Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 128 : Labor

On the morning of December 30th, the window at the City Enforcement Bureau was half open, and the radiator in the wall hissed.

Shen Zhixia pulled three things out of the file envelope and laid them on the counter: the original schedule, the statement on completed refunds, and the bound volume of payment receipts.

The man behind the window flipped to the first page, then to the last, and tapped a red pen on the final page.

"One hundred and five lines. One thousand and forty-two households."

"Not a single line blank."

"Who signed at the bottom of the statement?"

"The two representatives. Tang Guo and Shi Lei. They signed upstairs this morning, and it was delivered right after."

"How are the payment receipts organized?"

"By row number. Who received it, what day, whether fingerprints were taken—all in this volume."

He opened the bound volume and ran a finger along the seams, stopping halfway to press the book flat.

"Your volume is pressed flat. Most people bring corners that are curled."

"Curled corners slow down the review later."

He nodded, placed all three items back into the file envelope, and typed loudly on the keyboard.

"Case closed. Come back after three this afternoon for the case closure notice."

"Should I make another copy of the refund list for backup?"

"No, we'll go by the one you submitted." He struck the last key. "If any household later says they didn't receive money, they need to bring their receipt and check. Your handwriting is in that book—you can't run from it."

When she stepped out, sleet mixed with snowflakes was falling, melting the moment it touched her shoulders. Someone on the corner was selling sugar-roasted chestnuts from a cart.

Back at the firm just after noon. Steam from the pot downstairs was rising up the stairwell. He Xiufen was keeping accounts, the ledger spread open on the low table by the stove. The Bar Association's 36,000 had arrived in the public account yesterday, and she'd listed it in a separate column, writing "Legal Aid Case Processing" in the purpose field.

"The Enforcement Bureau took it?"

"They took it. Picking up the case closure notice this afternoon."

"This Bar Association money—new column." She closed the ledger. "Not merged with the housing case book. Whose money, what purpose—going forward, you have to be able to explain it clearly."

"That wall needs to be cleared today." She headed upstairs with her. "Stuck on the wall, it's for the people downstairs to see. Filed into a case box, it's for the court. You standing there looking at it won't make it worth a cent more."

Upstairs, that wall was covered from top to bottom—one hundred and five rows, with red ticks, blue circles, and pencil question marks. When she started tearing them down, she began from the bottom row, one hand pressing the paper flat and the other peeling off the double-sided tape. He Xiufen stood beside her, forbidding her from tearing through the row numbers.

"From bottom to top. Slow."

Eleven volumes of rosters went into a case box, spines labeled with numbers, not names. The original schedule went into the top compartment, filed in the same box with the refund statement and payment receipts. He Xiufen pressed the lid down.

"Money to the account, households signed, signatures in the file. All three in place—only then it's done."

"When they signed this morning, Shi Lei had grease on his hands." Shen Zhixia said. "Had to send him to wash twice before he could leave a fingerprint."

"The hand that makes a fingerprint has to be clean. It's not about being particular—if someone later pulls that book out to check and the fingerprints are smudged into a blur, nobody can tell who pressed what."

She sat down at the long table, opened the drawer, and took out the Unsettled Ledger.

The first line: Ma Jianjun, Chengnan Station No. 1. Closed back in June. The only words left in the book were on the last page.

[Thud. Housing Case—1,042 households, enforcement complete. Justice Points, settled.]

[Thud. Attachment—one page, missing.]

She waited for a third sound. None came.

She turned to that last page. Under the five characters "Baixi Village · Shen Qian," the line that had appeared last month was still there. This time it hadn't deepened; the final stroke held, the ink now as solid as the five characters above. After it, still a long stretch of blank space.

He Xiufen came up with soup and set the bowl by her hand.

"Close it. The food is getting cold."

She closed the ledger and put it back in the drawer. Four white spots of double-sided tape remained on the wall. She wiped them one by one with a damp rag. By the third, her fingers were numb from the cold.

Downstairs at noon, every table was full. Old Wei sat at the table by the door, his kraft paper envelope clamped between his legs, the rubber band on it wrapped twice.

"Thin noodles, extra egg." He called toward the stove.

He Xiufen made his noodles and topped up Shen Zhixia's bowl of soup as well. Old Wei ate two bites, then spoke.

"Your wall upstairs is empty today."

"Torn down and filed."

"Empty looks better than full." He tapped his chopsticks on the rim of the bowl. "The wall our firm has to fill is thicker than yours—all the things pasted on it are invisible."

"End of the year. Busy."

"Everyone's busy at the year's end." He finished half the bowl before steering toward the point. "The list came out at our firm. Those advisory clients in Chengdong—year-end outreach visits, names arranged on a sheet and posted on the wall. Four people. Not him."

"He saw it himself?"

"He saw it. He stood in front of the list and asked how many blank rows were left. I said I didn't know. He said, then I don't know either."

Old Wei pushed his bowl forward half an inch.

"He asked me to bring you one sentence. Half a sentence."

"Say it."

"He said—that half, don't wait for it."

She lifted the bowl and drank the soup. It had been simmering all morning; it burned her mouth.

"The first half?"

"He won't give it." Old Wei said. "When I got there, he was copying files—until eleven. The old case-number batches. He told me to deliver the message and go downstairs, not to linger upstairs."

"I'm not waiting." She said. "I'll find it."

Old Wei glanced at her, lowered his head, and finished his noodles.

"Then you made a wasted trip." She said.

"I don't ask questions, I just deliver." He drained the broth. "A runner wastes trips all the time."

He picked up the kraft envelope and stopped at the door.

"He also asked something."

"What?"

"Your case—is it closed?"

"Filed this morning."

Old Wei nodded. "That one I can bring back."

The door curtain lifted, cold air rushed in, then fell again.

After four, Tang Guo came upstairs, snowflakes still on her scarf, carrying the fill light she used for livestreams—folded, not on.

"The household at Chengbei Hospital—she gave birth." She said as soon as she came in. "A girl. Six pounds, two ounces."

"Did the money arrive?" Shen Zhixia asked.

"Long ago. She was lying on the delivery bed and still asked me if the number was right. I told her to count it herself—I just read it out."

"Then it's settled." He Xiufen said from the stove.

Tang Guo sat down, drank half a glass of water, then brought up another matter.

"There's a man in the third-floor corridor of the Obstetrics Department. Been sitting on a chair for three days. His wife is gone, the baby's in an incubator. The hospital gave him a piece of paper saying the family voluntarily waived the autopsy."

"Did you take a photo?"

"No. He talked to me for a bit, and I put the light away."

"Putting it away was right." He Xiufen said.

"I wrote our address downstairs for him. He said he'd come after work."

He Xiufen glanced at Shen Zhixia. "If Tang Guo brings the man in, Tang Guo sees it through."

At six-forty, the curtain downstairs rustled. Footsteps came up the stairs, each step heavier than the last.

The man who came in was thirty-four, gray jacket with ink stains on the cuffs, the crescents of his nails black. He carried a plastic bag stuffed with a stack of documents; on top sat a tiny infant's cap, a loose thread still hanging from the brim. He stood by the table, not sitting down.

"My name is Peng Weidong."

"Sit." He Xiufen said.

"I'll stand." He switched the bag to his other hand. "My wife was Chen Xiaoman. Twenty-nine."

"When did it happen?"

"The twenty-seventh, early morning. Three-forty." His voice was tight; he forced it down. "She was admitted on the night of the twenty-sixth. Thirty-seven weeks and five days. High blood pressure. The baby was delivered by C-section and is in an incubator."

"Who was on duty that night?"

"A female doctor. Surname Lin. Not very old." He thought for a moment. "On the morning of the twenty-seventh, I went to the department looking for her. They said she'd switched shifts. I went back later—never saw her again."

"What did the hospital say?"

"One said heart failure, another said embolism—nobody could explain it clearly." His hand tightened on the plastic bag. "I said, then investigate. They brought out a piece of paper, all the formalities in order: family voluntarily waived the autopsy. Today they pushed me twice to go handle the procedures. I work three shifts at the printing plant—I took three days off, and the workshop was already calling yesterday to rush me."

"Did you bring the paper?"

He pulled the paper from the bag and slapped it on the table. It was badly crumpled, all four corners worn and fuzzy.

"They said my wife signed it herself—but she wasn't even here anymore. How could she sign?"

[Thud. The word "voluntarily" is the hardest to count.]

Shen Zhixia picked up the paper.

The header read: Autopsy Notice. The middle section printed "Voluntary Waiver of Autopsy," with a hand-drawn check in the box before it. Below, a section printed "Signature," followed by three handwritten characters: Chen Xiaoman—strokes quick, the last one dragging out long. One row below, printed "Informant's Signature"—that field was empty. Not a single mark.

In the date column beside it, a handwritten time: December 27, 6:20.

"This is the original?"

"Second copy. They took back the first copy, said it was for their records."

"The second copy works—we'll go by this one for now." He Xiufen took the paper and read it over twice, then held it up to the light to examine the back. Her finger stopped at the "Informant's Signature" field. "On this paper, one person's writing is missing."

She looked at Shen Zhixia but didn't finish the thought. She flipped the paper back over and pushed it back to Peng Weidong.

"Tomorrow morning at eight, come back with three things: the hospital admission records, the child's birth certificate, and this paper. Whatever the hospital gives you these few days—keep what you can."

"Can it be investigated?"

"Don't ask whether it can." He Xiufen said. "Tonight, sign nothing. If they push again, tell them the family is reviewing it. Tomorrow, at the window, ask one question: whether the medical records can be copied. That question doesn't need anyone's approval."

Peng Weidong nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing once. He took the cap out of the bag and set it on the corner of the table, held the brim for two seconds, then drew his hand back.

Shen Zhixia laid the paper on the table again, pressing the edges with her fingers, smoothing the crease down the middle.

"What time did your wife pass?"

"Three-forty."

The crease in the middle of the paper gleamed white. No matter how she pressed, it wouldn't lie flat.