Bucky's purification process has 48 hours left.
Ron withdrew his Observation Haki, which had been extending southward, and turned to walk back to the courthouse.
The morning's court schedule was packed.
All because of the chain reaction triggered by Kingpin's downfall.
The first two cases were disputes involving money laundering intermediaries and shell companies attempting to seize gang assets. Ron didn't even listen to the lawyers' nonsense, directly ruling the contracts illegal and freezing the funds, transferring them to the FBI.
In the third case, a gang leader in a floral shirt stood in the plaintiff's seat, while a bald, burly man stood in the defendant's seat.
Ignoring court rules, the two exchanged insults across the aisle.
"That shipment was promised to me by Kingpin!"
"Bullshit! I'm in charge of this territory now!" Ron grabbed the gavel and slammed it heavily onto the hardwood floorboards.
Bang.
The loud noise drowned out all the arguing, and the courtroom fell silent instantly.
Ron opened the case file in front of him, his gaze sweeping over the two men.
"Plaintiff, your claim lacks a legally valid transfer agreement. Defendant, your possession constitutes trespassing."
"This court hereby orders the assets in question to be temporarily seized by the New York City Property Management Office."
"Court adjourned." Ron slammed his gavel down again.
The two men tried to argue, but several bailiffs immediately stepped forward and forcibly pushed them out.
Ron closed the case file.
After Kingpin's downfall, the underground ecosystem of Hell's Kitchen completely collapsed, and gangsters attempted to whitewash their illegal turf wars.
Ron returned all the materials.
He also had the system record the crime scores of these gang leaders who came to court, so he could arrest them that night.
He stood up, took off his black judge's robe and hung it on the back of his chair.
He changed into a suit jacket and pushed open the oak double doors of the courtroom.
The corridor was empty; the bailiffs and spectators had dispersed.
A woman in a gray suit stood in the middle of the corridor.
She had long, wavy brown hair, black-rimmed glasses, and held a voice recorder in her hand. "Good morning, Judge Stern." The woman took a step forward.
"I'm Natalie Rushman, a freelance writer. I'm writing a feature article for The New Republic about 'How Judges Maintain Fair Trials in High-Crime Areas.'"
"Could I have fifteen minutes?" Ron stopped.
The system panel popped up in the lower right corner of his vision.
[Scan complete: Natalie Rushman. Guilt level: 0.]
[Note: This subject's heart rate, skin conductivity, respiratory rate, and other physiological indicators show signs of high training intensity. Not an ordinary journalist.]] S.H.I.E.L.D. acted quickly.
Ron looked at the woman in front of him and recognized her immediately.
Black Widow.
Furious had deployed his best weapon to probe the background of a magistrate judge.
Ron didn't expose her.
"Fifteen minutes."
"To my office." He walked past the woman and headed to the end of the corridor.
Natasha followed behind.
High heels clicked on the marble floor, each step precise to the millisecond.
Her breathing perfectly synchronized with her footsteps.
Ron pushed open the office door and entered.
The door closed behind Natasha, shutting out all the noise from the corridor.
Ron pulled out a chair behind his desk and sat down.
Natasha sat in the guest chair opposite him, placed a voice recorder on the table, and pressed the red record button.
"Your Honor, what are your thoughts on the 'vigilante' phenomenon?"
The first question cut straight to the heart of the matter.
Natasha opened her notebook, pen tip hovering over the paper.
"Some say that the masked man in the red shirt in Hell's Kitchen maintains community safety."
Ron looked at the voice recorder.
His Observation Haki silently enveloped the entire office.
Heartbeat, breathing, muscle tension—all fell into Ron's sensory network.
Natasha's heart rate remained steady at sixty beats per minute.
"The law is the bottom line of the social contract," Ron said.
"If the law fails, the problem lies with legislation and enforcement, not with individuals." Natasha made a note in her notebook, her heart rate dropping to fifty-eight beats per minute.
"But that masked man crippled someone." Natasha looked up at Ron.
"Doesn't that cross the line?"
"Violence cannot solve crime; it only creates new violence. Society needs order." Ron's answer was flawless.
"If the law cannot punish a criminal, can you accept someone dealing with him outside the law?" The question escalated.
Natasha adjusted her posture slightly, shifting her weight forward.
Ron leaned back in his chair, creating distance.
"I am only responsible for the evidence presented in court. Matters outside the courtroom are not within my jurisdiction." Natasha's pen traced across the paper.
"After Mr. Fisk disappeared, there were rumors that it was caused by supernatural forces." She leaned forward half an inch.
"Someone saw a white light, and lava. What's your comment on that?" Ron looked into Natasha's eyes.
"I suggest you ask the NYPD, or the Weather Bureau." He placed his left hand flat on the table, his ring finger raised, and tapped the surface lightly.
"I'm just a judge." Thump.
A very light tap.
Natasha's recording motion paused for a fraction of a second.
Her heart rate fluctuated extremely slightly; she caught that movement.
"Thank you for your time, Your Honor." Natasha put away her recorder and stood up.
Fifteen minutes were up exactly, not a second off.
Ron didn't get up.
"Don't bother seeing me out." Natasha turned, opened the door, and walked out.
She walked to the coffee shop on the next street corner; a black SUV was parked at the alley entrance.
Natasha opened the car door and got into the back seat. The window rolled up, and the soundproofing panel went down.
She took out a black encrypted phone and dialed a number.
"Chief Fury."
"He's cautious, more cautious than I expected." The sound of papers being flipped through came from the other end of the line.
"His persona?"
"The perfect public servant persona. Flawless, no unnecessary movements, his answers are watertight." Natasha looked out the car window at the passing crowds.
"But he has a little habit."
"When he lies, his left ring finger taps the table." Fury paused for two seconds, the sound of papers turning stopped.
"Which sentence was a lie?" Natasha recalled the scene in the office, every detail of the fifteen minutes replaying in her mind.
"The last sentence."
"'I'm just a judge.'" The call ended.
Fury sat in his office in the Tri-Wing building, his one eye fixed on the files on the desk.
The judge.
The habit of tapping the table.
When people lie under pressure, their peripheral nerves involuntarily release these movements; this is common knowledge in special interrogation psychology.
Fury circled a heavy circle on the file, a cold, hard smile playing on his lips.
As long as there was a flaw, it was still under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s control.
"Continue the surveillance." On a New York street, Natasha shoved her phone back into her bag, and the driver started the car.
Third floor of the courthouse.
Ron stood behind the blinds, calmly watching the black SUV drive away around the corner.
That tapping motion on the table was something he had specifically instructed Black Widow to do.
Only by making Fury believe that he was a traceable superhuman with psychological vulnerabilities would S.H.I.E.L.D. not interfere during the crucial period of Impel Down's expansion.
He turned around and completely closed the office blinds.