Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 247: Two Fried Eggs

The repair stall owner wound the air pump hose around its hook, loop after loop. On the third loop he glanced up at them, then looked back down and wound a fourth.

"Which way?" she asked.

"The less crowded way."

"Is there any place in the Old Town District that isn't crowded?"

Behind the repair stall ran a narrow street. The sycamore leaves hung low; the streetlights hid beneath them, and the light fell in broken patches. Stools from after-dinner sitting were still out by doorways. Someone sat there holding a bowl, chopsticks resting across its rim, watching them pass with perfect ease, as if watching any two people on this street.

Lu Jibai handed her the thermos. She unscrewed the lid. Mung bean soup, two ice cubes floating in it, already half melted.

"Fifty-five thousand four hundred," she said. "Minus notarization, appraisal, printing, courier fees, travel back and forth, plus the days Tang Guo took off work—"

"You even counted the days she took off."

"Her money is money too."

"Done calculating?"

"Halfway."

"Then set it down," he said. "That account can wait until morning. Tonight, be someone who won a case for once."

"I already am."

He switched the umbrella to his left hand. It was dry—no rain tonight—but he'd carried it anyway, unopened the whole way.

[Thud. No more papers to pass tonight.]

She screwed the lid back on and held the cup in both hands.

"From Xingyao's letter today to the last page of the judgment, seventy-three pages." She said. "And only four lines actually settled the case."

"Which four?"

"'Purchased by our company in late May from an individual named Wu Jianchuan.' 'Sealed in accordance with internal procedures...' And the bank's reply—that one line: no payment records found under the account name Wu Jianchuan. The fourth line is from the judgment: This Court does not accept it."

"He couldn't answer a single question today."

"Sealed where?"

"Exactly," he said. "If he could say where it was sealed, he'd have to say what was sealed. What it was, what day it was received, who handed it over, which shelf, who has the key. If he can't say any of that, 'sealed in accordance with internal procedures' is just four words."

"That page had a stamp on it more serious than any of the actual text."

"A stamp can't vouch for what's inside."

"The hundred-thousand fine doesn't go to Tang Guo either." She added, "That's for obstructing litigation. It goes to the state."

"Who are you settling accounts with?"

"Myself. I don't want her thinking a hundred-thousand judgment means she won a hundred thousand."

The cold-dish vendor at the corner dimmed the bulb, leaving only the white glow inside the glass case. She walked a few steps, then turned back.

"The change record for Hengyue Capital—I read that column out in court."

"I know."

"Before June 20, it listed Qin Lang."

"Now it lists Chen Maolin."

"He'd say the shareholders' meeting resolution chose him."

"The resolution—who signed it that day isn't in the business records." He lifted the umbrella slightly, making way for someone pushing a stroller. "Ask him for the signed copy, he has to produce it. If he can't, he has to stand in front of that column himself."

"He didn't come today."

"He didn't dare." He said, "Xingyao's July 14 letter said 'sealed in accordance with internal procedures.' Sitting in the defendant's seat, reading that line aloud, then hearing the bank's reply read back—he'd have to sit there until adjournment. He couldn't sit still."

"So where is he now?"

"On the phone."

She laughed—dry, hollow.

"Hengyue Capital's column doesn't list him anymore." Lu Jibai said. "He's not on this page now. But that day, he was."

She turned the sentence over in her mouth.

"That place Tang Guo moved into in early August—I spent three days picking it with her." She said. "Keycard entry, cameras, security guard at the desk twenty-four hours."

"Keycard entry doesn't mean someone's actually watching the door."

"I know."

"How many days since she moved in?"

"Twenty-three." She said. "Today is day twenty-three."

Her phone vibrated seven or eight times in her pocket. She pulled it out. The rider group chat was flooded with photos—the judgment photographed at an angle, red seal blurred, one corner folded into a table edge. The top message was from Ma Jianjun, just three words: "Lawyer Shen." Followed by a long string of question marks.

She tapped the shortest voice message. Wind and an e-bike horn in the background: "Lawyer Shen, the group's saying you got someone fined a hundred thousand by Hengyue."

She lowered her head and typed a line back: "The fine is on Xingyao. Hengyue isn't in the defendant column. Don't spread it wrong."

"You can't even let people be happy for you without correcting a word." Lu Jibai said.

"If it spreads wrong, tomorrow someone'll come asking me about that exact sentence, and I'll have to explain from the beginning."

"If it spreads right, people will still come asking."

"That's different." She put the phone away. "What spreads wrong has to be repaid someday."

The group went quiet for a while. Ma Jianjun replied with four words: Got it, won't spread it. A string of "Got it" followed. Someone posted another photo, this time upright.

In the family group chat, Zhi'an's message popped up: "Sis, you won?"

She replied: "Won. Two lines left—money, and an apology."

"That's still a win." He answered fast. "I made noodles."

"I'm having noodles too."

"Then don't eat two bowls."

She finished typing and looked up to find they'd reached the intersection. The light was red, no cars either way, just a row of empty shared bikes on the street.

"Director He's waiting on the noodles." She checked her phone. "She says they're in the pot, eight minutes."

"Then let's head back."

"The walk takes ten."

"Then walk faster." He tucked the umbrella under his arm and turned. "I'll finish the soup first."

She followed, quickening half a step through the sycamore shadows.

The noodle shop's light was warm yellow. The glass by the door was filmed white by years of cooking smoke, and the light shining through turned a fallen sycamore leaf's shadow on the ground yellow too.

He Xiufen sat at the table furthest in, a small dish of pickled radish before her, chopsticks resting on the bowl's rim. She was looking at the wall, where the business license hung in a slightly crooked frame.

Lu Jibai stopped at the door.

Shen Zhixia couldn't pull up in time and bumped into his arm.

"What are you doing?"

"Standing here to say something."

"Director He is inside."

"She's looking at the wall."

"She's looking at the wall and listening." She said. "She's never missed a word in her life."

"Then let her listen."

He took the thermos from her hands and set it on the windowsill. A film of condensation underneath made a soft sound as it touched down.

"I sat beside you all day today." He said. "In the handler's column, there were two names."

"I wrote your name too."

"I asked to write it myself."

The light caught half his face. He didn't step back, didn't step forward.

"I put my name there so people would see—this case wasn't just you standing there alone." He said. "When you win, you should win where people can see it."

Her throat moved. She lifted her face to look at him, and her eyes went red first. She dropped her head immediately, busying herself with the thermos lid. Red eyes—as long as no one sees, you can count it as never happening.

The lid was already tight. She twisted twice; it wouldn't budge.

"That column I signed today," he said, "I wrote my own name. Nine years ago I signed another piece of paper. The handwriting on it—I still recognize it as my own hand today."

She looked up.

"That paper—"

"We're not talking about that paper tonight." He said. "Tonight we talk about the day you won."

"When will we talk about it?"

"The day I can lay it out in court." He said. "If I can't spread it out there, I won't speak of it. Words with no follow-through are worse than silence."

She set the thermos back on the windowsill, very carefully centered.

"That line of yours," she said, "would sound better in court."

"Say it in court and opposing counsel will put it in the record."

She laughed—a real laugh, shoulders loosening, a little undignified. The shop's exhaust fan hummed, scattering the sound.

He bent down and kissed her.

Very light, on the lips, no depth. Her hand hovered in the air a moment, then landed on his arm—not gripping, just catching a fistful of sleeve. Through the glass she could hear someone call out "noodles up," the words swallowed by the fan.

She rested her forehead against his shoulder, counted to two, stepped back half a pace.

"That just now," she said, "was that part of your 'not tonight'?"

"Half of it."

"And the other half?"

"When you have a day with no one else's problems in your hands."

"I'll never have a day like that in my life."

"I know." He said. "So I'll keep waiting."

Behind the glass, He Xiufen still sat in the same spot, facing the business license on the wall, studying it with absolute attention, as if verifying every character. After a while she stood and walked to the stove, saying something to the owner.

The owner asked, "Two?"

"Two." He Xiufen said.

When the noodles arrived, two fried eggs lay across the bowl's rim, edges crisped brown.

"Extra eggs today." He Xiufen pushed the bowl toward her, picked up her own, and took a sip of broth first. "Noodles aren't good cold. I won't save your egg for you—if it gets cold I'll fry you another."

She sat down but hadn't picked up her chopsticks when her phone buzzed.

WeChat from Tang Guo. Two photos and a voice message.

The first was shot portrait, from upstairs looking down, framed neatly: a black sedan parked under the streetlight by the building entrance, half its body over the white no-parking line, nose pointed inward. The right rear window was rolled halfway down. A hand rested on the sill, holding a phone, camera aimed at the new number plate by the door.

The second photo was closer—the license plate. The night light wasn't enough; the first digits were blurry, but the last one was legible.

A thirty-one second voice message. She tapped it. Wind first, then Tang Guo's lowered voice: "I took this from my window. The car's been sitting there seven, eight minutes. The guy never got out, just holding his phone. He just looked up at my floor."

Below the photos, a line: I didn't go down. I took the photo. Listen.

"731." Lu Jibai had already zoomed in on the second photo. "Right rear window. Same car as behind the courthouse."

He Xiufen set down her chopsticks. She didn't ask what it was, just pushed both bowls toward the center of the table.

"I'll keep an eye on your noodles." She said. "And save the egg. When you're back, I'll fry it again."

[Thud. The judgment hasn't taken effect. The account outside the courtroom goes in a separate ledger.]

Shen Zhixia slung her bag over her shoulder, already moving toward the door, thumb pressing the record button on her phone.

"Tang Guo, I'll be there in ten minutes." She said. "Close the window a little. Don't stand directly in front of it. Keep the phone recording."