I bought a prison in the United States.

"To establish a closer cooperative relationship with county-level correctional institutions."

Lingo's mind was completely focused on the politician's words.

In bureaucratic terms, this statement means exactly what the state government intends to do: divert some prisoners to county jails to reduce the pressure on state jails.

For McLean County Correctional Center, this means a potential source of offenders.

But there is one condition.

The prerequisite for diversion is that the county prison can prove that it is "safe, effective, and humane".

In other words, it must pass the review of the state corrections bureau.

Lin Ge recalled his reform proposal.

Eleanor is helping him turn it into legally binding prison regulations.

The details of the points system, factory management regulations, transparency in the procurement process, and plans to improve medical conditions.

Putting all these things together, you get a document to prove to the state corrections department that "we can do it."

He needs to speed things up.

On October 12, Reagan will sign the Comprehensive Crime Control Act, which includes the core Sentencing Reform Act.

The state corrections department will definitely take some action at that time.

"Ms. Betty, what's the date today?"

"September 29th, Friday, what's wrong?"

"It's nothing."

He walked out of the Bluebird Hotel.

The puddles that accumulated last night are still on the concrete surface of the parking lot.

But the sky was a bit brighter than yesterday, and a thin gap opened in the clouds, revealing a small patch of light blue sky.

Sunlight filtered through the cracks, shining on the puddle and reflecting a small patch of dazzling light.

The weather changes faster than people's moods.

Lingor opened the car door and got into the driver's seat.

The radio is playing the weather forecast:

"Today will be cloudy turning sunny, with temperatures ranging from 65 to 75 degrees Fahrenheit and northeasterly winds of 5 to 10 miles per hour."

He drove his car out of the parking lot and headed toward McLean County Correctional Center.

Tulsa looks different today than yesterday; the sky is bluer and the air is fresher.

Although the tall chimneys next to us were still spewing thick smoke, and cars on the street were still emitting exhaust fumes.

Lin Ge knew that his mindset had changed.

At this time yesterday, he only had an invitation and thirty-seven dollars in change in his pocket.

Today he had five business cards in his pocket, an invitation from the chairman of the chamber of commerce, and a trial order to be delivered today.

Capitalism changes a person, but changes in their bank account are only the second step; the first step is to change the way they see the world.

When you only have thirty-seven dollars in your pocket, when you look at a city, all you see are things you can't afford.

When you have five business cards of potential clients in your pocket, when you look at a city, you see five gateways to business opportunities.

The city itself hasn't changed; what has changed is your position within the city's network.

The iron gates of the McLean County Correctional Center slid open slowly in front of him.

Today, the officer on duty who opened the gate was Jackson, the young black prison guard who shared the same name as the baseball star but had no connection to him.

He was wearing a crisp uniform, with the collar buttoned up meticulously.

Upon seeing Lingo's car, he stood up straight and gave a standard salute.

Lin Ge parked the car and got out.

On the concrete surface of the parking lot, Craig was squatting next to the stamping machine, using a vernier caliper to measure the dimensions of the stamped parts.

Randy squatted down next to him, holding a notebook in his hand, writing something down in it.

Neither of them had any emotional labels above their heads; they were simply in a state of "focus."

"How is it?"

Lin Ge walked over.

Craig looked up, a suppressed excitement in his eyes.

"All one thousand pieces are finished; the last batch has just come off the production line."

"The pass rate... guess what?"

"70%?"

Craig shook his head.

"80%?"

Craig reveals the answer:

"It's 92%, less than 90 pieces of waste, most of which were made in the last two days."

"Starting yesterday afternoon, Randy has been able to operate the stamping machine independently."

"The batch he produced had a 95% pass rate."

Randy stood to the side, still holding the notebook in his hand, his expression like that of a primary school student being praised by the teacher in class.

I wanted to laugh but didn't dare, afraid of appearing too smug.

The emotion label above his head was "pride," so bright it was almost glowing.

This was the most positive emotional label Ringo had ever seen in this prison.

He walked over and picked up the notebook from Randy's hand.

The notebook was filled with dense notes written in ballpoint pen about the quantity, number of qualified parts, number of defective parts, and a brief analysis of the reasons for each batch of stamped parts.

Every line is written clearly.

Although some words were misspelled, every number was correct.

A petty thief who hadn't even graduated from middle school learned to operate a stamping machine and, in less than a week, how to record and analyze problems using quality control methods.

Ringo returned the notebook to Randy.

"Randy, how were your grades in school?"

Randy's expression froze for a moment.

"Not good. I failed both reading and math. My teacher said I have trouble concentrating."

"She's wrong."

Lin Ge said with a serious expression:

"You're not lacking focus, you're just not interested in what she's teaching."

"This isn't your problem, it's her problem, and to put it more bluntly, it's a problem with the education system."

Randy stood there, stunned, not knowing what to say.

In his nineteen years of life, no one ever told him that this was not his problem, but his problem.

All the teachers, foster parents, social workers, judges, and prison guards were telling him that his failure was his own fault.

He is not hardworking enough, not smart enough, and not obedient enough.

He listened to these words so many times that he began to believe them himself.

Craig remained silent, but the emotional label above his head changed from "focused" to "approved".

Ringo turned to Craig.

"Has it been packed?"

"It's packed. Ten wooden crates, one hundred items per crate, wrapped in oil paper and labeled. Ready to be loaded onto the truck at any time."

"Very good, I'll deliver the goods to Mr. Danforth at ten o'clock. You'll come with me."

"I?!"

Craig's eyes widened slightly, wondering if he had misheard.

"As the technical lead, you can answer any questions customers may have about product quality on the spot."

"This is normal business procedure."

What Ringo didn't say was that having a prisoner deliver goods to a customer on behalf of the prison was almost unheard of in the American prison system in 1984.

Prisoners should be locked up, how can they be taken out?

But Ringo needs Craig present; besides some technical issues, he also wants Mr. Danforth to see:

The workforce in this prison isn't a group of prisoners forced into labor, but a production team with skilled workers and a clear division of responsibilities!

More importantly, he wanted Craig to see it too.

The stamped parts he made weren't just for his own amusement while he was locked up in prison; they were actually shipped to customer factories and installed in General Motors' suspension systems.

It allowed someone who once drew fighter jet blueprints at Lockheed to rediscover the meaning of their work.

The cruelest aspect of capitalism is the exploitation of labor.

Conversely, the greatest strength of capitalism is not profit maximization.

Instead, it allows workers to find dignity in their labor, and then willingly give more labor!