Chapter 251: FBI Has a Request

Another scumbag saved; the Repairman felt no emotion. After all, the bastard would only harm Americans in Greater America—what did it matter to him?

He couldn't possibly expect everyone who came to him to be poor and virtuous. And he happened to play the role of a black-card doctor who offered free clinics to the poor without expecting anything in return.

In truth, truly good people wouldn't greedily seek such free resources. They knew how to make effective use of what they had, avoiding situations where they'd be forced to rely on charity—never rich, but never starved either.

Based on the Repairman's half-year of clinic experience, those who came to him were either evil or foolish. Think about where the saying "Pitiful people must have something hateful about them" came from.

Drinking until liver cancer, smoking until lung cancer, chewing betel nut until oral cancer, sleeping around until HIV—could good people do these things? These people might be vulnerable, but they weren't necessarily good.

Or else there were parents who spent their money on lottery tickets, then brought their sick children to beg for free medical care; or poor people who thought their illness wasn't serious enough, waiting until they were beyond saving before seeking a doctor's miracle touch.

If he chose to save or not based on a person's virtue, the Repairman would never get to hone his medical skills or gain clinical experience.

He remembered clearly: his original intent wasn't to accumulate good karma. He simply wanted free test subjects. Compared to scientists conducting illegal human experiments, at least his secondary goal was saving lives—not experimentation or murder.

Leaving Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, the Repairman planned to find a dark alley without surveillance and use his super speed to return home.

These days in America, surveillance cameras hadn't yet become as ubiquitous as they would in the future, watching every move of ordinary citizens.

But Cedars-Sinai, as a top-tier medical center, took security around its perimeter very seriously. Surveillance cameras were installed in many locations, with almost no blind spots.

He'd either have to walk farther, or enter the only fire lane between two apartment buildings near the medical center.

Although his abilities had already been exposed to some people, they hadn't been made public. So in daily life, he avoided using them whenever possible—and never exposed them unnecessarily. That was the cardinal rule.

But this fire lane, usually unused, had a car parked inside today. And the Repairman noticed three people sitting in it.

Turning back at the sight of something unusual would be too conspicuous. To avoid drawing attention, he decided to walk through the fire lane, then use his super speed elsewhere—somewhere without cameras or witnesses.

After all, walking down the streets of Los Angeles dressed as the Repairman felt strange.

But halfway down the path, he sensed something off. The three men in the car seemed agitated. Should he turn back? Or… see what happened?

By the time he passed the car, it was too late to run. All three men got out simultaneously, surrounding him front and back.

Running now would look like guilt. Better to see what they wanted. The Repairman thought to himself.

The men weren't cryptic types. The one in front immediately pulled out credentials and said: "FBI. I'm Senior Special Agent James. We'd like you to cooperate with our investigation."

His tone was mild, but the other two agents already had guns drawn—just not pointed at anyone yet.

The Repairman, carrying his briefcase, asked: "Do you have an arrest warrant?"

The baseball bat, crushed into an aluminum pancake to destroy evidence, was now inside his briefcase. He'd moved too fast. Too bad.

Agent James smiled: "I don't have an arrest warrant. That's why I said 'cooperate with the investigation.'"

"What if I don't cooperate?" the Repairman asked.

"There's always a way to make you agree, isn't there?"

People wielding public authority could always find a way to hassle you. Unless you had a top lawyer as your shield, one who could shut them down with legal firepower.

It wasn't enough to have read a few law books and memorized statutes. What mattered most was the actual lawyer's license.

Without it, even if you demanded self-representation in court to protect yourself, you still had to comply with police or FBI procedures. Refuse, and you'd be guilty. In serious cases, they'd empty their magazines on the spot.

Even if you later won your self-defense case and were acquitted, filing complaints against police or other enforcement agencies still required a lawyer's license as leverage—only then would they truly fear you.

Otherwise, ordinary citizens' complaints—even if citing correct laws, packed with evidence, and fully documented—would still be shelved.

So don't think memorizing law books gives you a golden armor or iron shirt. The lawyer's license is the real power that intimidates enforcement agencies.

Without that license as protection, the Repairman could only sigh and ask: "Can I at least know what this is about?"

Had the recent surgery been reported? he wondered.

But Cedars-Sinai Medical Center wouldn't do that. If they reported him for wrongdoing, they'd share liability for lending him the operating room—it'd be like smashing their own reputation.

Fortunately, Agent James answered quickly: "We need you to assist in the investigation concerning Andrew Saxon, the crime syndicate leader."

In an instant, the Repairman realized: they were after the remaining "medical fee" from the million-dollar payout.

To convict Andrew Saxon, the Repairman couldn't provide any evidence of his crimes—arresting him wouldn't help at all.

So they must want to drag him out publicly—or force him to surrender the ill-gotten gains, admit to practicing medicine illegally, and resolve everything "properly."

As he weighed the consequences of several options in his mind, the Repairman sighed: "I understand. No need for handcuffs, right?"

If you want to live in human society, you inevitably have to follow the rules. Running away wasn't impossible—just abandon the "Repairman" identity.

But the problem was: the "Repairman" identity and "Henry Brown" weren't cleanly separated. Many people knew the connection between the two.

Even though he wore a different face, white-and-black hair, and a clear scar—determined people could still trace it back to "Henry Brown."

This reminded him of the warning Old Tom gave him when getting documents in Alaska: "Don't do anything bad under the name 'Henry Brown.' Ruin that name, and you'll regret it later."

Indeed, people don't learn from being taught—they learn from experience. This lesson was unforgettable.

Agent James didn't pull out handcuffs. He simply opened the back door of the car and gestured: "Please." Then added: "This isn't the place to talk. Let's find somewhere more suitable."

This wasn't the first time something like this had happened to him. Did Americans' FBI always do this? Always use "assistance in investigation" as an excuse to take people away? Always threaten verbally if you refused?

He should look into whether this practice was actually legal—or just used to scare people with guilty consciences. Maybe he should just stand his ground. That'd be the right move.

(End of Chapter)