novelnext Chapter 69 Administrative Attack
Chapter 69 Administrative Attack
Chapter 69 Administrative Attack (Total 11900 words published)
Leo sat in his makeshift office, a leaflet with racist undertones spread out on his desk, next to a copy of the City Tribune that lavished praise on him.
Cartwright's two moves were very accurate, each one drawing blood.
His attempts to flatter him have cost him the trust of progressives, and playing the race card is tearing apart his base.
Frank was just complaining that several white foremen had started refusing to work with the young black men from the hills, and that there had even been shoving and pushing during breaks.
We must find a way to retaliate immediately.
Leo was rapidly working through the plan in his mind.
Should we hold a cross-community solidarity conference? Or should we have Sarah make a video to trace the source of funding for printing these flyers?
Before he could come up with a perfect solution, a strange sound from outside the window interrupted his thoughts.
Leo frowned, pushed open the door, and walked to the construction site.
Early mornings in Pittsburgh should be the busiest time on the construction site.
At this time of year, the air is usually filled with the roar of bulldozers, the turning of mixers, and the shouts of workers.
But today, there is only one voice here.
A monotonous, irritating "beep beep" sound.
That was the sound from the air quality monitor in the hands of an inspector from the Environmental Services Department.
Three uniformed inspectors were standing at the entrance of the construction site, repeatedly taking air samples.
"The PM2.5 index is slightly above the standard." The lead inspector looked at the reading, marked it on the form in his hand with a blank expression, and said, "There's also noise. The sound of your dump truck starting up just now exceeded the decibel limit for morning construction noise."
Frank stood to the side, his fists clenched so tightly they cracked, and the veins on his neck bulged.
"This is a construction site! Not a library!" Frank roared. "Of course a truck makes noise when it starts! You guys have never paid attention to this before!"
"The past is the past, and the present is the present." The inspector didn't even lift his eyelids. "According to the latest 'Regulations on Environmental Management of Urban Construction,' we must strictly monitor any potential sources of pollution for the sake of public health."
As he spoke, he tore off a yellow ticket and stuck it on the iron gate of the construction site.
"The rectification notice states that construction in this area must be suspended until all indicators meet the standards."
Frank was about to rush forward to argue when the foreman behind him held him back tightly.
This is just the beginning.
The Environmental Services Department staff had barely left when the Health Department's car pulled up on the side of the road.
Four officials wearing masks and gloves got off the plane and headed straight for the workers' makeshift canteen.
"This sandwich was stored at a temperature that does not meet food safety regulations."
"These coffee cups have not been sterilized at high temperatures."
Where is the record for the last filter replacement of your drinking water filter?
One problem after another was raised, followed by a series of white rectification notices.
In the afternoon, an even more devastating blow came.
Two official vehicles from the Pittsburgh Labour Development Center blocked the entrance to the construction site, carrying two large boxes of documents.
"Routine employment inspection." The official in charge placed a thick stack of forms on his desk. "We need to verify the employment qualifications, social security payment records, and safety training certificates of every worker present."
Leo picked up the form.
It was a detailed questionnaire, twenty pages long, containing countless tedious details and even requiring tracing the workers' work experience over the past five years.
"Does everyone have to fill this out?" Leo asked.
"Every single one," the official replied, "and it must be handwritten, without any corrections. These workers cannot enter the work area until we have completed our review."
This was a meticulously planned encirclement and suppression operation.
Cartwright employed his most powerful weapon as an executive leader—bureaucracy.
He turned every department of the municipal government into a fortress targeting Leo.
The air in the prefab office was so stuffy it was suffocating.
The whiteboard that was originally used to hang battle maps is now covered with stop-work orders and fines of various colors.
Ethan Hawke sat amidst a pile of documents, his hair a mess.
"They're exploiting every loophole in the rules," Ethan said, rubbing his temples. "Each of these checks, taken individually, is legal. While they may seem nitpicky, they're all within the mayor's discretionary power. If we were to sue, the case could drag on for a year, and we can't wait that long."
Sarah was on the phone; her voice was hoarse.
"I know—I know everyone is in a hurry, please give us a little more time—"
She hung up the phone, looked at Leo, her eyes filled with helplessness.
"This is the tenth call from a community representative. Residents are asking why the road construction was stopped halfway through? Why the park fence hasn't been removed yet? Rumors are starting to spread; some people say our funding chain has dried up, and that we're a fraudulent project."
Capital chain.
These three words weighed heavily on Leo's mind.
Just this afternoon, the city's financial director, Tom O'Malley, formally notified the City Regeneration Commission.
In light of recent reports of multiple violations related to construction site safety and environmental protection, the Treasury Department has decided to initiate a "compliance audit" of the use of federal special funds.
All of the committee's bank accounts will be temporarily frozen until the audit is completed.
Everyone knows that this money will eventually be unfrozen.
But how long is "temporary"?
One week? One month? Or three months?
For Cartwright, this was just an administrative process.
But for Leo, it was his carotid artery.
Next Tuesday is payday.
Hundreds of workers and hundreds of families are waiting for this money to pay their rent, buy food, and pay their children's school fees.
If salaries are not paid by Tuesday, the once disciplined "workers' vanguard team" will instantly fall apart.
Trust takes months to build, but only a day to crumble.
Leo sat behind his desk, looking out the window.
The construction site was quiet; all the heavy machinery was shut down, lying there like a pile of scrap metal.
The workers gathered in twos and threes, smoking and talking in hushed tones.
The pride and drive they had a few months ago are gone from their eyes; now there is doubt, anxiety, and fear of the future.
Frank pushed the door open and walked in; the tough guy suddenly looked ten years older.
"Leo, I can't take it anymore," Frank said in a low voice. "Old Mike just asked me if this week's pay would be on time. His wife is in the hospital and he urgently needs the money. I—I didn't dare answer him."
Leo opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
What could he say?
Are you saying we're going through a procedure?
For someone who desperately needs money to save their life, this is all nonsense.
The evening news was playing on the television.
The scene then cuts to the city hall.
Mayor Cartwright sat behind his large desk, his brow furrowed, his face showing deep concern for the country and its people.
"I personally feel deeply sorry for the difficulties that the urban regeneration project is currently facing."
Cartwright spoke sincerely to the camera.
"Mr. Leo Wallace is a very passionate young man, I never deny that. However, passion alone is not enough to manage a city."
"This requires experience, respect for the rules, and professional management skills."
"The recent series of safety and environmental violations have fully exposed the shortcomings in the management of this young team. But I assure the citizens that the municipal government will not stand idly by. We will help them make corrections to ensure that every penny of taxpayers' money is spent safely and in compliance with regulations."
He casually splashed all the dirty water back at him.
He attributed the obstacles he created to Leo's incompetence.
He was telling all the voters: Look, this young man may be a good person, but he's too inexperienced. He's simply not capable of managing a project, let alone a city.
Leo turned off the TV.
Silence fell over the room.
Only the clock on the wall ticked away, the sound of a countdown.
There are less than six days until payday.
There are still two months until the primary election.
But he felt like he was about to suffocate.
This is the real political meat grinder.
There were no sword fights, no heated debates.
All that's left are mountains of forms, ubiquitous warnings, and frozen accounts.
Your opponent doesn't even need to confront you directly; with just a flick of their finger and by leveraging their vast bureaucratic machine, they can wear you down.
Looking at the mountain of rectification notices on the table, Leo felt an unprecedented sense of exhaustion.
His money was frozen.
His supporters are being divided by racial rumors.
His energy was endlessly consumed by these meaningless administrative procedures.
He felt he might really lose.
"Mr. President—"
In his heart, Leo used his last bit of strength to make a call.
"Is there any other way?"
"We're trapped, completely trapped."
In my mind, in that familiar space of consciousness, there was also silence.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt, sitting in his wheelchair, did not answer immediately.
This is a rare silence.
Over the past few months, whenever Leo encountered difficulties, that confident, even slightly arrogant voice would always be the first to ring out, providing precise guidance.
But this time, there was only deathly silence in the space of consciousness.
Roosevelt looked at the young man in front of him, who was in despair.
He saw his younger self, the helplessness he felt when facing something enormous, the suffocating feeling of being bound by invisible ropes.
But he also saw a danger.
"Leo," Roosevelt finally spoke, his voice lacking its usual fervor, instead carrying a deep hesitation, "I can help you. I know how to deal with this situation. In my life, I have faced far worse predicaments than this countless times."
"But I'm hesitant."
"Hesitation?" Leo screamed in his mind. "What time is it? My team is falling apart, my funds are frozen, and Cartwright is slowly crushing my throat! What are you hesitating about?"
"I'm hesitating, wondering if I've gotten too involved."
Roosevelt took off his signature pince-nez glasses and slowly wiped them in his hand.
"From the start of the campaign, to the negotiations with Morganfield, to utilizing Sanders, every step was my decision-making process, and you executed it very well, even perfectly."
"But that's exactly what I'm worried about."
Roosevelt looked up at Leo with a complicated expression.
"If you've grown accustomed to my presence, accustomed to me always breaking the deadlock, then does Leo Wallace still exist? Are you still that passionate young man who wanted to change Pittsburgh? Or are you becoming another me? Becoming a walking corpse of Franklin Roosevelt in this century, a vessel merely used to extend my will?"
"I've died once, son. The world doesn't need a second Roosevelt; it needs you."
"If I step in now and crush Cartwright for you, you might win the election, but you might lose yourself. You'll become a politician who depends on others, not an independent leader."
"Although I am now your campaign manager, your ideas are equally important."
Leo was stunned.
He looked back on the past few months.
Yes, he became increasingly reliant on that voice; he began to imitate Roosevelt's tone and his way of thinking.
He's gotten into the habit of asking "Mr. President" first when a problem arises.
But when he looked at the real world, at the mountain of fines on his desk, and at the workers waiting in the cold wind outside his window for their paychecks, he saw them all.
Leo took a deep breath.
He stood up straight in his consciousness space and looked directly at the giant sitting in the wheelchair.
"Mr. President, you are mistaken."
Leo's voice became unusually calm.
"I am not your vessel, nor have I ever intended to become a second you."
"I am who I am, I am Leo Wallace, a poor boy from Pittsburgh."
"But I'm facing a war now, my soldiers are bleeding, my positions are being lost, and at this time you're talking to me about independence? Talking about the self?"
Leo took a step forward, closing in on Roosevelt.
"The workers outside are waiting to eat, my team is waiting to get paid, and Cartwright is waiting to see me die."
"At a time like this, to die with the so-called independent personality is not backbone, it is a betrayal of supporters."
"Politicians can sell their souls and sacrifice their reputations for victory."
"I only have one chip left that hasn't been taken away yet, and that is myself."
"If necessary, I will not hesitate to offer myself on the altar in exchange for your power."
"I don't care as long as I can win, as long as I can get Cartwright out of here."
"That's my pragmatism."
"We are partners, you said it yourself. When one partner is in dire straits, is the other supposed to stand idly by for the sake of some so-called educational purpose?"
"I don't need you to drive for me, but I'm stuck in the mud, my engine has stalled, I need you to give me a push, I need your fire to start my engine!"
"Once I get out of this quagmire, the steering wheel will still be in my hands. I will still be walking the road myself."
"Stop acting like a superior mentor, Mr. President. Get down here, get into the mud, and stand with me."
Roosevelt looked at Leo.
He saw the flame burning in those young eyes.
That's the will to survive, ambition, and a sense of responsibility.
What he saw was no longer a student seeking asylum.
He saw a politician who was willing to use anything to achieve his goals.
"Good lad."
Roosevelt smiled.
"You've finally learned it."
"For the sake of results, they are willing to treat themselves as tools."
"Now you're finally starting to look like a politician."
He put his glasses back on.
In that instant, his demeanor underwent a dramatic change.
That gentle, elder-like aura vanished completely, and that hesitation and entanglement disappeared without a trace.
Instead, there was a terrifying, iron-blooded pressure.
That was December 8, 1941, the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor.
That was how he looked when he gripped the edge of the podium, forcing himself to stand with the support of his leg braces, facing Congress, facing the nation, facing the world that was about to be swallowed by war.
His chin was slightly raised, and his eyes were as sharp as a hawk's.
An unprecedentedly resolute tone echoed in Leo's mind.
"In that case, let's get started together."
"Leo, you need to understand one thing."
"When your enemies use the rules to drag the battlefield into the quagmire they do best; when they use the bureaucratic machine to try to suffocate you."
"Any attempt to solve a problem within the rules is suicidal."
"You can't untie those knots, because they can't be untied."
"The only way is to pick up the sword and cleave that knot, along with the table, completely!"
"child."
"It's time."
"This time, we're going to completely overturn the entire chessboard."
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