I bought a prison in the United States.

The newly arrived prisoners still bore the weariness of a long journey, and were otherwise indifferent, with only a few taking in their surroundings.

Lin Ge glanced at them briefly, his brows furrowing slightly. Could it be another bunch of misfits?

Hopefully, we can find some technical personnel who can be useful to the prison.

Sanders pulled a worn leather folder from under his seat and turned to a page:

"This is the roster, 18 people, 12 new sentences, 6 transferred to prison, all the details are on it."

Lin Ge took the folder.

The first page is a printed list, with varying shades of typewriter ink on the paper, indicating that the document has been circulated among different departments multiple times.

Name, age, skin color, crime, sentence, security level.

He quickly glanced at the list: 12 newly convicted prisoners on a variety of charges.

Burglary, armed robbery, counterfeit checks, drug trafficking, intentional assault...

The sentences range from two to twenty-two years.

Of the six prisoners transferred, two came from Oklahoma City and one from Tulsa County Jail.

The other three came from Lawton Correctional Center, hundreds of miles away, a federal-level medium-sized prison that houses only serious offenders.

"The security levels are both B and C."

Sanders lit a cigarette and took a satisfying drag:

"Class A offenders won't be sent to the county prison, and you won't accept Class D probationers either."

"If this group of people follows the standards, they should be able to integrate directly into your existing management system."

As he spoke, smoke billowed from his nostrils, forming two thin, grayish-white plumes in the morning light.

Sanders has worked for the state corrections department for over a decade, rising from a prison guard to a team leader in the transfer department.

Many county prisons are often overwhelmed when receiving new prisoners, so he usually says a few extra words during the handover of new prisoners as a way of looking out for each other.

But the prison in front of him felt different from other places.

He saw piles of freshly unloaded wooden crates next to the parking lot, and heard rhythmic clanging sounds of machines coming from the direction of the factory.

The fact that it beeps every few seconds indicates that someone is operating it, and operating it quite skillfully.

The weeds on both sides of the prison gate had been cleared clean, and although the cement floor was still old, the stains on it were clearly from being recently washed with a high-pressure water gun.

"You guys keep this place pretty clean. Last month I sent a group of people to Selva County, and the grass in the prison parking lot was knee-high."

Sanders flicked the ash from his cigarette, put it in his mouth, and gestured with his free hand:

"The Selva County jail is also privately run. That guy is the stingiest person I've ever met. He doesn't even have a budget for mowing the lawn, but he has money to smoke $200 cigarettes."

"By comparison, your place looks more like a factory that's actually in operation."

Ringo smiled and said:

"You guessed right, this is indeed an operational factory, except the workers are wearing prison uniforms."

"But apart from the clothes, aren't everything else the same? Do people outside work harder than those in prison?"

Sanders then took a serious look at the Chinese man in front of him.

There aren't many Chinese people in Tulsa, and even fewer who work in the prison system.

He knew that the McLean County Correctional Center had recently changed owners, but before seeing Ringo, he imagined the new owner to be an old man with gray hair and a look of utter desperation in his eyes.

The Asian man in front of him was somewhat unexpected.

His shirt was cheap but clean, his eyes were unwavering, and his manner of speaking was completely different from the county jailers he had met.

Sanders stubbed out his cigarette, took a small metal box from his waist pouch, and put the cigarette butts inside.

Lin Ge noticed this action. Someone who wouldn't even carelessly throw away a cigarette butt shouldn't be too careless in his work.

"Officer Sanders, come in and have a coffee before you go. You must be tired after driving for so long."

"Mrs. Martha just cooked it this morning, I think it should taste better than the instant coffee you get at the gas station on the way."

Sanders hesitated for a moment.

According to regulations, the escorting officers should return immediately after the handover is completed.

But he had worked at the state corrections office for over a decade, and some of the regulations weren't so rigid.

"Ten minutes then."

The prison canteen hadn't opened for dinner yet at this time.

Several long tables were empty, with plastic chairs neatly upside down on them, waiting for the prisoners to line up and flip them over before dinner.

Mrs. Martha brought out two cups of coffee from the kitchen.

Her apron was covered in fresh flour, and a piece of onion skin was stuck to her wrist, clearly indicating that she was preparing ingredients for dinner.

Sanders took the coffee cup and rubbed it between his rough fingers.

The coffee in the cafeteria is served in ceramic cups, not the styrofoam cups commonly used in offices.

He looked down at the cup; a line of faded words was printed on the cup:

"McLean County Correctional Center, established in 1963."

"This cup is a rare find."

Sanders said it offhand.

"He's been here longer than anyone else here, except for Foster."

Ringo sat down opposite Sanders, holding a cup in his hand.

Who are you talking about?

"He's an old prisoner who's been here for nineteen years. If there are any prisoners over forty-seven years old transferred from your state corrections department, he might recognize them."

Sanders raised an eyebrow but didn't press the matter.

In the prison system, a prisoner's ability to stay in one place for nineteen years is also a symbol of status.

"Mr. Chen."

Sanders took a sip of coffee, his eyes widening slightly; it was indeed good coffee.

"Let me be frank, how long have you been in charge of this prison?"

"Less than a month."

"I've seen your files. Before the former warden resigned, this prison was rated D in the correctional department's internal assessment."

"Aging facilities, insufficient staff, high inmate complaint rate, substandard medical conditions... these comments are still written in the files."

He put the cup down and placed his fingers interlaced on his stomach.

"But after looking around today, this place is completely different from what's written in the files."

"The parking lot was clean, people were working in the factory, and the prison guards looked energetic."

"Honestly, the fact that a private prison in a county town could achieve this level of success in just one month shows that you have some tricks up your sleeve."

"Officer Sanders, he's only doing this to survive."

Lingo smiled calmly:

"Of course, I'm past that stage now. It's the newly arrived prisoners who are considering this issue."

Sanders let out a snort:

"Yes, just like that highway that hasn't been repaired in five years, since the county council members don't live by that road themselves."

"Their houses are all in the East Side, where the roads are paved smoother than the interstate highways."

"And those people who are jostled on those broken roads in the West District have no votes, no money, and their complaints don't even reach the county council meeting table."