Chapter 252: Impulse, Help, and Friendship

Lynch closed the door, cutting off the connection between the bedroom and the hallway outside. The enclosed space gave Vera a strong sense of security. She visibly relaxed, though a slight tremor remained.

Lynch walked over and took her hand. The warmth in his palm comforted Vera, though her expression still showed pain. “Why did it come to this? Why do they still need to search? I’ve already given them everything!”

She looked at Lynch, wanting to understand why she was enduring all this.

After a moment of silence, Lynch decided to tell her. “The state prosecutor plans to charge you with concealing/forging evidence when prosecuting others.”

“I wasn’t sure if I should tell you, but now you should be prepared mentally.”

Vera was stunned. She couldn’t understand how something she thought was unrelated to any crime could make her a potential… criminal.

“That’s ridiculous!” she said, unsure how else to respond.

Lynch shook his head slightly. “It’s not ridiculous. Some things need to end this way.” He patted her hand. “Rest for a while. I’ll talk to the others outside.”

As soon as he let go, Vera grasped his hand again, looking at him with a pleading expression, reluctant to let him leave.

Lynch turned and hugged her. “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving. I’m just going to find out some other information.”

Vera finally released his hand. Lynch left the room and walked outside the community. He found a phone booth and made several calls. Soon, Ferrell arrived in a car.

After Lynch got in, Ferrell drove across the street to a parking lot, and they talked inside the car.

“To be honest, you’re not the Lynch I expected,” Ferrell said, rolling down the window halfway, handing Lynch a cigarette and lighting one himself. “I thought you’d be more rational. This surprises me.”

In Ferrell’s mind, Lynch was a ruthless gentleman—a description that sounds odd but fits him perfectly.

He often appears calm, polite, and attentive to details, never swearing, always composed and confident.

But he’s also a bastard, always forcing people into the worst choices, making him hard to deal with.

Lynch remained calm, a faint smile on his face, eyes fixed on the cigarette’s burning tip, watching the flame eat away slowly as if it would never stop.

“From a rational standpoint, I shouldn’t get involved. My company’s accounts are clean. I’ve never slept with that woman. I even pay her more than others each month…”

He took a drag, the burn flared intensely. Smoke swirled inside his chest before he exhaled, shaking his head. “But you know, we’re human. No one is purely rational. If someone is, they’re not human.”

“We all know the importance of learning, following laws, and hard work,” he flipped his wrist. “Our reason tells us what to do or not do, but life isn’t always rational.”

“It would be easy to ignore her, hang up, pretend nothing happened. But what will happen to her?”

Ferrell fell silent. Many who don’t understand women’s prisons think they’re easier than men’s, with less aggression.

This misconception comes from ignorance. Female inmates are often more volatile, their actions scarier than men’s.

Guards are mostly male, with few women, meaning dominance and abuse are rampant.

Most women fare poorly, becoming playthings for guards or pets for other inmates, stripped of dignity and doomed to destruction.

Society’s discrimination means these problems are ignored. There have been cases of pregnant female prisoners and even wardens forcing inmates into prostitution, but these scandals receive little public sympathy.

People blame the women, thinking they deserve it.

If an ordinary woman like Vera went in, she might go mad or die before release.

Lynch can coldly view a report’s numbers like a mayor, indifferent to the bloody reality behind them.

But sometimes he softens, acting less rationally.

He looked at Ferrell. “I can’t do that. I want to live well and want everyone around me to live well. So I have to reach out.”

“For me, maybe I lose some opportunities, but I save a life—a person’s whole future.”

The mood grew heavy, but Lynch quickly broke it with a smile. “So, do you suddenly think I’m kind of great?”

Ferrell laughed loudly. “You’re a surprising guy…” He paused. “Remember the guy I mentioned last time? The governor’s chief of staff?”

Lynch recalled him instantly, nodding. “Mr. Edwin.”

Ferrell confirmed. “Yes, Edwin. He’s the chief of staff and extremely close to the governor. One word from him could solve this, but getting him to speak isn’t easy.”

Ferrell’s expression said more than his words. Influencing someone at that level takes resources.

Lynch was silent for about thirty seconds before putting out his cigarette. “So how much do you think it’ll cost to fix this?”

Ferrell thought briefly. “It’s not about money. If money could get him to act, he wouldn’t still be by the governor’s side.” After a pause, he added, “I heard you’re invited to the president’s inauguration. If you perform well there, maybe it’ll just take one word.”

“But in case you don’t…,” Ferrell pulled out a card from his wallet and handed it to Lynch. It had only a name and number.

“This guy’s special. His advantage is that with money, he can do a lot for you. But if you don’t need him, better not contact him. He’s a greedy devil,” Ferrell said with disdain.

Lynch understood. “A fixer?”

Ferrell nodded.

After pocketing the card, Lynch opened the car door. He’d stayed long enough. Just as he closed the door and prepared to leave, Ferrell called after him, asking a question that even he thought was impulsive.

“Lynch, if one day I need your help, will you reach out?”

Lynch turned, glanced at him, flicked his coat, and smiled. “Of course!”

He turned and crossed the street into the community.

Ferrell lit another cigarette, thinking Lynch didn’t have to do this, but something about the decision gave him a special feeling—he couldn’t say what, but it wasn’t bad.

Back at the house, the police were preparing to leave. While Lynch was gone, the station had called nearby officers to assist a sudden suspected crime nearby—including those in Vera’s room.

Everyone knew how these small tactics worked but wouldn’t say it aloud.

After the police left, the middle-aged male agent chuckled. “Mr. Lynch, your methods are clever.”

Lynch didn’t send the officers away outright or embarrass them; instead, he got them to respond to a nearby incident.

Even if it was a false alarm, no one could blame Lynch for sending them off. He preserved his dignity without humiliating the police—a rare feat.

Some people always like to show their dissatisfaction openly. They’re foolish—when they hurt others, they end up hurting themselves too.

Lynch smiled politely, then walked to the bar like he was at home. He poured himself a drink and looked at the two agents. “Wine, coffee, or juice?” Before they could answer, he added, “I don’t know how to use the coffee or juice machines. If you want them, you’ll have to help yourselves.”

Both agents smiled. Nobody dislikes being around someone with a sense of humor. The male agent said, “Although we have rules against drinking on the job…” He glanced at the young female agent beside him, “Why not?”

This was the power of a senior FBI agent—many rules in the manuals no longer constrained them. They had more autonomy in the field.