Chapter 890: Hearing

How much tax is there on a loosely packed container of fresh tobacco leaves?

How about a container of processed, compressed tobacco leaves?

The difference is huge, yet small—they’re both classified as tobacco leaves.

The more Coluff and tobacco EveryMoment sells in the Federation, the more tobacco they declare, and the more taxes they owe.

It doesn’t seem like a huge number, but it’s definitely not small—millions in lost taxes slip through the border every year.

This never caused problems before because no one wanted to target EveryMoment, and a company worth over a billion isn’t easy to challenge.

Does the Federation Tax Bureau not know what they’re doing?

They know. Even Austin from the anti-smuggling team knows EveryMoment’s tricks; the Tax Bureau definitely knows.

But knowing and taking action are different. Investigating such a huge corporation involves many issues—department coordination, government support, and more.

Capitalists can push emergency temporary laws through, which is why many conglomerates never fall.

As long as the money is right—like the Duncan family—whether you support them or not, take the cash; it’s their goodwill.

Once the law passes, investigations stop, and some illegal acts become legal—another quirk of Federation law.

When a case lacks proper judicial solutions, offenders may reduce or escape liability.

It’s like the early Public Facility Rights Act. Before it, some people took equipment from public facilities and were prosecuted, but because the law didn’t clearly define this as a crime, they were acquitted, and then the act was passed.

If EveryMoment insists on taxing both fresh and processed tobacco per container, the Tax Bureau’s investigation would fail.

To act, they need support from the Federation government and public opinion.

EveryMoment has lost government support. If they keep losing in public opinion, minor issues could topple the company.

The CEO fell into long silence, the only sound his heavy breathing inside the booth.

After a minute or two, he slammed his elbow into the booth, the sharp pain making him even more agitated.

After venting, he gasped, “It’s too much. If it were less, maybe we could negotiate.”

Lynch patiently waited. “From what I know, EveryMoment’s shareholder structure is simple.”

He neither agreed nor disagreed but used another way to communicate.

Backed by Marilo’s warlords, EveryMoment’s nature is complex. Small fortunes can’t touch it; the wealthy avoid it. Those interested can’t force it to bow.

Seventy percent of the board are puppets of the CEO; the rest are early investors.

In other words, most shares are still controlled by them.

EveryMoment’s growth is excellent; it’s a mid-generation industry. Entering it now is almost impossible.

Lynch can do it, but not easily—or it’d cost him far more than the gains.

This is a good opportunity. Lynch saw it and wanted in.

Flue-cured tobacco means cigarettes will reach more people faster—like the youth and young adults.

The Federation bans alcohol under twenty but not smoking.

A huge market, very tempting.

For capitalists, any chance deserves a full attack.

Lynch’s words stunned the CEO, who then realized it wasn’t a coincidence.

“You’ve investigated me.”

“I’m interested in any profitable business,” Lynch neither confirmed nor denied.

“Maximum five percent. No more,” the CEO offered. “And you pay. No stock swaps.”

Five percent means tens of millions, and no stock swap—he doubted Lynch could swallow that much.

But Lynch’s resolve to bite into EveryMoment was clear.

“Maybe you’ll think differently tomorrow, CEO. Good night.”

The CEO stared at the phone in disbelief. Business wasn’t supposed to be one-sided.

He just made a counteroffer, and Lynch hung up. Fear gripped him. He didn’t know Lynch’s plan but knew Lynch wasn’t normal.

Many who opposed Lynch ended badly. Some said it was luck; others said it was skill.

People don’t want to admit Lynch’s ability, calling it luck—jealousy of his youth, nothing more.

The CEO didn’t know what Lynch would do, only felt instinctive fear.

Meanwhile, Lynch replaced the handset and sat with fingers steepled, thinking before calling Austin over.

“Do you have any good contacts left on the anti-smuggling team?”

Austin nodded. “Yes. What do you need?”

He smiled and said, “I need a phone…”

About half an hour later, near eleven, a man called Lynch, his voice full of joy.

No surprise—Lynch had just donated one million to the border anti-smuggling team on behalf of Blackstone Capital.

Individual donations to federal agencies are legal, but the money must be kept in a designated account, publicly disclosed for a set period, and monitored by the public during use.

No matter how complicated the money’s use, one million is one million.

Soon, the anti-smuggling team captain came to thank Lynch and handed him a phone number.

The captain also invited Lynch to visit anytime, promising great gains.

After the call, Lynch looked at Austin, who felt a little embarrassed. “Every year, besides items ordered destroyed, the confiscated smuggled goods get auctioned off whenever possible…”

Lynch raised his hand to stop her. This auction system was just like the banks’: announcing the auction’s existence but never revealing the time, place, or participation details.

Thus, items with absurdly low starting prices sold at those starting prices, becoming a sort of hidden benefit.

The next day, more wealthy people returned to the Federation, but compared to Lynch, they were worse off.

Their clothes had been stolen by bandits, leaving them all dressed in navy uniforms—enough for the media to speculate wildly.

Eager for big news, the day’s headlines across major papers linked to these wealthy figures.

High-end newspapers guessed what horrible treatment they’d endured; tabloids added scandalous rumors, even maliciously suggesting unnamed women suffered various abuses.

Reporters described every detail as if they witnessed it firsthand.

Yet, more than these stories, people cared whether Lynch’s claims were true.

Perhaps this trip was truly unexpected. These lifelong elites had never faced such humiliation before, and their anger needed an outlet.

They couldn’t take it out on the navy or the federal government—the only target was Marilo and EveryMoment.

Now they understood why the captain preferred a thorough search over docking, and they knew EveryMoment was the perfect scapegoat.

After reporters learned this from the wealthy, EveryMoment’s stock plunged another 7%.

Compared to a few days earlier, its market value was now only 35%, and the decline continued.

Besides these troubles, a hearing was called against Lynch—his timing shorting EveryMoment was too suspicious.

Plus, he had extorted a million in life-saving money from those tycoons on the ship. Even if they couldn’t bring him down, they wanted to disgust him.

Because of Lynch’s special status, the Safety Committee and Military Intelligence were fully involved.

But since many claims were unverified, the hearing was closed to the public—at least for now.

“Mr. Lynch, can you answer why you sent those messages to the telegraph bureau at that time?” a senior Safety Committee investigator asked.

Lynch was a special advisor to the Committee, so it was fitting they led the inquiry—he was, after all, one of their own.

Other agencies couldn’t intervene easily—one of the Federation’s unwritten rules:

When your own people mess up, only your own can handle it.