On the plane, James's face remained dark and gloomy.
Every newspaper available on board was reporting on Roscoe's corruption and drug trafficking scandal.
Although the articles contained no hard evidence—filled only with words like "possibly" and "perhaps"—the tone was sharp and cutting, leaving readers with the unmistakable impression: Yes, it's him!
James gritted his teeth. This was the cost of letting someone from the lower classes like Leo rise to power and seize control of the media.
The press itself was nothing more than a weapon—a knife that could stab anyone at will.
When Leo had purchased The World Journal, many people reacted strongly at first. But later, when the Jewish interests were the first to withdraw, everyone else simply folded as well. After all, most believed Leo wouldn't live long anyway. Besides, a single newspaper wasn't taken too seriously, even if it had once gained attention with its CFO exposé.
In James's circle, livelihood stories held no real weight. Such reports couldn't compete with the more "authoritative" papers his allies controlled, which could easily smear and bury any inconvenient story.
But now The World Journal had shifted to the forefront of political news.
When others tried to pour dirty water, Leo's New Journal would immediately reprint the World Journal's stories.
With its massive readership base, uncertain rumors rapidly spread through word of mouth until they hardened into iron facts.
Leo's newspaper empire was built for both attack and defense, leaving James and his fellow politicians with no effective countermeasures.
The papers they could still influence were motivated by profit above all else. If everyone could profit by letting a story spread, there was no stopping it.
This story could no longer be contained. That was the reality now.
The Washington Post, The New York Times, and other major papers had all reprinted The World Journal's reports.
Not only did this spread the news James wanted buried even wider, it also indirectly boosted the influence of Leo's World Journal.
From what James knew, The World Journal had already become the first paper Washington politicians read each morning.
That was why so many of his friends refused to help him last night.
James understood clearly—without neutralizing Leo's control of the press, he would likely have to fight this battle alone.
Arriving in Columbia, the capital of South Carolina, James's mood worsened.
While waiting for one of his Secret Service bodyguards to finish in the restroom, he glanced at the airport's newsstands.
Almost every single newspaper there was Leo's New Journal.
For Washington insiders, South Carolina was backcountry territory. People here had little respect for distant political elites.
In the minds of many Southerners of this era, "What's reading worth? Can it make you money like farming does?"
So compared to the dense, obscure articles of highbrow political dailies, they preferred the simple, rough language of the New Journal, which told down-to-earth stories about local families and neighborhoods.
Of course, no man would ever admit that the first thing he flipped to was always page three—the page with the pin-up girls.
To James, the paper looked crude. The front page had little text, dominated instead by a large photograph:
It showed Columbia's Mayor, Bo Reed, laughing heartily with the now-deceased Klan leader, Chester, inside a Western-style restaurant.
Normally, Southern whites wouldn't have cared much. But since Chester had conducted a public lynching of a Black man outside a church in the South District, the Black community had risen up in protest, throwing Columbia into turmoil.
All of this, of course, was orchestrated by Leo through Bishop Cade's influence.
The state legislature's grandees would never allow such chaos to continue unchecked. Disorder threatened their profits.
Combined with Leo's threats, sacrificing a Washington-appointed overseer like Bo Reed was an easy choice.
James grew impatient. His bodyguard still hadn't returned.
"Why is Peter taking so long?" he asked irritably.
Though nominally Secret Service agents, his guards were paid double salaries, receiving far more from him personally than from the government.
These four were his core security detail. He had brought them all to South Carolina precisely because, having attacked Leo, he feared Leo might strike back.
But now Peter's absence gnawed at him. James ordered another guard to check.
Moments later, the man returned, face grim, shaking his head.
Alarmed, James hurried inside himself. He reasoned it must be safe, since his guard had emerged alive.
But what he saw chilled his blood—Peter lay slumped over a urinal, lifeless. In his stiffened hand was a scrap of paper.
It read: "Welcome to South Carolina."
James's face turned ashen.
They had dared to strike at him—him, James Roosevelt!
Yet alongside his fury, fear crept in. It was his first time in South Carolina, and nothing here felt like Washington.
There was no aura of deference to the Roosevelt name.
An unfamiliar, suffocating insecurity gripped him. For a moment, he didn't even want to leave the safety of that restroom.
"Protect me," he snapped. "From now on, none of you move alone."
But the moment James stepped out of the airport, cameras and microphones were thrust into his face.
Reporters with thick Southern drawls fired questions like bullets:
"Mr. Whip, is it true you're here to endorse Mayor Bo Reed, who supports criminal activity?"
"Some say Bo Reed is nothing more than a lapdog of the Roosevelt family—is that true?"
"What's Washington's stance on Black citizens being brutally murdered by the Klan?"
Already simmering, James exploded.
"Out of my way! I need rest. And as for Bo Reed—whether he supports crime is still up for debate."
He barked at his guards, who shoved the reporters aside roughly.
One journalist from the New Journal fell back with theatrical flair, dropping his camera dramatically to the ground.
Within minutes, a call went out from South Carolina to Lynchburg.
Leff, CEO of the New Journal (and former Brooklyn community editor), reported gleefully:
"Boss, we've got exactly what you wanted."
Leo, enjoying a decadent meal while Yelena entertained him beneath the table, chewed slowly before replying:
"Print it. Print everything we prepared. As many copies as possible. Flood every Black neighborhood you can. Give them away free if you have to."
By evening, after some rest, James met with South Carolina's governor, Lesto Wood.
The governor carried a freshly inked newspaper.
Before James could speak, Wood tossed it in front of him.
"You were too reckless, James. Bo Reed's ties to the Klan's Chester are common knowledge here. Your words today only confirmed to everyone that you've come from Washington to endorse him.
"Look at my eyes—bloodshot. I've spent the entire afternoon answering calls about riots breaking out across Black neighborhoods.
Oh, and this—before I came, Phoenix handed me a complaint. That reporter you shoved at the airport? He's injured. His equipment's broken. They're demanding compensation, or they'll sue."
James's fragile calm shattered again. He picked up the paper—it was a hastily printed special edition.
Page one headline: "Washington Politician Bullies South Carolina Citizens!"
The cover photo showed James shoving the reporter, his own expression menacing, the reporter small and helpless at his feet.
Page two: "Shocking! The Untold Story of Bo Reed and the Roosevelt Family!"
It detailed Reed's career, how he'd been backed by the Roosevelts, how he rose to Columbia's mayoralty, complete with over twenty local rumors of his bribery and corruption.
Page four was the worst.
Headline: "Don't Miss This Rocketing Politician"
Subhead: "James Roosevelt's Life Uncovered"
It stripped away all pretense, reducing his entire résumé—propped up by his father—to fifty humiliating words.
It was a dagger straight to his heart.
James crushed the paper into a ball and hurled it to the floor.
The first article severed him from the people of South Carolina.
The second bound him irrevocably to the disgraced Bo Reed.
The fourth openly mocked him as a hollow man, all appearance, no substance.
Heart pounding, dizzy from rage, James realized he was losing control.
Meanwhile, Leo sat atop Lynchburg Hill, watching the sunset with Thomas.
"What do you think James will choose?" Thomas asked breathlessly.
"It doesn't matter," Leo replied calmly. "As long as he's forced to spend Roosevelt family political capital—not his own—I've already won.
"I hear the police chief at Roosevelt estates has made a move. That means we can shift coverage of these South Carolina events up to New York."
Turning to Walt, Leo added:
"Tell our people to leave James's bodyguards stranded here. I want him to return home carrying fear. Only there—in the place he feels safest—will I deliver the final blow."
Thomas sighed. "You… always kill not just the body, but the spirit. But if you strike in Washington, won't that cause too much fallout?"
Leo smiled faintly.
"Who said Washington was his safest place? His home isn't there. His true home is New York."