Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 185 : No Written Record Found

The court express delivery envelope was a lotus-pink shade, with a printed detail slip taped to the front and four red characters in the upper right corner. Shen Zhixia pinched the seal and turned it over. The tape was intact.

"I already signed for it. Don't go looking for scissors." He Xiufen pushed the ledger into the drawer. "What's inside? Read it out. I'm listening."

She opened it. A summons. A notice of evidence submission.

The summons lay open on the table: cause of action, medical damage liability dispute; person summoned, Peng Weidong; hearing time, April 26, 9:30 a.m.; location, Seventh Courtroom of this court. A round seal sat in the lower right corner, pressed hard into the red ink paste, with a faint half-ring of oil bleeding from the edge.

"April 26th." She read it aloud.

"Got it." He Xiufen fished a red pen from the back of the drawer and tossed it toward the desk calendar hanging behind the door. "Now circle three dates for me. Circle them where I can see."

"Which three?"

"The 15th." He Xiufen said. "The Health Commission gave Chengbei Hospital three working days. They called on the afternoon of the 12th. Count down: the 13th, the 14th, the 15th — that's when it closes."

"The 24th." She paused. "Her explanation. That's the day."

"And the last one is right there on this paper. The 26th."

Shen Zhixia circled the three numbers one by one. The April square was crowded with several different handwriting styles: He Xiufen's blue ballpoint, her own black gel pen, and a note torn off a delivery slip. Three red circles stacked together, all different sizes.

"The first two are both before the hearing," she said.

"Plenty before." He Xiufen put the pen away. "The Commission pins down the hospital's answer first, then the court comes later. On the hearing day, if Chengbei Hospital dares to say the source is still under review, you read those dates to the presiding judge: told to verify on the 12th, deadline the 15th; hearing on the 26th. The dates on paper do the silencing for you."

She pulled over the evidence submission notice and tapped a line of fine print. "Read."

"Where a party submits supplementary evidence, it shall be submitted before the expiration of the evidence submission deadline." Shen Zhixia stopped halfway through. "Deadline: the 21st."

"The drug pile went in on the 7th." He Xiufen said. "One more will come back — the corrected one from the appraisal, which goes through the court, not through our hands. Remember: anything we have to submit has to be in by the 21st."

"It'll get in."

"There's one more page."

He Xiufen didn't finish, but both of them knew which one: Lin Qi's Supplementary Written Explanation, six lines, sitting in the innermost compartment of Shen Zhixia's canvas bag since the morning of the 12th, the signature line still without a name.

"She can't get out of bed," Shen Zhixia said.

"Then we wait." He Xiufen said. "The paper's in her hands. Nobody can sign it for her. This one — better late than never."

The restaurant downstairs was just starting to fill with customers when Peng Weidong came up, his footsteps heavier than anyone else's. The cuffs of his work jacket were worn to fringe, and he carried a plastic bag bound shut at the mouth.

"Summons came?"

"It came. The 26th, 9:30 in the morning, Seventh Courtroom. Plaintiff's bench."

He grunted, sat down on the stool by the door, and set the bag at his feet. After a moment he asked, "Will I get to speak that day?"

"There's a final statement. You say it yourself." Shen Zhixia said. "They'll ask where you were that night, what you saw, who you talked to. When you answer, don't look at us. Look at the presiding judge."

"I can't remember that much."

"Just remember what you want to know — what actually happened to your wife that night." She said. "You don't have to memorize that one."

Peng Weidong lowered his head and rubbed his hands together. After a couple passes he lifted the bag onto the table. Inside were oranges.

"For Doctor Lin," he said. "I'm not going. My legs go weak the second I walk through the hospital doors."

"Then I'll say you bought them."

"Don't." He stood and pushed the stool back against the wall. "If she asks, say the hospital handed them out."

The oranges were heavy; the plastic bag had two white stretch marks where it dug into the bottom.

That evening she carried the bag up to the fifth floor of the inpatient building. Surgical ward, bed 12, door half open. Lin Qi leaned against the headboard, a pillow propped under her knees. The IV needle on the back of her hand was out, leaving a small bruise.

"The summons came today." Shen Zhixia set the oranges on the nightstand. "April 26th."

Lin Qi turned the date over in her mind. "That day I sit in the witness seat."

"You sit. I'll file the witness list first. That day you go straight from here to the court. I'll handle the car."

"What if I can't stand that day."

"If you can't stand, we apply to testify by video." Shen Zhixia said. "The law allows it, and the judge will approve. But it's better if you come in person — you sit there, and people see you sitting there."

Lin Qi didn't answer. Her finger traced a line across the blanket.

"Has anyone come today asking you to sign anything?"

Lin Qi took out her phone, found a photo, and handed it over. The picture showed a page with the printed title "Inpatient Informed Notice and Proxy Authorization Form," and the bottom line — a signature line — was blank. The line above the signature was also blank, waiting for someone to fill it in.

"The Medical Affairs Office came this morning," Lin Qi said. "Said every inpatient has to fill it out. Wanted me to sign the proxy section."

"Did you?"

"No." She took the phone back. "I've signed a paper like that once before."

Shen Zhixia looked at her for a long moment, then wrote it in her notebook: April 13, Medical Affairs Office came to the ward, an Authorization Form, one blank waiting to be filled.

"Sign what needs signing on the treatment sheets, and after you sign, take a photo of it yourself." She said. "Anything else anyone hands you — photograph it first, then put it down. Even in the hospital."

"I know."

Lin Qi peeled an orange, pulling the sections apart one by one. The peel curled in her palm, unthrown, and she placed the peeled fruit on the empty saucer on the nightstand, nudging it toward Shen Zhixia.

"The page due on the 24th," she said after a while.

"I'll submit it based on that page, before the 24th." Shen Zhixia snapped her bag shut. "Your six lines stay tucked away. When you're on your feet, read them yourself. Whether you sign is up to you."

Lin Qi nodded and asked nothing more.

On the morning of April 15, third floor of the Chengbei District Health Commission. The water dispenser in the hallway gurgled to a boil, then stopped.

The young clerk at the window pulled out the file and flipped through two pages. "Submitted at 11 a.m., just filed. You can look, but the original stays here."

A line and a half. She read it character by character: After review, the hospital's written records across medical treatment, nursing, and drug management contain no record bearing the phrase "Decided to Use."

Below, a signature: Chengbei Hospital. A company seal. Below that, two columns — Prepared by: blank; Handler: a single character, "Xu."

She copied three things into her notebook: the line and a half, the company seal, the two columns. When she finished, she asked the window clerk to stamp the corner of the photocopy with the department seal, write "verified against original" and the date.

Section Chief Zou came in from outside, holding a cup.

"You've seen it." He said. "Nothing to add. This one stays open for now; we won't draw conclusions. Whatever the hospital reports, we file it as written."

"I'd like one copy of this," she said. "I'll note the source clearly — we didn't find it. The hospital reported it themselves."

"Go ahead."

[Thud. What can't be found is also a kind of record.]

At three that afternoon, on the long table at Zhengping Firm, three sheets of paper lay side by side.

The left one: seven characters written by Lin Qi herself, with her name and April 12 below. The middle one: the Statement on the Clinical Use of the Drug in Question, signature line completely blank, the date field reading March 30, one company seal. The right one: the self-review statement filed just that morning — a line and a half, the Prepared by column empty.

He Xiufen braced both hands on the edge of the table and studied them from left to right, three times.

"Count," she said. "Whose handwriting is on each of these three pages?"

"First one: hers." Shen Zhixia said. "Second: not a single character of hers. Third: none either — the person who wrote it didn't even leave a name."

"Then lay them out like this." He Xiufen said. "First page: she wrote it herself, signed it herself. Second: reported to the Commission on March 30, signature line still blank to this day. Third: the Commission asked for a supplement. After all the supplementing, one line — 'no written record found.' Put the three side by side and you don't need any adjectives to show who's pushing her out."

"How should I write the evidence list."

"You've got the materials in hand; write it however they demand." He Xiufen said. "One column for the document, one for the source, one for the date. Not a single word like 'coercion' or 'pressure.'"

"I know."

"Submit a copy to the Commission too." He Xiufen said. "Those seven characters — filed with the court it's testimony; filed with the Commission it's explanation. Both places should have it. Make two copies. The defendant's copy goes out today by EMS. Keep the waybill."

Shen Zhixia gathered the three pages into a folder. In the bottom slot, the kraft paper envelope sat in its original place, the creases on its corners undisturbed. She didn't pull it out. She pressed the flap shut.

Her phone buzzed on the table — a number she'd never saved. One line of text, no signature:

Before the hearing, submit the side-by-side version to the Commission too.

"Who is it?"

"No signature."

He Xiufen glanced at the screen, lifted her cup, and took a sip of water. "Then submit two copies," she said.

On the evening of April 15, a bowl of noodles sat on the plastic table outside the restaurant entrance, scallion oil in a small dish on the side. She'd picked up two bites when her phone rang.

"The drug case in Chengbei District. You filed the report on April 7, correct?" The voice on the other end was unhurried. "I'm with the Municipal Drug Regulatory Bureau."

"Yes."

"We've verified part of it. That receiving register in the drug warehouse — it matches on our end."

She set down her chopsticks.

"What about the person listed as receiver?"

"We'll leave the columns for later," the voice said. "The ledger matches, but there's still one person missing."

"Who's missing?"

"Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock, come to the inspection room on our fourth floor. Bring your filing list." The voice paused. "The person you wrote on that paper — we haven't found their name on our end."

The call ended. The stove was still on. Noodle water rolled in the pot.

[Thud. The ledger matches. What doesn't match is the person.]

She opened her notebook and wrote two lines under today's date: Receiving register — matches. One person still missing.

She remembered that half-sentence from Jian Ning even now — after the medicine was delivered, someone else had come up to take a look. She'd asked who, and Jian Ning had shaken her head. That half-sentence had hung on the page until today, until the drug regulator said "it matches, but there's one person missing."

She flipped back to the checklist she'd copied on April 7. Four items, none missing. On the last line, she wrote two characters — "Jian Ning" — with a blank space after the name, and nothing filled in below.