Chapter 64: Fame Brings Trouble

William White’s days of ease were inevitably interrupted. This fellow attracted too much envy—his software sold like wildfire and he wouldn’t tolerate imitation, his films shattered nearly every record, and his novel had dominated the bestseller list for quite some time. With such a figure, it was inevitable that questions would arise.

There was no proof of plagiarism, but raising doubts was always fair game. What if the real author suddenly appeared? In these times, reckless souls were hardly in short supply.

Questioning him was perfectly normal, especially given his age. The breadth of life experience in "Forrest Gump" was immense—far beyond what an eighteen-year-old could grasp.

“You’re just a kid. Even understanding this book would be difficult, let alone claiming to have written it. Can you produce any evidence?”

William White knew well that powerful interests were pulling strings behind the scenes. If he chose to avoid confrontation, greater storms would follow—finding someone brazen enough to pose as the author would be all too easy.

Evidence? Isn’t it always possible to forge it?

How did Michael Jackson die? Wasn’t he hounded to death by malicious rumors—those allegations about children?

Ridiculous! Even if he had such proclivities, why hadn’t anyone heard about it before? Would a billionaire truly need to force anyone?

But mainstream media believed it. No matter what the courts decided, his public persona was irreparably shattered.

Only after his death did people attempt to clear his name; those who had framed him offered a feeble apology, and no one seemed intent on pursuing justice.

Such defamatory attacks are practically murder, yet they fade away unresolved. Is the Department of Justice your family’s private enterprise?

“Uncle Fook, arrange a press conference. Have the legal team step in, scrutinize every word for issues. I want these newspapers bankrupt, no matter the cost.”

Seeing his young master enraged, Uncle Fook dared not object. Since his master had chosen to confront the matter head-on, there was nothing more to be said.

Six newspapers were hauled into court, with damages claimed exceeding one hundred million dollars. This news sent shockwaves through the media industry.

Meanwhile, three newspapers faced hostile takeovers, major advertisers were advised to reconsider their ties, and key staff were being poached. Frankly, his ruthless, cost-no-object approach was giving many headaches.

Ordinarily, such matters would be settled through negotiation—who had ever seen someone go to war, determined not to stop until the bitter end? Rumors spread: editors and reporters had been blacklisted, and any paper employing them would become his enemy.

Plagiarism is a mortal blow for a writer. If your reputation collapses, you’re finished in the literary world.

The press conference, held under such tense circumstances, needed no description. The reporters felt like mourners at a rabbit’s funeral, all deeply uneasy. They knew well these were just the machinations of certain people; journalists and editors were merely sacrificial pawns.

Scanning the audience, William White cleared his throat. “First, let me refute a rumor: the claims that I am pursuing editors and reporters are untrue. Neither I nor my company have participated in any such actions. These are malicious rumors spread by those with ulterior motives. My lawyers have reported it to the authorities, and I hope the ringleaders will soon be found.”

As soon as he finished, the room erupted. This situation was far too complicated—caution was paramount. If any more got caught in the crossfire, their own livelihoods would suffer.

The newspapers were terrified. The economy was in dire straits, and if they lost their jobs, how would their families survive?

As they left home that morning, editors reminded them: Just go with the flow, don’t get involved.

“Mr. White, I’m a reporter from the Peanutton Post. What is your response to this incident?”

William White was quite satisfied—the reporter didn’t even dare mention the word ‘plagiarism’; his intimidation tactic had worked wonders.

“Well, accusations of plagiarism or ghostwriting are absurd. If you have that kind of talent, go to a publisher yourself. Publishers know the market—do you think they can’t tell if a book will sell? When I submitted this manuscript, the entire process involved lawyers. Not only was it registered with the Writers Guild, it was also postmarked by the postal service. With today’s technology, if you plan to find someone to pose as the author, you’d better make the forgery convincing. Otherwise, I’ll sue you into bankruptcy.”

Damn, the reporters wanted to curse. Clearly, he was fully prepared—the rich do things differently, and there must be plenty of traps laid.

Subsequent questions from reporters were uninspired; he had made his position clear, and none wished to step into the fray.

“Ahem, one last thing—I’ve written a new book, originally planned for release next year. Its title is ‘The Shawshank Redemption,’ a story depicting life in prison. Since some intend to question me, or pose as the author, very well—if you have the skill, bring out this book ahead of time. There’s still plenty of time; I plan to publish it just before Christmas. Now you know the title, the subject matter, and the protagonist’s name is Andy. If you’re up to it, go ahead and make something up.”

The reporters grew increasingly disgruntled—they had to help publicize his new book, as if justice no longer existed.

“Let me offer one final piece of advice: through improper means, you will never obtain adaptation rights for film or television. If I refuse, they’ll go to the grave with me.”

William White left, not taking so much as a leaf with him. The scene below descended into chaos again—he had all but pointed out the mastermind behind the attacks, creating a sensation across America.

Was it the Hollywood giants?

Truthfully, William White didn’t care. He was simply shifting blame, and whether others wanted to accept it or not, they had no choice unless they exposed the true culprit. Otherwise, they’d be scapegoats.

Watching William White depart surrounded by bodyguards, those unaware of the truth might have thought his life was in danger.

The controversy spread rapidly, and public opinion erupted. The accused newspapers and Hollywood giants became lightning rods, bombarded by criticism.

For Hollywood’s major players, the accusations were terrifying. They’d been watching the spectacle from afar, only to be saddled with blame for no clear reason.

Damn it, who was the idiot who provoked this lunatic? If you want trouble, go make it yourself—don’t drag us down with you. Investigate immediately—who is responsible? If anything happens to him, we’ll never wash away suspicion, even if we dive into the Pacific.

After unleashing his firestorm, William went back to filmmaking. Shooting wasn’t urgent; he still attended school three days a week, fortunately only for half-days, spending the rest of his time on set.

As the incident simmered, doubts faded. He had revealed his new book and given ample time—if there truly was plagiarism or ghostwriting, bring out the manuscript ahead of time.

Many now eagerly anticipated the new novel—it was one thing to announce it, but maintaining quality was another matter entirely.

Having boldly staked his reputation on the new book, it was unlikely he’d falter; otherwise, he’d be slapping himself in the face. With no money for vacations, buying a book seemed an excellent alternative.