Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 214: Not Surnamed Qin

The window at Minsheng Road Police Station was empty. An enamel mug sat on the ledge, a ring of tea stain dried to a faint edge at the bottom.

She looked over the two plastic potted plants again. The soil was still damp. The curtain to the inner office parted, and an officer came out with another mug.

"The letter's back," he said.

"How many pages?"

"Page and a half." He pressed the sheet onto the counter, text facing himself. "This page doesn't leave here. You can copy it."

She opened her notebook and held it flat.

Through the glass, she could only make out the grid lines on the form. The officer used the tail of his pen to tap down from top to bottom, one line at a time.

"Dingchang's corporate account—outgoing was buying views. Three transactions. What you wrote down last time was right. Incoming too. Two hands." The pen tail stopped. "Jiangzhou Taiying Information Technology Co., Ltd. Jiangzhou Sheng'an Commercial Services Co., Ltd. Three months of accounts. Seven deposits."

"How much?"

"I'm not reading figures." He said, "Figures are no use to you. What you want is names."

"Where were the accounts opened?"

The officer flipped the sheet over to look at the back.

"Both corporate accounts were opened at the same branch as Dingchang's—same sub-office."

Her pen stopped for a second.

"Same branch," she wrote those five characters down first, "or the same window, the same person?"

"There's no 'person' on this paper." The officer pulled the sheet back and slid it into a drawer. "There's the 'Bank of Account' column. What you write is your business, but if you write it as coming from me, I won't be able to back it up."

"I'll write the bank." She said, "The other part I'll arrive at on my own."

"One more thing, and I want to be clear up front." He pushed the drawer shut. "Even if you copy this page, it won't go in before a judge. To get it on paper, your firm has to submit a request and have the court pull it."

"I know." She read the two company names one at a time. "Taiying. Sheng'an."

"The corporate account you mentioned last time—it's in this batch." The officer said, "Which one specifically, the letter doesn't say. Don't guess on paper."

She looked up.

"Don't." He tucked the pen behind his ear. "You've got names in your hand now. That's enough. One more and you'll be back here next time anyway."

[Thud. For one account to buy outbound, another account has to pay inbound.]

Coming out of the station, she flipped her notebook to the latest page on the steps. The sun was strong. The melon vendor across the street had damp cloth draped over his cart, and the drips ran a thin line along the curb.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket.

An unsaved number.

—Stop chasing people. Chase the money. The money circles back to the building you've seen before.

Standing on the steps, she typed back: Which building?

After she sent it, the screen did not light up again.

* * *

It was already eleven-thirty when she got back to the firm. The stove downstairs had just been shut off, the oil in the iron wok still sizzling. He Xiufen stood at the top of the stairs with her tea mug, a grease stain on the front of her apron.

"The letter's back." She said, handing the notebook over.

He Xiufen didn't take it. She looked at her hand first.

"Copied."

"Copied."

"Copied onto a note." He Xiufen turned and walked into the office. "What you produce yourself—that's what's actually in your hand."

She spread the morning's work across the table, four pages side by side: the registry printout of the nine accounts at 403, the printed annual report for Dingchang, the two lines copied into her notebook, and the photocopy of Xingyao's job posting.

He Xiufen sat down, put on her glasses, and tapped her pen on the notebook.

"Start with this line. Same branch."

"Correct."

"Write it down: The corporate accounts of both companies were opened at the same branch as Dingchang's." He Xiufen said, "Don't write 'the same outfit opened the accounts'—that's your own judgment."

"Then what do I write?"

"Write what they shared." He Xiufen took off her glasses and wiped them. "Shared a branch, shared a floor, shared an email address, shared a handler. List them one by one—it's harder than two words."

She opened the registry. Taiying's business page loaded: date of establishment, June 20. Employees enrolled in insurance: one. Registered address in Chengdong Xingang Industrial Park—not 403.

Her finger paused on the touchpad.

"June 20."

"That's your second one today," He Xiufen said from by the stove.

She pulled out Xinghe's entry too and laid the two lines side by side: one at Room 403, Block B, No. 9 Chuangxin Road, zero employees enrolled in insurance; the other in Chengdong, one employee. Accounts opened the same day.

"Write 'same day,'" He Xiufen said.

"Not 'therefore.'"

"You're learning." The tea mug came to rest on the corner of the desk. "There are still more below."

"Sheng'an." She clicked Sheng'an open. "Also one employee."

Sheng'an's shareholder column held a single line: Jiangzhou Hengyue Capital Management Co., Ltd. Sole shareholder.

She stared at that cell for a few seconds before scrolling down.

Hengyue Capital Management Co., Ltd., established eleven years before Dingchang, thirty-four employees on insurance. In the annual report, under "Outbound Investment," the first entry was Sheng'an.

"Director He."

"Read it."

"Sheng'an's shareholder is Jiangzhou Hengyue Capital Management Co., Ltd." She said, "And its shareholder says Jiangzhou Hengyue Group Co., Ltd."

He Xiufen set the mug down and came over, looking at the screen over her shoulder.

The two characters "Hengyue" came out loud, and the room went quiet for a beat. Downstairs, someone was yelling for a bowl of three-delicacy noodles, no chili.

"That stack of papers from the drug case." He Xiufen said, "The manufacturer printed on the box—those two characters are there too."

"Yes."

"Same characters doesn't mean the same company." She put her glasses back on. "If you write it, write exactly what's on the screen: Jiangzhou Hengyue Capital Management Co., Ltd. Not one character more, not one less."

"Above it is Hengyue."

"You write whatever the screen says." He Xiufen said, "People—if they're not on paper, leave them blank."

She clicked open the legal representative column.

Three characters. The first one was not "Qin."

She didn't write this line into the binder, only kept it in her mind. He Xiufen glanced at her, didn't ask, and fished a sticky note out of the drawer, sliding it over.

On the note she wrote: Hengyue Capital, legal representative not surnamed Qin. Then she folded it and tucked it into the innermost part of the binder.

[Thud. Shells don't recognize people—only shareholders. And above shareholders, there are more shareholders.]

"I'll print these three pages," she said.

"Print them." He Xiufen said, "Name, date, insurance enrollment, the shareholder column—put down exactly what's in the registry. One page each, with the date and URL printed at the top of the page."

"The two copied lines?"

"They go on the 'direction' page." He Xiufen said, "Direction isn't evidence. Direction shows people where you're going."

She did as instructed. The three registry printouts were trimmed and filed into the back half of the evidence binder, the page headers reading: July 2, business registry inquiry printouts, three pages. The two copied lines went onto a sticky note, pressed together with the others.

"I need to turn this page into paper," she said.

"Into which paper?"

"File an evidence-collection application, asking the court to pull the corporate account details and registration documents for these three companies."

"Write it." He Xiufen said, "Copy the names exactly."

"Should I include all four—including Hengyue Capital Management?"

"Write three: Dingchang, Taiying, Sheng'an." He Xiufen picked up her mug. "What you're trying to pull is how the money came in. These three are enough. If you list Hengyue Capital Management too, you're showing the other side where the thread leads from page one."

"Then how does the Hengyue Capital layer make it into the binder?"

"Registry is registry, application is application. Two buckets—don't mix them." He Xiufen took a sip. "The printouts you made yourself, nobody can take away; the application you submit is for other people to see. You decide what you let them see."

She was halfway through writing the application when her pen stopped.

"He told me this morning the money circles back to a building I've seen."

"Which building."

She couldn't answer. Every building she'd seen was on paper: the court, the hospital, the Health Commission, the notary office, Minsheng Road. She'd never been inside any Hengyue building.

"In that drug case file," He Xiufen said, "you've seen the characters 'Hengyue.'"

"I have."

"He said 'seen,' not 'been to.'" He Xiufen dropped the wok lid over the pot. "Those two words never come out of his mouth for free. Right now you only know the money is walking backward, to a place whose name carries those two characters; who signs papers in that building still has to be brought forward by the paper itself. A shell is a shell."

"Why make it a shell at all?"

"Who does serious business wearing three layers of shell?" He Xiufen said. "The people behind a shell are afraid. Afraid of their names landing on paper—once a name lands on paper, someone has to sign, and a signature means you own it."

* * *

It was nearly seven-forty when she got home, the stairwell's sound-activated lights came on floor by floor as she climbed. Zhi'an's practice tests were spread across the dining table. Tang Guo was washing vegetables in the kitchen, two bowls clinking in the sink.

"I'm cooking today," Tang Guo said. "Don't ask if it's edible."

"It will be."

In the cardboard box in the corner of the living room, the livestream light's cord was neatly coiled. They'd tested it once that night and never plugged it in again.

A little after nine, the phone on the coffee table buzzed.

It was Tang Guo's new number. The number had been given out four times: to herself, to He Xiufen, to the print shop owner's wife at the community entrance, and once later to the officer at the police station when making a report.

Tang Guo glanced at her, set down her chopsticks, and hit speaker.

"Hello?"

"Tang Guo?" A young man's voice, no voice changer, clear diction.

"Who's this?"

"You don't need to know." He said, "You two have been busy today."

Tang Guo's fingers pressed against the coffee table, motionless.

"Don't hang up." The man's voice said, "Just two things. That binder of yours—how many pages is it up to now?"

Outside, someone was packing up a stall; sheet metal clattered.

"All that paper you people keep digging up—not my problem." He said, "I'm giving you three days."

"Three days for what?"

"Within three days, those accounts deactivate themselves, the videos come down on their own, and the people stop showing their faces." He paused half a second. "Those pages you printed out—shred them."

"You're—"

"I said you don't need to know." There was a hint of a smile in the voice. "I'm not a patient man. I never negotiate twice. Consider this a courtesy call."

She reached over and covered the phone with her hand.

"Hello."

Silence on the other end for half a second.

"Lawyer Shen." The voice said, "Even better. This call was for you in the first place."

"Who are you?"

"That noodle shop under your building—what time does it close at night?"

She didn't answer.

"I've eaten there." He said, "The broth's too salty."

The line went dead.

Tang Guo turned the phone over. The screen was still lit: call duration, thirty-seven seconds. She had goosebumps on the back of her hand; her fingers were cold.

"Thirty-seven seconds," she said. "Same length as that video."

"Not the same person."

Zhi'an had already looked up from his papers, watching them from the doorway. She went over and pulled the living room door shut, then dialed He Xiufen.

"What he said—I'll read it to you word for word."

She read it. At the "broth's too salty" lines, He Xiufen made no sound on the other end.

"The earlier calls," He Xiufen said, "were all read from a script. 'Your brother's at Chengnan Middle School.' 'Forget about the exam.' 'I'm downstairs right now.'—every word matched. Same sheet of paper."

"This one isn't."

"This one doesn't want anything." He Xiufen said, "He isn't asking you to delete anything or sign anything. He's telling you he can see you. The layer above has shown its face."

"The Hengyue layer."

"The Hengyue layer—you didn't see anyone from it today." He Xiufen said, "Today's was a person."

"He's young."

"I heard." He Xiufen set her mug down briefly on the other end. "'I'm not a patient man'—that's not how the old generation talks. They go around whatever can be gone around; they only press down when a detour fails. Today's didn't detour."

"Why?"

"Because he isn't the old generation." He Xiufen said. "That operation—hands have changed."

After hanging up, she wrote two characters on a sticky note: Three days. She looked at it for a while, then added a line below: the 3rd, the 4th, the 5th.

[Thud. The earlier calls were read from a script. This one wasn't.]

Tang Guo stood in the living room doorway, arms crossed over her chest.

"What do we do?"

"What needs doing, we keep doing." She said, "Tomorrow morning I file that application."

"What about the three days?"

"In three days, the paper moves forward one step at a time."

She took out her phone and sent two lines to the unsaved number: Someone called Tang Guo's new number tonight. He gave us three days.

A long time passed before the screen lit up.

—He can't wait three days.