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Chapter 14: The Spark Ignites (2-in-1)
The so-called "gust of wind" arrived two days later.
In Pittsburgh, there was a niche left-leaning news blog called The Rust Voice.
It didn’t have many readers, but those it did were fiercely loyal—mostly union members, university professors, and community activists disillusioned with mainstream media.
The blog’s founder and sole contributor was Emily Chen, a retired investigative journalist. By chance, she stumbled upon the video from The Heart of Pittsburgh.
At first, she assumed this was just another young person trying to gain attention by bashing the government. But she forced herself to watch the entire video.
There was no dramatic performance, no sentimental music—just a young man sitting by the fireplace, speaking plainly about an unfolding injustice.
The sincerity and sharpness of the video moved the veteran journalist.
She immediately wrote a recommendation article and published it on her blog.
The title was straightforward:
"This Young Man is Speaking the Truth Pittsburgh Dares Not Say"
In the article, Emily not only recommended Leo’s video but also supplemented and verified the evidence chain he had presented, drawing from her own experience as an investigative journalist. She pointed out that behind Summit Development Group lay connections to several city council members.
Together, they formed an interest group systematically devouring Pittsburgh’s public land resources.
Readers of The Rust Voice began sharing the article and Leo’s video. They posted the video link in local Pittsburgh Facebook groups, internal forums of steelworker unions, and teacher union boards.
The video began breaking out of its niche audience.
The view count started growing exponentially—1,000, 5,000, 10,000…
Within days, the video that had initially garnered only a few hundred views surpassed 50,000.
The comment section exploded.
Many residents of the community center appeared in the comments to share their personal stories.
George, Rosa, Mike—all, with Sarah’s help, created YouTube accounts and used their firsthand experiences to confirm the authenticity of Leo’s claims.
"I’m George. Leo is right—the community center taught me how to use a computer so I could see my grandchildren."
"I’m Rosa. Without the friends I’ve made here, I might have died alone at home."
These heartfelt comments gave the video immense credibility.
Public opinion began to ferment.
The Heart of Pittsburgh, overnight, became a hot topic in the city. People started discussing it in coffee shops, bars, and around their dinner tables. What had been a small community issue was now evolving into a citywide public debate.
Mainstream media could no longer pretend to ignore it.
The Pittsburgh Chronicle, the city’s largest newspaper, was finally forced to cover the story. Their report appeared on an obscure page, filled with arrogance and bias.
They described Leo as an “activist with unclear motives,” hinting at hidden political agendas. They portrayed the community center residents as stubborn "nail households" resisting urban development.
But they reported it nonetheless.
They spread Leo’s name and the fact that the community center was up for auction to a broader audience.
That was enough.
"See, child," Roosevelt said in Leo’s mind. "This is how politics works. When they can’t ignore you, they start smearing you. It’s a good sign—it means we’re hitting them where it hurts."
Fame brought attention.
Attention brought something far more tangible—money.
At the end of the second video, following Leo’s instructions, Sarah added a link for small online donations. She explicitly stated that all funds raised would be transparently used for the community center’s legal battle and publicity efforts.
At first, donations trickled in—mostly $5 or $10 contributions from community residents and their relatives. But as the video spread, the frequency and amount of donations grew significantly.
Strangers across Pittsburgh—people who had never met Leo or the community center—began voting for the cause with their wallets.
A truck driver donated $20, leaving a comment: "I drive past that community center every day. I don’t want to see it turned into luxury apartments."
A University of Pittsburgh student donated $5, writing: "I don’t have much, but this is my lunch money for today. Please take it."
A retired teacher donated $50, saying: "A strong community is the best education. Please save it for the children."
These small donations coalesced into a warm flood of support.
They proved one thing: the heart of this city hadn’t completely died.
One evening, Leo and Sarah were in the community center office reviewing the donation backend data. The total had already surpassed $10,000—enough to hire a professional lawyer.
Suddenly, a new donation record popped up on the screen.
It was a number that left both of them stunned.
$5,000.
Amidst the dozens and hundreds of smaller donations, this figure stood out like a beacon. The donor’s name was anonymous, but they left a simple message:
"My father once worked at the Homestead factory. After he lost his job, he received electrical training at that community center. That new job gave our family a second chance. Now, it’s my turn."
Leo stared at the message, then at the continuously updating stream of donations and supportive comments.
For the first time, he truly felt the power of the words "fame" and "people"—a force more precious than money, more solid than power.
Roosevelt’s voice echoed in his mind.
"See? We have both money and people."
"Now, we can take these to next week’s community hearing and give Mayor Cartwright and his friends a big surprise."
He paused, his tone brimming with anticipation.
"Remember, Leo, fame itself is meaningless. But when you learn to turn it into cannonballs aimed at your enemies, it becomes very, very meaningful."
---
Pittsburgh City Hall was an imposing building.
Its granite walls, towering columns, and the city motto engraved above the entrance proclaimed the dignity of power and order.
The community hearing was about to begin.
Leo Wallace, wearing a slightly worn suit purchased with community donations from a thrift store, led Margaret, Frank, and a dozen community representatives up the steps of City Hall.
Though ill-fitting, the suit at least made him look less like a student fresh out of the university library.
This was their first time stepping out of the streets of protest and into this hall of power.
The residents’ faces were etched with nervousness and awe. Accustomed to dealing with machines in factory workshops or chatting with neighbors on community streets, they had never imagined entering this place where the city’s fate was decided.
The hearing took place in a small conference room on the third floor.
The setup was simple: a large horseshoe-shaped table and a few rows of chairs for the public. When Leo and his group entered, several people were already seated at the table.
At the head was a man in his forties, dressed in a perfectly tailored dark gray suit, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. His hair was meticulously styled, his face adorned with a polite smile—but his eyes were cold, sharp, and emotionless, like a scalpel.
When he saw Leo’s group enter, he even stood up, nodding with a smile.
"Be careful of this snake in a suit, Leo," Roosevelt’s voice warned. "He’s our real opponent today. He won’t argue right or wrong with you—he’ll entangle you with countless rules and procedures you’ve never heard of until you suffocate."
Leo mentally noted the warning.
He and the residents took their seats in the audience.
Soon, the meeting’s moderator, Robert Jennings, the bald chairman of the city planning committee, announced the start of the hearing. His tone was bland and bureaucratic.
According to procedure, the community representatives, as stakeholders, could present their case first.
Leo stood, walked to the podium, and took out a carefully prepared statement. He planned to tell the commissioners about the history of the community center, its significance to unemployed workers and the elderly, and how a city’s conscience shouldn’t be bought by money.
Clearing his throat, he began:
"Mr. Chairman, esteemed members of the committee. Today, we are here to discuss something far more important than property taxes—the soul of our city…"
He had barely spoken two sentences when the man in the suit raised his hand.
"Objection," he interrupted. "The speaker’s statement is irrelevant to the topic of this hearing."
Chairman Jennings immediately turned to Leo.
"Mr. Wallace, please note that the sole topic of this hearing is the review of the municipal auction process for the Steelworkers Community Center plot. Please stay on topic."
Leo froze.
His carefully prepared weapon had been disarmed in the first second.
Roosevelt’s voice rang out.
"Welcome to their world, child. Here, souls and consciences are invalid words. You must talk to them about rules and beat them at their own game."
Leo took a deep breath, put away the statement, and began addressing his concerns from a legal procedural perspective.
"Alright, Mr. Chairman, let’s talk about procedure."
"According to Article 112, Section 3 of the Pittsburgh Municipal Code, regarding applications for tax exemptions by nonprofit organizations, the municipal tax department must provide a written response within thirty working days, stating specific reasons. To our knowledge, the community center has never received any formal written response."
He finished and looked at the man in the suit.
The man still wore a smile.
After Leo finished, he calmly stood up.
"My name is Alan Wexler," he introduced himself, then turned to Chairman Jennings. "My client, Summit Development Group, is the legitimate bidder in this auction."
"Regarding Mr. Wallace’s earlier question, I can respond. This is a receipt for a letter mailed by the municipal tax department on October 3rd, rejecting the community center’s tax exemption application."
He pulled a document from his folder and handed it to the chairman.
Margaret, in the audience, jumped up in agitation.
"We never received that letter!"
Chairman Jennings rapped the table.
"Please remain quiet, audience members! Mr. Wexler, continue."
Wexler smiled and nodded at Margaret before continuing.
"Whether the letter was received falls under postal service jurisdiction, but the city government has indeed fulfilled its obligation to notify. Therefore, there are no procedural flaws in the legal process."
Leo felt as though he had punched a cloud.
His first attack had been effortlessly deflected.
Over the next hour, the hearing turned into an unequal legal duel.
Every question Leo raised was blocked by Wexler with documents and legal clauses, watertight and unassailable.
Wexler didn’t discuss the social value of the community center, the plight of the elderly, or anything related to morality or emotion.
He only talked about law, only about procedure.
Did the community center owe property taxes?
Yes. Wexler produced the tax department’s notice of delinquency.
Was the municipal auction announcement published according to regulations?
Yes. Wexler showed screenshots from the city government website and photocopies from local newspapers.
Was the auction process open to all bidders?
Yes. Wexler explained that only his client was interested in the land, likely due to the additional demolition costs involved.
His argument was flawless.
He successfully framed what was essentially a controversial collusion between government and business as a completely legal commercial transaction.
All of Leo’s arguments about "community memory" and "worker dignity" seemed pale and powerless in the labyrinth of legal jargon.
He watched helplessly as he and the community residents were dragged into this unfavorable battlefield and beaten back step by step using rules they didn’t understand.
Finally, Chairman Jennings cleared his throat to make his conclusion.
"Given that the community center is indeed in tax default and the municipal auction process appears to have no obvious flaws..."
He glanced at Wexler, then at Leo, whose face was ashen.
"I declare this hearing closed. The auction plan will proceed as scheduled at 10:00 AM on Wednesday, two weeks from now, in the auction hall on the first floor of City Hall."
The residents’ faces were etched with disappointment and anger.
Frank couldn’t help but mutter a curse under his breath.
Just as everyone thought the matter was settled, Chairman Jennings added one final sentence.
"Of course, if the community side can present decisive new evidence of significant flaws in the auction process before the final auction date, the committee may reconvene for an emergency hearing."
With that, he struck the gavel, announcing the meeting adjourned.
Wexler stood, adjusted his tie, and approached Leo.
He extended his hand.
"You were impressive, Mr. Wallace," he said, his smile impeccable. "For a young man without a law degree, achieving this much is remarkable. I look forward to our next encounter."
Leo didn’t shake his hand.
He simply stared into the man’s cold eyes.
Wexler didn’t seem to care. He withdrew his hand, turned, and left the conference room.
Their first direct confrontation ended in complete defeat.
This was an almost impossible task.
Finding decisive evidence of a major flaw in the other side’s airtight legal process within less than a week was like searching for a needle in a haystack.
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