Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 112 : Before Asking

The sheet of paper was folded twice, its edges worn fuzzy. Kong Xiulan spread it open on the steps in front of the noodle shop to show her: a row of card numbers, written slowly, the pen pressed down hard, the back of the paper ridged with indentations.

"My daughter wrote it," Kong Xiulan said. "I can't read this number out, but I know the first three digits."

Eight forty. That was the time they'd agreed on. Kong Xiulan wore a freshly washed coat, the creases at the cuffs not ironed flat, and carried a white plastic bag holding her ID card, her bank card, and this piece of paper.

Two bus stops to the court. The Enforcement Bureau's refund window was on the third floor, a handwritten note taped to the glass: Two people at a time. Two households waited ahead of them. The first was a man in his fifties, clutching an express delivery envelope; the second was from Building 5, Min'an Li, a household register spread across her knees, flipping through page by page.

When it was Kong Xiulan's turn, she first held her ID up to the glass, then copied the three characters on the back of the original, stroke by stroke, onto the Case Fund Return Confirmation Form, writing her own name. When she finished, she set the pen down and looked up at the person behind the window. "I signed it myself this time."

The person inside took the confirmation form, flipped through it. "You did sign it yourself."

The printer rattled a few times, and a receipt slid out from under the window. The person inside added one more thing: Make a photocopy of the schedule page and attach it at the back. Once this batch goes through according to the form, the next batch will need to be recounted.

Kong Xiulan put her ID back into the plastic bag and zipped it twice. Her phone buzzed inside the bag. She pulled it out and held it close to her face, the screen's glow lighting up her chin.

"Twenty-six thousand four hundred," she read aloud.

"Second row of the schedule. That's the number."

She read the number aloud again, then wiped the screen with the back of her hand.

Outside, she stood at the corner of the stairwell to call her daughter. Three sentences and she hung up: I got there. Twenty-six thousand four hundred. The name on it, I wrote it myself.

Coming down the stairs, the sun was falling right onto the steps. She shaded her eyes with one hand and looked at the text message again.

"What about the other two households?"

"Same day, just finished too."

"And the ones after."

"Going out in batches by month," Shen Zhixia said. "Whoever's paperwork is complete goes first."

Kong Xiulan stopped at the bottom of the steps. "There are three more households in my building. They're all on the list, but not in the first batch."

"The rows on the list aren't arranged by building."

The man from before came down after them and stopped nearby. "Which row are you?"

"Second row," Kong Xiulan said.

"I'm in the first row." He shook the receipt in his hand. "Thirty-one thousand two hundred. My wife said not to mention it in the group chat."

"Then don't mention it," Kong Xiulan said.

[Thud. This payment—the name on it is her own signature.]

Back at the office, Kong Xiulan pulled a bag of tangerines out of the fresh produce store's canvas bag, saying they were bruised and couldn't go on the shelf. He Xiufen said not to make it a habit. Tang Guo peeled one and said the sourness was just right.

The long table was spread with the amounts for three households: thirty-one thousand two hundred, twenty-six thousand four hundred, plus the one in the third row—exactly clearing out the eighty-three thousand in the special account. He Xiufen circled the remainder with her pen and wrote a zero.

"What about the bank's portion?" Shen Zhixia asked.

"The judgment places it under the bank's name. The enforcement judge has to go after its accounts." He Xiufen set her pen down. "Only if they can seize it will it reach the next one thousand and thirty-nine households."

At noon, no one pushed new voice messages up in the group chat. Kong Xiulan sent only one line: I got there. No one responded. Tang Guo held up her phone and asked if she could interview her for a couple of soundbites. Shen Zhixia said go ask her yourself, but don't push. Tang Guo put her phone back in her pocket.

On the morning of the twelfth, she placed a Performance Demand Notice into a kraft paper envelope and went to Hengzheng.

The receptionist was a girl she'd never seen before. She set the envelope on the counter and gave Zhengping Firm's name.

"Which lawyer?"

"The Chengdong Branch case. The first-instance authorized agent."

The girl typed a few keystrokes. "That one was archived last week. Have a seat, I'll have someone come down to take a look."

During the six-minute wait, she stood on the lobby carpet, watching the elevator numbers jump from floor to floor. A year ago she'd worked here, taking the freight elevator at the far end, leaving one day with a cardboard box in her arms.

A woman in her thirties came down—the one who'd once processed her onboarding paperwork. The woman's gaze paused on her face but she didn't ask questions, just said that document deliveries went through the mailroom, and for signature confirmation she'd need to find the original handling attorney; she'd go up and check.

The mailroom was down a corridor at the corner. Old Wei sat inside, an enamel mug on his desk, a handwritten grid list taped to the old steel cabinet behind him. Old Wei recognized her—the one from above the noodle shop. Said he'd gone there for noodles just last week.

She gave the firm name, the number of documents, the case type. Old Wei logged it—the date, the firm name—then his pen stopped at the recipient column.

"Who do I put here?"

"The first-instance authorized agent."

"He transferred out last week," Old Wei said. "The Chengdong files—somebody came and picked them up. One man, not from our firm. I filled it in according to the paperwork he brought. The recipient column says some outside firm's name. I've never seen that name before."

He kept writing without pausing. "I fill in whatever they tell me to fill in. What's inside, I don't look at."

"Then who signs for it?"

"He has to sign himself." Old Wei locked the letter in a drawer and stood up. "I'll go call him down."

As he headed upstairs, he straightened the register book by one notch with his hand. For this case, the book had four entries this year—today's letter was the fourth.

She went back to the sofa. A stack of trade magazines sat on the armrest, the top one with a curled corner. The row of partner photos on the wall was the same as last year's; she recognized half the faces.

The elevator chimed, and he stepped out. Suit jacket draped over one arm, the other hand carrying a kraft paper bag, a slip of paper between his fingers—a grid form, old-style handwritten, every box packed tight with writing.

He walked over and stopped by the sofa.

"What are you delivering?"

"The judgment has taken effect," she said. "For the bank's portion, we're serving a Performance Demand Notice. Need a signature on the service receipt."

He switched the paper bag to his other hand, pulled the document out of the envelope, read it over on the coffee table, took a pen from his pocket, signed his name on the receipt, and slid it back.

"The reply letter will be out within three days."

Someone down the corridor called out "Attorney Lu," and he turned to answer. When he turned back, his tone had shifted. "Attorney Shen, from now on, don't send Chengdong-area documents to me."

"Where should I send them?"

"The firm will issue the reply. Whoever's name is on that reply letter, that's who you look for." He picked up the paper bag. "That case has been archived."

She didn't respond. He raised a hand, adjusted his collar. The elevator behind him opened and closed.

His phone buzzed. He glanced down, answered with a single line: "I'm not taking that one anymore. Find Lawyer Wang." Hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"The household in the second row got theirs," he said.

"The ninth. She signed it herself."

"Good." He turned toward the elevator, then stopped after two steps and looked back. "Keep a copy of the service receipt. If the reply letter doesn't have my name on it, don't send it based on the old receipt—if it gets sent wrong and returned, it's those ten days that get delayed."

The elevator doors closed. She folded the receipt in half and tucked it back into the envelope.

Old Wei walked her to the door on her way out. There was wind on the steps, and he pulled his collar up.

"Not long ago he filled out an archive retrieval slip," Old Wei said. "The slips I have here are all filled in with case numbers. His used an old number range—the kind we used back when I first started."

"Which year's file?"

"I only note the numbers, not the matters." Old Wei said, "Every year there's one or two people coming to pull old files—almost all of them near retirement. Someone that young coming to retrieve files that old, that's a first for me."

He pushed the door halfway open; sunlight was falling right on the steps.

[Thud. Someone is reading a very old case file. It's far older than this case, and it has nothing to do with the lawsuits in his hands.]

Back at the office, she filed the receipt into the case folder. He Xiufen looked over the signature field and the line about not sending things based on the old receipt, said nothing, and shelved the folder.

"You saw him."

"I saw him."

"Did you thank him?"

"No."

"Did you understand what he meant?"

"The Chengdong area's been taken away from him," she said. "His name isn't on the roster, and documents don't reach his hands."

"Then what you want to ask today—it's not about this case." He Xiufen pushed the desk calendar toward her a bit. "Don't bring the notebook. Everything in that notebook is written in your own hand, from start to finish. Bring it along and it becomes a ledger for settling accounts."

That night she spread her phone on the desk calendar and typed a line: Wenchang Road 412, tomorrow at six. Deleted it. Typed another: Tomorrow at six, Wenchang Road 412, one thing only. Deleted that too. The third time, she sent only an address and a time, hit enter, and flipped the phone face-down onto the calendar.

Downstairs, someone was stacking plastic stools, knocking each one against the base of the wall. He Xiufen went upstairs and pulled the roll-up shutter halfway down. "Where are you going?"

"Wenchang Road."

"It's windy. Button your coat."

Twenty minutes later her phone lit up with a single line: Six thirty.

[Thud. Words written on paper don't count as spoken.]

At six twenty in the evening on the thirteenth, she arrived at Wenchang Road.

The roll-up shutter at the base of the building was locked, its chain wrapped twice with wire. Behind the glass door it was dark, and taped to the door was another photocopied "Notice of Suspended Leasing," its corners curling up. Someone had added writing on top of it—the four words "Return My Deposit"—with a phone number beside it, the last four digits traced over twice. By the side of the steps lay a plastic stool with a broken leg, tipped on its side.

After the upstairs was emptied out, he'd asked her to come here once and had given her the second half of that sentence—"it wasn't the first one either." Today he stood at the base of the steps, holding something, with a stretch of concrete between them.

The kraft paper bag was still in his hand, the white edge of a photocopy showing at the opening.

She walked over and stopped. "I sent six o'clock."

"I changed it to six thirty," he said. "I got here early."

"The first payment went out. Three households. Paperwork done on the ninth."

"I've seen the schedule," he said. "The number in the second row matches what you wrote on your form."

Wind came up the alley, rattling the curled corner of the notice twice before it settled back down.

She put her hands in her coat pockets.

"I want to ask you something."

"Ask."

"You mention my father again and again," she said. "And every time, you only give half a sentence."

He didn't answer right away. He switched the paper bag from his right hand to his left, tucking in the exposed white edge of the photocopy. A streetlamp blinked on, then another a few dozen meters away—red at first before turning white.

"Why?" she said.

"That question," he said, "you should have asked long ago."