Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 240: Plate Ending 731

Two kraft paper folders came out of the steel cabinet—one set at one end of the long table, one at the other.

A white slip was taped to each spine. One read "Court." The other read "Police Report."

"One piece of paper goes into one folder only." He Xiufen tapped the space between the two folders. "If you try to save yourself trouble and merge them into one volume, whoever asks about it later, you'll have to explain from the very beginning which page was meant for whom. Keep them separate, and you owe no one an explanation."

On the morning of July 31st, those two items were all that sat on the long table. The desk calendar was open to July, the box for the 31st still blank, a handful of peanut shells from last night's snacking pressed against its edge.

Shen Zhixia opened the "Court" folder. Five evidence pages, one exhibit list—the set submitted to the Litigation Service Center on July 29th, the filing receipt sitting on top. She pulled out three blank index sheets and bent over the table, copying the page list: Xingyao's letter dated July 14th; Guo Jianping's bank records, five entries, payer Dingchang; card back serial number matched to the June 23rd summary reference number; three instances of "June 20th"; three account-opening banks at the same branch office; four columns under "Wu Jianchuan" with no verification pages; Xingyao's June 20th change registration, pages five and six, three-signature comparison page; branch office reply letter.

Eight pages. She counted through them one by one, numbering one through eight, no skips.

"Don't break the page numbers." He Xiufen watched from the side. "If one page goes missing, the first thing they'll ask is where that page went."

"When it went in, it was six pages."

"The exhibit list isn't part of the page count. Five evidence pages, then the letter, the signature comparison page, and the reply letter—those make eight." He Xiufen swept the peanut shells aside. "Paper made on the same day should have two extra copies printed that same day—that was the rule we set last time. Three index copies: one stays at the firm, one goes to the court at hearing, one gets handed to the other side in person."

As she copied the third page, Tang Guo poked her head out from the inner room.

"What about the twenty-one minutes Qin Lang spent upstairs?" She held up the photocopy of the Interview Record. "We're not counting it?"

"We are."

"Which folder does it go in?"

Shen Zhixia glanced at the "Police Report" folder at the other end of the table.

"Put it in the civil file," He Xiufen said, "and it becomes 'they were willing to talk.' Three hundred thousand, 'both parties understand and will not pursue further'—those words in front of a judge read as a hand being extended. If you want to say there's something else clenched in that hand, you need to say it somewhere else."

"Where?"

"The police station folder. The procuratorate folder." He Xiufen tapped her pen against the words "Police Report." "Prosecutor Zhou said it—he only accepts paper. That one page written down from memory of those twenty-one minutes is worth more there than in the civil file."

Tang Guo stood holding the paper for a moment, then set the photocopy onto the "Police Report" folder, said nothing more, and went back into the inner room. The light clicked on again.

At exactly nine, Lu Jibai came upstairs. He wasn't carrying any files—just one kraft paper envelope, which he upended onto the table: four developed photographs, two of them focused on a license plate, perfectly clear.

"Put them in the police report folder," he said. "Photos and records go together."

"What can the photos prove?"

"That they came." He spread the photos out. "What they came to do is what your written record covers. Put the two side by side, and the reader will connect them on their own."

She slid over the half-page cross-examination outline she'd drafted the night before. Three lines: One—the letter's first clause mentions an "individual named Wu Jianchuan"; demand an in-court explanation of any information about this person beyond his name. Two—when and from where did Xingyao obtain the footage in question; do original files exist. Three—does Xingyao hold the original footage of the May 20th Public Legal Service Day on Wenchang Road.

[Thud. Two items remain open in this entry: Name—Qin Lang; Account—Dingchang.]

[Thud. What the court wants is that letter.]

Her pen hovered over the third line for a full half-minute.

"Whether he comes up here or not, the court doesn't judge him." He Xiufen capped the red pen. "The court judges Xingyao. It judges those twenty-one seconds. If you direct your anger at someone who never took a seat at the table, the judge will only tell you to ask the questions you're supposed to ask."

"This page," Lu Jibai knocked a knuckle against the letter, "leaves the other side with two roads. Produce a Wu Jianchuan, or admit on their own that this page was fabricated. If they produce the man, that money has to walk out of Dingchang's accounts. If they admit it's fake, this page becomes the most expensive page in this case."

She struck out half of lines one and three, and added a line beneath the middle one: The source of the footage, to be explained by the defendant. After writing "burden of proof," she paused, then crossed it out—whether the burden fell there was for the court to say, not for her outline.

The phone rang just as she was pressing the last index page flat.

"Lawyer Shen." Guo Jianping's voice was close, like his mouth was against the receiver. "Seven-forty this morning, someone knocked on my door."

"How many?"

"Two. One in a white shirt, one standing behind him." He swallowed. "Three knocks, not hard. What they asked was—'That metal box under the bed. Still there?'"

Her pen stopped.

"Did you open the door?"

"No. I looked through the peephole." He paused. "My wife heard it from the kitchen. Told me to stay quiet."

"What else did they say?"

"Said they were from Xingyao, here to collect something. Told me to have it ready by afternoon." Another pause. "Two men standing outside my door at seven-forty. I haven't dared go downstairs all morning."

"Don't open the door. Don't hand anything to anyone. Every sentence they said, write it down exactly—time, how many people, what they wore, what they said. If you can't make out a word, leave it blank; don't fill it in yourself."

"Also." There was a rustling sound on his end. "A courier came this morning. A lawyer's letter. It's got a seal on it, printed with a law firm's name, and a lawyer's name. It says: the footage in question is company property, please return it within three days, otherwise the right to pursue legal action is reserved."

"Keep it."

"The last one, the one stuffed in the gatehouse—no signature, no seal." He said it was from a proper law firm this time.

"That last one was for the gatehouse to see." She pressed the index page flat. "This one is for you to see."

After she hung up, He Xiufen looked up at the old clock on the wall.

"Have him bring the original over this afternoon," she said. "We were going to check page counts the night before the hearing. We're moving it up to today. I don't feel easy with that thing sitting in a metal box under his bed."

At five-thirty, Guo Jianping came upstairs. A sweat stain across the back of his jacket, the kraft paper envelope in his hand wrapped in newspaper and bound with two rubber bands. He sat at the long table, rubbing his hands on his knees.

The envelope opened to reveal the original settlement slip, the fold mark still down its center. He Xiufen checked it against the firm's photocopy—not one discrepancy.

He pulled out another page, a written statement he'd done himself, big characters, crooked lines, front and back filled. He Xiufen had him read it aloud, crossed out "my nerves are shot" in red pen, had him sign, press his fingerprint, and write the date at the bottom.

"That day when it wrapped up," he said, "the young guy from Xingyao handed everyone an envelope. Had us put the card inside, seal it, write our name on the front. My envelope—I never turned it in."

"Why not?"

"Can't say." He rubbed his hands together. "I carried the machine. I was the one who pressed the card. After the shoot, one word—'We won't be using this batch'—and next day they wanted them all back. I kept one. Figured I'd leave myself a receipt."

He Xiufen pressed that statement flat against the desk calendar, right over the line with his signature.

"At the hearing, where do I stand?" he asked when he'd finished reading.

"The witness stand," Shen Zhixia said.

"What do I say?"

"Say what you filmed on May 20th. Say why you kept that day's card. Say who knocked on your door this morning—sentence by sentence, don't think word by word."

"It's not the money I'm scared of." He pushed his hands against his knees. "I carry machines for a living. How much could they even take from me." He stopped, then added, "My daughter starts ninth grade this year."

"Take the slip home with you. Don't keep it in that metal box anymore—put it somewhere else, and don't even tell us where. Bring it yourself on the day of the hearing and hand it to the court directly. If it passes through our hands, the other side will say we gave it to you." He Xiufen returned the settlement slip to its envelope and handed it back. Only the written statement went into the steel cabinet, locked, key into her pocket. "Keep your door shut. If anyone comes again, call 110 first, then call this number."

After Guo Jianping left, the wok downstairs was heating up. He Xiufen tied on her apron and went down, leaving her alone at the long table.

She carried Lu Jibai's cold coffee downstairs, had the owner swap it for a hot one, and made a point of saying "no sugar."

Two folding tables were set up outside the noodle shop, the sign light just coming on, scallion oil and steam drifting toward the mouth of the alley. She set the coffee by Lu Jibai's hand and sat down, picking at the noodles in her bowl with her chopsticks.

He lifted the cup and took a sip. "You remembered."

"You've been drinking it for two months. I'm not blind."

He didn't answer, nudged the chopped scallions to the edge of the bowl. The late-night food stall at the alley entrance was packing up its lights; the owner's calls were getting shorter with each one.

"The day of the hearing, where will you sit?"

"Next to you."

"They'll talk."

"Let them talk." He pushed his bowl inward. "I sit in the gallery, you answer questions alone; I sit next to you, they come at me. Your choice."

"Then put your name on the power of attorney." She kept her eyes on her noodles. "The handler column—last year I used to look at other people's names there and wonder when I'd be able to write my own. Now two names can fit."

"Bring me a copy of your practice certificate tomorrow," he said. "I'll file the change myself."

She lowered her head and ate. The hot soup went down and loosened some of the tightness that had been sitting in her chest since morning.

"Behind Qin Lang is Hengyue," he said. "Behind Hengyue is Qin Yueshan."

"I know."

"What you don't know is that Hengyue isn't fighting this one to win." He set his chopsticks down. "They want everyone in Jiangzhou holding a phone, anyone with something to say, to see what life turns into when you cross Hengyue."

"Then we have to win."

"We have to win, and people have to see the win." He looked at her. "Winning a judgment behind closed doors and winning in front of a whole street are not the same thing."

She finished the last bite of noodles and set the bowl at the corner of the table.

Her phone buzzed on the table. A photo from Guo Jianping, taken at night, poorly framed, half the image black.

It showed the entrance to an old residential building, the rear half of a black sedan pressed against the curb, its headlights still on, throwing a small patch of white light onto the steps. The three numbers on the plate were perfectly clear: 731.

A line of text followed beneath the photo: It's been parked for over an hour. No one's gotten out.

She turned the phone toward him.

"He didn't come upstairs," she said. "He parked his car below the building of a man who carries machines for a living."

"He knows who has the slip." Lu Jibai zoomed in on the photo, studied the plate. "That car is parked there for Guo Jianping to see."

"Let him park."

"Tomorrow morning, take it to the police station." He closed the phone and slid it back. "He parked that car hoping to keep someone awake at night. This photo is exactly what keeps him awake."

Under the sign light, the wok was still steaming. She saved the photo in three places—the firm's computer, her own email, and the in-car dash cam.

"Twelve days," she said.

"Enough time for him to finish writing his paper." Lu Jibai picked up the bowl and drank the last of the soup. "And enough for us to gather ours."