Chương 159: Russell Harrison

Five o'clock in the afternoon.

Indianapolis, the capital of Indiana.

Arthur's pickup truck drove into the city. The scene here was completely different from the desolation of Dayton, yet it was also absurd.

The state capitol's magnificent limestone dome gleamed with power in the winter sun, while in the plaza in front of it, thousands of unemployed workers sat silently in the cold wind, waiting for meager municipal relief soup.

The center of power and extreme poverty are separated by only a road guarded by heavily armed state police.

Arthur parked his car in a parking lot two blocks away, straightened the collar of his black coat, picked up his briefcase, and headed straight for the state capitol building.

The building's interior was opulent, with gleaming marble floors and an atmosphere permeated with cigars, expensive perfumes, and a hypocritical bureaucratic air.

The corridor was filled with politicians and lobbyists dressed in smart suits.

They gathered in small groups, whispering amongst themselves. These were lobbying teams sent by major Wall Street conglomerates, with only one mission: to buy off Indiana's judicial system with money and political promises.

Arthur went up to the third floor. In front of a heavy mahogany double door hung a brass plaque that read "Office of the Chairman of the State Judicial Commission".

There were seven or eight people lined up outside the door, all of them lawyers and lobbyists carrying briefcases.

An arrogant young secretary sat at his desk outside the door, impatiently dismissing the people.

"I'll say it again, Chairman Harrison is not meeting with any business representatives today. He is preparing for tomorrow's hearing. Please leave." The secretary waved his hand.

A chubby lobbyist stepped forward and discreetly pushed a thick envelope under the secretary's pen holder: "Charles, please do me a favor. The Mellon Group's representatives will only take five minutes of the chairman's time. We have a very generous settlement agreement regarding the 'Midwest Trust'—"

"Put away your dirty money."

A dignified voice suddenly came from behind the mahogany door.

The door was suddenly pushed open. A tall, elderly man in his sixties with a full head of silver hair stood in the doorway.

He was wearing an ordinary white shirt, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, and he was holding a cane.

His eyes were sharp, like those of an old wolf driven to the brink of despair but still fierce.

This is Russell Harrison.

The son of the 23rd President of the United States, the head of the Indiana State Judicial Commission, and a ruthless politician who pioneered the western wilderness in his early years.

"Tell those bastards at the Mellon Corporation." Russell stared intently at the fat lobbyist, his voice booming down the corridor.

"As long as I, Russell Harrison, am in this position, the Indiana courts will not stamp their bullshit document ordering the mass eviction of 200, 000 farmers! Get out of here!"

The corridor was quiet. The lobbyists, looking disheveled, picked up their briefcases and slunk away with their tails between their legs.

Russell snorted and prepared to close the door.

"Chairman Harrison."

Arthur crossed the police line and walked to the secretary's desk.

Russell stopped what he was doing and scrutinized Arthur from head to toe.

He could tell that this young man didn't have the greasy air of a Wall Street lobbyist; instead, he possessed a dangerous, understated sharpness.

"Which newspaper are you from? I'm not giving interviews today," Russell said impatiently.

Arthur didn't waste any words and introduced himself directly, "Arthur Kennedy. I just came from Dayton and Terre Haute. I brought a ledger that can save you from tomorrow's hearing."

Upon hearing the name "Arthur Kennedy," Russell's pupils contracted slightly.

He certainly knew the name. A telegram from Elizabeth Harrison in New York had long been on his desk.

He knew that this young man had brought down the mayor in New York, and he also knew that his niece, Isabella, was in close contact with this dangerous writer.

But he never expected that this young man would actually be able to overcome the tight blockade of Wall Street and fight his way all the way to Indianapolis all by himself.

"Charles, cancel all appointments. Mr. Kennedy, come in and speak with me."

Arthur put away his documents and walked into the spacious office.

The office furnishings were unexpected.

Instead of rows of law books, a huge, hand-drawn map of the American Midwest hangs on the wall.

The map is densely marked with the boundaries of rivers, valleys, and early Native American reservations.

The air was filled with the strong smell of cigars and the aroma of aged leather.

This doesn't look like a politician's office; it looks more like a frontline command post.

Russell walked behind the desk and sat down, pointing to the leather sofa opposite him.

"Sit down, young man. Elizabeth raved about you in the telegram. She said you're a rare genius, not only a good writer but also someone who knows how to kill without shedding blood. But I, Russell, am an old-fashioned man. I don't trust East Coast writers; I only trust those with mud on their shoes."

Arthur did not sit.

He opened his briefcase, pulled out the black leather ledger he had received from Joseph, and slammed it heavily onto Russell's large oak desk.

"Chairman Harrison, not only are my shoes covered in mud, but I'm also covered in oil from the Caterpillar tractor tracks."

Arthur rested his hands on the table, looking at the political giant who held immense power in the state.

"This is the internal bridging ledger of the First Agricultural Trust of Ohio. It details how the Midwest Trust on Wall Street" shorted agricultural product prices, forced local small banks to close down, and then frantically acquired mortgage-backed securities at a 90% discount.

Arthur tapped his fingers heavily on the ledger.

"This account proves that Wall Street is using legitimate legal procedures to conduct a serious interstate financial fraud and monopoly crime. This is not just driving out farmers, it is destroying Indiana's economic sovereignty."

Russell stared at the ledger on the table, his eyes wide with shock.

He took a deep drag on his cigar and quickly opened the ledger.

After reading only a few pages, the shrewd politician's hands began to tremble slightly.

"Where did you get this from?" Russell's voice was filled with suppressed elation.

"From a desperate bank manager who was about to hang himself. He was nearly driven to his death by Chicago's yellow tabloids in Hooverville. I bought his life, and he gave me this ledger."

Russell slammed the ledger shut, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

He was relentlessly attacked by Wall Street lawyers in the state legislature for a full month.

Although he held great power, he was constrained by the Federal Banking Act and rigid state legislative procedures, and could not find any loopholes to counter Wall Street's legitimate foreclosure application.

Now, Arthur has laid bare Wall Street's dirty secrets right on his desk.

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