Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 21 : Weighing Room Carbon Copy

The door to the weigh room stood open. Inside, a woman sat on a low stool peeling garlic.

Garlic skins dropped into a plastic bag spread on her lap, already a layer deep. She raised her eyes once, then didn't look up again.

"Is Liu Fugui here?"

"Went into town to make a delivery," she said. "Who are you?"

"Zhengping Law Firm. The case about Wang Changshun's load of corn—our firm took it, and Director He sent me over." Shen Zhixia set her bag on the concrete ledge outside the door and did not go in. "I need to look at the weighing register in the weigh room."

"The register's in the cabinet. The key is with Fugui."

"Give him a call."

"Calling won't make any difference."

"You call, and I'll talk to him."

The woman got up reluctantly, wiped her hands on her apron, unclipped a ring of keys from her apron tie, took out her phone, turned away and spoke a few words, then turned back and tucked the phone behind her ear. "He says you can look. Go through them yourself, but don't put your hands on the register."

The keys had been hanging from her waist all along, though she had just said they were with Fugui. Shen Zhixia stayed outside and didn't call her on it.

When the metal cabinet in the back room of the weigh room opened, it gave off a smell of ink and damp. Three weighing registers sat stacked, their hard covers worn pale, the years marked on the spines in marker. She pulled out the one on the bottom and placed it on the wooden counter.

The page for October 11 was gone.

Pages before and after were there. On the October 9 page, one line per vehicle—plate number, basket count, net weight—written in someone else's hand. October 16 was there too. The 10th through the 15th: six days, missing.

What remained was a thin edge of paper, six stubs still caught in the binding, the torn edges rough. On the topmost stub, half of a written character remained: a single vertical stroke.

She opened her notebook and wrote: six pages missing, October 10 through 15, tear running top to bottom; the stub still holds half of a "ten." Beneath that, she drew a small box in pencil and sketched the shape of the tear—straight across the top, slanted at the bottom.

"Who's responsible for this register?"

"Fugui."

"Who tore it out?"

"I only started here last year," the woman said. "It was already missing when I came."

"What about the young man who wrote out the slips?"

"He stopped coming after last autumn." She thought for a moment. "A relative of Fugui's. I don't know the name."

"Has anyone else touched this register?"

"I don't handle that. If you want to know, ask Fugui."

[Thud. The one page that needed to stay had already gone first.]

Outside, she stood by the weighbridge for a moment. A thin frost had formed on the steel plate; when she pressed her palm to it, the cold bit into her finger bones. She called Wang Changshun.

"Uncle Wang. The old man who watches the scale in the weigh room—what's his surname, and where does he live?"

"Surname Zhou, west end of town along the river, third house, persimmon tree by the gate." The old man paused on the other end. "Don't go anywhere. I'll come get you."

About twenty minutes later, a three-wheeled cart stopped in front of her. A plastic tarp had been spread in the bed, its corners weighed down with bricks.

"I laid that down for you," the old man said. "That cart's hauled fertilizer."

The courtyard wall by the river at the west end of town was low. A row of corncobs hung under the eaves. A yellow dog tethered by the gate barked twice, then wagged its tail.

Old Zhou was crouched on the doorstep stripping corn husks. He wore a blue padded jacket, cuffs rolled. An enamel mug sat on the step, its rim chipped down to the black iron beneath.

Her gaze lingered on that chipped spot for a moment, then shifted to him.

"Old Zhou."

The old man looked up and squinted at them for a long moment. "Changshun."

"This is the one helping me with the lawsuit." Wang Changshun climbed down from the cart and wiped both hands on his pants. "She wants to ask you something."

The corn in Old Zhou's hands stilled. He tossed the ear he'd finished into the basket. "Ask me what? I don't know anything."

"October 11. The one sitting in the weigh room that day—that was you, wasn't it?"

Old Zhou's hand went back to the corn.

"The handwriting on the slip isn't yours. I'm not asking about that," she said. "I'm asking about that load."

"Several loads a day."

"How many baskets were on that truck?"

"Who'd remember?"

Wang Changshun straightened up. "Seventy-three sacks. I counted them one by one."

Old Zhou turned his head and looked at him, then said, "You counted the ones on the truck. I counted the ones that went onto the scale."

He pressed his hands to his knees. "Seventy-three baskets. I made tally marks on the doorframe—one mark for every ten baskets."

[Thud. Seventy-three baskets, counted separately by two people.]

"I watch the scale and count the baskets. If I count wrong, that's on me," Old Zhou said.

"Did the numbers match that day?"

Old Zhou didn't answer right away. He finished stripping one ear, stacked it in the basket, finished another, then spoke.

"That young fellow nudged the platform with the sole of his shoe every time he set a basket on it," he said. "I was sitting at the window. I could see it clear as day."

Wang Changshun's head slowly turned back.

"I said, 'The scale's off,'" Old Zhou said. "Fugui said I was seeing things."

"That was all you said?"

"Three hundred fifty a month," he said. "Wasn't my place to mind that scale. After New Year, the key was taken back. The cabinet went to Fugui, and the slip writer was replaced."

"What did that young man look like?"

"Early twenties, a red cord tied around his left wrist." Old Zhou thought for a moment. "A relative of Fugui's."

She looked down and wrote: slip writer, male, early twenties, red cord around left wrist, relative on the purchasing-point side, stopped coming after last autumn—Liu Fugui claims he has not been in town since the year before last.

"What about the carbon copy from the weigh room?"

"Behind the cabinet. One bundle per year, kept in a woven plastic sack."

"Where is it now?"

"When I left, I handed it over to him," Old Zhou said. "He said he'd keep it—safer than at my place."

"When did you ask him for it?"

"A while back." Old Zhou tucked his hands into his sleeves. "People in the village said Changshun was going to sue him, so I went and asked. Said I wanted a look at the originals. He said he'd lent them out for copying and hadn't gotten them back yet."

"Copying for half a year?"

"I can't read," Old Zhou said. "But even I know copying doesn't take half a year."

[Thud. The carbon copy is gone.]

[Thud. But the person is still here.]

She stood to leave. Old Zhou suddenly said, "There is one thing."

He went inside and dug out a phone, a crack running across the screen—an old device one of his kids had stopped using. He swiped at the screen several times before he found the photo, then handed it over.

The photo had been taken that day three years ago. In front of the weigh room, baskets were stacked on the platform, someone was bent over, and a white speck showed on the windowsill. The day had been overcast; the image was gray and murky, the figures and basket shadows blurred together.

"Who took it?"

"My grandson. He came to bring me food that day and said he'd take a picture so I could see what I looked like sitting inside," Old Zhou said. "He sent it to me. I never deleted it."

"Can you give me the original?"

"I don't know how to send it," he said. "Talk to him."

She called from Old Zhou's phone, explained who she was and what it was for, and gave her own number. The person on the other end said he'd send it once he added her.

"Your full name?"

"Zhou Deshan," he said. "In the village, everyone calls me Old Zhou."

She wrote: November 28, Zhou Deshan, by the river at the west end of town, former scale watcher at the purchasing point.

"Would you be willing to say all this again in front of someone else?"

"Who?"

"First, in front of Liu Fugui," she said. "If this really goes to court down the road, someone will have to stand up and say it. Whether you do is for you to decide when the time comes. I won't push you."

Old Zhou picked up the enamel mug, took a sip, and set it back on the doorstep with a clink.

"I watched that scale for over ten years," he said. "That one load was the only time I didn't speak up all the way through."

He lifted his head. "If you bring him to your firm, I'll go."

"Tomorrow morning."

"I'll take the first bus."

It was past four when she got back to the city. Xiao Duan was waiting for her at the bottom of the old building, his electric scooter propped outside the unit entrance. The box on the rear seat hadn't been unloaded, and dust had settled on its lid.

"I skipped a delivery," he said. "Twenty yuan."

"Finish your delivery first."

"If I do it, it'll be dark by the time I'm done." He gestured toward the building. "That place upstairs—I came two days ago and people were still moving out."

The stairwell light was out, and the walls were covered with little advertisements. On the second floor, an old woman opened her door a crack, looked out, then closed it again.

At the end of the fifth-floor hallway, the door to that room stood open.

The room was empty. A layer of dust covered the floor, marked with footprints. A man in his fifties was crouched inside, dismantling metal shelving and setting the screws on a newspaper.

"Looking for someone?"

"This place used to be a delivery company." She stood in the doorway. "Are you the landlord?"

"I am." He tucked the screwdriver into his belt. "They moved out last month. Still owe me over three hundred in utilities."

"Who moved the stuff out?"

"They moved it themselves. Came twice," the landlord said. "Only these papers are left."

Three signs had once hung on the wall. Two had been taken down, leaving two rectangular marks and a layer of dust around them. The one still there read "Jiangzhou Sutong Delivery Service Co., Ltd."

A printed form was posted beneath the sign, its edges curled.

The bold header read: Jiangzhou Sutong Delivery Service Co., Ltd., Chengnan Station No. 1 Attendance Summary.

Below that, on the signature line, was a handwritten name: Sun Jianhua.

The form listed a column of names, with several horizontal lines drawn through them.

Xiao Duan peered over her shoulder. He stared at the paper for a long moment without a word. He reached a hand out and held it over the page, then pulled it back.

"This is me." He pointed to a row in the middle. "This is Brother Ma."

"Have you ever seen your station manager's name?"

"The sticker on his work badge—I couldn't make out the last two characters," he said. "But that's him."

"Don't tell anyone I brought you here."

"I won't."

She took out her phone and took three photos: the header line, the signature line, and the whole wall.

"Can you take pictures?" the landlord said from inside.

"If you don't want me to, I won't."

"Go ahead," he said. "I was going to tear these up and sell them for scrap anyway."

"Don't tear this one," she said. "Tomorrow I'll bring our director to pick it up. Will you be around?"

"I'll be here in the morning."

She opened her notebook and wrote down today's date, the room number, what papers were in the room, and who was present. She asked the landlord to write his name and phone number at the bottom.

"Guo Jianguo." He handed the pen back after writing. "The contract was signed by the same one person—Sun Jianhua."

"Do you have the contract?"

"It's at my place," he said. "I'll bring it tomorrow."

[Thud. The name missing from the defendant column was written on the wall.]

Back at the noodle shop, the stove was still lit. She went upstairs first and made an entry in the ledger: early bus six yuan, return trip eight yuan.

He Xiufen was wiping the wok beside the stove.

"How was the weigh room?"

"The register is still there. The 10th through the 15th—six pages, torn out."

"What about the carbon copy?"

"He's keeping it," she said. "Old Zhou went to ask him for it a while back. He said he'd lent it out for copying."

He Xiufen paused, the cloth in her hand still. "Copying for half a year."

"Old Zhou can't read, and even he says copying doesn't take half a year."

She opened the photo on her phone and zoomed in as far as it would go.

He Xiufen leaned over and looked for a few seconds. "What is this?"

"Three years ago, that day. Old Zhou's grandson took it. He just sent over the original."

"Can you tell who is who?"

"No," she said. "There are baskets on the platform, someone bending over. A white speck on the windowsill."

"So it's just a blurry photo."

"Yes."

He Xiufen hung the cloth over the edge of the stove. "He can tear up paper. He can't tear up people's mouths."

She dialed the number.

"Boss Liu. Tomorrow morning at nine, come to the firm so we can go over the accounts."

There was a pause on the other end, then a laugh before the words. "You went and looked at the weigh room."

"I did."

"Good," he said. "I'll be there tomorrow. Sharp."

After hanging up, she opened the photo again. Seventy-three baskets were there, too blurred to make out anything but the shape of a person.