I bought a prison in the United States.

Across the street, a new office building with a glass curtain wall is under construction, and the arm of a crane slowly rotates in the sky.

A large bidding sign from the developer stands on the construction site fence, displaying renderings.

The lobby was spotless, with men in suits and women in skirt suits, and neatly trimmed holly bushes growing in the flowerbeds.

In the corner of the rendering, it reads in an elegant serif font:

"Tulsa Downtown Revitalization Project - Phase 2, expected to be completed in 1986."

Looking at the sign, Lingo recalled an article he had read in his previous life about the decline of American cities.

In the early 1980s, the downtown areas of more than 200 small and medium-sized cities across the United States were in a state of "dying".

Tulsa is relatively lucky; the lingering effects of the oil industry are still present, and at least there are people pushing forward with the revitalization plan.

But in neighboring Oklahoma City, the city center becomes a ghost town after 6 p.m., with only homeless people and stray dogs wandering the streets.

He withdrew his gaze and went up to the fifth floor.

By the time he reached the third floor, he was already slightly out of breath.

This old building has no elevator, and the steps of the stairs have been worn smooth by countless feet.

The handrails are made of cast iron and painted black, but the paint has been worn down to reveal a silver-gray color in areas that have been touched for many years.

The side closer to the handrail shows more wear, indicating that most people are used to holding the handrail when going up and down stairs.

These are details that only people who have actually walked through the old building would notice.

He thought that if Eleanor had to climb those five flights of stairs to and from get off work every day, she probably wouldn't need to go to the gym.

The corridor on the fifth floor was narrow, with several doors nailed to the walls on both sides, and nameplates on the doors bearing the names of various small companies.

Lingo passed a tax agent, a typewriter repair shop, and a trading company that was labeled "Import-Export" but looked like it hadn't been visited in a long time.

As Lin Ge passed by the trading company, he glanced inside.

The door was ajar, and you could see some cardboard boxes piled up inside, with Spanish writing printed on them.

They're probably involved in border trade with Mexico. This kind of business is common in Oklahoma; the profits aren't high, but it's stable and enough to support a family.

At the end of the corridor was a frosted glass door with the following words printed on it in gold lettering:

Eleanor Chan, Civil Rights, Criminal Defense, Immigration Affairs

Below that is a line of smaller text, which seems to have been added later. It was printed using one of those letter templates that you can buy at a hardware store:

"Our office provides free coffee."

Lin Ge pushed open the door and walked into an office of about thirty square meters.

This office was unlike any other office he had seen in the past few days, but it wasn't the kind that immediately caught his eye.

First of all, it's chaotic.

The files were piled up everywhere—on the table, on the chairs, on the windowsill, and even on the floor.

The documents weren't piled up haphazardly; instead, they formed a strange order, as if only their owner could understand the logic within them.

Each stack of documents had a sticky note attached, with hastily written annotations:

"Wait for the judge's reply."

"Evidence—Don't touch it!!!"

"The other party definitely wants to settle this case."

Such observations can give a general idea of ​​the current psychological state of the landowner.

Always handling multiple cases, always waiting, always searching for the most effortless solution.

Secondly, books.

Three walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

The bookshelves were crammed with law books, as well as some things that had absolutely nothing to do with law.

Ringo caught a glimpse of a book titled "How to Deal with Difficult People" and another that looked like it had been read countless times: "The Gray Areas of U.S. Tax Law".

His gaze lingered a little longer on a book titled "The History of the Tulsa Race Riots".

The 1921 riots were one of the worst incidents of racial violence in American history.

A thriving Black community was utterly destroyed by a mob of white rioters, leaving hundreds dead and thousands homeless.

However, this event has been deliberately downplayed in official history, and most Oklahoma textbooks don't even mention it.

Without Walden, there would be no One Hundred Years of Solitude.

The owner of these books was clearly not someone who had the leisure to read literary works; every book she read was for the purpose of using in a certain case.

A woman was sitting behind a desk, with a thick case law compilation open in front of her and a cup of coffee in her hand.

She was around thirty years old, wearing a white cotton shirt with the top two buttons undone, and the beautiful silhouette of her chest was enough to make any man fall deeply in love.

She had shoulder-length blonde hair and was holding a pen with the word "Annual Meeting" printed on it, which was obviously a free gift she had picked up from an event.

Her eyes were dark brown with fine lines at the corners, clearly the result of long hours of staying up late and working outdoors in the sun.

Lin Ge suddenly recognized that face.

He was certain that the eyes he saw in that fragment of information were hers.

Blonde hair, tightly pursed lips...

The image flashed through his mind, but now, standing in front of this living person, he had a strange sense of déjà vu.

"Oh? We have guests."

Eleanor looked up at him, but didn't stand up; she simply gestured with her chin towards the chair opposite her.

"You must be Ringo Chen, right?"

How did you know?

Lin Ge sat down in the chair opposite her.

"There aren't many Chinese people in Tulsa, and only one Chinese person has bought a prison."

Eleanor put down her coffee cup and leaned back in her chair:

"And you have a certain odor."

"What does it taste like?"

"The smell of bankruptcy."

She said this with a calm expression, without any hint of sarcasm:

"I've seen a lot of bankrupt people in San Francisco, and they mostly have the same smell about them. Do you know where that comes from?"

"I use too little soap, iron my shirts too often, and have too much caffeine and too little sleep in my eyes."

"And then there's that way of walking, taking big strides, as if you're in a hurry to get somewhere, but there's really no place you need to go."

Lin Ge looked down at his shirt.

He did iron too often, and as for the way he walked, he hadn't paid attention to it himself, but Eleanor was right.

After going bankrupt in his previous life, he walked more steps every day than when he was starting his business, but he didn't actually go anywhere.

"Your analysis is very good. I heard you're willing to take on some special cases, unrelated to procedural justice."

Lin Ge got straight to the point.

Eleanor took a cigarette from the cigarette pack on the table.

Camel brand cigarettes, the kind without filters, are popular among working-class people, but it's rare to see a female lawyer smoking them.

She lit cigarettes skillfully, and her smoking posture was not as vulgar as those men's.

Her rosy lips gently kissed the cigarette butt, her small mouth pursed slightly, and she slowly exhaled.

A wisp of smoke slowly rose in the sunlight, passing through the beams of light shining in through the window, like something alive.

Lin Ge noticed that there was no ashtray on her table, only a makeshift container cut from an empty coffee can, which was already piled up with cigarette butts.

A woman with a strong personality.