"Every hat here represents a family or life ruined by Griffey Coal and Electric,"
the shopkeeper's words caused Jack and Clay to exchange bewilderment. The walls were densely packed with at least seventy or eighty old hats, suggesting an almost identical number of families had suffered misfortune.
"So how did Griffin manage to escape justice? I mean, we heard you filed a class-action lawsuit." Clay offered to help carry the remaining fertilizer bags.
"Because we're all poor," the shopkeeper said, her pale face brimming with self-deprecating laughter, her hand on her waist.
"We can't afford better lawyers, and Griffin has a slew of experts on his side. They say it's natural that poor people smoke and eat junk food, so it's normal for cancer and leukemia to be high.
They found out I smoked in high school, and in court, their lawyer, Andy Witherspoon, said my lung cancer was caused by those cigarettes."
"So the power plant shutdown wasn't caused by your class-action lawsuit?" Jack asked, frowning.
"Of course not," the shopkeeper whispered, thanking Clay for his help. "That's because the nearby coal mine is almost depleted, and their board of directors sold the power plant and the mine."
"So Larry Griffin can get away with it, living comfortably in his retirement with his profits?" Clay's eyes shone with anger.
"Of course not. He's started a new business and transferred the profits to his girlfriend's name. So the lawyer told us that even if we win the case, we won't get any compensation, so most people give up."
The shopkeeper's tone was full of sarcasm. "Want to know what his new business is? I bet you'll never guess."
"What is it?" Clay asked curiously.
In the short time they had been talking, Jack and Clay had easily moved hundreds of pounds of fertilizer bags. The grateful shopkeeper invited them into the store and took a few cold beers from the refrigerator.
"He's selling green products now, like natural shampoo made with tree sap and silicone-free detergent. His new company is called 'Blue Spring Flowers.'"
The female shopkeeper unscrewed the cap on her beer and handed it to the two men, a look of disgust on her face.
"
I remember seeing on the news that the governor of Alabama is trying to raise the minimum income requirement for minimum living allowance from $900 to $1,100 per month. His explanation was that it would prevent the poor from becoming too lazy."
As the two drove to Pelham, a suburb of Birmingham, Clay, who was driving, casually brought up the topic.
"At first, I thought it made sense. After all, if someone works hard and only makes a little over $1,000 a month, while someone else does nothing and lives a similar life, they might as well just lie down and do nothing."
"So what now?" Jack knew, of course, that wasn't what he meant.
"But these people don't want to work hard, at least not the ones I've seen." Clay sighed, "They are already working hard, but those rich people can easily make all their efforts go to waste."
Jack nodded in agreement. The conditions in the United States can be said to be unique. The land is vast and the population is sparse. Although there are big landowners everywhere, there is no contradiction between people and land in Seris since ancient times.
Take, for example, the town of Blue Springs, where they had just been. Because of its proximity to Mount Baker, home to the power plant
and coal mines, the rolling hills were unsuitable for large-scale mechanized farming, and thus unpopular with large landowners. It once boasted numerous small farmers. These small farmers faced a much more difficult living environment than the small farmers Jack knew in California. Lacking a large metropolitan area to absorb agricultural products like vegetables and fruits, they were limited to cotton cultivation or livestock farming.
However, compared to large landowners with thousands or even tens of thousands of acres, small farmers faced significantly higher production and labor costs.
They lacked access to large agricultural machinery, professionally trained agricultural workers from South Africa, and lacked a unified sales channel.
Despite this, they struggled to survive, striving for self-sufficiency until Griffin Coal and Electric Company shattered all their hopes.
The memorial plaque the shopkeeper had shown them was merely a local abbreviation from recent decades. In reality, the rednecks living at the bottom of society were no different from Black people, including in terms of discrimination.
But despite their feelings and sympathy, the case must continue. God knows how many explosives the Hammond brothers have prepared, and the FBI can't afford to let them go.
Larry Griffin has almost no assets. The land he purchased is now in the name of his young daughter, and the car and the luxurious villa where Jack and Clay are currently staying are all owned by a charitable foundation nominally owned by his girlfriend.
"I don't remember any Greg Hammond," Larry Griffin, who had received a call from the FBI, opened the door for the two FBI agents. After they explained their purpose, he immediately denied any knowledge of the matter.
The old man was short, no more than 5 feet 4 inches, wearing a well-ironed handmade suit and meticulously combed hair, giving him the air of a wealthy man.
Jack's smile was as fake as his own. "He used to be a truck driver for you, one of the plaintiffs in the class action lawsuit, and he recently lost his daughter to cancer."
"Please come in," Larry Griffin led the two FBI agents through a series of twists and turns before entering a meeting room.
As Jack walked, he noticed the walls of the villa, from the hallway to the rooms, covered in obscure abstract paintings. Judging by the alarms installed near the frames, these paintings were clearly worth a fortune.
"That lawsuit is pure extortion. Those lazy idiots who don't want to work are always looking for ways to make a quick buck. They can't produce any evidence of illegal emissions. Please take
a seat, gentlemen," Larry Griffin gestured for them to sit. In the center of the room sat a small, postmodern coffee table, prepared with cups and water. Around it were several equally stylish chairs.
Jack didn't recognize the coffee table, but he recognized the brand of the chairs: the "Caruselli" chairs from the Finnish brand "ARTEK," which cost over 10,000 euros. He had seen a similar one in Rossi's study.
"I entrusted the case to the lawyers. We won both the trial and the appeal," Larry Griffin said casually.
As he spoke, a beautiful, well-maintained blonde woman in her 30s walked in from the other side of the room and sat down next to him. Jack, having seen her photo, recognized her as Larry Griffin's current girlfriend.
(End of this chapter)