Link.

We are friends! Friends for life!

Link looked into those sincere and persistent eyes, then smiled and extended his hand as well.

"Yes, Mr. Nathaniel."

We're friends now.

……

"The foundation's work is already underway."

Having expressed his emotions, Nathaniel regained his composure and sat down in a guest chair in the conference room.

"After I was released from prison, people started coming to me on their own initiative."

I think I understand; this was your doing.

So I'm planning to list you as the foundation's legal counsel. Eileen reminded me of this, saying that I should discuss it with you first, but I don't think you'll refuse.

Link leaned back in his chair, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"No. I designed the framework for this foundation for you, so I'll naturally be the legal counsel."

Has the initial funding been secured?

"The first payment has arrived."

Nathaniel gave a number and the name of a small private bank that Link had never heard of:

"The anonymous donation came from a holding company registered in Delaware, and this is..."

"He's one of Omir's men; consider this hush money."

Nathaniel listened without expression.

He knew exactly what hush money meant, but in the end he just nodded calmly.

Upon hearing that the other party was already fulfilling the terms of the contract, Link continued to ask questions.

"What about the others?"

I've received several job offers.

Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital, Deputy Director of the Heart Center at Jefferson Hospital, and a partner in a private healthcare group…

Each of them held a higher position than me at Philadelphia General Hospital.

Nathaniel placed the coffee cup on the table, his fingers interlaced; the brilliant doctor was still deep in thought.

I haven't decided which one to accept yet.

I want to take a break for a while and spend time with Eileen and the children.

That foundation also needs my time to sort things out.

Link nodded: "We need to hurry up and get it done while you still have the data."

Once the hype dies down, they won't be so easy to talk to.

Nathaniel nodded: "I understand, and I will go up and tell my story more often."

"I hope that in this age of information overload, my name will appear on the cover of Philadelphia magazine for several more years."

Hearing his statement, Link nodded affirmatively.

He looked at Nathaniel again, and remembered how he had first met him in the prison visiting room.

The person who huddled behind the bulletproof glass, tormented by Alan Morrison's psychotropic drugs to the point that he almost lost the ability to speak.

I am now calmly planning my new life.

This transformation happened so fast that Link himself was somewhat dazed.

But he knew that this was what Nathaniel was really like.

Although he was upright and kind, he was not foolish.

Link nodded inwardly. If this was truly a naive ally, he would be in for a headache.

"What are your plans regarding the media?"

Link continued to ask.

"I've received several interview requests. A publishing house also asked me if I'd be willing to publish an autobiography."

"I can accept interviews, but I have to be selective about the platform."

Don't go on talk shows that just want to exploit your story. Choose media outlets that actually do in-depth legal reporting. Every public appearance you make helps build credibility for your foundation.

There's no need to rush the autobiography; we can do that once you've settled in.

in addition……"

Link suggested in a serious tone:

"Don't rush to accept every invitation, and don't give people the impression that you're easily invited."

You now hold a valuable public opinion resource that every medical institution in Philadelphia desires; don't sell it cheaply.

Every public appearance must come at a price—

To secure donations for the foundation, to advocate for policy support for whistleblower protection programs, or to fight for better conditions for your future department.

Nathaniel listened quietly to Link's analysis and memorized it.

He is not a good negotiator, but he is someone who knows how to listen to the advice of professionals.

"I understand. I will handle these things gradually."

"No rush, by the way, I have another gift for you."

"Um?"

Link stood up and picked up his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair: "After you got out of prison, did you ever think about something?"

Where do those people who put you in prison live now?

Nathaniel looked up at him, a similar glint in his eyes.

"I'll take you to see them."

Link straightened his tie and picked up the car keys from the table:

"You were once trapped in a cage, manipulated by them."

Today, it's your turn to examine them. Let's go.

The Aston Martin sped off towards the federal detention center.

Nathaniel sat in the passenger seat, watching the street scene outside the window gradually become unfamiliar.

I was both nervous and eager.

Before long, they arrived at the Philadelphia Federal Detention Center.

Link summoned a guard, showed him his access pass given to him by Elena, and then led Nathaniel inside.

This detention center is even more austere than the Philadelphia Correctional Center. Its gray concrete exterior has no windows, only a few rows of narrow ventilation openings arranged in a cold geometric pattern above the walls.

The guards on the outpost carried automatic rifles, and the barbed wire hummed slightly in the wind.

This place houses federal felons awaiting trial or who have just been sentenced.

Security check, registration, passing through three iron gates.

The bulletproof glass in the visiting room is exactly the same as the one in the Philadelphia Correctional Institution:

The same thickness, the same hazy reflection, the same pinhole sound transmission device.

Nathaniel stood in front of the glass for a moment, then subconsciously touched his wrist.

The red marks left by the handcuffs have long since faded, leaving only a few faint old marks on the skin that are barely recognizable unless you look closely.

Soon after, Alan Morrison was brought in by the prison guards.

He was wearing an orange prison uniform, his hands and feet were shackled, and with each step he took, the chains scraped against the floor with a grating sound.

His hair had become dull and dry, as if it had lost all its luster.

He walked with his knees slightly bent, taking each step very carefully, as if afraid he might fall at any moment.

Clearly, this is a consequence of being "closely monitored" while in prison.

When he saw that the people sitting outside the bulletproof glass were Nathaniel and Link, he felt as if he had been struck from the inside.

That was a shame that brought me to the brink of collapse.

He knew Nathaniel, the poor wretch who had once been manipulated.

But now she is wearing a neat dark blue shirt and calmly watching him through the bulletproof glass.

Then, Thomas and Lydia were brought in as well.

The pharmacy manager, Sherol, kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

This middle-aged man, who once held the power of life and death over controlled drugs at Philadelphia General Hospital, was now silently moving his lips, as if repeatedly reciting the same unspoken confession.

The head of logistics, Wylant, never looked up.

After her arrest, it was discovered that she had misappropriated a large amount of federal funding intended for aiding impoverished patients during her tenure.

These charges, along with the fabricated body disposal lead she was previously responsible for, could put her in at least twenty years of federal prison.

Three people, three orange prison uniforms, and the ear-piercing echo of three iron chains dragging on the floor.

Nathaniel looked at them.

His expression was calm, without anger or sarcasm; he simply watched them quietly for a long time.

It went on until Alan Morrison finally couldn't take it anymore.

"Nathaniel".

Morrison's voice was hoarse and rapid as he leaned forward, the handcuffs clattering against the metal table.

"Nathaniel, listen to me!"

I didn't do it voluntarily back then. The hospital system forced me to do it.

There was a problem at the pharmacy, and Sherol came to me, saying that if I didn't cooperate, the entire psychiatric department would be laid off.

I have no choice—I have departments to manage and teams to support.

For the past few years, I have been tormented by the pangs of my conscience. I haven't had a good night's sleep. Every time I see you in the hallway, I can't look you in the eye.

I know I did something wrong, I know I'm sorry. Can you—can you forgive me?

Sherol also spoke up.

His voice was even softer and more humble than Morrison's, with a pitiful air of desperately trying to grasp at any straw.

"Dr. Hawthorne, I have a family, and I have two children in college. They can't live without me."

I was just following orders; I just signed the documents. I didn't kill anyone.

Please...please!

Please plead for me in court, even if it's just to reduce the sentence by one year, even if it's just one year...

Wylan was the last to speak.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she cried out in a voice that sounded almost like she was about to collapse:

I know I have no right to ask for your forgiveness.

But the real mastermind is still at large; I was just an executor…”

Nathaniel remained silent for a long time.

He watched as the three people trembled, wept, and begged behind the bulletproof glass...

Watching them attribute everything they had done to him to "the system," "pressure," and "being forced into it"—it was all sophistry.

Watching them use words like "family," "children," and "just executors" to excuse those fabricated psychiatric diagnoses and destroyed whistleblower letters.

Then he stood up, picked up his coat from the table, and turned to leave.

He neither said he forgave nor he didn't forgive.

He just felt he didn't need to listen anymore.

Link remained silent. He leaned back in his chair, coldly observing the silent trial.

Only after Nathaniel stood up did he stand up, straighten his suit collar, and speak to the three people behind the bulletproof glass.

"You don't know you're wrong. You know you're going to die."

Alan Morrison—you just said you never hated Nathaniel.

Of course you never hated him.

You spent three years completely destroying him; you didn't treat him like a human being at all.

Thomas Schellor, you have two children in college.

When you signed the papers to transfer fentanyl and midazolam from the hospital warehouse, did you ever think that these drugs would eventually end up on the streets, causing other people's children to die in alleys?

Leah Wylant, you say you were just an executor. When you fabricated clues about disposing of the body, did you ever consider that these fabricated clues would send an innocent person to the executioner's block?

He picked up the car keys from the table and draped his suit jacket over his arm.

"When you are in hell, remember the tears you are shedding now."

Let's see if Death will believe a single word.

Link turned around.

The sound of a hand slapping against glass came from behind, and Sherol's screams were gradually swallowed up by the heavy soundproof door.

The scream echoed in the corridor for a moment before completely dissipating into the low-frequency hum of the fluorescent lights.

He and Nathaniel walked out of the detention center gates side by side.

The early spring sun shone through the gaps in the clouds, warming the two of them.