I am a necromancer, and I absolutely love America.

Chapter 161 A Born Orator (10K-word long chapter, please vote and subscribe)

Han Qing stood up, holding onto the chair, her legs still trembling, unable to stand steadily.

She took a step forward, her knees buckled, and she almost knelt down.

Richard reached out and supported her arm.

She was so light and airy, almost weightless, you could feel her bones through her sweater.

"You need to eat more meat." Richard helped her up and then let go. "You're too light."

Han Qing was stunned for a moment, then pouted and said in a tearful voice, "You're talking about me again!"

The more she thought about it, the more aggrieved she felt, and tears welled up in her eyes again.

Richard could only forcefully suppress his laughter: "OK, I'll shut up."

Han Qing sat on the curb, hugging her knees and crying. The more she thought about what had happened today, the more frightened she became. It took her a while to stop crying, and her shoulders were still trembling, like a kitten caught in the rain.

In less than five minutes, three police cars rushed into the alley like three black lightning bolts.

The car quickly pulled over to the side of the road, and the doors opened simultaneously. Six policemen in bulletproof vests jumped out, some carrying shotguns and others with their sidearms at their waists.

The lead sheriff saw Richard and quickly walked over.

Richard pulled the CEA card out of his pocket and handed it over: "I'm related to a police officer. My friend was kidnapped, and I rescued him while they were on drugs."

The sheriff took the CEA card, glanced at it, and his expression immediately changed.

The CEA card also features Isabella's signature and police badge number on the back.

Isabella's name is like a pass-through in the entire NYPD system.

He returned the card to Richard, his tone respectful: "Sir! We will definitely handle this matter properly! We will absolutely ensure that you and your friend will not have any further trouble!"

"Go in!" He waved his hand, and six policemen carrying batons and shotguns rushed into the building.

Then came a cacophony of howls and screams that seemed to come from within: muffled thuds, screams, pleas for mercy, and then even more solid muffled thuds.

Someone cried and shouted, "Stop hitting me!" "I can't breathe!" Then there was another muffled thud, and the crying stopped abruptly.

Han Qing listened to those sounds, her mouth slightly open and her eyes wide open.

She watched as the police dragged one bruised and battered thug after another out of the building. They were disheveled, most of them unsteady on their feet, and had to be carried out.

Those people who were so arrogant just a moment ago are now in a worse situation than her.

After handcuffing everyone and stuffing them into the police car, the sheriff walked over to Richard, glanced at Han Qing, and whispered, "Don't worry, no one will approach that blood collection point again. I'll report to Ms. Isabella."

Richard nodded: "Thank you for your hard work."

The sheriff turned and left, and the two police cars drove away with their lights flashing.

Several more police cars arrived shortly afterward, and yellow police tape was put up at the scene, with police officers going in and out.

If you offend Isabella's friends, this case won't end so easily; it must be made airtight.

Han Qing sat there, looking at Richard, then at the groups of police officers, his mind filled with countless questions.

She was both nervous and confused, and after a long while, she finally asked, "Who exactly are you?"

Richard chuckled: "Richard, your shop assistant is an international student. Have you forgotten?"

Han Qing isn't stupid.

Which international student can summon three police cars in five minutes with a single phone call?

Which international student can make the NYPD sheriff bow and scrape?

Even Christina herself wouldn't be able to do that, would she?

Han Qing recalled Christina's words, "cooperate with all of Richard's requests." At the time, she thought it was just helping her mentor mentor a rich second-generation junior, but now she realized that those words didn't mean that at all.

"Does your family have a high-ranking police officer?" Han Qing asked cautiously.

"no."

"Then how come you were able to summon a whole group of police officers with just one phone call?"

Richard thought for a moment: "Perhaps...they are more benevolent."

"Good my foot!" Han Qing opened his mouth, then closed it again.

She had lived in New Jersey and New York for several years, so how could she not know what kind of people the police were here?

Han Qing stared at Richard for a long time, a strange feeling churning within him.

Fear, relief, helplessness, and a sense of security that is absurd to the extreme.

Then, she started having a headache again. What if Richard wanted to take her home?

How can I refuse?

How could I dare to refuse?

Just then, a police car pulled up beside Richard. The back door opened, and a policeman poked his head out: "Sir, would you like a ride home with your friend?"

Han Qing felt as if she had been granted a pardon. She glanced cautiously at Richard, then at the police car, and was just wondering how to refuse Richard when she got into the police car.

Richard calmly said, "Could you please take her home?"

The police officer nodded: "Okay."

After Richard finished speaking, he turned and walked towards his car.

No, this isn't what I expected! Han Qing was stunned: "—Richard, aren't you going to see me off?"

"Why would I take you?" Richard glanced back at her, puzzled. "You're not in danger now, and wouldn't it be safer for the police to take you back? It's so far, it'll be tiring to take you back."

88. If you want to thank me, make me more meat buns; your meat buns are delicious.

He waved his hand, opened the Porsche door, got in, and started the engine.

The car lights flashed briefly, then it turned out of the alley and disappeared into the night.

Han Qing stood by the roadside, watching the taillights of the Porsche get further and further away, completely dumbfounded.

I was dumped on the side of the road?

She stood there, the night wind blowing, making her collar flip up. It was a little cold, and her nose, still red from crying, twitched again.

The police officer called out again from behind, "Madam, please get in the car."

Han Qing turned her head, looked at the police car, then at the direction where Richard had disappeared, took a deep sniff, and bent down to sit in the back seat.

The police car started moving, and the streetlights outside flashed by one by one. Looking at her blurry reflection in the window, only one thought occupied her mind: "What on earth does he want?"

Han Qing leaned back in her seat, feeling her mind was a jumbled mess.

Streetlights flashed past the car window one by one.

Now, she realizes that all her previous judgments were wrong.

She had always thought she was resisting a relationship that she could be dumped at any time, but now she realizes that the relationship may not have existed at all, and Richard never had that intention in the first place.

While she breathed a sigh of relief, she also felt a strange sense of loss.

"Forget it, I won't have much to do with those rich kids in the future anyway—" Han Qing closed his eyes, then opened them again, and finally said thankfully, "At least I didn't die today, and I wasn't gang-raped."

Then she started to feel the pinch.

Glasses: $100; phone screen: $150!

Ah!

It's all my money!

It's late at night in America, but it's still daytime on the other side of the ocean.

Li Weihong was home alone, eating noodles and opening an app while his wife took Xiao Shenyan to the amusement park.

He has been very worried ever since he found out that his son had found a so-called saintly white girlfriend in the United States.

He asked a young technician at the company to help him download X, install scientific software, and follow Debbie's account.

Her account has hundreds of thousands of followers, and each video has a large number of comments, with heated arguments every day.

Li Weihong doesn't understand English very well, and he doesn't know what those netizens are arguing about.

However, Li Weihong probably understood that his son's girlfriend was an internet celebrity.

Internet celebrity... Li Weihong has a very bad impression of this profession.

Dancing, white, internet celebrity.

Li Weihong's head ached whenever he thought of those three labels.

Debbie posted a new video today, sharing the Giants' promotional video "From Zero to Three Weeks" to her account.

Li Weihong clicked on the video, and Debbie, dressed in a cheerleader outfit, showed off her figure perfectly.

Yes, a big butt means good fertility.

"They're wearing way too little! It's a bit inappropriate..." Li Weihong frowned.

The video begins with a series of failures, which Li Weihong finds very distressing.

This is my own daughter-in-law!

It's so heartbreaking to see someone fall like that!

In the final segment, Debbie took a running start, jumped, soared into the air, and spun, her movements as fluid as a sprite being tossed into the air.

Holy crap! Li Weihong watched in disbelief as she did three somersaults in the air before landing motionless.

Li Weihong's chopsticks stopped on the rim of the bowl, and he stared at it for several seconds before swallowing the noodles.

What the hell!

So tall!

He watched the replay again and still found it frightening.

If you were to flip three times from that height, you could break your neck if you fell.

Li Weihong was horrified.

However, he noticed Debbie's condition in the video; her muscles were toned, her movements were precise, and her knees were bent very steadily when she landed.

This kind of strength and skill cannot be achieved through posing or filters; it requires daily practice.

Li Weihong has an old friend whose daughter is a dancer. He doesn't know much about dance, but he can tell that the child is far inferior to Debbie.

At least now we can be sure that Debbie is a legitimate dancer or athlete, which is much better than being a female internet celebrity.

He put down his phone, leaned back in his chair, and sighed.

Richard, that kid, has been drifting further and further away from me ever since he went to America.

However, there was nothing Li Weihong could do; given his family's situation, he didn't have any good solutions.

Over the past six months, he has come to understand his son less and less.

Getting into Princeton, being accepted as a student by a top professor, and just getting a perfect score on the SAT—these are all good things.

But who exactly is this girl?

Li Weihong searched online and found that Debbie's most famous nickname was "Saint".

This term sounds a bit like "XIE" (a derogatory term for cults) at Tokyo University.

The information online is mixed. Some people say she is a real saint, some say she is a fraud, some say her dancing is blasphemous, and some say she is the incarnation of God.

The news spread back and forth between Dongda University and the United States, becoming so distorted that Li Weihong couldn't figure out Debbie's true identity even after a long time.

He only knew one thing: his son's girlfriend was a white woman, a dancer, and a pretty good one; she was an internet celebrity.

He thought of the children of his friends.

After studying abroad, some developed numerous health problems and couldn't return home; some were cheated on by their partners; some got pregnant and were then dumped, returning home to give birth to a black child...

Li Weihong was very worried.

He felt guilty and had no right to interfere in his son's life, but he still wanted to see for himself.

"I need to go to the United States to see what kind of person this girl is and to help my son choose her," Li Weihong muttered to himself.

If she's a good girl, he'll be at ease.

If not, he wouldn't know how to persuade his son to find a new girlfriend.

Or, how about secretly giving them some more money?

Try to trick him into choosing another one.

At least get a girl from Tokyo University, right?

There should be quite a few female international students at the University of Tokyo in the US. I could try to find a reliable one for my son.

Li Weihong typed on his phone: "Richard, I'll come to the US to see you during the Spring Festival..."

""

I wrote half of it and then deleted it all.

He didn't know how to tell Richard to wait a few more days.

Li Weihong opened the ticket booking app and flipped through the dates.

I've heard that housing prices in New York are not cheap. I'm going to go there to see if I should buy a house for my son, or at least make a down payment.

Now that I have a girlfriend, I need a place to stay.

It doesn't need to be too big, a normal-sized building will do.

Li Weihong pondered for a while and then clicked on a contact.

That was an old classmate of his; his son worked as a real estate agent in New York.

Li Weihong sent a message: "Old Zhang, is your son familiar with things in New York? I'll go there for the Spring Festival to help me look at houses."

Richard sat in his study at the Baytop Manor when a fly flew in through a crack in the window and landed on the back of his hand.

Memories of flies flooded my mind, like a video shot from a fly's perspective.

Richard quickly plays the memory.

Antonio's men drove two beat-up pickup trucks and parked them in front of an abandoned auto repair shop on the edge of Queens.

The large iron gate was locked, and the letters BG were scratched out on the rusty lock with a sharp tool.

"This is it!" Antonio instructed his men to pry it open.

Then, Antonio's men pried open a loose floorboard in the corner, revealing a shallow pit containing four long, rectangular metal boxes.

There was no black jacket, no meeting, no conversation.

Throughout the entire process, only Antonio's people came in, moved goods, and left.

The man in the black jacket didn't even show up.

The weapons were left there beforehand for Antonio's men to retrieve.

Richard frowned slightly after reading this memory.

The man in the black jacket was very cautious.

This transaction method completely cuts off the traceability path; the goods are placed in advance, and the person never appears throughout the entire process.

If the next trade involves a different location, Richard will be completely unable to track it.

.

Even if some traces were left at the scene, that would only prove that "someone left a batch of weapons here," and would not directly point to the black jacket.

Moreover, the evidence was useless to Richard; he wanted to find the black jacket, not solve the case.

Adhering to the principle of making the most of resources, Richard did not waste this intelligence. He once again used the red encrypted phone "Soul Guardian" on Isabella's desk and sent a short message: "Freedom Transport 3. 178 Boulevard, Queens, abandoned auto repair shop."

There should still be some things left at the scene: fingerprints, shoe prints, labels on boxes, and shipping marks. If we leave these to professionals to examine, they should be able to piece together some information.

Canicerose Meat Processing Plant.

The wind was biting cold.

Isabella got out of the car and stood at the warehouse entrance, the cold wind carrying the smell of blood seeping into her collar.

O'Connor was investigating with the sheriff in charge of the scene when he saw Isabella arrive. He immediately rushed over and said, "Isabella."

"How is the situation?" Isabella asked as she walked inside.

O'Connor reported: "The boss's name is Barlow. He's been arrested, but he's vehemently denying anything. He keeps saying he was just renting the space to a group of friends and didn't know what they were doing."

Isabella walked into the cold storage room and stood in front of the wall spray-painted with the BG Gang's logo: "He said he didn't know? Then what about this logo?"

O'Connor scoffed, "He said he didn't know who sprayed it."

Isabella turned around: "Where's the whistleblower?"

"A man from Dongdarun worked at the slaughterhouse for six months." The sheriff quickly flipped through the records: "He complained that the wages were too low and reported the boss to the labor bureau before leaving, saying the boss was using illegal immigrants. When the labor bureau came to investigate, they found these things behind the cold storage room."

"What exactly was discovered?"

The sheriff crouched down and pointed to the evidence markers on the ground: "There was a backpack hidden in the hidden compartment behind the cold storage room. Inside were several rolls of cash, a handgun, a pair of disposable gloves, and a half-finished shipping manifest with a fake signature."

"It has been compared with known samples, and the handwriting expert's results show..." O'Connor continued, "90% likely to be Antonio's handwriting."

Cracking down on the BG gang is politically correct for the NYPD, and even with a new director, Isabella must resolutely carry it out.

Isabella nodded. "Are you still interrogating Barlow?"

The sheriff scoffed. "He's still repeating 'I don't know.'"

"Then let him keep repeating it," Isabella instructed. "Investigate that Dongdarun guy and see if he has any other leads."

O'Connor nodded. "I understand."

Isabella walked out of the slaughterhouse, the cold wind stinging her face. She got into the car and closed the door: "Back to the office."

Back at the NYPD's temporary headquarters, Isabella took off her coat and hung it on the back of her chair. She sat down at her desk and opened the list of evidence she had just compiled.

A set of photos of spray-painted markings, a copy of a shipping document, and two fingerprint samples.

The BG gang is down to just a few scoundrels, hiding everywhere, making it really difficult to catch them.

Damn city council!

This is forbidden, that is forbidden. If we installed more cameras on the streets, there wouldn't be so much trouble!

As Isabella was looking through the documents, the red encrypted satellite phone on the table rang.

Just like last time, there was only a low, short beep, and the call indicator light did not illuminate.

Isabella paused for a moment, and her breathing became rapid.

She immediately picked up the receiver and put it to her ear: "This is Isabella."

There was no dial tone, no static, and no sound from the line.

There was only one sentence on the other end, the voice was distorted, making it impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman and their age: "Freedom Transport 3. 178 Boulevard, Queens, abandoned auto repair shop."

Isabella immediately asked, "Who are you? What do you want me to do? Come to my house tonight and we can talk."

There was no sound from the microphone; it went dead.

Isabella slammed down the phone, annoyed. "Ugh! So boring, always so secretive."

Secretary Adela came to deliver documents, stood at the door and saw this scene, but said nothing.

The bureau chief has been under a lot of pressure lately, and he keeps talking to himself on the phone.

Isabella suddenly stood up, picked up her coat, and said, "Adela, call two people to come with me."

Adela hesitated for a moment: "Chief, now?"

"Now," Isabella said, opening the office door. "Go to 178 Boulevard."

Half an hour later, Isabella stood at the entrance of the abandoned auto repair shop at 178 Boulevard.

The roller shutter door was half open, and the tin roof was rusty, creaking in the wind.

She pushed open the roller shutter door and went inside; the floor was covered with a layer of dust.

The sheriff followed behind, shining a flashlight, the beam sweeping back and forth across the ground.

The sheriff crouched down and pointed to the corner of the wall: "There are signs of moving here. The sharp edges of the boxes made it look like it was done recently."

Isabella walked over and squatted down to look.

There were several parallel indentations and four or five long, evenly spaced strips on the dust.

The sheriff looked at the tiles in the corner: "This side has been pried open."

When the flashlight shone on it, there were indeed pry marks on the edge of a floor tile, and its condition was similar to that of a transported tile.

"Pull up the bricks," Isabella said.

Two officers used crowbars to pry up the paving stones, revealing loose soil underneath and a shallow pit, just the right size to fit several standard ammunition boxes.

But it's empty now.

Isabella stood up and walked around the auto repair shop twice.

Her gaze fell on the door lock.

Two words, "BG," were scratched onto the rusty lock face with a sharp tool.

"Take a picture," Isabella said, pointing.

The police officer immediately took a picture.

Isabella stared at the mark, lost in thought.

This is the second time I've seen the BG gang's mark today; once at the slaughterhouse warehouse, and once here.

He found the slaughterhouse warehouse and traces of the BG gang.

Then the Lightning Thorns organization gave her this address via a red satellite encrypted phone call.

Both locations are related to the BG gang.

Since they want me to investigate the arms deal behind Roderick, it means the BG gang is involved in the arms deal.

Once I checked the direction, they handed me the second line.

Just like in an exam, I answer a question correctly, and the examiner hands out a new paper.

They kept looking at me!

Isabella stared at the BG logo on the lock, a slow smile creeping onto her lips.

For every little thing I find out, they give me some information.

If I find out the next step, will they give me more?

The feeling of deciphering the mystery gave Isabella a strange sense of excitement.

As long as Lightning Thorns is still watching me, I have a chance to infiltrate that mysterious organization!

Isabella stepped out of the auto repair shop, a cold wind hitting her face.

She stood nonchalantly in the doorway, pulling out her phone: "O'Connor, check Liberty Transport 3. Sounds like a ship. Be careful not to get spotted."

Princeton campus.

The afternoon sun was very warm, and the school was full of students coming and going.

Richard had just come out of the cell laboratory and delivered a new batch of flesh-and-blood puppet samples to Christina.

He also came to Princeton to complete the final few procedures for early admission.

Last time Edgar led the way, he was able to find the place himself.

Christina had spoken to the principal, and the admissions office staff were very cooperative, so the process went very quickly.

Richard was still a little resentful when he handed the signed documents to the teacher in charge.

Debbie was actually having more fun than me!

That idiot doesn't have to do anything; the Catholics and Lutherans will just send all the paperwork to her.

The Z-list, the cheerleading talent pathway, and the endorsement of the Catholic Special Fund—the entire process was executed flawlessly.

Debbie only needed to stay at home to get accepted to Princeton.

Richard walked out of the administration building.

The McCart Theatre was bustling with noise, and you could faintly hear music even across half the lawn.

There were so many people gathered at the entrance, all of them young people, chatting in twos and threes on the steps, some taking selfies with their phones, and others holding small flags with campaign slogans printed on them.

Richard looked up and saw the words scrolling on the electronic screen above the theater entrance: "New New York, New Future, Marty Hayes Princeton Lecture".

Marty-Hays? Richard stopped in his tracks.

Brian's opponent in the election was a law firm partner who graduated from Harvard.

He remembered Brian mentioning the name, but Brian always spoke of him with the disdain typical of old-school politicians: "That boastful wimp."

But Marty is clearly better at attracting crowds than he is.

Electronic drumbeats filled the theater, with a brisk rhythm and what sounded like someone singing. The audience cheered, just like a warm-up act for a concert.

Richard went inside out of curiosity.

The theater has two floors and can seat at least seven or eight hundred people.

It's full now, and there are still quite a few people standing in the aisle.

The stage was brightly lit, with a huge dark blue projection screen behind it displaying the words "New New York, New Future".

The campaign slogan.

A young singer had just finished performing and was joking with the host on stage, drawing laughter from the students and young professors in the audience.

Richard found an empty seat in the last row and turned to ask the boy next to him wearing a baseball cap, "What's going on here?"

The boy exclaimed excitedly, "Marty Heath, didn't you know? He's coming to Princeton to give a lecture!"

"He's running for Congress in New York, and his district isn't in Princeton." Richard asked疑惑地, "What's he doing here?"

"Dude, haven't you seen his Instagram?" The noise was overwhelming, and the guy shouted excitedly, "He comes to Princeton every two weeks to do open-ended questions, and he's been doing it for two months straight. Half the students at our school are waiting for this! He's way more interesting than those old guys! He's a smart guy!"

Richard did not ask any further questions.

He leaned back in his chair and looked towards the stage.

Clearly, Marty's appetite extends beyond just one congressman.

The atmosphere at the event was completely different from Brian's campaign events.

Brian's events always had an old-fashioned solemnity, with the audience filled with donors in suits and gray-haired community leaders.

The order of speaking is fixed: city hall officials speak first, then community representatives, and finally Brian reads his prepared remarks.

The entire event was like a meticulously rehearsed performance.

Every step proceeded according to the script, without any unexpected events.

And here—

Richard looked around.

Some people were holding up their phones and filming videos.

Some girls sit on their boyfriends' shoulders and shout excitedly.

Some people were loudly discussing the joke the host had just told with their friends next to them.

The air was filled with youthful energy.

This place feels like a concert or a stand-up comedy show.

Everyone felt they were there to watch a performance, not to "listen" to a dry and boring political speech.

The lights dimmed briefly, then came back on.

A man walked onto the stage from the side: "Hi everyone!"

The crowd erupted in cheers: "Marty!"

"Marty!"

Richard looked over.

Marty-Hays was in his early forties, rather thin, about 1.8 meters tall, wearing a simple white shirt, without a tie or a jacket.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing his forearms, and he wore a watch on his wrist. It wasn't a mechanical watch, nor was it a luxury item that symbolized status; it was just an ordinary Apple Watch.

Marty's skin is darker than that of pure white people, showing obvious Indian ancestry, but his facial features also have white characteristics.

He walked with a relaxed gait, more like a business founder giving a TED talk or a stand-up comedian than someone giving a political speech.

Richard recalled Matty's message.

A Harvard graduate, 41 years old, a partner at a well-known law firm, of mixed white and high-caste Indian descent.

His wife's name is Sergei Hayes. She was Marty's classmate at Harvard. She is of mixed race (Black and White), has five children of various races, and has also adopted two.

What a warrior with all his buffs stacked up!

Marty stood in the center of the stage, and the projection screen behind him switched to his slogan: "New New York, New Future".

A burst of cheers and applause erupted from the audience.

Richard carefully observed his surroundings.

The loudest cheers came from the standing students; almost all the young people in the aisle were clapping.

Someone whistled, and someone stood up and took a video with their phone.

The media reporters and professors in the front row were also applauding, though they were more restrained than the students.

The applause lasted for about seven or eight seconds before gradually subsiding.

Marty spoke up.

His voice wasn't loud, and it had a relaxed, friendly feel to it.

"I graduated from Harvard." He paused, smiled, and looked around the room. "I'm here at Princeton today to see what real elites look like."

A burst of laughter erupted from the audience.

Some people were clapping, and some were shouting "Oh!"

The fierce competition among Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and MIT, four top universities, is known throughout the country and has even become a running joke in the United States.

Harvard and Yale steal each other's mascots, MIT hangs a cannon on a Harvard teaching building, and Princeton, while relatively aloof, also mocks Harvard for not even being second best in STEM fields.

In short, the four schools formed a complex hierarchy of contempt, and their relationship was not particularly harmonious.

Richard noticed, however, that with one of Marty's little jokes, the flames of desire in the audience's heads were undergoing a noticeable change; suspicion and scrutiny were fading, and flames of goodwill were rising.

In just a few seconds, Marty reduced the hostility of thousands of strangers towards him to a minimum.

Richard couldn't help but admire him.

One needs desire to manipulate others' emotional state, while Marty-Haith only needs words.

Then Marty got down to business.

He didn't refer to his prepared remarks or the teleprompter; he simply stood in the center of the stage, one hand in his pocket, speaking as if chatting with a friend: "New York is one of the world's largest cities, but do you know how big the wealth gap is in New York? I'll give you a figure: the richest 1% in Manhattan own more wealth than half the residents of the South Bronx combined. This isn't a result of the market; it's a result of policy."

His tone wasn't harsh; instead, it carried a gentle sense of regret, like a doctor announcing that a patient was beyond saving.

"Some politicians have been in New York for 18 years and done nothing but make things worse. They've invented some policies that sound wonderful, like dividing New York into 'good' and 'bad' areas. Do you think that's governance or segregation?"

"We tripled police presence in good areas and halved it in bad areas. Has the security improved? No. Gangs have simply been driven from the good areas to the bad areas, making the people in the bad areas even less safe."

"Brian Anderson served in the House of Representatives for twenty years. What did he bring to New York? A fragmented police department, a good-bad borough policy. And one more thing—an old man being accused of sexual harassment by a former subordinate in court."

A burst of laughter erupted from the audience.

After the laughter subsided, Marty replied in a gentler tone, "I'm not here to attack him. I just think New York deserves to be better."

Applause surged up from below the stage, flooding the entire theater like a tidal wave.

Some people stood up and applauded, while others whistled.

Richard quietly observed Marty.

Marty is indeed a talent; every word he utters precisely hits the audience's expectations, and every pause is just right.

He knows when to make fun of himself, when to be sarcastic, and when to retract his sharp edge.

In contrast, Brian's public speeches always carried an old-fashioned heaviness, as if he were reciting a prepared script, with every word carefully planned in advance.

"Brian's in trouble," Richard thought to himself.

Richard didn't listen any further and turned to leave the theater.

He took out his phone and dialed Brian's number.

It rang twice, and then the other end answered.

Brian's voice came through the receiver, with faint background noise: "Richard."

This form of address implies that someone is nearby.

Richard said, "I just saw Marty's speech at Princeton. To be honest, you're in trouble."

The biggest problem with elections is that you can't elect the most capable rulers; you can only elect the most entertaining orators.

Marty Hayes is a natural orator.

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

Brian moved to a slightly quieter spot and lowered his voice: "I know. He's really good at this, much better than me, in fact, there aren't many people in the entire Donald Party who can talk as much as him."

If it weren't for Marty, Brian wouldn't be under so much pressure today.

Richard asked as they walked, "What's the situation on your end?"

Brian made no secret of his feelings to Richard, his voice sounding exhausted: "I'm in court, this is my fourth appearance. Anna's sex scandal has been dragging me down, and Marty is controlling the media narrative behind the scenes. Right now, all the news about me is about the ongoing sexual harassment scandal. My campaign has practically come to a standstill."

"Marty is a—" Brian paused, his tone reluctant, "Although I hate to say it, Marty is indeed a master at manipulating public opinion."

Richard said directly, "OK, that's your job. I need the Hart Island Act. I know Killian is about to collapse on the city council; he's a useless piece of trash. You've done a great job in the NYPD, and I expect you to perform the same way in the council."

Killian encountered tremendous resistance in the city council.

He caused enormous trouble in his push for the unlimited powers of Preventive Arrest, spearheaded by Brian, which also affected Killian's Hart Island Act.

Brian's breathing quickened. "Okay! I'll resolve Anna's case as soon as possible. Give me some time."

"How quickly is 'as quickly'?"

Brian hesitated.

Politicians have a well-established strategy for dealing with sex scandals, but it always takes time.

"I've discovered that Anna is a drug addict, and I've made all the necessary plans to address this. I need to get all the evidence against her. I'm waiting for O'Connor's investigation results."

Richard said with satisfaction, "Very good, I need you to be faster. I will also give you some necessary help when you need it, but you have to clean up your mess."

The phone hangs up.

Brian stood on the broken steps outside the courthouse, watched his phone screen go dark, and then put it in his pocket.

He knew he had no way out and had to resolve the issue as soon as possible.

A group of reporters surrounded him, their microphones like a row of tentacles reaching out to poke at him.

"Mr. Anderson, what are your expectations for today's hearing?"

"Do you admit to having behaved inappropriately towards Ms. Anna?"

"Will you withdraw from the election because of this?"

Brian did not answer.

With his head down, he was escorted through the crowd by Doug and two security guards, and pushed open the glass doors of the courthouse to go inside.

The glass door closed behind me, shutting out the noise from the outside.

The fourth public hearing was held in the Diding Courtroom of the New York State Court.

Brian sat in the defendant's dock, his hands flat on the table, his expression calm, but his heart filled with anxiety.

Anna's lawyer presented a "late-night text message log" in court, claiming that Brian sent Anna explicit messages at 2 a.m.

.

Brian's lawyer immediately pointed out that the timestamp could be tampered with and demanded digital verification.

The lawyers on both sides exchanged heated arguments for forty minutes, and the result was that the judge asked both sides to submit more written materials, and the next hearing was scheduled for two weeks later.

He's been held back again! Brian clenched his fists.

After the court hearing, reporters once again cornered Brian at the courthouse entrance.

"Mr. Anderson! Your lawyer says the text message records are fake, but Anna's lawyer says you privately lied about this! What's your response?"

"Mr. Anderson! Your previous refusal to respond to any allegations, does that mean you're panicking?"

"What does it mean that your wife didn't attend the hearing today?"

Brian paused for a second, his gaze fixed on the reporter who had asked the question, then said nothing before lowering his head and being escorted into the car by Doug and the security personnel.

As the car door closed, he heard someone still calling out, "Mr. Anderson!"

"Mr. Anderson!"

Doug closed the car door, glanced at him in the rearview mirror, and said nothing.

The car slowly drove out of the courthouse.

That evening, Marty shared a picture of Brian in court on social media, with the caption: "The truth will come out."

The number of likes exceeded 100,000 within half an hour.

Doug handed his phone to Brian: "Marty's PR team's second move."

Brian put on his glasses.

This is a set of photos.

Anna's graduation photo from ten years ago shows her smiling happily, standing on the lawn in her graduation gown.

A photo of Anna and her paralyzed mother in an old but tidy living room.

An old photo of Anna volunteering in the community, distributing food.

.

Finally, the thin Anna sat in the plaintiff's seat, her eyes swollen.

The accompanying text contained the line: "A woman's twenty-odd dollars, burned by students to the witness stand."

The comments section was clearly being manipulated; all the topics were pointing in the same direction:

A woman who was once bright and promising was ruined by a powerful and influential old man.

Brian said casually, "You're a good storyteller."

Doug was somewhat worried: "Boss, this is more effective than evidence. The jury will be more likely to believe her after seeing this than after seeing any text message records."

"Boss, we can do the same thing, like digging up dirt on Anna. We can't let Marty portray Anna as a perfect victim."

"Sure. But that was just a side job, not the main point." Brian interrupted him. "We can't let ourselves get dragged into their rhythm. Marty is good at manipulating the media."

Doug grew impatient: "Then when are we supposed to wait?"

"Wait a little longer," Brian said calmly.

He has seen far too many politicians make choices when faced with sex scandals.

Some people choose to stand their ground, portraying themselves as victims and saying that the accusers are crazy or sent by their rivals.

Some people choose to create an even bigger scandal to divert media attention.

Some people choose to settle things with money.

But none of these options work right now.

Marty's gang was too shrewd; they stepped on the loopholes of the procedure at every step, using all sorts of legal reasons to drag out the case.

And settle it with money?

Brian had sounded out Anna's intentions, and the woman's appetite was greater than he had imagined; her asking price far exceeded what he was willing to pay.

Moreover, his offering of money could become Marty's next target: "Brian is trying to silence you with money."

Brian's future will be even worse than it is now.

Public opinion is increasingly turning against him.

There is a growing number of people discussing the "Anderson sexual harassment case" online, with some even debating "when he will go to jail".

But Brian remained as steady as a rock.

He knew that he couldn't rush things, especially at times like this, just like in a boxing match.

Frequent jabs can score points, but a heavy right hook is needed to defeat the enemy in one go!

Brian was waiting for an opportunity to land a right hook.

Besides, I have my master's help... Brian put on his glasses: "Alright, let's do something meaningful. How's the city council going? Is that coward Killian about to pee his pants?"