Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 158 : Withdrawal of Counsel

The gavel did not fall. The courtroom sat still—so still she could hear the court clerk's pen scrape twice across the paper, then stop.

On the plaintiff's bench, Peng Weidong gripped his knees with both hands. In the back row of the gallery, Ma Jianjun set his helmet by his feet. In the front row, Huang Weizhong laid his pen down at the edge of that sheet of paper—the indentation from where he'd pressed down that morning was still there, a faint bleed beside the pen tip.

"Counsel for the defendant," the presiding judge said, "complete that sentence, please."

Lu Jibai did not sit. First, he slid his own Notice of Court Appearance out of his folder and set it on top of the defendant's stack of materials. Then he pushed the entire stack, paper and folder together, half a foot to the right, over to Director Xu's hand. Each motion was slow, deliberate, like finishing a job he knew by heart.

"Two sentences," he said.

"Go ahead."

"First. The single page the defendant submitted in court this morning: I have neither seen it before nor handled it. Just now I put three questions to my client face to face: what date this page entered the hospital, whether it appears on the submission list, and who delivered it to the handling officer. All three questions—no answer."

"Second. I cannot continue arguing from evidence I know to be false. The defendant has offered no explanation today for the origin of this page. I hereby apply to withdraw as counsel of record in this case."

"Grounds will be entered into the record," the presiding judge said. "A written statement to be submitted after court. The court asks: have you informed your client of this withdrawal?"

"Oral notice given today in court," Lu Jibai said. "The written statement will be submitted together with the rest after court."

"The defendant's position," the presiding judge said. "If the defendant has any other objections, the court will record them separately."

Director Xu stood—faster than he'd stood at any point that morning. "Your Honor, the defendant objects," he said. "From filing to today's hearing, Lawyer Lu has handled every part of this case. We have a three-day deadline to respond, and the hearing is only half finished. I'm from the medical affairs office, not a lawyer. I can't replace what he does."

"Withdrawal of counsel is a unilateral act by the representative. Whether to grant it is for this court to decide," the presiding judge said. "The court asks the defendant: the page submitted this morning—does the defendant still maintain it as evidence in this case?"

Director Xu's mouth moved. He looked first at Lu Jibai, then at the first row of the gallery. Both hands shifted the materials half an inch across the table. No answer surfaced.

"If you cannot answer, put it in writing," the presiding judge said.

[Thud. Counsel may withdraw. The defendant cannot.]

Shen Zhixia sat behind the plaintiff's bench, watching the man at the defendant's table. She had seen him split a three-layer outsourcing arrangement into three separate entities. She had seen him erase a gap from the opposing side's timeline with a single sentence. Today those two sentences came out just as flat, flat as if he were reading a reply that had nothing to do with him. But she saw something else—when he pulled out the Notice of Court Appearance, his fingertips paused at the edge of the paper; in those three hours, not one person at the defendant's table had said "I don't know" for that page. He'd asked three times, face to face, and all three times the question landed on empty ground.

"The court makes no finding today," the presiding judge said. "The three-day written explanation: the deadline stands. Change counsel or not, the deadline will not be extended. Until the source is established, this court will not organize further cross-examination of this page. If forgery or alteration of evidence is found, the court will handle it according to law and may refer leads to the relevant authorities." He pushed his glasses up. "The defendant's counsel's application to withdraw is granted. The defendant shall retain new counsel within five days, or appear through its legal representative or staff. Failure to appear will result in default."

Director Xu still had not sat down. "Your Honor, the defendant applies for an extension of the three-day deadline," he said.

"Denied," the presiding judge said. "The defendant's application is entered into the record. However many days it takes to change counsel, the court counts by the calendar."

"Plaintiff," he said.

Shen Zhixia stood. The hard-shell folder in her hand had already cracked open a finger's width—in the right pocket were folded three pages of a Legal Opinion Letter, and beneath the signature block, three handwritten characters. She had planned to produce them that afternoon: the list the hospital had submitted to the district showed a "handling lawyer's" name, and that handling lawyer was sitting across from her. The question she'd meant to ask was how the same page of material could pass from one hand into two. Now that this man had told the court he "could not continue arguing," those three pages had turned around and become the hospital's own problem.

She did not pull them out. She closed the folder.

"The plaintiff offers no position on the withdrawal of defense counsel," she said. "The plaintiff asks the court to record two points. One: to this day, the defendant has not answered which cabinet this page came from, or who holds the key. Two: in the Deadline Statement the defendant submitted to the district within three working days, the 'writer' field is blank, while the 'handling officer' field contains a name. The plaintiff asks the court to require the defendant, within five days, to identify the writer in both places."

"Entered," the presiding judge said. "Defendant, hear this clearly: identify the writer in both places. In writing."

"Twelve-oh-two. Court adjourned." The gavel came down.

Director Xu gathered half his materials, then stopped. He leaned sideways, his voice dropped to within half a foot: "Lawyer Lu, you can explain this to the firm yourself."

"I will report it," Lu Jibai said.

Only a pen remained on his table. He capped it, slipped it into his inner jacket pocket, and stepped back half a pace. The chair leg dragged against the floor with a long scrape—unlike any sound it had made all morning. In the gallery, Huang Weizhong picked his pen up off the paper, slung his jacket back over his arm, stood, and left first, phone already pressed to his ear. From the far end of the corridor, the door catch clicked.

He Xiufen reached across and took the hard-shell folder from under the table, fastening the clasp. "Let's go," she said.

The corridor window was open half a pane; wind came through and pressed a hearing notice flat against the glass, rattling.

Peng Weidong was waiting by the door. He was still wearing the washed-out work jacket, and in his hand was a printed summons, its corners already curled. Ma Jianjun stood behind him, helmet clamped under one arm.

"Director He, Lawyer Shen." Peng Weidong stepped forward to meet them. "He quit—does that mean we won a little, or we're getting pushed back again?"

"Today, what you won is one page," He Xiufen said. "The days still have to be lived one at a time."

"I'll be straight with you," Shen Zhixia said. "Without a lawyer at the defendant's table, procedure stalls for a few days. The three-day explanation and the five-day substitution are both running. The next hearing date depends on the court's notice. When the appraisal can be scheduled depends on when the court transfers materials to the appraisal institution. The cause of death—that step moved nowhere today."

Peng Weidong nodded, folded the summons in half, and tucked it back into his pocket. "A few days is nothing," he said. "The baby comes home early next month. I want what happened to her mother written down on paper. I'm not asking for anything else first."

"The guys in the group chat have asked me three times," Ma Jianjun said, switching his helmet from his left armpit to his right. "I told them it wouldn't finish today. That Lu guy—some of those questions he asked Doctor Lin this morning didn't sound like he was fighting against our side."

"Today, he stopped taking sides entirely," He Xiufen said. "That retainer with Hengzheng was one he signed himself. He goes back to the firm, he'll be writing a self-review."

"So the next person representing the hospital in court—what kind of person is it?" Ma Jianjun asked.

"They won't argue better than him," He Xiufen said. "The other side swapping people only gets clumsier and more rigid. What's on paper, we handle by the paper. Clumsy doesn't scare us."

Lin Qi stood by the window, her down jacket zipped to the top. The two pages she'd signed in the transcript were still with the clerk; she hadn't left yet. Watching the figures heading out through the corridor, she said, idly: "When he checked those three points, he didn't glance my way once."

"The disciplinary line isn't in his hands," He Xiufen said. "This afternoon, go to the medical administration division and ask about the progress on that stack of materials of yours. Whether he withdraws or not has nothing to do with your sanction."

Lin Qi made a sound of assent.

Shen Zhixia first submitted what needed submitting. The door to the third-floor clerk's office was open. She handed in the supplementary written application for handwriting examination and the sample list—two pages, with photos of three sheets of paper attached behind the last page. The clerk counted the page numbers, accepted them, and tore off a small receipt for her. She held the receipt up to the window light, folded it small, and tucked it into the left pocket of her hard-shell folder.

There was a half window at the stairwell. She came out of the clerk's office and turned the third-floor corner. A man stood by the window.

The rolled Notice of Court Appearance was still in his left hand, held as a cylinder. His right hand was in his trouser pocket. Down in the courtyard, a car was backing in; its horn gave a short beep.

"Shen Zhixia."

She stopped. People moved up and down the stairwell, footsteps passing behind her in waves.

"Those three pages of yours," he said, "bring them to the next hearing."

"Depends on when the defendant gets around to naming the writer."

"They won't name anyone," he said. "They'll switch to someone else. That person will first say they need to verify, then say materials need supplementing, and finally say 'not relevant to the issues in dispute.'"

"You're teaching me how the other side fights?"

"I'm telling you the playbook I already ran." He switched the rolled paper to the other hand. "Use it or not—your call."

She glanced at his now-empty right hand, then at the right pocket of her own folder. Three pages, and not one word of them had been used today. She had meant to ask how he would report this when he got back, but the question changed on her lips: "Next hearing, it won't be you at the defendant's table."

"No."

"So where will you be?"

He didn't answer. He looked out the window; the car in the courtyard was making its second reverse.

She waited two seconds. Someone came up the stairs below with a case file bag, threading between them, a shoulder brushing past the hard-shell folder in her hand.

"Shen Zhixia," he said. "Your father, back then—"

No words followed.

He swallowed the rest of the sentence, turned, and started down the steps. Leather shoes on concrete, one step at a time, the sound fading by the second-floor landing. When he went out the building door, the door catch clicked again.

[Thud. Someone swallows half a sentence. This record notes it all the same.]

She stood by the third-floor window and switched the folder to her other hand. In the right pocket, three pages still lay folded, and she recognized the three characters beneath the signature block—she'd held them for three days before the hearing, and today not one word had been used.

No one else came up from below. She counted to the seventh footstep before she started down.