Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 170 : The Acceptance Inspector Column Left Blank

On the morning of March 22, two people sat on the long bench outside the First Civil Division. One hugged a folder; the other gnawed on a steamed bun. Shen Zhixia pulled out the application and read the three lines for the third time.

1. Drug In-Out Ledger for the inpatient pharmacy, Chengbei Hospital, December 1 through March 21. 2. Procurement records for temporary drug transfers-in during the same period. 3. Drug procurement and acceptance records for the same period.

A blank line below, then the reason: To determine the source and legitimacy of the drug involved in the case.

The court clerk took it, flipped through two pages, and asked, "This and page eight of the medical records—two separate matters, right?"

"Page eight is about the paper being swapped," she said. "This one is about which door the drug came through. Two matters, one case."

The clerk didn't press further. She wrote the receipt date in the corner and had Shen Zhixia sign the stub.

"The presiding judge is inside. Wait a moment."

Ten minutes later, the judge came out and spread the application across the windowsill to read.

"Pharmacy records," he said. "The hospital will argue that whether an uncommonly used drug came in or not has nothing to do with how the woman died."

"Then let it say so itself," she said. "The medical record notes that injection, administered at 00:55. Which door it came through, who signed for it—the medical record doesn't say, but the pharmacy's ledger does. If it wants to claim no relevance, I'd ask it to read those two lines aloud first."

The judge folded the paper. "I'll issue the letter. Material comes in, I'll notify both sides to be present for verification. Go back and wait."

"Can it be faster?" she said. "The pharmacy does month-end inventory. After they count, that stack goes upstairs along with the transfer-in slips."

"When's inventory?"

"The thirty-first."

The judge gave her a look, said nothing, and turned back inside.

[Thud. Before you collect what's owed, first demand a date.]

The clerk called after her: "The hospital's always slow handing things over. Don't come asking every day. I'll phone you."

* * *

March 25, 9:00 a.m. Third-floor file reading room at the court. One long table, four chairs, two kraft paper envelopes on the table, twine wrapped around them. Director Xu arrived before her, no white coat—a jacket instead, sleeves rolled up his forearms as usual.

The clerk opened the envelopes and spread the materials flat, announcing each: drug in-out ledger, one volume; drug procurement and acceptance records, two pages.

"The procurement slip for the temporary transfer-in?" she asked.

"That's with the inventory stack, still in the storeroom," Director Xu said. "It'll be handed in together after the count."

"Today we verify these two items first," the clerk said.

They started with the two pages of procurement and acceptance records. The header read "Drug Procurement and Acceptance Record," and beneath it, carbon-copied writing in faint gray. Cards arranged by date, one drug per line: product name, specification, quantity, batch number, supplier, acceptance inspector.

She flipped to late December and found it.

Carbetocin Injection, 100 mcg per ampoule, one ampoule, supplier Hengyue Pharmaceutical. The batch number was smeared illegible in the carbon, only the first two digits legible.

The acceptance inspector column was blank.

She set the pages down, her chest sinking a little. On the same sheets, every other row had a name in the acceptance inspector column—clear strokes, holding up even through the carbon. Only this row stood empty.

Then the ledger.

Hardbound, dark blue cloth cover, corners worn pale. The first page bore a usage notice; from page two onward, entries of incoming stock, column by column: date, product name, specification, quantity, batch number, supplier, acceptance inspector.

She flipped through from the front, stopped at late December.

Carbetocin Injection, 100 mcg per ampoule, one ampoule, Hengyue Pharmaceutical.

The ink on this line was fresher than the ones above and below. The other lines had darkened, soaked into the paper; this one carried a hint of blue, floating on the surface, each stroke pressed along the grid lines. She tilted the book sideways, letting window light rake across it—new ink over old paper's skin, plain to see.

The line above was Oxytocin Injection, 10 units, acceptance inspector signature present. That one cost 3.20 yuan, a stock item on the board. This one: 186 yuan, acceptance inspector column blank.

She copied the line into her notebook in pencil, exactly as written: December 26, Carbetocin, Hengyue Pharmaceutical, acceptance inspector blank. She double-checked the date after copying—the 26th, not the 27th. The drug had come in the night before; it was used at zero hour the next day.

The incoming column only had dates, no times. She asked Director Xu what hour on the 26th this one had entered the storeroom.

"The book doesn't record times," he said. "Night deliveries happen. Day deliveries too."

She wrote that down as well: incoming column, no time recorded.

Flipping further: outgoing entries. Date, product name, specification, quantity, batch number, receiving person, receiving department.

She found the line for the 27th.

December 27, Carbetocin Injection, 100 mcg, one ampoule, receiving department Obstetrics.

The batch number cell had been scraped.

The paper surface had gone fuzzy; a faint blue trace remained beneath the scraped-away ink. She leaned close—one could see digits once written but not make out which ones. The scraper's hand had been unsteady; half a stroke remained at the edge. Every other line on the page had batch numbers written neat and even, digit by digit, untouched.

The receiving person cell held a name, two characters. Light pressure, blue ballpoint; the first stroke pressed over the grid line, impossible to fully identify. She traced half the character into her notebook as best she could, knowing even as she did it that such a tracing was useless in court—at most a marker for herself.

She looked again at the scrape and saw something else: the vertical stroke of the signature sat exactly on the roughest edge, ink seeping into the notch, broken for an instant. The stroke lay on top of the scrape.

Scrape first. Signature after.

She pulled out her phone and photographed the two pages. The clerk said go ahead—the originals were in the file. She angled the lens low and oblique, letting the light cast shadows from the paper's unevenness: the blank cell, the fuzzy scrape, both caught in the images.

Afterward, on the back of the photocopy, she started a new line and recorded in words what the photos couldn't show: One, this line's ink fresher than the rest of the page. Two, acceptance inspector column blank. Three, outgoing entry—batch number area scraped and abraded. Four, receiving person's signature overlies the scrape. She signed with the date.

She requested copies. The clerk made them and handed back three sheets.

"The incoming entry—who signed as acceptance inspector?"

"The pharmacy keeps its own records. Whoever's on shift does the recording," Director Xu said.

"This column is blank."

"That's the pharmacy's affair," he said. "I'm only here to deliver the book."

"The outgoing entry—the batch number's been scraped."

Director Xu glanced at the page without reaching for it. "The book sits in the pharmacy. People come and go."

"People come and go, and the batch number is the cell that got scraped."

"Talking to me won't help," he said. "Whether the paper's been altered—I don't understand the technical side."

"Last time you said damp paper can leave marks," she said. "This cell is a mark too. The blank in the incoming column—also a mark."

Director Xu didn't respond. He wound the envelope's twine twice and pulled it tight.

The clerk noted it down: The defendant offered no explanation for signs of alteration at the batch number in the outgoing column.

[Thud. No one signed when it came in. Someone scraped when it went out.]

* * *

Back at the firm, the sky not yet fully dark, the smell of scallion oil drifted up the stairwell from below.

He Xiufen spread the three photocopies on the long table, weighting the corners with a paperweight, and studied the two spots.

"The blank cell. You first."

"In the incoming column, this one came through on December 26, supplier Hengyue Pharmaceutical, acceptance inspector left blank," she said. "Every other drug on the same page has a signature from the inspector. The ink on this line is also newer than the others. On the two pages of procurement and acceptance records, the inspector for this one is blank too."

"New ink, empty hand," He Xiufen said. "A line added later, and the person who added it didn't dare leave a name. Once blank is an oversight. Twice blank is nobody willing to own it."

"The outgoing line for the 27th—batch number scraped, half a digit left underneath," she said. "The receiving person's signature sits on the scrape. Scraped first, signed after."

"Whoever scraped didn't want this one matched to a batch number," He Xiufen said. "The signer watched it finished before putting pen down. Both marks are on the paper. We didn't write them."

"That name—I recognized half."

"Set the name aside," He Xiufen said. "What you needed today wasn't a name. It's the blank cell and the scrape."

She straightened the three sheets in order, ticking off with her voice: "That 186-yuan ampoule, four days ago it was still in the register, one line, an expensive drug. Today it's on the books. Now tell me—what has it become?"

Shen Zhixia stared at the scrape and thought.

"Unaccounted for," she said.

"The hospital keeps its own ledger," He Xiufen said. "In its own records, no one would sign when it came in, and someone scraped the batch number when it went out. If they want to call that speculation, I'll have them read these two pages aloud in court—their own book, their own reading."

"The original procurement and acceptance records are still held in the storeroom. What we got was the carbon copy."

"The next letter demands the originals," He Xiufen said. "And the temporary transfer-in slip, same request. Same stated reason."

"The batch number?"

"Scraped there, so find a place that wasn't," He Xiufen said. "The supplier's slip needs a stamp; the stamp bears a name. Find the name, and you'll know who sent the drug through that door in the middle of the night."

"Dr. Lin said the person who opened the package was a young nurse."

"Paper first, then people," He Xiufen said. "People talk and change. Paper doesn't. Nail these two pages into your objection and walk forward step by step. At whatever step, that page should gain one more name."

She reached over and traced the circle on the desk calendar's thirty-first, again.

"Six days," she said. "Every extra day those books sit upstairs is another day of talk. First thing at work tomorrow: draft the letter."

Shen Zhixia folded the copies and tucked them into her folder. She turned to a fresh page in her notebook and wrote two lines: original procurement and acceptance records, temporary transfer-in slip. Below, she left three lines blank—for the date.

[Thud. The blank cell refuses to name anyone. The scraped mark remembers a hand.]