Chapter 1194: Larry Griffin

“Each of these hats represents a family or a life ruined by Griffin Coal Power,” the store owner said.

Her words left Jack and Clay exchanging a glance. There were at least seventy or eighty old hats nailed to the wall—each one symbolizing a family touched by tragedy.

“So how did Griffin manage to escape accountability? I mean, we heard you all launched a class-action lawsuit,” Clay asked, stepping forward to help carry the remaining fertilizer bags.

“Because we’re poor,” the woman said with a bitter smile on her sickly pale face, her hand braced against her lower back.

“We couldn’t afford better lawyers, and Griffin had experts lining up to speak for him. They said poor people smoke, eat junk food, so high rates of cancer and leukemia were just natural.

They found out I smoked a few cigarettes in high school, and in court, Griffin’s lawyer—Andy Witherspoon—claimed that those few cigarettes caused my lung cancer.”

“So the plant’s shutdown wasn’t because of the lawsuit?” Jack asked, frowning.

“Of course not.” The store owner thanked Clay softly for the help, then continued, “It was because the nearby coal mine was nearly exhausted. The board sold off the power plant and the mine.”

“So Larry Griffin basically walked away clean, with all the profits, and is now enjoying retirement in comfort?” Clay’s voice carried a simmering anger.

“Not exactly. He started a new business, transferred all the money to his girlfriend’s name. Our lawyer said that even if we won the case, we wouldn’t see a cent in compensation. Most people just gave up.”

Her tone dripped with sarcasm. “Wanna know what his new business is? I bet you’ll never guess.”

“What is it?” Clay asked curiously.

In the time it took for that conversation, Jack and Clay had already finished moving a few hundred pounds of fertilizer with ease. Grateful, the store owner invited them inside and pulled a couple of cold beers from the fridge.

“He’s now selling ‘green products.’ Stuff like sap-based natural shampoo, silicone-free dish soap. His new company is called ‘Blue Springs Blossom.’”

She twisted off the bottle caps and handed them to the two agents, her expression one of absolute disgust.

—

“I remember seeing something on the news,” Clay said as they drove toward Pelham, a suburb of Birmingham. “The governor of Alabama wanted to raise the income eligibility for welfare from $900 to $1,100 per month. His reasoning was that it would stop poor people from getting lazy.”

“At first, it sounded kind of reasonable to me. I mean, if someone busts their ass and earns just a little more than someone doing nothing, it kinda makes sense to just give up, right?”

“And now?” Jack asked, fully aware that wasn’t the point Clay was trying to make.

“But these people aren’t lazy. At least not the ones I’ve met.” Clay sighed. “They’re already working damn hard to live. And the rich can just wipe away all that effort with a signature.”

Jack nodded in agreement. America had every advantage—endless land and resources. Despite the prevalence of large landowners, the country didn’t face the age-old land scarcity issue that Ceres dealt with.

Take Blue Springs, for instance. It was near Baker Hill, where the coal mine was. The rolling hills weren’t suitable for heavy mechanized farming, so large landowners hadn’t taken an interest. For a time, many small farmers thrived there.

But life for those smallholders was far tougher than for the ones Jack had known in California. There weren’t any nearby urban centers to buy up their vegetables and fruits. Their only options were cotton or livestock.

Compared to the massive estates with tens of thousands of acres, smallholders had far higher costs—for labor, equipment, everything.

They couldn’t afford large-scale agricultural machines. They couldn’t hire trained farmhands from South Africa. They had no unified sales channels.

Even so, they fought to survive—living off the land as best they could—until Griffin Coal Power destroyed their last hopes.

That memorial board the shop owner had shown them was just a small snapshot of the past few decades. In reality, the poor rednecks and the Black community had no meaningful differences—especially when it came to being discriminated against.

But reflection was one thing. Sympathy was another. The case still needed to be solved—and fast. No one knew how much explosive material the Hammond brothers had stockpiled. The FBI couldn’t afford to let it slide.

Larry Griffin had virtually no assets in his own name. The land he bought was registered to his newly adult daughter. The car, and the luxurious villa where Jack and Clay now stood, were all under the name of a charitable foundation run by his girlfriend.

“I don’t recall any Greg Hammond,” Larry Griffin said flatly when he opened the door for the FBI agents. Upon hearing their reason for visiting, he claimed total ignorance.

The old man was barely over five-foot-seven, dressed in a meticulously ironed custom-made suit, his hair perfectly slicked back—a picture of wealthy arrogance.

Jack mirrored his phony smile. “He was one of your former truck drivers. One of the plaintiffs in the class-action lawsuit. He recently lost his daughter to cancer.”

“Come inside, then,” Griffin replied, leading the two agents through a winding path before entering a formal sitting room.

Along the way, Jack noticed the villa’s hallways and rooms were lined with meaningless abstract paintings. Judging from the alarm systems on the frames, they were clearly worth a fortune.

“That lawsuit was outright extortion. A bunch of lazy moochers always looking to strike it rich however they can. They couldn’t produce any evidence of illegal dumping. Please, have a seat.”

Griffin gestured to a sleek postmodern coffee table already set with glasses and water. Around it were several uniquely shaped chairs.

Jack didn’t recognize the table, but he did recognize the chairs: Finnish brand ARTEK’s Karuselli chairs, which sold for over €10,000 each. He’d seen one before in Rossi’s study.

“I left the whole case to my lawyers. We won both in the trial and on appeal,” Griffin said breezily.

As he spoke, a well-maintained blonde woman in her thirties entered from the other side of the room and sat beside him. Jack recognized her from photos—Griffin’s current girlfriend.