Chapter 203
Colorado and New York
Chapter 203 Colorado and New York
As we left Carney County in the early morning, the Nebraska wilderness gradually receded into the rearview mirror.
At the horizon, the snow-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains are faintly visible in the morning light.
That was the symbol of the West, the end point for pioneers, and behind it lay the promised land that countless bankrupt farmers dreamed of.
But Arthur knew that what awaited them beyond that mountain range might not be any better than the place they had fled from.
As the pickup truck crossed the Colorado border, Arthur could see the barbed wire fence stretching across the highway from afar.
Behind the barbed wire were several rows of machine gun positions made of sandbags. Heavy machine guns were mounted on the positions, their dark muzzles pointing towards the road.
Further behind were several hundred National Guard soldiers in khaki uniforms, rifles in hand, their bayonets gleaming coldly in the sunlight.
On this side of the barbed wire fence, however, is a completely different scene.
Those were people. Tens of thousands of people.
They brought their elderly and children, along with their families, and squeezed onto the wasteland on both sides of the road.
There were elderly people, children, young mothers holding babies, and veterans leaning on canes.
Their truck had long since broken down, their luggage was scattered all over the ground, and their faces were filled with exhaustion, despair, and anger.
They are bankrupt farmers from Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska, those evicted from their homes by banks.
The "Oki people" whose farmhouses were bulldozed by bulldozers.
They were blocked in front of this steel defense line, unable to advance or retreat.
Some people were cursing, some were praying, and some were kneeling on the ground kowtowing to the soldiers on the other side of the barbed wire.
But the soldiers on the other side remained motionless, staring at them expressionlessly.
Arthur parked the pickup truck on the side of the road, opened the door, and got out.
He walked through the crowd toward the barbed wire fence.
The refugees looked at him with curiosity, numbness, and a hint of inexplicable hope in their eyes.
"It's Kennedy!" someone recognized him. Someone shouted.
The crowd stirred. More people turned to look at the young man who stepped out of a beat-up pickup truck.
Arthur didn't stop. He walked to a spot a few dozen meters away from the barbed wire, took the Leica camera off his neck, raised it, aimed it at the barrier, and pressed the shutter.
The soldiers on the other side of the barbed wire moved, and one of them glanced this way.
Just as Arthur was about to take the second picture, two black Ford sedans suddenly sped up from the other end of the road and stopped less than ten meters behind him.
The car door opened, and four men in dark trench coats stepped out.
They walked up to Arthur and stopped.
The man in the lead took off his hat, revealing a face with strong, defined features.
He looked at Arthur and said in a respectful tone, "Hello, Mr. Kennedy."
Arthur didn't put down his camera and asked, "Who are you? From the FBI?"
The man shook his head. "No. We're not Hoover's people. Someone's waiting for you in Denver. Please come with us."
Arthur looked at him: "What if I don't go?"
The man gave a wry smile: "Mr. Kennedy, you misunderstand. This isn't an arrest, it's an invitation. The person who invited you said that if you don't go, he will come here to find you himself. But given his current condition, he probably can't travel that far."
Arthur frowned.
"who?
'
The man lowered his voice and said a name.
Arthur paused for a moment, his hand holding the camera still.
Three thousand miles away, in New York.
Isabella sat in an armchair, her face bare of makeup, with a faint bluish tint under her eyes.
Sitting opposite her was Elizabeth.
Isabella asked softly, "Aunt, did you really find out?"
Elizabeth picked up a heavy brown paper bag from the coffee table next to her, weighed it in her hand, and then pushed it in front of Isabella.
"That idiot Richard thought he was hiding it well. He was using Harrison's overseas shipping business to book that estate on Long Island that he gave to his mistress, but you can't fake ocean shipping documents."
Isabella reached out and stroked the paper bag.
Elizabeth picked up another document, opened it, and pointed to a line: "He did indeed use the family trust fund to conduct an illegal leveraged cash-out before the crash of 1929. He thought the money went through underground banks and couldn't be traced. But he forgot that people in underground banks also need to eat."
She gave a cold laugh.
"This is enough evidence to put him in jail for a hundred years."
Isabella opened the document and read through it line by line. The numbers, the dates, the signatures were like knives, carving away Richard's true colors, one cut at a time.
Elizabeth continued, "Arthur Kennedy told me in a telegram that the Harrison family doesn't need a bloodsucker to steer the ship. I agree with him."
Isabella paused for a moment.
"Did Arthur send you a telegram?"
"Sent. It's a very long one." Elizabeth's lips curled up slightly.
He said you are much stronger than he thought, you just need a chance to prove yourself.
She stood up, walked to the window, and turned her back to Isabella.
"Tomorrow's board meeting will be your time to clean house. I'll be there. Those directors who were bribed by Richard will be very happy to see me there."
Isabella watched Elizabeth's retreating figure, her eyes welling up with tears.
"Thank you, Aunt," she said softly.
Elizabeth did not turn around.
"No need to thank me. Just do it."
"Isabella, you must remember one thing. In this country, power is not given by others, but taken by oneself. If you hold Richard by the reins, he will have to kneel down and beg you. If you don't, he will dare to ride roughshod over you."
Isabella lowered her head, looking at the paper bag in her hand, as if she could hear Arthur whispering in her ear from the far west: "When a dog tries to bite you, don't back down. Just smash its spine."
She raised her head, the vulnerability in her eyes gone.
"I understand, Auntie."
An abandoned miners' outpost in the suburbs of Denver, Colorado.
Arthur followed the four men in trench coats through a hidden barbed wire gate and into the makeshift command post tucked away in the valley.
The outpost was small, with a few simple wooden tables piled high with maps, documents, and telegram drafts.
Behind the wooden table sat a man.
He was about fifty years old, and his hair was already gray.
His eyes were bloodshot, his eyes were dark-rimmed, and he looked extremely tired.
He is Bill H. Adams, the governor of Colorado.
Arthur walked to the wooden table and sat down in an empty chair.
"Mr. Governor."
Governor Adams skipped the pleasantries and went straight to the point: "Mr. Kennedy, I heard from Franklin that you are a smart man."
Then, he pointed vaguely out the window.
"Those 50,000 people outside are about to storm my state. There are still many people in the state who are starving to death because of unemployment. But my finances are already close to bankruptcy."
"If you can help me untangle this knot, you'll be the most popular person in Colorado besides God."
Arthur smiled slightly and said, "Governor."
""
"God only brings disaster. I am here to bring you new policies."
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