Chapter 27: The Second Trial

Something happened again?

Mr. Anderson froze for a moment, then suddenly snapped, his eyebrows shooting up, “That bastard came back?”

The manager knew who he meant, but shook his head quickly, “It’s not him. I can’t explain it—you’ll see for yourself!”

Mr. Anderson took off his apron and strode toward the front hall. When he stood at the entrance, he… froze solid.

The restaurant was packed with people, but the problem was, each table had only one person—and most had ordered only three dollars’ worth, many just two dollars’ worth.

A loaf of bread, an appetizer, or a bowl of soup.

“I thought they’d leave soon, so I didn’t notify you, but who knew they came and never left?”

“Many outside customers left because there were no empty tables. These people won’t leave either—they all say they haven’t eaten enough and refuse to share tables.”

Mr. Anderson’s blood pressure shot up. There were seventeen tables here—meaning today’s lunch revenue would be under forty dollars!

You need to know that this restaurant's minimum daily expenses exceed 150 yuan; in other words, even if it's completely full at night, today won't bring in any profit—instead, it will incur a huge loss!

His temples throbbed again—that familiar sensation returned. He forced down his rage and growled low, “Call the police. Now. I want them locked up in the trash heap!”

Mr. Anderson was a minor celebrity in this area. His cooking was excellent—so good, rumor had it, that the former mayor had eaten his dishes when he was head chef elsewhere and publicly praised him.

In the Federation, celebrity effect was especially strong and vital. Precisely because the former mayor believed his culinary skill was good enough to run his own restaurant, he got the idea to go out on his own.

That was one reason he later opened his own restaurant. If even the mayor—a man who’d tasted countless fine dishes from the upper class—thought his food was delicious, what was there to worry about?

Skilled people were respected anywhere—whether cooking dishes or lying down and lifting their asses.

Police cars arrived quickly—two of them, four officers total.

At first they were tense. Mr. Anderson had called in a state of emotional chaos, spouting nothing but curses and incoherent rambling. They’d assumed the place had been attacked.

But once inside, they realized the place was so quiet you could hear your own breathing.

“Mr. Anderson, you said someone disrupted your business?”

“Where is that person?”

“Did you see him run off that way?”

Mr. Anderson clenched his teeth and pointed at the diners, “Isn’t that them?”

“They’re colluding to keep me from doing business. Arrest them—all of them—none of them are innocent!”

The officers stared at the young people quietly eating bread, each bite tiny but unmistakably real, and were thoroughly baffled. “Didn’t they pay?”

The manager answered honestly, “They paid.”

“Did they cause a disturbance?”

The manager stuck to the truth again: “They sat quietly at their tables eating.”

The officers grew visibly annoyed, their hands instinctively resting on their belts. “So you called us just to waste our time?”

Mr. Anderson took a deep breath, his thoughts now clear. “These people ordered two-dollar meals and won’t leave, blocking other customers from entering. Isn’t that sabotage?”

The officers stared blankly for a long moment. “They ordered food and paid. On what grounds do you demand they finish within a set time?”

“Did you post this rule and display it for all customers?”

Mr. Anderson was furious. “So I have no recourse against these scum?”

The officer glanced at the young people, adjusted his cap, and said, “It seems so, Mr. Anderson.”

“They committed no crime, refused no payment, merely ate slowly. No law requires me to arrest someone for eating too slowly.”

“So…” he shook his head, “I can’t help you, Mr. Anderson.”

“And I must warn you—if you force them out before they finish eating, you could face legal trouble.”

He pulled Mr. Anderson aside. “I can try intimidating them. Might work. Might not.”

“But it’s risky. If the precinct finds out I broke protocol, they’ll come after me.”

He stared straight into Mr. Anderson’s eyes. In Jincheng, if police relied only on their pitiful monthly wages, they couldn’t even afford to eat.

Mr. Anderson had seen that greedy look on many faces. He cursed everything here!

Still, he pulled two five-dollar bills from his pocket and slipped them into the officer’s hand, out of sight.

“Not enough. We came in two cars.”

Mr. Anderson met his gaze. They locked eyes for five seconds without yielding. Then Mr. Anderson added ten more dollars.

The officer finally smiled. “Even if they punish me for breaking procedure, I know my family won’t go hungry. You’re a good man, Mr. Anderson!”

He straightened his cap and walked toward the nearest table.

It was a young man, barely nineteen, startled but remembering Lans’s instructions. Though afraid, he kept his composure.

The officer sat beside him, staring with aggressive intensity. “Do you know the others?”

The young man shook his head. “I don’t.”

“I know who sent you. If you don’t want to spend time in jail, tell me the truth.”

The young man bit his lip, silent. He wasn’t afraid anymore—Lans had warned them exactly what would happen and how to respond.

Seeing this young man visibly nervous yet calm and silent, the officer’s face flushed.

“Are you from the Empire?”

“Yes.”

“Show me your permanent residency card. I suspect you’re an illegal immigrant…”

Who the hell carries that thing on them every day?

But this young man pulled out his permanent residency card. The officer stared, stunned—then realized at once: this was organized.

By now, he didn’t really want to get involved. Who knew what massive forces lay behind this? But he’d taken the money—he had to do something.

“This card… might be fake. I need you to come with me.” He’d thought of a smart move: take one person away, ignore the rest. That would satisfy the twenty dollars, without ruining their plan.

The young man didn’t look scared—he relaxed. “Do you have a subpoena or arrest warrant?”

“And if you insist on taking me, I’ll call my lawyer first.”

The officer’s casual smile vanished. He placed the card back on the table, pointed at the young man, then stood up, gripping his belt.

This released a collective sigh from the young man—and all the others.

Without a subpoena or warrant, and without catching them in the act of a crime, taking someone away violated procedure.

Violating procedure could mean a simple verbal apology—or losing your job.

The officer wouldn’t gamble. Who knew what the person behind these youths might do if they escalated this?

He returned to Mr. Anderson’s side and whispered, “Look—they came prepared. My advice: close your restaurant now, if you can.”

Before Mr. Anderson could respond, the officer turned, face cold, and led the other three officers out of the restaurant.

Outside, though annoyed, he gave the other two officers five dollars each—better than no pay at all.

The remaining fifteen? He’d give five to his partner, keep ten for himself.

The police left quickly. The young people, once tense, now felt utterly free. Each wore a genuine smile.

This was too easy to make money?

Just a little boring.

Seeing the police were useless, Mr. Anderson scanned the seventeen tables, then sat down opposite Enio.

He felt Enio was their leader—there was something about him, the aura of a minor boss.

“I don’t know if you’re their leader. I’ll give you all free meals and fifty dollars. Take your people and get out of my restaurant.”

Enio, immersed in this strange job that opened a new world to him, could never accept this offer—and the sum was far too low.

He glanced at Mr. Anderson, picked up a small piece of bread, wiped sauce along the edge of the side dish, popped it into his mouth, and chewed slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Anderson.”

His calm, indifferent attitude only enraged Mr. Anderson further. “You know who I am—how can you not know what I’m saying?”

“Did Alberto send you?”

“Or that little brat I saw two days ago?”

“You dogs won’t escape karma!”

Enio waited until he finished ranting, then asked, “Finished?”

“If you’re done, I’ll resume eating. And Mr. Anderson, though you own this place, you’ve interrupted my meal and insulted me. I reserve the right to sue you for defamation.”

Mr. Anderson glared at him, as if trying to burn a hole through his skin. In the end, he slammed his fist on the table and walked away.

In the afternoon, they still didn’t leave. Mr. Anderson called the police again. Same excuses. But this time, they didn’t ask for money.

“You didn’t say they couldn’t stay past lunch. Evicting them now could get you sued.”

The officer even offered helpful advice: “If this is organized sabotage, do you think they’d want you to sue them?”

One sentence killed Mr. Anderson’s temper.

He even called a lawyer. After inspecting the scene, the lawyer told him: the best course was to wait until closing.

With immigrants and locals clashing fiercely now, if this was seen as locals indiscriminately targeting immigrants, his restaurant might not survive in Jincheng—nor might he.

Only tomorrow, by posting clear rules on the wall outside—specifying meal times and mandatory table-sharing—could he legally force them out.

For now, he had to endure.

After paying the lawyer sixty dollars, Mr. Anderson hated these people—and Lans—and Alberto!

They didn’t leave until past eight at night, when the entire bay area grew quiet. Exhausted from sitting all day, they rose in unison and departed together.

Mr. Anderson walked from the back to the front door—and saw a sight that made his eyes bulge.

Across the street, Lans stood in plain sight, shaking hands and hugging the young people, slipping five dollars into each of their hands.

That bastard—he knew it was him!

He stormed forward—then stopped. It was late. Night meant danger. Who knew what those youths might do?

Only after Lans finished handing out the money and watched them board the last bus did he approach, hands in pockets.

Ethan and Elvin were right behind him.

Seeing Lans so blatantly provoking him, Mr. Anderson’s blood pressure shot up; even at night, his face glowed red.

“Do you think I’ll compromise?”

“You son of a bitch!”

He nearly pointed at Lans’s nose as he roared, “I will never compromise—not a single damn cent from you, or from your boss Alberto, will you ever get from me!”

Lans paid no mind to these insults; after all, he always believed everyone must pay the price—or reap the reward—for their own actions.

“Mr. Anderson, you don’t think this is over, do you?”

“To be honest, I have thousands of ways to give you a different one every day. If your wish is to make your restaurant and yourself unwelcome in Jingang City over five thousand bucks, we can keep trying.”

“Speaking of which, are you already looking forward to tomorrow’s challenge?”

“Can you guess what I’ll do this time?”

He shook his head with a half-smile, gazing at Mr. Anderson with a look full of confidence—like someone staring at a defeated man.