Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 19 : Account Settled

"On the day they loaded the truck, which end were you at?"

The old man took off his knit cap, set it on his knee, and smoothed the brim twice. "The truck bed end. I was on the ground passing baskets up."

She wrote on the third line of the letter paper: October 11, loading, truck bed side, passing baskets. The four columns at the top were the ones He Xiufen had told her to fill in first: time of interview, place of interview, interviewer, recorder. For interviewer she wrote He Xiufen; for recorder, herself. Last night He Xiufen had given her three instructions: don't answer for him, read it back to him, and if he doesn't understand, say it in plain language.

Wang Changshun came upstairs at 7:30. The woven plastic sack was flatter than last time. He pulled out half a bag of cornmeal and insisted on leaving it by the kitchen doorway. She tried twice to refuse, couldn't, then opened her ledger and wrote: half bag of cornmeal, to be returned.

"Have a seat."

"First bus. Got here at 7:30." He sat. "I can sit still."

"That day at the weigh-in, how many bags in all?"

"Seventy-three. I loaded the truck and counted them one by one."

She wrote: seventy-three bags, counted by the person himself, to be checked against other materials.

"Who did the weighing?"

"Their people. I was still unloading off the truck bed, carrying baskets over one by one."

"When you carried them over, were you at the scale?"

"No."

"Who wrote the slip?"

"Someone inside. He wrote it up, brought it out, and told me to press my thumbprint."

"What did the person who wrote it look like?"

The old man thought for a moment. "Young fellow. Early twenties. I didn't know him."

She wrote: slip writer, male, early twenties, from the purchasing point, name to be checked. Then she added another line: the name on the slip was not written by the person himself; he is illiterate and only pressed a thumbprint.

"Was anyone in the weigh room that day?"

"An old man, sitting inside watching the scale."

She wrote: weigh room, one scale watcher, name to be checked. After writing those words, her pen tip paused on the paper.

"You agreed with him on one yuan ten."

"That was the deal. Pay after the sale."

"In these three years, have you ever gotten any money from him?"

"Not a cent."

"Freight, bags, deductions—he never settled any of that with you either?"

"He never paid me. What would he deduct?"

"How many trips have you made over these three years?"

"Twenty-seven, in the notebook."

"Who wrote them down in the notebook?"

"My grandson. A few trips I didn't let him write down."

"Why not?"

"Too embarrassing if word got out."

She had written up to there when He Xiufen came out from the back room with a cup of water. He Xiufen stood at the desk, read the sheet over, and tapped one line with her finger.

"Don't ask 'has he always owed you,'" He Xiufen said. "Ask him which days he went and which days he got money in his hands. Money in his hand is a fact; whether he's owed is your phrasing."

She crossed out that line and asked again, "On the twenty-first of the twelfth lunar month last year, what time did you get there?"

"Before midday."

"How did you know no one was there?"

"The door was locked, and the lock was new." The old man's voice dropped. "I squatted by the wall all afternoon. At noon I gnawed half a piece of dry flatbread."

"Did anyone else come that day?"

"No."

He Xiufen carried her cup downstairs but stopped at the door. "He just said there was someone in the weigh room. Did you write that down?"

"Yes."

"Then find time to track that person down," she said. "One person remembering a thing—that's talk. Two people remembering it—that's a fact."

The door closed. She drew a triangle after that line.

[Thud. He can't remember dates; the dates live on paper written by other people.]

She read the whole sheet to the old man, pausing after each sentence. The second time she read "net weight," he still didn't understand, so she changed it to "what it came out to in total." When she read "not one cent received," the old man reached over. "That line. Read it again."

The lettering on the ink-paste box lid had worn off, and the red paste had a hollow from repeated pressing. He pressed a thumbprint on every page, then on the last page traced his own name stroke by stroke. When he reached "Shun," the left-side strokes dropped downward and finished with a small upward flick, just like the one on the power of attorney. She stared at those three strokes for two seconds. He Xiufen had signed the interviewer column just before going downstairs.

"Does this paper count for anything?" the old man asked.

"Half of it."

"What about the other half?"

"The other half is in someone else's hands."

"Whose hands?"

"I don't know yet."

Footsteps came up the stairs, heavy on every step. Ma Jianjun came in carrying the helmet—it had sat in the corner of her room for two months, covered in dust. He wiped it once with his sleeve and put it back.

"Keep it," he said. "Leave it here. I'll come back for it next time."

"Next time you'll come back for it with what?"

"With money." He grinned and set a plastic bag on the table. "Four sheets."

Four powers of attorney spread out. She looked them over one by one: signatures, thumbprints, ID numbers. The third one had only a name and no thumbprint.

"Take this one back and redo it. A thumbprint is more solid than a name. Two photos: the blurry one—have him retake it, because you can't tell it's him. Also, one person's ID card is back home. Have his wife mail it."

"How many days by mail?"

"Three."

"December fifth..." He twisted the plastic bag back and forth.

"Eight days away. Turn in the materials we've got first and fill in what's missing. We have to go back to the community for another recommendation letter. Next Monday. Come with me."

"I'll wait outside."

"One more thing. The station manager—Sun what?"

Ma Jianjun shook his head. The front of the metal badge had the station and number printed on it, but the name was on a paper strip stuck on—three characters, the first one was "Sun," and the other two he hadn't made out. That day when they collected the work badges, the station manager had taken them from each rider's neck himself, saying it was a system upgrade.

"Where's the badge now?"

"Taken away." He thought for a moment. "Xiao Duan has a photo of his own badge."

She wrote: Sun, unknown, to be checked. As she wrote it, she remembered the line from the hearing: he doesn't even have a work badge anymore. That was exactly the point.

[Thud. The day the badges were taken, the name was handed over too.]

The old man made his way downstairs gripping the railing. Ma Jianjun helped him halfway.

"Uncle, what's your case about?"

"A truckload of corn," the old man said. "Three years now."

"Got it back?"

"Today the words just got put down on paper."

"My case got halfway decided," Ma Jianjun said. "Not a cent in hand."

The old man pressed his cap brim down. "Even a judgment doesn't mean it's settled."

"On paper it counts," Ma Jianjun said. "In hand, you still have to get it."

"Still have to try."

At the kitchen doorway, the old man picked up the cornmeal and pushed it into his hands. "Take it home and cook some porridge." Ma Jianjun told him to keep it, but the old man waved him off, saying there was still half a bag at home. So Ma Jianjun took it.

She went back inside and crossed out that line in the ledger, changing it to: half bag cornmeal, transferred to rider Ma, settled.

The next morning, the fire downstairs had not yet gone out when Liu Fugui came upstairs.

He wore the same padded vest, but the ring of keys wasn't around his neck, and he carried a black cloth bag. He stood at the door and looked for He Xiufen first. "Is Director He here?"

He Xiufen came out from the back room and glanced at him. "What is it?"

"Nothing." He smiled. "I heard you've written several pages about me, so I came to take a look."

"Writing on paper won't cost you. Sit."

He didn't sit. He stood and scanned the room: two rows of metal cabinets, a dusty copier, a wooden desk by the window with letter paper and a red ink pad spread out on it. When he finished looking, he straightened up a little.

"Smoke?" He pulled out a pack and offered it to her first. "Last time at his place I didn't get to smoke. This time in your office, you can't call it bribery."

"No smoking in the office."

"Girl, your words are sharp as knives." He put the cigarettes away and sat in the chair by the door, opening the black cloth bag. Inside was the thick ledger, hardcover, corners worn. He spread it open on the desk and kept one hand on it. That hand never left the book.

"Whatever you want to ask, I've got it entry by entry," he said. "The accounts are settled. The receipt has his own signature."

"Which day?"

"The twenty-first of the twelfth lunar month."

"Who wrote the receipt?"

"Whoever was there wrote it."

"Who was there that day?"

"I don't remember."

She wrote his answers down one by one under "Liu says." When she finished, she pushed the notebook a little toward him. "The old man says that day before midday he got to the purchasing point and the door was locked, and he squatted by the wall all afternoon."

"That was the twentieth," Liu Fugui answered quickly. "He came in the morning. I didn't get back until afternoon."

"I have it as the twenty-first."

"Then you've got it wrong."

He flipped a page, loudly.

[Thud. Testimony Comparison—comparing him against himself.]

[Thud. The first sentence is on yesterday's paper; this one is on today's.]

She looked down at the ledger. The writing in the first half leaned right, with long, dragged strokes. The second half was thin, the strokes tucked tight, the final strokes pressing downward. She asked, "You kept all of this ledger yourself?"

"I wrote it myself."

"The second half too?"

Liu Fugui pressed his palm flat on the page. "A few entries my nephew helped with."

"What's your nephew's name?"

"He's out working. Hasn't been in town since the year before last."

"Among those entries, which ones did he write?"

"I can't remember."

She added a note in the margin: November 25, there was a young man in the back room who called out "thirty-seven" from behind the curtain. She didn't read it aloud.

She turned to the binding. The torn edge there was uneven, a page missing, leaving a thin strip of paper still stuck to the thread.

"What about this page?"

"It got torn, so I tore it out."

"What was recorded on it?"

"Odds and ends."

"You just said dozens of entries a day." She pointed at the open page. "This page has eight lines."

Liu Fugui pulled the ledger back toward him. "Dozens was when business was good. You're young; you wouldn't understand."

"Did you bring the receipt today?"

"I'll produce it when we go to court," he said. "Don't worry, I won't lose it."

She looked over the line she had written again and added under "Liu says": On the twenty-first of the twelfth lunar month, counted the money at the counter, 4,200, accounts settled, the note bore the name Wang Changshun.

Liu Fugui bent down to read. When he finished, he took the pen, drew a horizontal line through that line, and wrote six words in the margin: Account settled. Proof in hand. Then he signed his name and set the pen down, the tip pointing toward her.

She used her phone to take two photos of that page.

"Go ahead and photograph it," he said. "I wrote these words; I'll stand by them."

He stuffed the ledger back into the cloth bag and turned at the door. "You go through the process; I'll go along. The old man's sixty-seven, right? Can he wait?"

"He's waited three years," she said. "Half a year more won't matter."

"Little girl." He laughed once and went downstairs.

He Xiufen came out from the back room and draped the rag over the back of a chair.

"You moved too early today," she said.

"Which step?"

"The writing wasn't his—you already got that out of him in town the day before yesterday. Today you brought him into the office and asked about the ledger and his nephew. There's only one thing for him to do when he gets back: clean out whatever backup records the weigh room has, and the missing page from this ledger."

She looked down at the six words.

"Then these six words were written for nothing."

"Not for nothing," He Xiufen said. "Handwriting comparison costs money; we'll deal with the money later. Keep the writing for now."

That night, four items were laid out on the desk by the window.

The original weigh slip lay on the far left. After "grain deliverer," the three characters of the name had been written for him by the person who filled out the slip—Wang Changshun. In the "Shun" part, the left-side strokes were connected into a single downward drag, and the first stroke started from below and swept upward.

In the middle was the full text of the receipt she had copied out, with the three characters she had traced pasted to the margin.

On the right was the photo of Wang Changshun's power of attorney, plus a new page from today: the six words Liu Fugui had written, and his name.

She pushed the desk lamp forward half an inch.

The old man's writing dropped stroke by stroke and finished with a slight upward flick. Liu Fugui's six words from today swung sideways, rising to the upper right, with the last stroke sweeping down. Neither style came close to those two.

[Thud. The receipt and the weigh slip came from the same hand.]

[Thud. That hand belonged to neither Wang Changshun nor Liu Fugui.]

She stared at those two lines and remembered the curtain in the back room of the purchasing point. The curtain had lifted a little, showing half of a young face, and someone behind it called out: "Thirty-seven."

She flipped the notebook back. Under that vertical line, the half line from the day before yesterday was still there: This writing—who wrote it? A question mark followed.

She added three words after the question mark and pressed the cap onto her pen.

A third person.