Advancing by Retreating
The following morning, the Seattle District Attorney's Office formally filed charges against Lin Feng.
The news came incredibly fast, almost abnormally fast. Usually, the prosecution process for this type of case requires at least several weeks of review and preparation, but this time, from the time the incident occurred to the time of prosecution, it took less than 24 hours. It was as if someone had prepared all the documents in advance, just waiting to press the "send" button.
The charge was "obstructing official business."
The indictment states that during the police investigation into the triple murder at The Metropolitan Grill restaurant, Lin Feng, as a key eyewitness, "failed to actively cooperate with the investigation and is suspected of deliberately delaying and misleading law enforcement officers," seriously hindering the efficiency of police investigations and judicial fairness.
Anyone with even a basic understanding of the law can see that this accusation is extremely far-fetched. The so-called "deliberate delay" and "misleading law enforcement officers" are not supported by any concrete evidence in the indictment, only vague descriptions and speculations. Under normal circumstances, such an indictment would hardly even pass the judge's initial review.
But in the current situation, no one cares whether it's reasonable or not.
Everyone knows this is just an excuse.
The real purpose wasn't to convict Lin Feng at all—it was to lock him up. Once he was in prison, even for just a few days, everything outside would be taken care of. By the time he got out, his assets, his resources, and his connections might no longer belong to him.
The court hearing was scheduled for that afternoon.
The speed was absurd. From the indictment to the court hearing, only a few hours passed. There was no preliminary hearing, no bail hearing, and no time for the defense to prepare. The entire process was like it had been fast-forwarded; all the procedures were carried out at breakneck speed, as if someone was urging this judicial machine to speed up.
When Lin Feng was led into the courtroom by two bailiffs, there were only a few people scattered in the gallery—reporters from several media outlets, a few onlookers, and a middle-aged man in a dark suit with an expressionless face. The man sat in the corner of the last row, neither taking out his notebook nor his phone, but simply sitting there quietly, his gaze fixed on Lin Feng.
Lin Feng didn't look at him, but he knew whose man he was.
The courtroom was small and simply decorated, the kind of lower-level court that handles minor criminal cases. Sitting on the bench was a white man in his fifties, with graying hair, a thin face, and gold-rimmed Glasses; he looked more like a professor who had spent half his life teaching at a university than a judge holding a gavel.
The prosecutor's representative was a young assistant prosecutor in his early thirties, wearing a slightly tight gray suit, his hair slicked back, and with the overconfidence typical of a newcomer. He stood up and read the indictment fluently, his tone impassioned, as if Lin Feng had not committed "obstruction of official business" but some heinous crime.
After reading it, he sat down and looked at Lin Feng with a defiant gaze.
The judge adjusted his Glasses, his gaze sweeping over the top of the frames to Lin Feng in the dock. "Defendant Lin Feng, do you plead guilty to the above charges?"
The courtroom fell silent.
All eyes were focused on the Great East standing in the dock. Reporters had their pens ready, prepared to record his defense, his protests, his anger—the reaction any normal person would have when faced with such unfounded accusations.
Lin Feng did not hire a lawyer.
He stood alone in the dock, his hands hanging at his sides, without handcuffs—defendants are usually not handcuffed in court to demonstrate the dignity and impartiality of the justice system. His expression was as calm as if he were attending an ordinary business meeting; there was no anger, no resentment, and no fear.
When the judge asked him to plead guilty, he answered calmly.
There is only one word.
"Plead guilty."
An uproar erupted in the courtroom.
The reporters in the gallery exchanged glances, their pens hovering in mid-air, unsure of what to write down. The man in the dark suit sitting in the corner frowned slightly, then relaxed, a subtle, enigmatic smile playing on his lips.
The prosecutor was stunned. His prepared arguments—the ones meant to refute Lin Feng's possible defenses and to justify his imprisonment—suddenly became useless. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something to fill this unexpected void, but ultimately said nothing.
The judge paused for two seconds, seemingly to confirm he hadn't misheard. He glanced down at the case file before him, then looked up at Lin Feng, before striking the gavel.
"Defendant Lin Feng is sentenced to ten months imprisonment for obstructing official business, to be served immediately. He will be held in Washington State Penitentiary."
The gavel fell with a dull thud.
The verdict has been reached.
Lin Feng was escorted out of the courtroom, flanked by two bailiffs. As they passed the gallery, his gaze briefly met that of the man in the dark suit. The man nodded slightly, as if confirming something, then stood up and quietly left the courtroom.
No one noticed that when the presiding judge was reading the verdict, his fingers holding the gavel tapped the handle of the gavel three times inadvertently.
One stroke, pause. Two strokes, pause. Three strokes.
That wasn't an unintentional little action.
That's a code.
It was a code that only Lin Feng understood.
The warden of Washington State Penitentiary had become Lin Feng's henchman three months earlier.
All of this was part of a plan.
It was already dark when the prison van drove out of the courthouse.
Seattle's evenings have a unique grey-blue hue, the sky as if shrouded in a thin, leaden veil, with the distant Olympic Mountains forming a blurry silhouette on the horizon. The prison van's windows are fitted with iron bars, and the view through those cold metal strips appears as if fragmented into countless tiny pieces.
Lin Feng sat on the bench in the back of the prison van, his wrists clad in new handcuffs, connected to metal rings fixed to the van floor. Opposite him sat a fully armed bailiff, staring at him expressionlessly, as if he might suddenly attack at any moment.
But Lin Feng didn't move. He just sat quietly, his gaze passing by through the car window covered with iron bars, watching the city scenery rushing past. The familiar streets, shops, and billboards were receding scene by scene, like a film rewinding.
The prison van drove over an overpass, below which lay the shimmering waters of Lake Washington. The setting sun cast its golden rays upon the lake's surface, creating a mosaic of golden scales.
Lin Feng withdrew his gaze and closed his eyes.
Washington State Penitentiary is located in a vacant area far from the city center, surrounded by high walls and barbed wire. At intervals along the walls are guard towers, where armed prison guards stand, overlooking the entire prison area.
The prison van stopped in front of the prison gate. A prison guard walked over, checked the vehicle information and transport documents, and then signaled for the gate to open. The heavy iron gate made a harsh metallic scraping sound as it slowly slid open to the sides, revealing the passageway inside.
The prison van drove into the prison and stopped in front of a drab, gray building.
The car door opened, and Lin Feng was led out. Two prison guards took over him, one on each arm, and led him into the building.
What followed was a series of standardized incarceration procedures—taking a photo, providing fingerprints, filling out forms, undergoing a physical examination, and receiving prison clothes and personal belongings. The entire process took about an hour, and Lin Feng cooperated fully without raising any objections or showing any dissatisfaction.
He changed into an orange prison uniform, the fabric of which was rough and stiff, and smelled of a mixture of disinfectant and laundry detergent. His personal belongings were put into a plastic bag, labeled, and stored in a locker.
He was assigned to a solitary cell.
This cell, located on the second floor of Block C in the prison, is about six square meters in size. The conditions are not good, but they are not terrible either. There is an iron bed fixed to the wall, with a thin mattress and a neatly folded gray blanket on it; against the wall is a metal table, also fixed, with a backless metal stool; in the corner is a stainless steel toilet and a small sink, with a small mirror hanging above it.
There were no windows. Only a fluorescent light on the ceiling emitted a soft, but not bright, glow.
Lin Feng stood in the center of the cell, looking around at the place that would be his home for the next ten months, his expression unchanged. He walked to the bed, sat down, tested the firmness of the mattress, then lay down, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the fluorescent light on the ceiling.
Quiet.
It's very quiet.
The quiet inside a prison is different from the quiet outside. The quiet outside is always accompanied by various background noises—the sounds of distant cars, wind, people, and the hum of electrical appliances. But the quiet inside a prison is a kind of quiet forcibly compressed by high walls and iron gates, dull and oppressive, like a thick quilt covering you, making it hard to breathe.
But Lin Feng didn't seem to care.
He lay there, eyes closed, breathing steadily, as relaxed as if he were in his own bedroom.
About half an hour later, footsteps were heard in the corridor. The footsteps were unhurried and steady, accompanied by the clinking of a bunch of Key.
The footsteps stopped at the cell door.
The shutter of the observation window on the iron gate was pulled open, and a face appeared in the window. It was a white man in his fifties, with a burly build, most of his head bald, the remaining hair cut very short, revealing an old scar on his scalp. His face was square, with high cheekbones, and his gray eyes revealed the sternness and indifference honed by years of managing prisons.
He was wearing the warden's uniform with a silver badge pinned to his chest.
He opened the cell door and walked in. A prison guard followed behind him, holding a notebook, but stood at the door without coming in.
The warden stood in the center of the cell, looking down at Lin Feng lying on the bed, his face bearing a stern, businesslike expression.
"So you're the new Great East?" His voice was rough and hoarse, carrying a deliberate air of intimidation. "I don't care who you were before, once you're here, you have to follow the rules. I have plenty of ways to make disobedient people listen. Understand?"
Lin Feng sat up in bed and nodded. "I understand."
The warden gave him a few more reprimands, the gist of which were the usual prison clichés—don't cause trouble, follow the schedule, obey orders, and so on. Lin Feng complied with everything, his attitude respectful and showing no sign of anything amiss.
After finishing his address, the warden turned to leave. As he reached the door, he suddenly stopped, as if remembering something, and glanced back at Lin Feng.
"Oh, right," he said, his voice still hoarse, but with a subtle change in his eyes, "Your lawyer will be visiting tomorrow. Tell him what you need to say then."
This sentence sounded ordinary, just a routine notification. But Lin Feng understood the meaning behind it—tomorrow, someone would come in under the guise of a "lawyer" to relay the situation outside and the next steps.
After saying this, the warden turned and walked out of the cell. The iron door slammed shut behind him, the lock turning with a crisp click.
The footsteps faded into the distance, and the corridor returned to silence.
Lin Feng lay back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, a faint smile playing on his lips.
It's safe here.
Those people outside are probably raising their glasses in celebration.
The news of Lin Feng's arrest and imprisonment spread throughout Seattle's business and political circles that very night.
The following day, NLG's stock price rebounded by 8%. The market seemed to believe that Lin Feng's arrest was not directly related to the company's own operations—some even optimistically thought that Lin Feng's imprisonment might actually help NLG shake off its previous negative publicity and usher in a recovery.
Those forces hidden in the shadows, however, were celebrating their victory.
In their eyes, Lin Feng was finished. What kind of trouble could a foreigner in prison cause? His businesses were leaderless, his subordinates were in a state of panic, and it wouldn't be long before he had to spit out everything he had managed to swallow.
They've even started discussing how to divide the profits that are about to be theirs.
No one noticed that the Great East who was imprisoned, upon entering his cell, did not display despair on his face, but rather a kind of almost joyful calm.
No one noticed that the warden of Washington State Penitentiary, after returning to his office, closed the door, picked up the phone, and dialed an unregistered number.
After the call connected, he only said one sentence:
"The master has been settled in. Everything is going smoothly."