I bought a prison in the United States.

Lin Ge stood at the door without saying anything like "I'm sorry".

He could tell that this woman didn't need sympathy.

She spent three years and countless cases in the gray area, turning that experience into a hard shell.

She stands here now because she has learned the rules of the game from her grief.

Lin Ge brought the topic back:

"You just reviewed my reform plan. Are there any legal risks I should be aware of?"

Eleanor picked up the plan again and turned to the section on the points system.

"The biggest risk lies here."

She pointed to a line of words on the paper:

"For prisoners who maintain a grade of B or above for 30 consecutive days, the warden may submit a recommendation for sentence reduction to the state corrections department."

During this period, Oklahoma's commutation procedures were written very vaguely.

State law stipulates that a sentence reduction recommendation must be based on "the prisoner's good behavior during imprisonment," but it does not specifically define what constitutes "good behavior."

This means that the state corrections department has a great deal of discretion.

"If an inmate applies for a sentence reduction based on their performance record, but the correctional department deems operating the press machine a bad practice, they may refuse."

"What's more troublesome is that if one day a prisoner's sentence reduction is rejected, he will turn around and sue you, saying that your points system is a false promise."

Lin Ge frowned; he hadn't considered this aspect.

"So how do we handle this?"

"There are two ways."

Eleanor held up two fingers.

"The first solution is to add a disclaimer clause to the regulations:"

"This points system is for internal management reference only and does not constitute a promise of sentence reduction. The authority to decide on sentence reduction rests with the Oklahoma Department of Corrections."

"That way, even if the prisoner doesn't get a reduced sentence, he can't sue you."

Lingo rested his chin on his hand. "What's the second option?"

Eleanor smiled:

"The second method is more thorough; you shouldn't go and recommend it to the correctional bureau yourself."

"You can find someone in the correctional facility who is willing to cooperate, give them the list of inmates with high scores, and have them make a recommendation for sentence reduction under the guise of an independent assessment."

"If the prisoner's sentence is successfully reduced, the credit is yours; if the sentence reduction fails, the responsibility lies with the correctional bureau."

Lin Ge looked at her and said decisively:

"The second method."

"A wise choice."

She closed the document and put it into a file box labeled "To be processed".

"I will draft the official regulations for you by next Wednesday."

"In the meantime, I need you to help me collect a few things:"

[First, all purchases related to the prison in McLean County over the past three years, not just fabric, but all of them.]

Second, photocopies of all contracts Crawford signed.

[Third, a copy of the purchase contract you signed with the county government.]

"I need to look through all of these things to see what other aspects I can use to my advantage."

After saying that, she lowered her head and reopened the case law compilation in front of her.

This means the meeting has ended.

Lin Ge walked out of the office and gently closed the door.

In the corridor, the trading company finally opened its doors, and a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt was carrying cardboard boxes inside.

The cardboard box is printed with the Spanish words "Hecho en México" indicating that it was made in Mexico.

The man looked up at Lin Ge, nodded, and continued moving his boxes.

In Tulsa, no one will bother to ask where you come from or where you're going.

Everyone has their own business to run and their own problems to deal with.

Lin Ge walked down the stairs.

As he passed the second floor, he heard an angry voice coming from one of the offices, as if he were arguing on the phone.

Some keywords drifted into his ears: "goods," "delay," and "final payment."

He didn't stop walking; you could probably hear similar sounds in every old building in America.

Small businesses are struggling on the verge of cash flow disruption, with suppliers pressing for payments, customers defaulting on payments, and bosses yelling into the phone before hanging up and trying to find ways to survive until next month.

He himself was one of them.

Stepping out of the building, the September sun of Tulsa shone on my face.

Across the street, on a crane at a construction site, a worker was eating lunch in the cab. A brown paper bag, probably filled with sandwiches his wife had packed for him.

He ate slowly, as if savoring the only half hour of the day that was entirely his own.

Ringo walked to his pickup truck, opened the door, and got in.

The steering wheel was scorching hot from the sun, and the crack on the seat that had been patched up with tape seemed to have split open a little more.

He inserted the key into the ignition switch, the engine coughed twice, and then shuddered and came to life.

The radio turned on automatically.

A local news report is playing inside:

"...This year's Tulsa Chamber of Commerce annual meeting will be held on September 28 at the Mayo Hotel."

"Attendees included representatives from local manufacturing, executives from oil companies, and investment delegations from Arkansas and Missouri."

"Chairman Hollis Underwood stated that this year's conference will focus on discussing the transformation of Tulsa's manufacturing industry and outsourcing opportunities..."

The host read the news in the tone of a weather forecaster, clearly not feeling that it had anything to do with him.

But Lin Ge's hands stopped on the steering wheel.

Tulsa Chamber of Commerce... Manufacturing Representatives... Outsourcing Partnerships!

He stepped on the gas, and the pickup truck roared to life, merging into the flow of traffic on the street.

Behind him, behind the frosted glass window on the fourth floor, Eleanor stood in front of the window, holding an enamel coffee cup in her hand.

The words on the cup gleamed with a faded gold in the sunlight—San Francisco, 1978.

She didn't bring many things from San Francisco to Tulsa, and this cup was one of them.

She watched the old pickup truck, belching a wisp of blue smoke, disappear around the corner, then turned and walked toward the desk piled high with documents.

She picked up the reform plan left by Ringo and turned to the last page.

In the blank space, she picked up a pen and wrote two lines of notes in very small characters:

"Crawford—Purchase Records—Find the insider in the county government."

She put down her pen, leaned back in her chair, and looked at the line of text.

Outside the window, the pawnshop's loudspeaker blared again.

This time, a woman was selling a sewing machine: "Singer brand, almost never used, original price 300, now 75."

The sound came up vaguely from four floors below, as if a world completely unrelated to this place was talking to itself.

Eleanor picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Hello, it's me."

She said it in a very low voice.

"You said last time that you had connections in the county government archives."

"I need to check one person's purchasing records, Dennis Crawford, all of them."

"There's another person, Ringo Chen. I need his detailed information for the last three years."