I bought a prison in the United States.

Hart sat dejectedly in his chair, picked up his coffee, and took a sip.

Coffee is bitter and astringent. Cold coffee is more bitter than hot coffee because the bitterness is not masked by the temperature and is fully exposed.

He put down the mug containing cold coffee, the bottom of the mug making a slight sound as it hit the table.

He then opened the phone book on the table, its corners curled up, found the county council clerk's number, and pressed the dial button.

"Mary, it's me, Leonard Hart. I'd like to ask what day the parliamentary session is this month?"

Hart could usually hear Mary's familiar tone when he called; sometimes she would greet him with:

"Hi Leonard, the weather's really nice today."

But not today.

"The 12th, next Wednesday."

Her voice was filled with formulaic politeness, like it was covered with a thin layer of ice, and you could feel the chill even through the receiver.

Hart frowned. "I'd like to add a temporary item to the agenda: personal matters."

There was static on the other end of the phone, as if Mary had moved her chair closer to the phone.

That means she was busy with something else and didn't pay attention to Hart's call at all.

Mary had worked in the county council office for over a decade, and in the mouths of politicians, the word "personal matters" usually meant retirement or stepping down.

There are countless euphemisms for these things in the county government building, but the core message is the same: a signal to make a dignified exit.

"Leonard, are you sure?"

Mary hesitated and said:

"The agenda for next Wednesday was already printed yesterday, and any additions require the Speaker's signature for approval."

"Then please ask the Speaker for me."

Hart's fingers gripped the corner of the table tightly:

"Just say I need to submit a personal statement at the meeting next Wednesday."

"Okay, I'll go ask and call you back later."

Hart hung up the phone, closed the phone book, and put it back in the bottom drawer of his desk.

He stood up, walked to the window, and glanced again at his dark blue Buick in the parking lot.

Sunlight streamed in through the gaps in the blinds, casting dappled shadows on his face, creating a warm and pleasant atmosphere.

Temperatures like these are not common in Oklahoma at the end of November.

But the warmth was like oil floating on the surface of water, unable to penetrate the skin at all.

He only felt a small patch of his shirt soaked with cold sweat, clinging tightly to his spine, both cool and sticky.

After waiting for about forty minutes, the phone on the table remained silent and did not ring.

An hour passed, but the phone remained silent, as if it was deliberately ignoring him.

Hart grew increasingly anxious, and during this time he made two more calls to Hammond, but the line was still busy.

He could only slump back into his chair, close his eyes, as if awaiting God's judgment.

Two hours later, the black plastic telephone suddenly rang, its sharp ringing sounding particularly jarring in the quiet office.

Hart practically lunged to catch it, but instead of Mary's voice, a young man's voice came from the other end:

"Mr. Hart, the Speaker asked me to inform you that there is an emergency closed-door meeting of the Parliament at 2 p.m. today. Please attend on time."

"What topic?"

Hart's heart sank.

"I am not authorized to disclose the content of the topic; you will find out when you arrive."

The other person's tone was very curt.

The call was abruptly ended, leaving only a busy tone in the receiver.

Hart glanced at the clock on the wall; the hour hand was pointing to 12:30.

He then realized he had forgotten to eat lunch, but now he clearly had no appetite.

He stood up, neatly stacked the pile of documents on the table, then picked up the brown folder and stuffed it into his briefcase, his movements as mechanical as a robot.

He put on the suit jacket hanging on the back of the chair and straightened his tie in front of the window.

The reflection in the glass was blurry, making it impossible to discern the specific expression, but Hart could feel his own lips drooping, and his face must look terrible.

……

Hart didn't wait until 2:00; he sped up and arrived at the parliament building at 1:15, 45 minutes earlier than the meeting was scheduled to begin.

He sat on a bench outside the conference room, his briefcase on his lap, his hands pressed firmly against it as if he were holding down something that might jump out.

People occasionally passed by in the corridor, some of whom were acquaintances, either members of parliament or secretaries.

Some people nodded and greeted him, but their eyes darted around; others simply lowered their heads and walked past quickly, pretending not to see him.

Hart sensed that the expressions on the faces of those who greeted him were rather strange.

Their smiles were like masks, their eyes hiding a sense of pity, their gazes seeming to say:

I know what happened, but I'm sorry I can't tell you.

This made his heart beat even faster, and another layer of cold sweat broke out on his back.

At exactly 2:00 PM, the heavy wooden door to the conference room was pushed open, and an assistant in a gray suit poked his head out, gesturing for him to come in.

Hart took a deep breath and went inside.

The speaker sat in a leather chair at the very top of the long conference table, with five county councilors sitting on either side of him.

Three of them were old friends Hart had known for many years, and two were new faces who had just been selected last year, their eyes still filled with scrutiny of their seniors.

Sitting on a row of chairs against the wall were the county auditor general, his legal advisor, and two other staff members whose names he didn't know, each holding a notebook.

A young woman had a recording device in front of her, its red indicator light on, faithfully recording every sound in the room.

The speaker was a man in his sixties with completely white hair and loose skin, but his eyes were as sharp as a hawk's, able to see through lies.

He sat in the speaker's seat for eighteen years, and at least three chairmen of the procurement committee came and went before him; he had seen all kinds of storms.

Without any pleasantries or even offering Hart a seat, the Speaker's first words were a question:

"Leonard, this morning the Congress received an anonymous document."

He looked at Hart's pale face, waved for him to sit down, and then continued:

"The documents contain your part-time income records at Belles Building Materials Company, as well as the evidence of your failure to declare conflicts of interest during your tenure. The evidence is very strong."

Do you have any explanation for this?

Beside the speaker was a brown paper envelope, different from the one Parker had received from the man in gray overalls. This envelope was stamped with the county council's red mail stamp and dated today.

There was also a stack of photocopied bank statements next to it, the paper was very new, like it had just come out of the photocopier.

"Speaker, that's fake, I..."

Hart's voice was weak, as if he were being blown about by the wind.

The speaker raised his hand, palm facing forward, to stop him from speaking further, his tone as cold as ice:

"Do you think they would convene such a large, closed-door meeting if it were fake?"

Hart immediately shut his mouth.

These words were like a bucket of cold water poured over him, instantly sobering him up.

The other party has clearly obtained solid evidence, and continuing to deny it will only make things more embarrassing.

He immediately changed his tune, as if he had just woken up:

"I remember now, that wasn't my part-time income, it was my wife's consultation fee."

He made his tone sound more confident and began to give a different explanation:

"My wife works as an independent consultant at Bellersham, what does that have to do with her husband serving on the purchasing committee?"

The Auditor General shook his head slightly, his gaze towards Hart carrying a hint of pity and helplessness.

"Leonard, I hate to say this, but your wife didn't even graduate high school and has never worked a day in her life. What kind of independent consultant could she possibly be for Bayless Building Materials?"

He opened his notebook, which contained basic information about the Hart family:

"We've already verified your family situation. Now that you're here, I advise you to be honest."

Hart's heart sank completely, as if he had been thrown into an ice cellar.

He knew that at this point, any defense was like a paper shield, unable to withstand the evidence in the other party's hands.

Hart felt as if he were not in Parliament, but in Hammond’s courtroom, which he had visited countless times.

He always sat on the jury or in the audience, but now, sitting here, he felt like one of those sitting in the prisoner's dock.

This is a trial against him personally!

The speaker picked up the stack of bank statements, the papers rustling as they turned:

"Over the past six quarters, your spouse Margaret Hart's account has consistently received remittances totaling $72,000 from Bellers Building Materials Company."

"Have you reported this income to the county council?"

The legal advisor next to him opened a red-covered manual with worn edges, clearly having been frequently read.

He turned to the chapter on "Conflict of Interest Ordinance," coughed twice, and read aloud:

"According to the Oklahoma Local Officials Ethics Act, Section 3, Part 1, 1978."

"Any county official or their immediate family member who receives more than $500 in compensation from a commercial entity that has contracted with the county government must submit a conflict of interest declaration to the county council within 30 days."

"Failure to declare more than $1,200 constitutes a first-degree misdemeanor."

"If more than 5,000 yuan is not declared, the county council has the right to initiate dismissal procedures."

Hart certainly knew about this regulation.

He has been the chairman of the procurement committee for more than a decade, and the contracts he has approved involve a total amount of at least tens of millions of dollars. He has to fill out a conflict of interest declaration form every year.

Every year, he writes "[None]" in the "Are there any interests that need to be declared?" section without even blinking.

Then he would sign his name at the end, his handwriting flowing and elegant, a gesture that reflected a confidence that came from complete control.

He wrote from 1979 to 1984, a full five years, twenty quarters.

Behind that blank sheet of paper lay every favor Bayless had given him—cash, checks, and transfers—the amount already exceeding a million.

That money bought his house, his car, and his son's college tuition, but it also bought away his moral compass.

The speaker threw the transaction record back onto the table with a crisp sound, interrupting his thoughts:

"The council has decided to conduct an internal audit of all contracts signed by the procurement committee over the past three years!"

"All county contracts involving Baylors Building Materials are suspended effective today until the audit findings are released!"

The auditor general opened a black hard-cover notebook next to him, which was filled with dense notes on the internal audit process.

This is clearly stipulated in the parliamentary charter.

Once any county councilor or committee chair receives a formal written complaint, the council may initiate an investigation following a vote.

A two-thirds majority vote is required for it to take effect; it does not require the approval of the courts or prosecutors. The county council has the highest administrative oversight power within its jurisdiction.

During the investigation, contracts involving the departments under the jurisdiction of the investigated party are suspended from execution; this power is enshrined in Article 42 of the Charter of Autonomy.

Those were the terms formulated during the oil boom of the 1960s, when the county's oil was still gushing out and the finances were plentiful.

The county council has so much power that it can halt any project it deems questionable at any time, and no one dares to question it.

Hart sat on the makeshift chair, his legs stretched taut like a fully drawn bowstring, his feet pressed firmly against the floor, as if that would steady his trembling body.

His left hand rested on his briefcase, his fingers clenched so tightly that his nails almost dug into the leather, creating a crease on the smooth surface.

Hart opened his mouth, making a dry, hoarse sound:

"Can I submit my resignation?"

The people sitting around the conference table exchanged glances, their eyes communicating in the air.

The Auditor General spoke first, his voice tinged with weariness:

"Leonard, resigning is your right."

"But the audit will not stop because of your resignation. This is stipulated in the parliamentary charter, and you should know this better than I do."