I bought a prison in the United States.

The main courses of the dinner were served.

Pan-fried steak with baked potatoes and asparagus.

The beef was pan-fried to perfection, crispy on the outside and pink on the inside.

The asparagus is tender green, and the potatoes are golden yellow.

This is the true level of the Mayo Hotel kitchen; each dish is prepared individually to restaurant standards, not the kind of banquet dishes cooked in a large pot.

Lin Ge could clearly feel that the steaks on his table were noticeably smaller than those on the main table.

This isn't an illusion; it really has shrunk by a size.

The steak at the head table was about eight ounces, while his was about five ounces.

Same dishes, different portions.

The menu lists grilled filet mignon, with no indication of possible portion sizes.

This is a subtle arrangement, but it is not discrimination written into the text.

However, when the kitchen is serving the food, it's natural to give the larger and tenderer steaks to the more important people.

Those less desirable parts were assigned to less desirable seats.

This is the most sophisticated form of hierarchy. It doesn't require any explicit rules; every participant knows it in their heart, but no one will point it out in public.

Lingo cut off a small piece of steak and put it in his mouth.

Hmm... the beef was cooked to perfection, and the seasoning was just right.

He chewed slowly, his gaze fixed on the blurry outlines on the main table.

Underwood was talking to the person next to him.

He had probably finished his steak, or perhaps he hadn't touched it at all; it was hard to tell from this distance.

These people always raise their hands when they speak, making subtle gestures to draw the attention of those around them.

The emotional label above his head was still that grayish-white mixture, unfathomable.

Ringo looked away and continued eating his five-ounce steak.

It was free, at least, but unfortunately we couldn't order a second one.

The banquet ended at 9:30, and everyone was there right on time.

After the last piece of chocolate mousse cake was removed from the table, the crowd began to slowly disperse.

Some people stayed in the banquet hall to chat, or moved to the bar next door to continue drinking, while only a very few people headed straight for the door.

Lin Ge stood up from his seat and stretched his back.

He still had only four business cards in his suit pocket: Peterson, Morrison, Pascal, and Frank Tsao.

Add to that the hardware wholesaler, Paul Winston, with whom he hadn't even exchanged business cards yet.

That's all the social impact he had today.

It wasn't a large sum, but it was enough for him to consume.

Actually, there were a few other people on the list of chamber of commerce members that Ms. Betty gave him that caught his attention, and he saw them today as well.

But Lingo wouldn't go up to those people and try to sell his prison laborers. He wasn't a professional salesman, and he didn't want them to think of him as just a salesman.

After wiping his hands, Lin Ge walked towards the entrance of the banquet hall.

As he passed by the main table, he noticed Underwood standing surrounded by several people, still talking.

Underwood's gaze swept across the crowd, and for a moment his eyes met Ringo's.

He didn't give any indication that he saw you, not even a polite smile.

Then Underwood looked away and continued talking to the people around him.

Lin Ge thought that his face would definitely not remain in the other person's mind, so he continued walking towards the door.

But as he reached the entrance of the banquet hall, a voice called out to him from behind.

"Mr. Chen."

A middle-aged man wearing a dark blue suit and gold-rimmed glasses walked briskly toward him.

The man was holding a business card.

"Mr. Hollis Underwood asked me to give this to you."

Lin Ge accepted the business card.

The business card was printed on thick, off-white paper with dark gray lettering:

Hollis Underwood, Board Member, Tulsa World

Address, telephone number, and fax number.

Like Peterson's business card, it has a simple and elegant style.

On the back of the business card, a line of words was handwritten in pen:

"I've scheduled an appointment for you at my office between 3 and 4 pm on the 20th of next month. We'll talk about your prison—HA."

Lin Ge raised his head.

The man who handed out the business card had already turned and left.

He turned the business card over and looked at the handwritten words.

The handwriting is a smooth italic style, with natural and flowing connections between letters, and the pressure applied to the pen is even, indicating that the person frequently uses a fountain pen.

If it wasn't written by a secretary, then Underwood wrote it himself.

He put the business card into his suit pocket, placing it with four other cards, his face beaming with barely suppressed joy.

Although I don't know how I caught their attention, this is a great opportunity to get in touch with high-level business executives!

Stepping out of the brass doors of the Mayo Hotel, the September night breeze of Tulsa greets you.

The sky had completely darkened, the clouds obscured the stars, leaving only the distant red warning lights flashing on and off.

Lin Ge walked towards the parking lot.

His pickup truck stood alone among a row of Lincolns, Cadillacs, and Mercedes, like a mangled old horse standing in a stable of thoroughbreds.

He opened the car door and got in.

The radio turned on automatically, playing a nighttime country music program.

The pickup truck emitted a deep roar as it drove out of the parking lot and merged into the sparse traffic of Tulsa at night.

In the rearview mirror, the lights of the Mayo Hotel grew farther and farther away.

The building glowed warmly in the night; it was a dream of prosperity, dreamt repeatedly by some, yet forgotten by others.

The pickup truck's taillights faded into the Tulsa night and disappeared around the next street corner.

However, there was one thing that Lingo failed to notice.

On the fourth floor of the Mayo Hotel, behind a frosted glass window, Eleanor Chen stood by the window, watching the pickup truck drive away.

She hadn't planned to come to the Chamber of Commerce today.

Lawyers are not in the core circle of the chamber of commerce unless their clients are.

Eleanor doesn't have such clients yet, but she has eyes and ears.

This afternoon, her friend who works in the county government archives called her.

The caller said that the office of Leonard Hart, chairman of the McLean County Purchasing Committee, received an anonymous whistleblower letter today.

The whistleblower letter contained several contracts between Bellers Building Materials Company and the county government, and included copies of some invoices.

Anonymous.

Of course, it's anonymous.

In Tulsa, no one would report Vernon Baylors using their real name.

Although Eleanor didn't know who sent the whistleblower letter, she knew that Ringo Chen also had a piece of evidence.

She knew that Ling Ge would be at the Chamber of Commerce all afternoon and evening, and followed him out of curiosity.

Eleanor took a sip of her coffee; the coffee in the cup had gone cold.

She placed the cup on the windowsill, walked back to her desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.

"Hello, it's me."

Her voice was very low.

"You said last time that you have an acquaintance at the Tulsa World."

"Could you please inquire about Mr. Underwood's recent situation?"

"I didn't want to investigate him, it's my client's request... Hmm? I see..."