Smithson immediately looked at Chen Mo.
"You heard them, didn't you? They admitted they're criminals! These black market dealers, these smugglers, these alien weapons traffickers-they're the ones who should be arrested!"
Chen Mo nodded.
"They will be."
Smithson froze.
Chen Mo looked down at him.
"But you're not getting away either."
He hauled Smithson off the floor and pressed him against the dining table, letting him see the voice recorder and documents on it.
Smithson went deathly pale at the sight of them.
A voice recorder, several printed meeting summaries, and a preliminary fund budget.
A breakdown of the disaster relief funding for the Brooklyn warehouse district explosion.
Listed below were City Hall meeting summaries, a preliminary fund management plan, a plan for absorbing donations from Stark Industries, tiered compensation standards for the victims, and an entry for Jonathan Kyle.
Chen Mo rapped his knuckles on the tabletop.
"I'm not in the habit of taking credit for other people's work. I don't get to say I got my hands on this stuff. Committed too many sins, huh? Even God couldn't stand it anymore. When we arrived, the recorder and these documents were sitting on your living room table."
Smithson looked at Reed.
Reed was silent.
Susan was silent too, with a hint of bewilderment in her silence.
But their presence here tonight had already given him an answer.
Chen Mo opened the documents.
"Look at this. Jonathan Kyle, twenty years old. Subcontracted set builder. Interim casualty assistance: five thousand dollars."
He turned to the next page.
"Fund management fees: starting at three million."
Another page.
"Media relations budget: seven hundred and fifty thousand."
Another page.
"Public safety upgrade reserve: twenty million."
Chen Mo pressed the documents down beside Smithson's face.
"You motherfucker. You give the dead five thousand and yourselves