I bought a prison in the United States.

In Hammond's court, sentencing was nothing more than a math problem.

The variables never include whether the defendant's daughter might sit in an empty living room one afternoon, staring blankly at an empty seat.

When sentencing in minor assault cases becomes a statement about public order, the person in the dock is no longer just an individual, but a case number, a brick on the stepping stone for judges' promotions.

Margaret knew she had no grounds to plead for the defendant, and she also knew it would be pointless to the cold-faced and ruthless Judge Hammond.

She noted down the judge's thoughts, put the schedule into a folder, and then said:

"Your Honor, Mr. Bayless called last night saying he had something urgent and asked you to call him back as soon as possible today."

"understood."

Hammond went into the inner office and closed the door.

The mahogany desk contained only a telephone, a pen holder, and an open copy of the Oklahoma Criminal Code.

On the wall hangs his law degree certificate and a photo of him shaking hands with Reagan at a fundraising dinner in Oklahoma City in 81.

To ensure he was placed at the front of the handshake line, he made four phone calls to the organizers a week in advance, giving three different reasons each time.

The first is that representatives of the judicial system need exposure.

The second is that he can help introduce major donors in the county.

The third is purely personal considerations.

He didn't make the fourth call because the organizers had already agreed.

He sat in the leather chair, looking at the top shelf of the bookshelf.

Three people are inside a faded picture frame.

Bayless, Crawford, and him on the steps outside the university law school thirty years ago.

They all came from working-class families in a small town, and in an era when they still believed that the law could change the world, they borrowed each other's notebooks, shared instant noodles, and dreamed of the future.

Thirty years later, they had all become rich and powerful scoundrels.

Crawford absconded with several hundred thousand dollars to Texas.

Bayless fed half the county's public works projects with substandard building materials.

He sits on the judge's bench every day and can issue more than a dozen judgments a day.

"Hmph."

He reached out and flipped the photo frame over, placing it face down on the wooden shelf of the bookshelf.

At 9:00 a.m. sharp, Hammond looked down at the entire courtroom from the judge's bench.

The leather surfaces of the wooden chairs had been worn smooth by countless tense, sweaty backs. Several people sat in the gallery, waiting for their cases, their expressions anxious.

A few minutes later, the bailiffs announced the start of the court session, and everyone stood up in unison.

The first defendant to have a probation hearing for a violation of regulations was a 24-year-old Black man, as thin as a bamboo pole, whose prison uniform looked two sizes too big.

He was charged for failing to report to his probation officer on time.

His public defender explained that his mother had suffered a heart attack and was hospitalized, and he had spent three days taking care of her at the county hospital, which caused him to miss the reporting date.

The prosecutor provided hospital records, which were confirmed to be authentic.

However, after hearing the account, Hammond looked down at the case file.

Next to the case file was a "Weekly Bed Vacancy Report" submitted last week by the McLean County Correctional Center.

There are currently more than 50 beds available, and due to the regulations of the Correctional Authority, he must fill the prison with beds within six months.

Even if he doesn't send prisoners there, the bed agreement will still provide subsidies based on a 90% occupancy rate.

That won't do. Even if Hammond intends to target Ringo and force him to make concessions, he can't openly oppose the state corrections department.

Leaving the beds empty would do them no good, so Hammond was still aware of the situation at this point.

He certainly wouldn't make things difficult for those above him, after all, he was a serious, upright, and efficient judge.

Before the trial, Margaret would place this report on top of the case file pile to remind him how far he was from reaching that target.

The gavel fell.

Hammond spoke coldly:

"Probation revoked. Report to McLean County Correctional Center within ten days to serve the remainder of your sentence."

"Your Honor..."

The public defender sprang up from his chair, mouth agape, as the gavel fell for the second time.

In McLean County, Hammond's gavel was the end.

The young lawyer slumped back into his chair, the pen rolling off his hand and onto the floor.

For Hammond, trials were just a routine part of courtroom life; what he loved most was enjoying the authority that came with that power.

Following the second probation hearing, the defendant in the minor assault case was brought in by bailiffs.

The other party was a man in his early forties, whose bruises on his face had not yet faded when he was brought in.

Assistant District Attorney Max told him in a low voice that the plea agreement had been rejected by the judge. He was stunned for a long time before turning to the gallery.

His wife and daughter were seated in the third row of the audience.

The woman specially dressed her daughter in a pink dress today, hoping the judge would see that the family was still trying and living life earnestly.

She saw her husband looking at her and forced a smile.

"What?! Twelve months?!"

The defendant's handcuffs made a soft, metallic clanging sound, and he looked incredulous.

"At the last hearing, the prosecutor said it would take a maximum of six months..."

"My daughter is being baptized next month, and I promised her..."

"I'm sorry, I really can't help it."

Max kept his head down, organizing the documents on the table. He dared not look the defendant in the eye, nor did he dare turn around to look at the audience.

Hammond's gavel fell again.

"Waaah~"

In the gallery, the baby in the woman's arms was awakened by the sound of the gavel and began to cry.

The baby's crying caused a hint of impatience to appear on the judge's face.

Court adjourned!

The cries echoed under the dome as the bailiffs closed the iron gate of the escort passage, the sound of metal clanging cutting off the cries.

……

At 5:30 p.m., Hammond's Buick drove away from the courthouse.

It gets dark early; the sky is a deep gray, and the clouds hang low as if they're about to touch the church steeple.

He was driving west along Sixth Street, where the speed limit was 35, and his speed was already a bit too high.

But Hammond is not worried about this.

In his fifteen years in McLean County, he has never received a speeding ticket and has never lost his composure in public.

The one thing that should never happen in a judge's life is the first time.

So when the red and blue flashing lights appeared in the rearview mirror, he did not react immediately.

A Tulsa County Sheriff's patrol car was right behind his Buick, its roof lights flashing in the dim light.

The siren blared briefly, signaling him to pull over.

Hammond pulled the Buick over to the shoulder, turned off the engine, and placed his hands on the steering wheel.

This action wasn't out of nervousness, but rather an instinct from someone who had spent half their life immersed in the legal system.

You should never let the police see your hands doing anything uncertain.

He has sentenced many prisoners to prison for this very reason, even if they did not actually do anything outrageous.