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In the United States, felons and ex-cons still have the right to participate in politics.
In extreme cases, it is entirely possible to run for President while sitting in a prison cell.
Even the Speaker of the House, Pelosi, comes from a massive Italian Mafia family in Maryland.
The law doesn't draw a clear line, but when it comes down to practice, black folks are still often pushed out of the process.
Thinking of this, it didn't take long for Robinson to make a decision. "You've got a silver tongue. I'm acting like your bloodhound..."
"No, you're no hound," Leon said with a smile. "This is called a win-win. Smart people know how to choose; there's nothing to think about."
"Alright, I'll sniff out those shooters. You won't wait long."
"I'll await your good news."
Beep, beep, beep.
After hanging up, Leon called Sean back into the office to discuss how to capitalize on this wave of traffic.
Chris Brown, Lil Wayne, and Drake were all using King Von's death for clout. Leon wasn't about to let his rivals pick up that free traffic.
Making money and exacting revenge—he was going to tackle both with a heavy hand.
"Jay-Z is mocking Von on Twitter, saying he got what he deserved. And he also said..." Sean pinched his throat, his voice hesitant.
"What else did he say?"
"He said you should be the one going to hell. That you've done too many sickening things and your judgment day won't be long now." By the end of the sentence, Sean's voice was fainter than a mosquito's buzz.
Leon rested his chin on his hands, looking completely unbothered.
The gunmen who pulled the triggers couldn't be spared, but the guy who gave the orders had to pay the price, too.
Leon had dismantled Jay-Z's perfect marriage in a humiliating fashion—that marriage was Jay-Z's biggest financial asset.
Retaliation was expected, but Leon hadn't anticipated it would be so swift and so retro—hiring a hitman to gun down a chart-topping superstar on the street.
To dare pull something like this in 2012 meant Jay-Z had gone completely insane.
"Contact the most professional PR firms and bot farms. Have them dig up that ngga's history starting from when he was still in diapers..."
"Got it." Sean pulled out a notebook, afraid to miss a single detail.
"Don't leave out the sexual assault scandals or the drug dealing. Expose the mastermind behind this shooting and pin it all on him," Leon instructed. "Send the drafts to every influential entertainment outlet in the US, including the internet trolls..."
At this moment, to prevent a counter-strike from Leon, Jay-Z had undoubtedly upgraded his security detail and reduced his public appearances.
Just like Diddy back in the day, turning his mansion into a warlord's fortress.
Under these circumstances, hiring a hitman to take him out would be difficult, and Leon wasn't even considering it.
Dealing with a cheap thug like Duane only required a bullet, but Jay-Z was a historic superstar.
Leon didn't want to get his hands dirty with fish guts like some idiot.
He had plenty of more interesting methods—take his wife, his work, his fame, his wealth...
Like playing with a lab rat, he would wait until Jay-Z was tortured into despair, kneeling in repentance with a face full of piety, before stepping forward.
He would reveal the face of God and take the last thing the man owned—his life.
---
Five hours after making these arrangements, Leon returned to his Tribeca home surrounded by a swarm of bodyguards.
The Bentley drove in the center, flanked front and rear by two black SUVs packed with security.
Opening the door, he immediately noticed something was off. Every corner of the room was spotless, and for once, there were no leftover salad scraps on the dining table.
"Did you call a maid?"
Leon took off his trench coat and hung it up, glancing at Taylor sitting on the sofa.
"No, I did it all myself. Took me pretty much the whole afternoon."
Taylor extended a long, pale leg, frowning as she rubbed her ankle.
To cheer Leon up, she had taken on mundane chores she had never touched before.
The pop princess, whose fingers had never done a day's labor, kneeling on the floor with a dirty rag to scrub stubborn stains...
It didn't exactly sound like a win for feminism.
"You didn't have to do that." Leon finally noticed her ankle. "Why is your foot swollen?"
"I twisted it coming down the stairs. I never thought a water bucket could be so heavy; it was only half full..." Taylor was completely ignorant about common sense regarding the weight of water.
"Let me handle it. I'm a massage expert." Leon felt a warmth in his heart. He cupped Taylor's face and kissed her red lips.
He sat on the sofa, placing her injured foot on his lap to massage it.
Though he called it a massage, the scene looked more like foreplay.
A tingling electric current shot from the soles of her feet through her whole body, making her face flush crimson as she let out strange little whimpers now and then.
On the TV, major networks were still tracking leads on the shooting.
On February 11th, the legendary diva Whitney Houston died bizarrely in a hotel bathtub.
On the night of the 12th, the highly anticipated talent show champion, King Von, was turned into a sieve on the street.
The shadow of death loomed over the event, earning the 54th Grammy Awards the title "The Bloody Grammys." No one really cared about the music anymore.
A CNN reporter was interviewing the officer in charge. It was the same officer who had questioned Leon that night.
"Just an hour ago, countless tweets appeared on Twitter listing evidence that the shooting was Jay-Z's retaliation against Leon Smith for leaving the ROC kingdom. Will the LAPD investigate Jay-Z?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, internet rumors cannot be used as a basis for handling a case," the police spokesperson answered instantly.
" The public has a right to know the truth! These aren't baseless speculations. The police shouldn't narrow the investigation just because of the suspect's status..." The reporter had obviously been paid off too, boldly naming Jay-Z on a live broadcast.
She spent two minutes detailing the complex feud between Jay-Z and Leon to prove he had ample motive to be a suspect.
Despite her logical arguments, the police spokesperson kept his mouth shut tight. "I'm very sorry, ma'am. The FBI is currently leading this case. You don't get to decide how the investigation is conducted."
"Was it really Jay-Z?"
Taylor covered her mouth. She couldn't believe the guy who orchestrated a shooting against her boyfriend was the same man she often saw at award ceremonies.
"That's not something you need to worry about, honey." Leon rubbed her head. The further women stayed from street disputes, the better.
"Fine. The truth will come out, and the murderers will be punished severely." Taylor grit her teeth and waved her fist fiercely. "I dreamed of Von's face today. I'm going to write a song to remember him properly..."
"I'm doing the same. Von will be remembered forever."
Fate had played a big joke on him. See You Again was top-tier in terms of lyrics, composition, and arrangement.
But it had a heavy commemorative vibe, drawing a clear line between it and generic pop hits.
Leon had been worried about how to maximize the song's traffic, but Von had solved that problem with his life.
Sentimental lyrics combined with an MV replacing the original Paul Walker with King Von—this work was 100% guaranteed to blow up.
He could only ride this wave of traffic with deep love. Look on the bright side: Von's street legend would be immortalized along with the song's success.
---
On February 19th, Whitney's funeral was held at the New Hope Baptist Church in her hometown in New Jersey, the place where she first served as a choir member in her childhood.
Numerous celebrities attended, and tens of thousands of fans lined the route with flowers.
New Jersey police blocked all roads near the church, and helicopters circled overhead for surveillance.
Governor Christie even ordered flags across the state to be flown at half-staff for Whitney.
Leon was one of the few celebrities absent from this funeral. On the same day, King Von's funeral was held in Chicago.
Compared to Whitney's spectacle, Von's funeral was much shabbier—a plot in a poorly managed public cemetery on the South Side.
Leon had offered to pay for a lavish funeral and bury Von in a top-tier cemetery favored by wealthy merchants and politicians.
But Von's mother refused. The reason was simple: three of Von's cousins and numerous gang homies were buried here.
The homies from O-Block were everything to Von when he was alive; this was his best resting place.
At the funeral, King Von's mother sobbed uncontrollably, nearly fainting several times.
"To those who shot my child, I hope they feel cold even when wearing clothes; I hope when they are tired and want to sleep, it is always a sleepless night; I hope every time they miss their mother, they will never see her again..."
The mother's heartfelt speech infected everyone present. The gangbangers, usually lawless, covered their eyes and wept.
The entire extended family were criminals or involved in criminal activities, except for this middle-aged woman.
This uneducated, lower-class black mother worked three jobs a day to feed her children, giving her all so they wouldn't have to envy the Jordans on other kids' feet.
After finding fame, Von had given his mother plenty of jewelry and cash, but she had saved it all, just in case her son squandered his wealth and returned to a life of crime.
"Mrs. Bennett, I promise you that the men who made Von bleed will pay with blood. You will receive a special gift tonight..." Leon comforted her.
"Thank you for your kindness. You've given me enough already. More money has no meaning now." Von's mother subconsciously assumed the "gift" he mentioned was money.
Before this, Leon had given Von's mother $1 million. SZA, who was three months pregnant, also received a sum.
Even in this situation, the girl decided to keep the baby and raise it alone.
To ensure Von's child would have a better life, Leon signed SZA, whom no one else believed in, promising to release an album for her.
---
At 9:00 PM, the gift Leon promised Von's mother was delivered.
A local Chicago news channel reported that a 41-year-old black male from the GD gang, nicknamed "Big Smoke," was gunned down on his way back to his apartment.
His body was hung from a nearby overpass.
This threatening behavior led police to suspect the killers were from a Latin American drug cartel. Only they had a penchant for grotesque executions like beheadings and hanging bodies to intimidate rivals.
At first, no one connected Big Smoke's death to the Grammy shooting a week prior, until someone deliberately guided the narrative online.
In a luxury hotel in Chicago's financial district, Leon held a champagne glass, staring at the TV screen with a slight smirk.
Ring, ring, ring.
The phone rang. It was Robinson.
"Are you satisfied with this result?"
"No, we have to find the other two bastards," Leon said in a deep voice.
Over the past week, the Saint had mobilized all his street resources and talked to every drug dealer in Inglewood, big and small.
Especially those who claimed to have seen Duane before the crime.
It turned out that FBI efficiency was worse than a gang leader's. Those dealers kept their mouths shut tight when facing agents.
They refused to reveal any valuable clues, terrified of being labeled a "Snitch" and ruining their street rep.
But facing the Saint, they were as honest as if they'd swallowed truth serum, spilling everything they knew.
Besides Duane, the other two participants were "Big Smoke" from the Chicago GDs and a local Inglewood robber with a record.
The latter had already fled, and only Big Smoke had remained in Chicago, hitting luxury clubs every night, naively thinking he wouldn't be exposed.
"Listen, that only works if those guys are still inside the US." Robinson's tone was helpless. "As far as I know, Duane hopped the border and fled to Mexico right after the hit."
"I don't care where Duane is. I trust you have the ability to find him."
Hearing Leon say this, Robinson finally lost his cool. He was just a black gang leader, not the DEA!
A group of black gangbangers crossing into Mexico... if the Cartel members spotted them, the only outcome would be ending up as a pile of fleshy Lego bricks.
"Those Mexicans are as poisonous as snakes. No one there listens to reason; they only know someone brought guns onto their turf." Robinson recalled his street days fighting for territory against Latin gangs.
Just the illegal immigrants alone were a dimensional strike against local gangs, let alone the core members back in Mexico.
Eighty percent of the gore videos on shock sites came from Mexico; the rest were from war zones.
When it came to creative torture, even terrorists had to bow down to the Cartels.
Robinson continued, "Unless you know some friends in the Mexican Cartels, we can only wait for Duane to come back to the US."
"Mexican friends..." Leon muttered to himself, as if he suddenly had an idea. "I know what surprise to give Duane."
"Surprise?"
"Yeah, let him star as the lead in a short film. It's a niche genre, but it has a very dedicated following," Leon grinned.
Robinson was baffled. "Man, I advise you not to mess around. If anyone guarantees they can bring Duane back from Mexico, they're just eyeing the cash in your pocket."
After hanging up, Leon pulled out the burner SIM card and flushed it down the toilet.
Before sleeping, the image of Elsa's tech-enhanced silicone chest kept popping into his head, specifically the colorful tattoos surrounding the deep cleavage.
The Mexican woman was usually very low-key, facing boring and complex spreadsheets day after day, working diligently with rarely a mistake.
Yet, a small accountant could make a ruthless gangster like Victor obey her orders obediently.
While this piqued Leon's interest, it also made him wary of Elsa. No boss wants their accountant to be a brutal drug lord.
To this end, the two had once had a candid, private conversation.
Although Elsa didn't want to discuss her past, she eventually downplayed it, admitting she had worked for a Mexican multinational "trade company."
Her former boss was, in a sense, a celebrity, with fame rivaling some Hollywood stars.
Joaquín Guzmán Loera!
Also known as El Chapo.
This short man, under 5 foot 6, had been number one on the DEA's most-wanted list since 2001. Elsa's work history shocked Leon deeply.
Elsa explained it like this: "Most drug lords aren't as legendary as the American news makes them out to be. Before entering the trade, they were just farmers surviving on avocados... When I was studying accounting at the University of Texas at Austin, Guzmán and Zambada paid for my entire tuition."
"After graduation, I joined the company."
"A Cartel is a conglomerate. Like any legitimate company, it has a Finance Department, HR Department, Legal Department..."
"And of course, a Security Department."
"Oh, and they never delay paychecks."