Chapter 949: Equal Treatment

Mr. Richard entered the police chief’s office with a dark expression, sitting down opposite him in a slouched, dismissive posture.

One hand rested on the desk’s edge, the other pressed against the chair’s armrest, his body slightly tilted, leg crossed, wearing an unmistakable “don’t mess with me” look.

“It’s been three days. I want to know what results you’ve found.”

“If you can’t handle it, fine—tell me the truth. I’ll arrange someone else to do it.”

Over the past three days, both the police and fire departments investigated the cause of the fire, but they gained little valuable evidence from the scene.

The steel-structured factory buildings collapsed rapidly under the high heat, directly destroying potential evidence left behind.

Accurately locating all evidence was extremely difficult.

The chief clasped his hands together, then quickly pulled them apart, gripping the desk’s edge as he leaned forward slightly—this was not an aggressive posture, but one of resistance.

“Mr. Richard, the scene is vast, and there are many items requiring forensic analysis. I cannot definitively tell you what kind of fire this was.”

“However…”

“However?” Mr. Richard’s gaze turned chilling. “Are you suggesting this was arson?”

The police chief leaned back in his chair, his hands once again clasped. “I didn’t say that. But according to witness statements, the warehouse fire didn’t spread to the production area—yet the production area itself caught fire and exploded.”

“Although we haven’t found any explosives at the scene, we’ve noticed explosion traces on several production machines—external explosion marks.”

“Whether this was intentional remains uncertain, as we still lack critical evidence.”

Mr. Richard understood: the police chief simply didn’t want to take responsibility without sufficient proof—but it was very likely arson.

Mr. Richard stood and nodded. “I’ll donate fifty thousand dollars to the police department. Thank you for your efforts.”

The police chief smiled and said, “Thank you.” In a small town, fifty thousand dollars was a substantial sum.

But… it was only fifty thousand dollars.

Mr. Richard left quickly and returned to the company, where the premises were now packed with people.

Upon seeing him return, they immediately surrounded him. Fortunately, his bodyguards still had some effect—they quickly cleared a path for him to enter the building.

By the time he reached his office, many people had gathered around him.

“Why so many people?” he asked.

A board member answered immediately: “They’re all our customers who ordered whiskey from us. Now that they’ve heard our distillery and warehouse are destroyed, they’ve come demanding compensation.”

Just those words gave him a throbbing headache. He pressed his knuckles hard into his right temple, the pain bringing a fleeting relief and clearing his mind slightly.

“Did we sign contracts?” he asked, looking up at the director. The director froze under his fierce gaze and turned to the secretary.

The secretary shook her head. “We only reached verbal agreements and collected deposits.”

Under Prohibition, “selling” alcohol was illegal. Jinbiao Distillery could not break the law—so no contracts had ever been signed.

A cold smile appeared on Mr. Richard’s face. “We have no contracts. Why should we compensate them?”

He grew impatient. “If they want compensation, let them sue us. Fuck these bastards!”

The director opened his mouth to speak but held back, deciding to talk to him alone later.

Embezzling money from these gangsters wasn’t something easily explained away.

Besides these illegal actors trying to extort Jinbiao Distillery, numerous suppliers also demanded immediate settlement of their invoices.

Brewing required vast quantities of crops. Jinbiao Distillery was now producing openly and keeping profits extremely low—but they could certainly afford to pay the farmers for their grain.

Yet after paying for the grain, their cash reserves would shrink significantly. Then they’d need to compensate workers killed or injured in the fire, and rebuild the factory—every single aspect demanded money. Huge sums of money!

Mr. Richard rubbed his temple and told the secretary to bring him the bills needing signatures. He selected a portion, then signed his name.

“Tell the rest I don’t like their disruptive behavior.”

“We’re not unable to pay—we simply refuse to be coerced.”

“If they want payment, they can apply, follow the process. If anyone tries to force us into early payment by causing trouble, let them sue us—we won’t pay!”

Running a major corporation was never easy. At minimum, one needed sufficient capability and sufficient ruthlessness.

You knew these were farmers’ blood and sweat, goods advanced by distributors—but when you shouldn’t pay, you paid not a single cent.

Signing some bills was meant to tell them: the company still had money, could still pay—let them weigh the costs themselves.

Would anyone cause trouble?

Of course someone would. Someone always believed others couldn’t succeed—but they might.

And what if they did?

But this time, no matter who caused trouble, he wouldn’t pay. Let them sue.

Grain wasn’t valuable.

To people earning thirty or forty dollars a month, grain might hold some value—but to Mr. Richard, to a major corporation, grain was worthless.

A ton of grain cost a few hundred dollars. A hundred tons? Just a few thousand dollars. Sue us!

Hire a lawyer, gather evidence. Every court session meant hundreds or thousands of dollars gone. How long could they hold out?

In the end, they’d still have to obey. Capital had countless ways to deal with such people.

After resolving that issue, the secretary added, “Today, many families of injured workers have also come…”

Mr. Richard grew even more irritated. “Tell them to go to the insurance company. We bought them accident and work injury insurance.”

“The insurance company says they need to determine whether this qualifies as a work-related injury before deciding on payment.”

“They need money for treatment now.”

Mr. Richard spread his hands, feigning innocence. “Then why the hell are you telling me this?”

“You should tell them it has nothing to do with us. I bought them insurance—they should go to the insurance company, not me!”

“We’re victims too. I don’t even know who to sue for my losses—what do they expect from me?”

The secretary, scolded twice, stammered helplessly, her face pale.

In fact, the workers’ families had already approached the insurance company. Their response had been vague and evasive—even suggesting:

If the fire resulted from business rivalry, they would deny the claim.

Not only would work injury insurance be denied, but property insurance for the factory would be denied as well.

In the Federation, many businesses—especially legitimate, sizable ones—purchased property insurance.

Countless fires and accidents during the Federation’s industrial development had witnessed its rapid growth!

This was an inevitable stage in industry’s transition from immaturity to maturity.

To avoid unexpected losses, many factories purchased commercial property insurance for their buildings and equipment.

If fires, floods, or other accidents damaged these assets, the insurance company paid according to contract.

But arson was excluded. If signs of intentional fire were found, the insurance company also denied the claim.

That’s how insurance companies operated.

Before you paid, they promised you’d get fifty dollars even if you slipped and fell walking.

But after you paid—and then actually slipped and fell—they’d say your shoes weren’t covered under the contract.

Or they’d find another excuse: maybe you stepped out with your right foot first.

After clearing some minor matters, Mr. Richard asked, “Has the insurance company sent anyone?”

The secretary suddenly felt like laughing—strangely, inexplicably—but she held it back. “They’ve arrived. Should I let them in?”

Mr. Richard didn’t answer immediately. He glanced at the director who had never left the room.

The director gave the secretary a look. She immediately picked up the documents on the desk and walked toward the door. “I’ll be right outside.”

Once she left and closed the door, the director spoke: “Richard, our brutal treatment of those gangsters—could it cause trouble?”

Mr. Richard frowned, resting his chin in his hand. He sat silently for ten, maybe twenty seconds. “I’ll handle them.”

The director exhaled. “These people are rats in the sewers. We’re gentlemen in suits. We’re not afraid of rats—but we don’t want them dirtying our shoes.”

He stood. “I’ll go now. Call me if you need anything.”

After the director left, the secretary went to fetch the insurance company representative.

The insurance company valued Jinbiao Distillery as a client—they paid over thirty thousand dollars annually in premiums. Not a small sum.

Having survived two previous fires, Jinbiao Distillery was eager to purchase property insurance.

This time, Mr. Richard stood up, walked around his desk, and shook the insurance manager’s hand. He then led him to the sofa, not the desk.

“Mr. Richard, I deeply regret this fire.”

Mr. Richard nodded. “Difficulties pass. What I care about now is when the compensation will arrive.”

“We still have many orders to fulfill. Ordering new machinery takes time. I can’t afford to delay future orders.”

The insurance manager smiled in agreement. “You’re absolutely right. Once our investigation concludes and everything aligns with our contract, we’ll deposit the compensation into your designated account immediately.”

Mr. Richard frowned slightly. “Is that really necessary?”

The manager’s face showed regret. “Personally, Mr. Richard, we’ve worked together a long time. I trust your character and reputation. I’d gladly pay you upfront.”

“But I’m just an employee. I lack authority to approve such a large payout. Only the president or board can authorize payment.”

“I’ve explained that you and Jinbiao Distillery are vital friends and clients. But you understand—those damned capitalists care only about their pockets!”

“I’ve done my best to persuade them. They agreed: only if the investigation confirms compliance with the contract will they release payment.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Richard. I’ll monitor the results. The moment they’re ready, I’ll call you personally.”

Mr. Richard’s face flushed red. He glared at the manager with unmistakable hostility—but the manager maintained his “I’m completely innocent” expression.

He spoke slowly, each word deliberate: “What are you suspecting?”

“That I… set fire to my own factory?”

“Do you know how much money my factory earns me every single day?”

“Just the delay alone could cost me hundreds of thousands—maybe over a million!”

“Fuck!”

The insurance manager immediately soothed him: “I believe you. How could I not believe you?”

Mr. Richard, you must also understand me—I believe you are not enough; you must convince the CEO or the Board of Directors as well.

Mr. Richard stared at him with a fierce gaze, yet the insurance manager seemed unaffected.

If this level of pressure could shake him, he wouldn’t deserve to sit here, nor to be the insurance company’s senior client manager.

He had encountered people more terrifying, more direct than Mr. Richard.

Once, he was just an ordinary client manager—until a veteran pressed a knife tip against his throat, and he never wavered from his firm refusal to pay, which earned him recognition from company executives and made him a senior partner.

He would not bury his future in the hands of a capitalist too cowardly to commit murder.

Mr. Richard took two deep breaths, suppressing his anger. He looked at the insurance company’s senior client manager—the man who occasionally met him, always warmly greeted him, yet now nodded without comment: “If...”

The insurance manager knew what he meant by “if”: “If the investigation confirms no irregularities, I guarantee the funds will be transferred within twenty-four hours.”

“But if the investigation reveals the fire’s cause falls outside our policy coverage, then I’m sorry, Mr. Richard—even if I wanted to pay you, the CEO and Chairman would never agree...”

Mr. Richard fixed the insurance manager with what he believed was a terrifying glare, yet the man still wore his smirking grin, utterly unfazed.

After seeing off this “friend”—who always shifted blame to the CEO and Board, claimed to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, yet whose eyes radiated “absolutely no payout”—Mr. Richard returned to his chair and sat for a while.

He then picked up the phone and dialed the Chief of Police’s office.

“Chief of Police’s Office...”

Because it was an external call, the Chief’s voice was soft—who knew who might be calling? What if it was someone important?

After all, minor figures didn’t even deserve to know this number.

“It’s me. Richard.”

“Mr. Richard?”

“Do you have any new information or evidence to add?”—this was the only thing the Chief of Police could imagine.

But Mr. Richard’s next words took him by surprise.

Mr. Richard lowered his voice: “Could you issue a certificate stating this was an industrial accident?”

The Chief of Police froze. Only shortly before, Mr. Richard had visited him, already firmly convinced this was arson, and had even applied pressure.

Now, suddenly, he changed his tune—demanding the fire not be classified as intentional arson... he was baffled.

“Mr. Richard, I don’t quite understand your meaning.”

“Thirty thousand.”

“What?”

“Thirty thousand. Transfer it to the account you specify—and this becomes an accident.”

The Chief of Police didn’t answer immediately. After about ten seconds, he let out an “um,” his tone hesitant.

“Fifty thousand.”

The Chief of Police blinked, quickly explaining: “That’s not what I meant...”

“Sixty thousand!”

“I’m the victim. You only answer to me. I now declare this an accident.”

“You issue the accident report, no police resources wasted, no one gets hurt, and the case ends quickly and cleanly.”

“Everyone benefits. What do you say?”

The Chief of Police of a small city rarely had the chance to earn so much—normally he took three or five hundred, maybe a couple thousand at most.

Suddenly receiving sixty thousand was a massive shock to him.

Earlier, Mr. Richard’s fifty-thousand donation went to the police department and had little to do with him personally—but this sixty thousand was direct payment to him. His breathing grew rapid.

“The fire destroyed much of the evidence; it’s hard to reconstruct the cause—but it doesn’t seem like arson...”

Mr. Richard immediately corrected him: “Not ‘doesn’t seem like’—this was an accident!”

The Chief of Police agreed: “Yes. This was an accident.”

“Good. Give me an account number. Once the investigation report is ready, you’ll see my sincerity!”

He then called the Fire Chief’s office, and with just forty thousand, he settled him too.

If this fire was an accident, the insurance company must pay them over a million.

But if it wasn’t an accident, the insurance company pays nothing!

These damn vampires—they weren’t like this when collecting premiums. Fuck!

Mr. Richard had never imagined he, a local celebrity, would one day be extorted.

This was the day he was treated equally with those injured workers!

(End of Chapter)