America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 138 I hope you can come back alive

"What you call 'natural economic recession' is nothing more than capital shifting blame after the feast is over!"

"During boom times, Wall Street financiers reveled in the stock market with leverage of ten or even a hundred times, transferring the risks to countless middle-class families. Agricultural oligarchs lured farmers into blindly expanding production with high-interest loans."

"On the day the bubble burst, the instigators returned to their estates with chests of gold, leaving ordinary workers and farmers to bear all the losses!"

Arthur pointed to the tokens on the table: "You say you want to maintain the dignity of the credit system. But in Scranton, the coal companies are recklessly issuing tokens without any real backing. Isn't that a trampling on the federal government's right to issue currency?"

"Isn't the bank's demolition of farmers' houses a desecration of their constitutionally guaranteed right to survival?"

"When a system can only guarantee that the top 1% will escape unscathed in a crisis, while demanding that the remaining 99% pay the price with their lives for their greed, that system is not worthy of discussing dignity!"

Arthur's voice was deafening.

Then, the study fell silent.

Only the firewood in the fireplace crackled and popped.

Taft's bloated face was filled with shock.

He spent his entire life debating law and economics with top lawyers, senators, and presidents.

But he had never heard such subversive and thorough structural analysis of class exploitation.

In traditional political debates, there is either brutal anarchism or piecemeal reformism.

But Arthur's words cut straight to the heart of America's current problems, precisely severing the nerves of those hypocritical economic theories and legal defenses from the Great Depression era.

Taft coughed violently. The old butler immediately pushed open the door and came in with a glass of warm water and a few white pills.

Taft waved for the butler to leave, and he steadied his breathing with great difficulty.

He looked at Arthur, who stood tall and straight in front of the fireplace, and the arrogance of a superior was gone from his eyes.

There was a complex mix of awe and deep weariness in his eyes.

"You're too sharp, Arthur," Taft's voice became extremely hoarse.

"You've seen the truth locked in a dark basement, and you're trying to break it open with a sledgehammer. That's very dangerous. Very, very dangerous."

Taft closed his eyes, as if recalling his decades-long political career.

How could he not know the greed of Wall Street? How could he not know that the state apparatus was gradually being hijacked by massive monopoly capital?

But this train named America is so enormous, with immense inertia. Anyone who tries to apply the brakes will be crushed to dust.

"Then what do you want me to do when you come to me?" Taft opened his eyes again and looked at Arthur.

"Should I, the Chief Justice who is about to go to my grave, issue an order declaring the President's economic policies unconstitutional?"

"I don't need orders to change the system, because that's impossible." Arthur sat back down in his chair, his previous sharpness gone, and his tone became extremely pragmatic.

"I'm going to keep going west. I'm going to Ohio, to Oklahoma, to California. I'm going to write everything that happens along the way into my novel."

"I will publish this novel serially throughout the East Coast."

"But I know very well that as I delve deeper into my writing, those bureaucrats lurking in the shadows in Washington will do more than just freeze my bank accounts."

"They would use violence to stage a car accident in some remote, desolate place," or throw me in jail on completely fabricated federal charges.

Arthur looked at Taft and stated his sole purpose for coming to Washington: "I need a talisman. I need someone to guarantee my safety."

"I want Washington's intelligence agencies to be afraid to use illegal physical destruction methods when I travel across state lines."

This is a clear political deal.

Arthur used his enormous influence over public opinion and his control over the truth to secure a basic survival line that allowed him to traverse America in this chaotic era.

Taft fell into a long silence. The clock in the study ticked.

As a leading figure in conservative jurisprudence, he instinctively disliked Arthur's actions.

But he was also acutely aware of the terrifying power that a writer like Arthur, who could resonate so deeply with the public, possessed in this turbulent time.

If Arthur were to die by assassination or political imprisonment, the martyr effect he would trigger would absolutely ignite widespread resentment among the lower classes across the East Coast.

Moreover, the Harrison family, with whom he has close ties, is an old and influential force within the Republican Party.

After a long while, Taft slowly opened his eyes.

He picked up the brass token on the table and flipped it between his fingers.

"I can give you that promise." Taft nodded heavily.

"I will send a private legal inquiry memo to the Department of Justice. As long as you haven't committed a clear federal felony in this land, as long as you're just writing with a typewriter."

"No matter how much your writing offends those big shots, no federal intelligence agency in Washington would dare to issue an interstate arrest warrant for you."

"My health isn't very good anymore, and it seems unlikely I'll see spring. However, I'll let my old friends know to make sure this promise is kept."

Taft handed the newspaper to Arthur.

"This is the last line of defense for the rule of law, and the last insurance I can provide for you. Openly, all they can do against you is wage a war of words."

But then, Taft warned very seriously, "However, Arthur, you must understand. My insurance only covers federal agencies. Once you leave Washington, the further west you go, the dimmer the light of federal law will become."

"In those vast agricultural states, the real controllers of everything are the corrupt local sheriffs, the bank's private mercenaries, and the agricultural oligarchs who hold absolute power."

Taft looked at the audacious young man with an almost pitying gaze.

"They don't need to ask Washington for permission to shoot a homeless man to death in a ditch with a shotgun. In those places, nothing is more effective than a .45 caliber pistol."

"I understand. Thank you for your honesty, Your Excellency." Arthur stood up, picked up his coat, and put it on.

"Go, go and see this collapsing world."

Taft concluded, his voice gradually lowering with the flickering firelight of the fireplace.

"If you do come back alive and write that book, perhaps your words can truly be a bitter medicine to save the soul of this nation."

Arthur bowed slightly, turned around, and strode out of the study, which was filled with the atmosphere of the old era.

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