Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 208: Number 118, Minsheng Road

The number machine spit out a narrow slip of paper: forty-seven. Seven people still ahead of her.

The window opened at eight-thirty. On the morning of the twenty-fifth, she slid the four required items under the glass: on top, a page of He Xiufen's handwritten explanation, signed and dated; beneath it, three more—the court visitor registration slips from the four hearing dates, the page excerpted from the first page of the four trial records, and one retrieval receipt for the courtroom audio-video recording.

The woman in the white sleeve covers spread the four items out and checked them one by one. At the third item, her pen stopped.

"Who wrote this page?"

"The supervising lawyer herself. Her practice certificate number is at the bottom."

"Read it to me."

So Shen Zhixia read the few lines aloud: which day she appeared in court, where she sat, what she did.

"Fine." The woman moved her pen to the line below. "The original column on the form stays as it is. A supplementary explanation is one thing, but not a single character in that column can be changed."

"It won't be."

The woman gathered the four items into a kraft envelope, typed a few lines, and looked up to say the result wouldn't come through the window—it would come by notice.

"When will it be issued?"

"The assessment committee will process it at their next meeting. I can't give you an answer here."

She asked if she could at least get a receipt for the submission. The woman shook her head; she gave her a reference number to copy down. Shen Zhixia copied it into her small notebook, then asked if there was one with an official stamp.

"There's no standardized form." The woman thought for a moment. "If you want, I can print you a submission confirmation slip. It'll have the date and the window number on it."

"I want it."

The paper came out of the printer still warm. She folded it twice and tucked it next to the copied reference number in her folder.

When she left the hall, the wind swept up the steps. She sent a message to the unsaved number: Materials submitted, number copied, confirmation slip in hand.

A reply came back: Photograph the slip, save a separate copy.

The smell of scallion oil from downstairs at the noodle shop drifted up through the steamers. He Xiufen sat on a plastic stool by the front door, peeling garlic, garlic skins scattered at her feet.

"Submitted?"

"Submitted. Got a slip."

"Keep the slip safe." He Xiufen tossed the garlic into a basin. "At that window, words are words and paper is paper."

Upstairs, the table was covered with the page she had copied the night before: several accounts forwarding within a window of minutes, account names and timestamps lined up row by row. She pinned the page beside the keyboard and clicked through the accounts one at a time.

On the fourth one, her hand stopped.

There was a small blue badge on the profile. She clicked it, and a line popped up: Jiangzhou Xingyao Media Co., Ltd.

She counted down. Among this batch of synchronized forwarding accounts, six carried the same certification. None of the six had large followings, and their content was a jumble, but every video opened with the same fade-in—identical to the opening of that thirty-seven-second clip.

Six profiles. She went through them one by one, her hand motionless.

Then she sent the unsaved number a message: Six of the reposting accounts carry Xingyao Media institutional certification.

The reply came: The certification will get revoked. Screen-record first, with timestamps.

She propped her phone against the desk lamp, started the screen recording, and began from the URL entry, clicking through the accounts one after another—six profiles, not one skipped. After recording, she took screenshots. Six of them, each with the recording timestamp in the corner.

Then she pulled out the quotation sheet. She searched the business account printed in the corner of it.

A job posting came up, hanging in the industrial park's recruitment section: matrix account operations, clip editing, daily pay, paid per piece, multi-platform distribution, preference for on-site staff. The posting entity column read Xingyao Media. The contact number listed was the same one on the other end of the business account from the quotation sheet.

She printed the page and slid it under the quotation sheet. Certification page on the left, job posting on the right.

He Xiufen came upstairs carrying the garlic basin, stood at the table, and looked over the three items. When she was done, she went and turned the stove flame down half a notch.

"How does the certification hold up?" Shen Zhixia asked.

"It can say these six accounts belong to that company." He Xiufen set the garlic basin down. "It can't say who cut that thirty-seven-second clip. Don't jump that step yet."

"The certification isn't falsely registered," she said. "I clicked to the bottom of the certification page—it requires uploading a business license and a corporate bank account. Both have to match."

"Then it's even more solid," He Xiufen said. "But it still only gets you to the company's front door."

"Look at this line." She pointed at the job posting. "Paid per piece—one payment for each clip they cut. The people standing along that road have names."

[Thud. Checklist first line: Who cut it—Xingyao Media. Paid per piece, matrix distribution.]

"What about that girl from the year before last—"

"Don't go to her yet." He Xiufen slung the rag over her shoulder. "What she wanted back then was overtime pay. If you go asking her about editing clips now, one 'I don't remember' and that door's shut for good. Wait until her testimony's worth something."

She called the Chengnan Notary Office and asked for Hu Yongnian, the one who had handled Tang Guo's two cases before. She gave the reference number and asked if she could add a webpage evidence collection.

"Send me the URL, state the purpose clearly, and tell me who holds the screen-recording original." The sound of paper being flipped was faint on the other end. "Give me all three and I'll accept it. Webpage items take three business days."

"The original's with me—one copy on a hard drive, one in cloud storage."

"Note the file name and don't change it. If you change it once, I have to re-verify everything on my end."

At just past two in the afternoon, Tang Guo forwarded over a photo.

It was from one of her long-time followers, someone who had been in her fan group for two years, sent through the private-message channel of the legal-education account: "Sis, someone forwarded this to me. Just take a look, that's all."

The photo was a re-photographed copy of a spreadsheet, the lighting skewed. The first column was labels, and it read "Legal-Education Blogger." The second cell held Tang Guo's full name. Two asterisks replaced the middle of her ID number. The phone column showed the old number she had just switched from. The address cell was filled in most completely: 118 Minsheng Road, Chengdong, Unit 3, Apartment 302.

Beneath the table was a line in small print: Full set, fifteen hundred. Pay first, access opens first.

Someone had circled the address cell in red ink.

Within ten minutes, another message came through the same channel from a different account: I've got your info here. Two hundred, and I'll clear you from the file.

She screenshot both messages, noted the times, then called Tang Guo.

"Did you reply?"

"No." Tang Guo's voice was muffled, as if she were under the covers. "My hands are shaking. I'm afraid I'll tap the wrong thing."

"Don't tap. Don't pay. Don't delete. Don't ask the price." She spoke one sentence at a time. "The moment you reply to him, he'll know this table is real."

"What if he actually shows up downstairs?"

"Then someone will be there to meet him."

After hanging up, she sent both screenshots to Zhou Yu with one line: It's for sale.

Two replies came back: Don't let your client respond. Use the originals in your possession for the police submission, not the forwarded version.

He Xiufen came upstairs, wiped her hands on her apron twice, and took the phone to study the table. She looked first at the ID number cell, then the address cell, and finally turned the screen face down on the table.

"The trolls don't know her apartment number," He Xiufen said. "She only moved in on May twenty-third. Her old address is online already, but what's written on this table is the new one."

"An online flame war doesn't reach the level of a specific unit number," Shen Zhixia said. "It has to be someone who's held one of her delivery waybills."

"Courier, agent, landlord. Note all of them. Don't write conclusions—mark them pending review." He Xiufen pushed the phone back. "You've already got hold of one thing—this table is the work of people doing business."

She grabbed her small notebook, the two printouts, and the police report receipt from the Minsheng Road station, and made the trip. The officer who had taken the original report came out from the back room, pen in hand, and read through everything from start to finish. He asked three questions: When was it received, who sent it, and had anyone asked for money.

That last question was about the two-hundred-yuan private message.

"Ignore that one. They prey on people who scare easily." The officer handed the papers back. "The number on the form doesn't need to change. Add this, and I'll start a new page stating what was received, how many pages, and who delivered it."

"Someone told me that package was still sealed."

"It's unsealed now." He clicked his pen cap on. "We had two cases like this last month, both lists posted for sale in group chats. Have her avoid going back to her old residence alone these next two days."

[Thud. The list is sold by the package. This package has already been opened.]

At past ten that night, Tang Guo came out of the shower, hair wrapped in a towel, wearing one of Shen Zhixia's old T-shirts.

Shen Zhixia's place had two small rooms—one for herself, one for Shen Zhi'an. With Tang Guo staying over, she gave up her room. The sofa pulled out into a bed. Zhi'an was inside doing practice exams, a strip of lamplight leaking from under the door.

Tang Guo's new phone buzzed again. She started to reach for it, but Shen Zhixia put a hand over the screen first and answered it herself, turning on speaker.

It was the owner of the print shop on Minsheng Road.

"Someone just left." The woman's voice was very low. "A man, around thirty, wandered around the shop twice, asked if there was a girl who came in often to print materials and film videos. Tried to get her number off me."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I see dozens of people a day—I don't remember." The woman paused. "When he left, he headed toward Minsheng Road."

After the call ended, the room was quiet for a while. Zhi'an's door cracked open and a head poked out: "Sis, what's going on?"

"Your Tang Guo-jie is staying a couple of days," she said. "Finish your practice exams and go to sleep."

"I'll sleep on the sofa."

"You sleep in your own room."

The door closed, and the strip of light went dark.

At ten-fifty, the long-time follower forwarded another screenshot from the group through that same private-message channel.

Someone had posted the full line—"118 Minsheng Road, Chengdong, Unit 3, Apartment 302"—and added below it: I'm downstairs right now. Attached was a photo: the electric scooter that had been parked by the stairwell entrance for six months, a handprint pressed into the dust on the seat, the strip of red cloth still draped over the handlebar.

She recognized that scooter. Just yesterday morning, she had walked out of that very stairwell.

She dialed the Minsheng Road station's number. The officer on duty heard her out and said he'd send someone by. Half an hour later, the report came back: no one downstairs, but the unit door lock was broken.

"That lock's been broken for half a month." Tang Guo hugged her knees. "Every day I have to pry it open with my key."

"Don't give up the apartment," Shen Zhixia said. "Tomorrow we go back for your things. Desktop computer, documents, that iron box your grandmother left you."

"Once it's emptied out, the place just sits there."

"Even empty, you keep it," she said. "Give it up, and you're admitting they can drive you out."

"What about the livestream light?"

"Take the light too. Light, microphone, teleprompter—check them off one by one."

She carried in the stack of undelivered packages by the door and peeled the waybills off one by one, tearing each into four pieces and dropping them into a bag. The top one was Zhi'an's tutoring workbook, addressed to her name with her phone number after it.

Tang Guo had only moved into that address a month ago.

[Thud. Checklist fourth line: Tang Guo's name, address, and ID number. Not one piece of it can be allowed to leak out.]

She opened her folder and found the checklist page. First line: who cut it. Second line: who spread it. Third line: who paid for it. All three lines now had names behind them.

She added a fourth line below the third. Her pen paused—on that line she didn't write the two characters "Tang Guo." She wrote: Name. Address. ID number.

When she finished, she set the pen down and glanced back at the sofa. Tang Guo sat with her laptop hugged close, the screen's glow on her face, the hard drive's little light blinking steadily.

"Done writing?"

"Done."

"Can we still go back tomorrow?"

"We can. Tomorrow I'll go out with you."

Both phones were turned face down on the table. Neither screen pointed up.