Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 115 : The Remainder

The form slid out from under the window, a number circled in pencil.

"Third household in this batch." The person inside the window said, "Card number doesn't match the account name. Is this even her own card? Go ask her."

She set the file folder on the windowsill and pulled out the schedule and batch sheet to compare them side by side. Third household: Yuan Guiying, Minan Li Building 6, Room 402—one of the "three more households in my building" Kong Xiulan had mentioned. A phone number was listed after her name. She dialed; it rang seven times before connecting.

"Sister Yuan, this is Shen Zhixia from Zhengping Firm."

"I know." There was the rattle of a hand truck on the other end. "I'm restocking at the store. Can't take time off today."

"The card number you left doesn't match your name. Read it to me off the card so I can check."

There was a rustling of a bag being dug through. The voice read to the ninth digit, paused, corrected one number, and laughed at herself. "The one I gave you last time was my old payroll card. Got them mixed up."

The person inside the window tapped at a keyboard. "That number won't work either. Class II account—can't take a deposit this size. She needs to upgrade to a Class I at the counter, or provide a different card, in person."

She relayed the message verbatim. Two seconds of silence on the other end.

"The counter closes at five-thirty. I don't get off until four."

"Don't rush today," she said. "Go to the counter tomorrow morning. Once it's switched, snap a photo of the card and send it to me. I'll wait on this end. The rows on this form aren't going anywhere."

"Good—as long as they don't." Yuan Guiying said, "Everyone in our building's been saying the people further down won't get theirs. If my share slips through, what am I supposed to tell my daughter?"

"You're on the list. A few households per batch, depending on what's come into the account."

"Fine." Yuan Guiying said. "Attorney Shen, I'll definitely go tomorrow."

Three households remained ahead in the hallway. A man in his fifties clutched a pouch holding his household register, pressing it against his stomach. Behind him stood a young couple, arguing in low voices about whose card the money should go into. The woman cut herself off mid-sentence and dropped her voice; the man shoved his hands in his pockets and went still.

"Whichever name's on the form, the money goes into that card." The person in the window said, "Sort out your own marriage at home."

The young woman gave a soft "mm," took her receipt, and looked back at the man.

The households ahead finished their business, but Jiang Bo lingered by the window. He held his receipt up to the light, looked it over twice, folded it into quarters and tucked it into his inner pocket—then pulled it out for another glance before pressing it back in.

"My share, twenty-five thousand six." He unfolded a piece of paper he'd written himself. Seven names in a column, one per line, each followed by a building number and months in arrears. "Eight households from Chengxi, and I'm the only one in this batch. I've got to go back with something to tell everyone."

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

"Then by what?"

"By how much came into the account." She said. "These four households' money was clawed back from the account that's been taking payments since the QR code was switched—a hundred nineteen thousand three in total. Who switched the code, what day it was changed—that kid from Chengxi already pointed it out to me."

Jiang Bo nodded. Xiao Ru had told him about the code switch.

"A hundred nineteen thousand three." He repeated the figure, then fell quiet. Out ahead was twenty-four million; that number wouldn't even turn a phrase in his mouth.

"When's the next batch." He folded the paper.

"Tomorrow, Sister Yuan's share—twenty-three thousand eight—goes out. That leaves three thousand one in the special account." She said. "The next few households get paid once more money comes in."

Jiang Bo stuffed the paper back in his pocket and asked nothing more. On his way out, he straightened the pen on the windowsill for her.

The handwritten note was still taped to the glass: two people at a time. The window sat empty now. A plastic bag was holding a spot on the bench, puffing in and out as the draft from the stairwell blew through.

Tang Guo was the last one at the window. She set her ID and card on the counter and gave her row.

"Minsheng Road Building 5, Room 502. Last row." The person inside checked it twice. "Nineteen thousand two."

The receipt slid out. She pinched both ends and pulled it flat, then pressed the center fold down with her thumb. Outside, she stopped on the steps, fished the small light from her bag, clipped it to her phone, and started the livestream.

"Funds arrived," she said.

Danmaku rolled in fast. Someone asked which row; someone asked which building; someone told her to just say the number. She let those comments scroll past before speaking to the camera:

"The number's on the court's form, not here. If you want your share, get your paperwork in order. Don't believe what the group chat says."

Then she turned the light off.

The bench was empty now. She spread Tang Guo's grid sheet across her knees—it had been drawn cell by cell from the schedule, one cell per household. The first three cells carried October 9 pencil marks, now faded from handling. Today she marked one line in each of four households' cells. Yuan Guiying's cell stayed blank. She counted once, then counted again, and sharpened the pencil tip.

[Thud. This batch: five households, four processed, 92,400 paid out. Justice Points settled at 58%.]

[Thud. People queue. Money doesn't.]

Back at the noodle shop, the stove was at full tilt. He Xiufen cleared a corner of the long table and had her report the numbers: five households, four processed, 92,400 paid out, 26,900 left in the special account. Yuan Guiying's share was stuck at the bank counter; she'd make it up tomorrow.

He Xiufen wrote 92,400 in the margin of the desk calendar, then moved her pen up a line where the three October figures still sat.

"Add them up."

"Eighty-three thousand, plus ninety-two four." She said. "A hundred seventy-five four."

He Xiufen circled that number, and beside it wrote four characters: The Pool, 24,000,000. Then she pushed the calendar an inch toward her.

"That's a remainder," she said.

"And the bank column?"

"That column needs a number first." He Xiufen tapped the spoon against the rim of the pot. "The number has to come out of the loans it actually handled. You've got that stack of service-fee statements from it, nine vouchers from Minanli and Anyu, a hundred and five receipts with dates. Doing the math—that's your job. After you work it out, someone still has to acknowledge it."

"Who acknowledges it."

"Not us."

"I know."

"Once you report a number, it's not just your number anymore." He Xiufen turned the flame down low. "One entry merged wrong, and it gets sent back to redo. A round trip like that costs another ten days. Don't make people run errands for nothing."

"I'll merge entry by entry and double-check when I'm done."

"One more thing." He Xiufen scooped half a spoon of salt, thought about it, and put it back. "Today you were looking at heads."

"The heads are on the form."

"The money's in the accounts." She said. "The three companies' ledger and the two shell companies' ledger—both scraped clean. That leaves the two heavy ones: the bank column with no number, and the Hongyi account group. The Hongyi group is frozen—someone mentioned it once—telling you not to put your hand on it."

"I won't."

"Not touching it doesn't mean not asking." He Xiufen shook out the rag and draped it over the pot's edge. "Don't go yourself. Send someone who can. The bowl's in someone else's hands—don't reach out saying it's too hot for you."

She made the call. Zhou Yu was shuffling papers on the other end.

"The Hongyi account group," he said, "the frozen portion is just the segment tied to the case. There's other activity moving through the accounts underneath. I've been watching it these past few days."

"Moving which way."

"Outward." He said. "Two or three transfers a day, every one just under the small-amount threshold. Doesn't look like receiving. I'll print out the inflows and outflows on Wednesday and bring it to you."

"Wednesday."

"Wednesday." He said. "Don't ask how much is left in the accounts yet. Watch how much drains out per day—the numbers talk straighter than people."

After hanging up, she looked out the door. It was getting cold. Two plastic stools had been brought in and stacked against the wall. The shadows under the streetlights stretched longer than last month.

Close to nine, Tang Guo came upstairs with a bag of tangerines—Kong Xiulan had asked her to bring them over; the bruised ones shouldn't go to waste. The tangerines landed on the glass desk pad, covering a line of text on the top sheet of paper. She didn't move them.

Tang Guo took out her receipt and laid it on the table, the fold still standing.

"Nineteen thousand two." She said. "Haven't touched it since I finished the stream this afternoon."

"I saw." Shen Zhixia said. "One sentence."

"People called me stingy." Tang Guo peeled a tangerine and crushed the peel into a ball in her hand. "Money's only back when it's in your own hand. Bragging about the numbers does nothing. Each time a new batch comes in, I'll say one line on stream: 'One more row filled.' No names, no buildings."

"Fine."

"When's the bank column going to have a number?" Tang Guo asked. "Half my DMs these days are asking that."

"I have to calculate it myself." She pulled the stack of service-fee statements from the file folder, spread them beside the tangerine peels, and started tallying in pencil along the page margins. "Once I finish, I'll report it up. Then someone still has to acknowledge it."

"I'll tell people the number's being calculated."

"Fine."

"Two households in my building are asking whether our batch got skipped. I'll tell them it goes month by month."

"Don't commit to an exact date."

"No firm dates." Tang Guo split a tangerine in half and passed it over. "Hey, you've been off these past few days."

"Off how."

"When you came back from Wenchang Road last time, your face looked like that." Tang Guo tossed the peel into the wastebasket. "Like you'd made a mistake in your books but refused to redo it."

"There's one entry. Not time to settle it yet."

"Still, drink your soup." Tang Guo said. "You didn't touch Auntie He's soup yesterday."

The phone on the table buzzed. Shi Lei's end was loud with wind; the window wasn't rolled all the way up, and a plastic bag in the passenger seat crackled.

"Attorney Shen, you resting?"

"Speak."

"I ran two trips to Chengdong tonight." He said. "Delivered to the fifteenth floor of the Jianghai Building. Went up at nine-forty. All the corridor lights on that floor were blazing. Four or five cardboard boxes stacked by the stairwell with white slips taped on—same as the Wanshun job last time."

"Who signed for it."

"Some woman, mask on, pen clutched in her hand. Wouldn't let me past the door—took the form through the crack and signed it there." The wind cut his words in half; he continued anyway. "On my way down I asked the guy who collects cardboard. He said people have been coming up the last couple days to 'do the books,' saying they've got until end of month to clear the whole floor. Attorney Shen—nobody in that building is moving out. Looks more like they're rushing to clear stuff away."

She didn't respond right away. On the desk calendar, two lines now sat together: Wednesday—print the inflows and outflows. End of month—clear the floor.

"Just work your deliveries," she said. "Don't go up to look, and don't ask a second time."

"Got it." Shi Lei said. "Just wanted you to know."

The call ended. The room filled with the bitter smell of tangerine peel. She spread the grid sheet flat—seven pencil marks, Yuan Guiying's cell empty. The lights in that Chengdong building were on until nine-forty, someone saying the floor would be cleared by month's end. The Hongyi account group was frozen, yet money kept trickling out two, three transfers a day.

In the corner of the sheet, she wrote one line: November 10, 9:40 PM, lights on. Then she folded the grid sheet in half and tucked it under the file folder.

[Thud. The lights are on—it means someone's writing up slips.]