Law America, the Devil's Agent

Chapter 68 From Today On, I Will Be Your Thorn! (Third Update, 4.5K Scrolls, Please Subscribe)

Martha looked at the paintings on the table, at the one that Kona held up, full of deep red and black swirls, and at the dark figure curled up in the painting.

Her lips were trembling, her fingers were trembling, and it felt as if something was slowly draining all her strength from within, until she finally slumped into the chair.

"I contacted the school immediately."

Her voice suddenly became very soft, as if she were murmuring to herself: "After I discovered the bruises and wounds on his body, I went to Sacred Heart Elementary School early the next morning."

I request to see the homeroom teacher and the principal.

I waited in the meeting room for several hours, and in the end, only a vice principal's assistant came out to see me.

I still remember what she said to me:

Ms. Kate, we understand your concerns, but it's normal for children to roughhouse at this age, and minor bumps and bruises are inevitable.

We will remind the teachers to pay close attention.

Her polite, condescending, and perfunctory tone was palpable.

I suppressed my anger and continued to press her, asking if I could see the classroom's surveillance footage. She said that the surveillance involved the privacy of other students and required approval from the school council.

  

I asked her when it would be approved, and she said as soon as possible. And then that was it.

Her fingers gripped the teacup tightly.

"I went a second time, and a third time."

The third time, the assistant told me directly:

Ms. Kate, if you have so little trust in our educational environment, you may consider transferring your child to another school.

None of them even asked what had happened to Alex.

They just wanted me to disappear quietly.

She took a deep breath, as if to muster all her remaining strength.

"Alex's condition is getting worse and worse. I don't dare to go to the school to make a scene anymore, and I don't let him go to school either. I'm afraid they will retaliate against the child."

So I chose another path and contacted the media.

I contacted two local news stations and sent them photos of Alex's bruises and the paintings.

That evening, I received a text message from an unknown number.

There was only one sentence on it:

If your child still wants to live and go to school, take those things back.

I thought it was just a verbal threat and ignored it.

The next morning, there was a dead cat on my porch.

It's the first place Alex sees every morning when he leaves the house.

I called the police, and they came and took my statement. They checked the surveillance footage from my front door, but the footage from those days was completely blank.

The other party knows the location of my home security camera!

Tears finally rolled down Martha's cheeks and landed on her tightly clenched hands.

She went from sobbing to choking up, from choking up to crying out loud, her shoulders trembling violently, as if a pillar that had been supporting her for too long had finally broken.

"I'm a single mother," she cried, her voice so broken it was almost inaudible. "I just want my child to be able to go to school like other children, to have friends, and to have someone to talk to."

I worked hard and tried my best to earn money so that I could give him the best possible conditions and prevent him from being looked down upon by others.

But I actually sent him into that hellhole; I personally sent him to that school.

He was bullied and hurt inside, and I couldn't do anything about it. I don't deserve to be his mother!

Her sobs echoed in the conference room.

Celine stood to the side, her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes reddening.

Kona leaned against the bookshelf, her arms crossed, her fingers pinching her upper arm, without saying a word.

Martha wiped her tears haphazardly with the back of her hand, but the tears just wouldn't stop.

"I contacted the school, but they gave me the runaround."

I contacted the media, and the school's influence threatened me.

I called the police, but they said they had no evidence.

I can't sleep every night. I'm afraid of the phone ringing, afraid of knocking on the door, afraid of what I'll see when I open the door the next morning.

I'm afraid Alex will get hurt again, and I'm afraid those who threatened him will actually do something to him.

I have no other choice, Mr. Link.

I really have no other choice.

I only have Alex. I can lose anything, but I can't lose him.

She lowered her head, buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders were still trembling.

"That's why I came. You're the only one I can find."

[One large case detected. Accept the call?]

Link listened to all of this, and then examined the distorted and messy cries for help on Alex's drawing board.

He carefully stacked the paintings one by one and placed them in the corner of the conference table, then he stood up and turned to Martha.

"Ms. Martha, I understand your request."

However, I still have many questions and uncertainties.

If I asked you these questions, you probably wouldn't be able to answer them either, so I need to get more information from other sources.

This will help me understand the case.

Martha paused for a moment, then said, "Attorney Link, what do you mean?"

"I need to be alone with Alex for a while."

"But his condition—he hasn't spoken in a long time."

"Trust me, Ms. Martha."

You, Celine, and Cona—you should go and rest in the office next door for a bit.

Celine, please get Ms. Martha a fresh cup of hot tea.

Martha opened her mouth, as if to say something.

She glanced at her son, who was curled up in the corner, then at Link, and finally just nodded.

As she stood up, her fingers paused briefly on the back of the chair before she quickly walked out of the conference room.

Celine followed behind her and gently closed the door.

Kona was the last to leave.

As she reached the door, she turned back and glanced at Link. Her eyes held worry, but also a deeper trust. Then she went out too.

Only two people remained in the meeting room.

Link, and the boy in the corner wearing a baseball cap and hiding his face behind the easel.

The low-frequency hum of the fluorescent tubes continued to echo from the ceiling, while the distant, indistinct sound of vehicles passing by could be heard outside the window.

Link didn't go over right away.

He stood by the conference table for a moment, then picked up his untouched cup of hot tea and sat down next to Alex.

He didn't get too close. There was an empty chair between them.

He placed the teacup on the table, without looking at Alex, and took out the notepad and a pencil from his briefcase, turning to a blank page.

The pen tip landed on the paper, making a soft scratching sound.

He didn't write anything, didn't create any tables, and didn't write any plans.

He simply drew a fruit.

A round, soft-looking fruit hangs forlornly on the branch.

Once upon a time, there was a fruit —

As he drew, he spoke to Alex in a soft voice, as if telling a bedtime story.

"It grows on a very tall tree."

Because of its sweetness, everyone wants to pick it and obtain it.

It didn't want to be picked by others, so it tried many methods.

It is hidden in the densest leaves.

But someone will always find it.

It grows very, very tall, so tall that no one can reach it.

But someone brought a ladder.

It made itself look ugly, with a dull color and rough skin.

But someone still picked it.

He cried helplessly, not knowing what to do.

Alex stopped holding the pencil.

He didn't look up, but the brim of his hat tilted slightly to one side—

That was the beginning, proving that he had indeed heard Link's story and started to pay attention.

"But even though it tried everything."

Hide away, hide, grow taller, become uglier.

But no matter how you try to avoid it, someone will always reach out and pinch it.

Because the fruit is smooth and harmless.

Link's pen continued to move across the paper, adding one sharp thorn after another to the outline of the fruit: "A smooth fruit, it can't hide no matter where it grows."

This is not its fault—a fruit is meant to be smooth and pleasing.

The fault never lies with the fruit, but with those who knowingly reach out and pluck it, even though they know it doesn't want to be picked.

Those people's hands were too used to it—

They were used to manipulating, used to bullying, used to holding smooth, harmless things in their palms.

They never think there's anything wrong with themselves because they consider being smooth and vulnerable a mistake, and manipulating and bullying such people has become a necessary habit.

Alex's fingers slowly tightened around the edge of the drawing board on his knee, his nails leaving a faint white mark on the cardboard.

"But then the fruit stopped hiding, because it finally found a solution!"

Upon hearing this, Alex seemed to hear a glimmer of hope and suddenly looked up!

Seeing this, Link laughed and continued, "It used all the energy it used to use to escape to grow thorns."

It is covered in thorns, which are sharp and hard.

Those who once casually reached out to knead it all withdrew their hands.

Link finished drawing the last thorn, and paused for a moment on the paper with his pen: "It's still sweet, still soft, as if nothing has changed."

But it was never touched again. Do you know why?

"Thorns! Because it's covered in sharp, thorny barbs."

Alex spoke abruptly, his voice hoarse, but he did indeed open his mouth to speak.

"Yes! It's because it grew thorns that they dared not touch!"

Link was overjoyed to hear Alex finally speak and continued.

It finally made those people realize—

There's a price to pay for touching it!

It had never dared to make others pay the price before, so those evil people thought they could harm it forever for free.

But the truth is, they are the ones who did wrong.

They bullied it not because it did anything wrong, but because they thought it would never grow thorns.

They can do whatever they want without facing any punishment.

It doesn't need to apologize for growing thorns.

Link turned the notepad around so that the thorny fruit was facing Alex.

His voice remained calm, but beneath that calm surface, a long-suppressed anger was slowly surging.

He wasn't targeting the boy in front of him, but rather those who had driven him to this point.

His emotions began to resonate with Alex's; he wanted him to abandon those weak acts of pity and compassion in order to embrace a stronger, more violent emotion:

Anger! Resentment!

He wanted Alex to feel the spread of the spikes!

"You are like this fruit that hasn't grown thorns yet."

Those who bully you think you're sweet, you're weak, you're afraid to speak up, and they think they can manipulate you without paying any price.

But this isn't your fault. Did you hear me?

The one who is wrong is never you, but those who think they can bully you at will.

You haven't done anything wrong. You just haven't grown your thorns yet.

Alex's shoulders began to tremble slightly.

It's like being suddenly wrapped in something warm in the extreme cold; your body hasn't adjusted yet, but the ice has already started to melt.

"You don't have thorns, that's okay."

I'll be your thorn!

All you need to do is tell me who those people are who are bullying you.

Tell me their names, tell me what they did.

The rest, I'll handle.

I never leave my clients to face the darkness alone.

Alex's lips trembled violently.

His hand slowly reached for the pencil, and when his fingertips touched the barrel, Link saw that his fingers were still trembling—but this time, it wasn't the trembling of fear, but of anger.

The anger that had been suppressed for far too long finally found an outlet.

He is about to break free from the prison of his own mind!

"Alex!"

Link pressed his advantage, closing the notepad and setting it aside: "People have bullied me before! I'm an orphan, and I've been treated like that before!"

Alex's shoulders twitched slightly as he gripped the easel on his knees, his eyes fixed intently on Link.

Link was observing his reaction closely. When he saw this, his eyes lit up, and he continued, "I didn't say anything back then."

I thought others would be able to see through it, and I thought that as long as I kept silent, someone would eventually come to my aid.

But I gradually realized that if you don't speak up, other people really won't know what you've been through.

Those who can help you are waiting for you to ask.

95

He paused, then asked him softly, "Is there anything you want to say to me now?"

Alex remained silent for a long time.

After a while, two more cars drove past the window, and after a while, the hum of the fluorescent lights turned into a kind of echo similar to a heartbeat in my ears.

Then he raised one hand and slowly took off the baseball cap.

His eyes were red, with obvious tear stains around them, but no tears fell.

It was as if he had cried many times before, crying out all the tears he could shed.

"School."

His voice was hoarse and weak, as if it hadn't been used in a long time.

"Is someone bullying you at school?" Link asked.

Alex nodded. The movement was very subtle, as if he were afraid of being seen by something.

"Are they classmates? Are they just classmates?"

He nodded again, then hesitated for a moment, and then shook his head.

His fingers began to unconsciously dig at the edge of the canvas, his nails leaving faint white marks on it.

"Who else?"

Link's voice was still soft, but every word was filled with expectation and encouragement, as if paving a path for him to slowly move forward.

Alex's lips trembled violently.

His breathing became rapid, and a suppressed, almost gagging sound came from his throat, as if something had been stuck there for far too long, and he no longer knew how to spit it out.

He grabbed the pencil on the table and abruptly flipped the drawing board to the new page that had been repeatedly blackened, adding two bold strokes in the middle of the black figures.

A button.

A long robe.

A collar standing up.

Then he threw down the pencil and shrank back into the chair, as if he had just used up all his strength.

Link looked down at the painting.

Those long, thin, black figures; those faces without features; that long robe with buttons and a collar.

He had seen that kind of robe before.

In the historical records of Sacred Heart Elementary School, in the photos on the official website of the Catholic Church in Philadelphia, and on the covers of countless brochures about private church schools.

Those are the robes of clergy.

Church bullying! Student bullying!

Link took a deep breath and clenched his fist.

Finally, he carefully closed the painting, placed it on the table, and looked at Alex, slowly extending a hand.

His hand hovered above the boy's shoulder, not falling, but just hovering there, letting the boy choose whether or not to catch it.

"You did a great job."

You just said it—that's the bravest thing you could do.

Alex looked up, his eyes, blurred by tears, peering at him through the gaps between his fingers.

Then he slowly and tentatively reached out and grasped Link's finger.

Link gently took his hand.

"From now on, you will no longer have to bear it alone."

"Friends, when facing darkness, we must use fire!"

The case has been accepted.

>