The Perfect Trap
The United States and Britain.
Politics and business.
A perfect, beautiful accord where everyone’s interests aligned flawlessly!
The North would be happy to unload its surplus inventory, Britain would be thrilled to rake in mountains of cash, and I would be ecstatic at the prospect of becoming America’s richest man. A true win-win-win.
“Heh, who am I? The representative of Southern agriculture and special civilian advisor, that’s who.”
The South offers its land, the North and Britain offer their money.
Now all that remained was to return home triumphantly, survey the territory laid at my feet, and pop open some champagne. A flawless scenario…
Or so I had thought.
“…What the hell is all this?”
“Can’t you tell just by looking? It’s the magnificent achievement our proud Southern brothers accomplished while you and I were away!”
My hands trembled as I took the thick stack of documents Chairman Farrar thrust toward me.
Wow. These bastards really couldn’t wait. They went and did it again.
Why did these damn Dixie boys always channel their creativity in the absolute worst possible direction?
Election Law Amendment Bill
The title sounded ordinary enough.
But the contents were plastered with every creative clause imaginable—clauses that would leave people from the 21st century speechless with awe.
Following the constitutional amendments ratified after the Civil War, Black people were now fully American citizens and therefore entitled to exercise their right to vote.
However, while outright “depriving” someone of the vote was unconstitutional, “restricting” voting qualifications fell under state authority. These men had not missed that loophole.
“A literacy test to qualify for voting? For Black people?”
“Of course! How could illiterate fools who can’t even read possibly know whose name is on the ballot? It’s far more efficient to screen them out than risk invalid votes from random guessing.”
One congressman puffed out his chest with absolute confidence as he answered.
On the surface, it was a perfectly reasonable point. If people who couldn’t read simply voted for anyone, the entire electoral system would lose all meaning.
But if that were truly the case, shouldn’t the countless illiterate white people also have their voting rights restricted?
Fortunately for them, the bill very kindly included what was known as the “grandfather clause”—anyone whose ancestors had previously exercised the right to vote was exempt from the test.
In other words, it was a law designed to snipe exclusively at Black people, whose ancestors had been slaves for generations.
“Does this make any logical sense to you people? Do you really think the North will just sit back and allow this?”
“Don’t worry! We’ve already prepared all the justifications.”
Another congressman jumped in, spit flying from his mouth.
“Operating polling stations costs a fortune. That’s why we’ve stipulated that only those who have paid their poll tax may vote. Why should beggars who can’t even pay their taxes be allowed to meddle in national affairs?”
I confirmed that this rule, too, was applied with ruthless strictness only toward Black voters.
“…….”
“Besides, ballot boxes are highly sophisticated mechanical devices, aren’t they? It would be disastrous if someone of low intelligence mishandled them and caused a breakdown. From the perspective of protecting national assets, a rigorous qualification screening is absolutely essential!”
I probably shouldn’t point out that the only thing in danger of breaking was their thick skulls, right?
I glanced at Chairman Farrar.
I had suspected he might be involved in this election law revision, but even our old fox sat there with his mouth hanging open, staring blankly at the documents.
“Sigh… You really covered every single base with these clauses?”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman! While you and Advisor Serget have been traveling back and forth between Washington and London handling such monumental tasks, how could we possibly sit idle!”
Their eyes sparkled with absolute certainty that we would be overjoyed.
I thought I had already lost every ounce of affection I had for them, but apparently there was always a basement beneath the floor. That old saying hit harder every single day.
“Let’s be honest. If Black people gain the right to vote, who do you think they’ll support first? Obviously Lincoln and the Republicans. In the worst-case scenario, congressmen who support you, Mr. Chairman, or Mr. Serget might lose their seats, wouldn’t they?”
“Exactly! This is a critical moment that will decide the fate of the South! Policy consistency is more important than anything else. Don’t we need political stability to ensure Mr. Serget’s Asian project succeeds?”
Oh… So the reason they pulled this insane stunt was all for my sake… How touching.
“We made sure to sweep everything clean in advance so that Mr. Serget’s plans wouldn’t be hindered by the ignorant voting preferences of Black citizens. What do you think? Perfect, isn’t it!”
For a moment I wondered if they were mocking me, but astonishingly, that wasn’t the case.
There was no sarcasm, no veiled insult.
This was pure, 100% unadulterated sincerity. They had staked their entire political lives on passing this bill just to lighten the burden on me and Chairman Farrar.
They say ignorant goodwill is more terrifying than malice. How right they were.
“Hahaha. You gentlemen are truly… remarkable. I’m so moved I can barely see through my tears.”
The wisdom of the ancient sages—before expanding overseas, first secure your own house… Yes, that was correct.
It was correct, but was this really what they meant, my dear Dixie friends?
“Serget, we’ve still got sharp instincts, don’t we?”
The congressmen, beaming with pride as if they had just won the Civil War, stood tall with their shoulders squared. They had no idea what I was actually thinking.
Well, what could I do?
Since they claimed it was all for my sake, the least I could do was try to appreciate their intentions.
Just don’t come crying to me later, alright?
* * *
The full-scale housecleaning operation, carried out under the pretext of greatly expanding the Southern market.
The voting qualification screenings conducted in its name were extremely strict, fair, and swift.
Of course, since racial discrimination was constitutionally prohibited, the standards were, on the surface, applied equally to both white and Black citizens.
The only difference was that white people who met those equal standards were conveniently exempted from testing.
In the end, the only ones lining up at the examination tables from dawn were Black people determined to obtain the right to vote.
“Next. Name.”
“Thompson.”
“Poll tax receipt.”
“Excuse me? What’s that?”
“You don’t even have money to pay taxes and you want to vote? Disqualified! Next!”
Poor sharecroppers and small farmers were swept away like fallen leaves at the first barrier—the poll tax.
For people who struggled just to earn and eat in the same day, demanding two dollars just to vote was essentially telling them not to bother.
“I-I paid it! Here’s the receipt!”
Some stubborn individuals had desperately scraped together the money and paid their taxes.
What awaited them, however, was the second barrier, delivered with a sneering smile from the white supervisors.
“Good. You paid your taxes. Now read that over there.”
The supervisor pointed at the wall, where the most obscure clause of the Mississippi state constitution was written in tiny print.
[Article 12, Section 3: Any infringement of rights not in accordance with due process in the exercise of sovereignty…]
“W-what is this…”
“What, you can’t even read it? Illiterates are not qualified to vote. This is about deciding the important affairs of the nation. We can’t have blind fools getting involved. Disqualified!”
“But you have to at least give me time to—”
“Next!”
Even knowing how to read didn’t help. If the supervisor insisted the interpretation was wrong, that was the end of it.
And if someone somehow managed a perfect interpretation?
Then they would be forced to take an even more difficult formal exam before earning the right to vote.
A triple-layered barrier built on the unyielding determination to never, under any circumstances, grant voting rights to Black people.
The examination hall was filled with the sighs and tears of Black citizens who had thrown down the gauntlet in hopes of obtaining the franchise.
Today was no different.
When not a single Black person passed all morning, the supervisors openly sneered as they watched the dejected figures trudging away.
“See? What did I tell you? Those darkies were never going to pass anyway.”
“Good, good. Very clean. This is exactly how the world should be.”
But as if to inject some tension into the lax examination hall, a group wearing dark navy uniforms appeared in the distance, marching in neat ranks toward the polling station.
White embroidery on their chests.
Serget Cotton.
“Huh? Aren’t those employees from Chairman Serget’s company?”
“There’s a lot of them. Still, it doesn’t matter. We’re not discriminating against them. We’re simply conducting a strict examination.”
Outside, insulting people wearing those uniforms could cause serious trouble, but this was a solemn examination hall.
They were simply testing these people’s qualifications.
The supervisor rested his chin on his hand with an arrogant expression and looked up at the young Black man who stepped forward first.
“Name.”
“Leo.”
“Poll tax?”
Leo pulled out a clean receipt from his pocket and placed it on the desk.
“Payment completed.”
“Hmm…”
The supervisor’s eyebrows twitched. Well, Serget Cotton employees earned good money, so this much was probably nothing.
But money could only solve things up to this point.
The supervisor smiled triumphantly and pointed at the most difficult sentence—one laced with Latin legal terminology.
“Alright. Read that and interpret its meaning. Explain the historical significance of ‘Habeas Corpus.’”
Of course he wouldn’t be able to answer.
Honestly, even they didn’t fully understand it. How could some random darkie possibly know?
However.
“The Habeas Corpus Act was enacted by the British Parliament in 1679. It is a constitutional mechanism designed to prevent unlawful detention and guarantee individual liberty. It is also explicitly stated in Article 1, Section 9 of the United States Constitution. However, it may be suspended in times of war as an exception.”
“……Huh?”
Leo didn’t hesitate for a second.
In fact, he didn’t just read it—he even pointed out a typo.
“By the way, Supervisor, the spelling of ‘Judicial’ on the third line is incorrect. There is one ‘i’ missing.”
“……”
“Does this mean I pass?”
He was supposed to challenge the interpretation, but after having a typo pointed out, he had nothing left to say.
Besides, who knew what kind of headache would follow if they arbitrarily failed an employee of Serget Cotton?
“P-pass.”
Thump!
Perhaps because he had never intended to fail him in the first place, the sound of the stamp slamming down echoed unusually loudly.
But the real game was only just beginning.
“Next, Ben. I just need to read it, right?”
“Uh… um…”
“Second Amendment to the Constitution, the right to bear arms…”
“Pass.”
“Next, Henry. This clause concerns property rights disputes.”
“P-pass.”
A tsunami of passes—miraculous for the candidates, catastrophic for the supervisors—crashed over the hall.
Starting with Leo, Ben, and Henry, the original employees of Serget Cotton stepped forward one after another.
Every single one of them was confident and unflinching.
To men who had been learning to read long before Serget Cotton even existed, this literacy test was nothing more than a warm-up.
“Hey, Charles! You stuttered a bit earlier, didn’t you?”
“Ugh, shut up! This is embarrassing.”
“I knew you’d mess up after dozing off during education hour. I’m telling everyone else.”
“Hey! Is there a retake? This is unfair!”
They even teased one another mercilessly when someone barely failed by a narrow margin.
The white supervisors, completely dazed, mechanically stamped “pass” after “pass.”
What was going on? Was the test so easy that failing it earned you mockery?
That couldn’t be right, could it?
In one examination hall alone, more than ten people passed.
When candidates started qualifying again, other Black citizens felt emboldened to step forward and try for the vote.
“Whoa! Then I’ll try too!”
“Doesn’t look that hard. Let me give it a—”
“What the—! These bastards! Stop pretending to be Serget Cotton employees! If you can’t even read this, just get lost!”
However, over ninety-nine percent of those who actually passed the test were Serget Cotton employees.
That was the only sliver of comfort left for the white supervisors guarding the examination halls.
Still, watching Black citizens streaming out with voting rights in hand was utterly devastating.
Nick, who had just received his voting certificate, looked up at the sky with an exaggeratedly moved expression.
“Heh… The white gentlemen are truly merciful. They went through all this trouble to legally grant us the right to vote.”
“You can say that again.”
Will, standing beside him, sniffed at his newly issued voting registration card.
“Can you smell it, Nick? This is the fragrance of the voting rights personally bestowed upon us by the Southern congressmen.”
“Damn! It’s so fragrant it’s bringing tears to my eyes. I’m truly grateful.”
“Thank you! We will faithfully exercise this voting right you have granted us for the sake of the South!”
“I, too, will bow toward the direction of Congress every time I enter a polling station! Yeee-haw!”
Behind the two men’s sneering laughter, the supervisors broke out in cold sweat and could only stare at each other.
“I’m voting for the Chairman in the next election!”
“You idiot, the Chairman isn’t even running!”
Something had gone very, very wrong.
Thanks to the Dixie congressmen’s brilliant idea to restrict Black voting rights for the sake of political stability, the proportion of Black people acquiring the franchise had become extremely skewed toward Serget Cotton employees.
Everything else remained the same, yet only the voting power Serget Cotton could wield had skyrocketed. A truly bizarre situation.
The Southern congressmen’s plan to firmly discipline their own house before advancing into Asia was producing astonishingly effective results.
Even if that had never been their intention.