Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 258: Not Yet

At three in the afternoon on September 20, the row of plastic chairs outside the emergency surgery department on the third floor of the outpatient building at Jiangzhou No. 1 People's Hospital was packed. The corridor was full of people holding children, supporting elderly parents. The number machine chimed every few minutes.

Shen Zhixia held registration slip No. 37. Zhi'an sat to her right, the left sleeve of his school uniform torn from shoulder to elbow, hanging in a strip of fabric. He kept pulling it up; it kept sliding back down.

"Stop fiddling with it."

"I look like a beggar."

"In a bit, no one will be looking."

A nurse opened the door and called a number. She stood, answered, then sat back down. Today she would only handle the small things: payments, picking up slips, finding the right floor, keeping track of numbers. He Xiufen's words from last night still pressed against her ears: "From tonight on, you're family." She'd added her own half-sentence after it: family means you can't answer for him.

The doctor inside was a man in his forties, white coat sleeves rolled to the elbows.

"How did you get hurt?"

Zhi'an glanced at his sister. She turned her phone face-down on her lap and didn't look up.

"Two people," Zhi'an said. "One grabbed me from behind and lifted me up. The other kicked me in the stomach."

"A fight?"

"Not really a fight." He paused half a second. "I didn't hit back. I was breaking free."

Dr. Zhang typed slowly, each character dropping out one at a time: "Grabbed from behind... lifted... kicked in the abdomen." He looked up. "Hand."

Zhi'an held out his right hand. Three scratches ran diagonally from the base of the thumb across the back of his hand. The topmost one had broken the skin, a thin dark-red scab forming at its edges.

"Fingernails. Lift your shirt."

Shen Zhixia stood outside the curtain during the exam. She heard fabric shifting. She heard Dr. Zhang say "Does this hurt?" "Lower." "Bear with it." Zhi'an answered only "Hurts" or "Doesn't"—one word, two words, never a third.

What she wanted most to say was: be specific, right side or left side of the back, don't pick and choose, don't hold anything back. That sentence pressed against her tongue three times, then went down as swallowed spit.

The curtain pulled back. Dr. Zhang sat down again. "Soft tissue contusion in the abdomen. I can't feel anything else. If you want to be thorough, an ultrasound to check inside. The three marks on the back of the hand are superficial—keep them dry, don't use alcohol. Iodophor is fine."

"Do it," Shen Zhixia said.

"Sis, no need."

"Do it."

Ultrasound: 140 yuan. Registration: 20. Iodophor: 8.50. At the payment window she held her phone to the scanner. Only after "Payment Successful" appeared did she fold the receipt and put it away. Results would take twenty minutes. She used that time to go downstairs and ask the copy desk about prices: fifty cents a page. On the way back up, Zhi'an followed behind and suddenly spoke.

"Sis, do I have to pay his medical bills?"

"We're not talking about money right now." She pressed the slip flat against her knee. "Money comes later. Later things get later papers."

"At home..."

"There's still money at home." She said, "Don't stick that hand in your pocket. Keep it down, let the blood flow."

The ultrasound report sat beside the keyboard: no obvious free fluid in the abdominal or pelvic cavity. Dr. Zhang glanced at it, finished the outpatient record, and the printer clattered twice, spitting out two pages.

"What's written here?" Zhi'an asked.

"Chief complaint, physical exam, treatment recommendations." Dr. Zhang ran his pen down line by line. "First line: what you just said. Middle: what I felt. Last: what to do at home and when to come back."

Shen Zhixia read both pages top to bottom, down to the attending physician's signature at the end of page two.

"Doctor."

"Yes?"

"Is the word 'accidentally' in there anywhere?"

Dr. Zhang paused, looking at her. "No. I wrote, 'Patient states he was grabbed and lifted by another person, then kicked in the abdomen.'"

"After 'patient states,' could you add: history provided by the patient himself?"

"Sure." He typed it in casually. "Why?"

"I once saw a medical record where the chief complaint said the patient was beaten, and the history said he fell on his own. Two lines apart, same pen." She said, "I don't want these two pages of my brother's to ever have someone asking who spoke for him."

Dr. Zhang didn't respond. He reprinted the two pages, signed the last one, and printed a second copy for her at the self-service machine on the first floor.

"Do you want a diagnosis certificate?" he asked. "Schools, workplaces, police stations all ask for one."

"Not yet."

"A certificate is safer."

"I'll come back and get one the day they ask to see it." She aligned the two pages, smoothed the corner folds, and slid them into a clear document folder.

There was sun on the steps by the side entrance of the outpatient building. She brought Zhi'an there.

"Don't pull at the sleeve."

"It looks bad."

"It should look bad."

First photo: the tear in the left sleeve, from shoulder to elbow, with the raw fabric edge turned out. Second: his right hand spread flat on the sleeve, injury and uniform in the same frame. Third: the ballpoint writing on the inside of the collar—his name, "Shen Zhi'an," written by himself at the start of the school year. Fourth: she had him pinch the corner of the registration slip together with the corner of the first page of the record in the same grip, in the same frame, the corner stamped with "2026-09-20 15:07."

A little past four, the sun still high. She turned her phone sideways and checked: all four were there.

[Thud. His injuries, for the first time, written down on someone else's paper.]

"Take the jacket off. No washing when we get back."

He took off the uniform. Underneath, a short-sleeved shirt, two red marks on his arm. She folded the jacket, wrapped it twice in the bag, and laid it over her arm.

At home, she laid out the original record, ultrasound report, and payment receipts separately. Not stacked.

The next morning at 9:05, the phone rang. An unfamiliar number.

"Shen Zhi'an's sister? I'm his homeroom teacher."

"Yes."

"The school has discussed it," the voice said carefully. "For the next few days, let him stay home. Wait until the police station reaches a conclusion. This isn't a disciplinary action—don't read anything else into it."

"I understand."

"I'll keep his seat. I'll have a classmate deliver exam papers to the noodle shop, one subject a day, so he doesn't fall behind."

"Thank you."

The voice hesitated. "Is he hurt?"

"Injuries were examined. Soft tissue contusion. Skin broken on the back of his hand."

"That's good." She started to say "This whole thing turned into such a mess..." but pulled it back, changing it to "If anything comes up, call me."

After hanging up, Zhi'an looked at her.

"The school told me not to come."

"Stay home for a few days."

"Why should I be the one at home?" He set his pen down. "He blocked me. He shoved a phone in my face trying to force me to talk. He hit first. How am I the one sitting at home?"

She didn't answer right away. She couldn't. School isn't a court; school fears a car parked at the gate and a photo circulating in the parent group chat.

"Three days," she said.

"Where does three days come from?"

"The identification takes three days."

"And after three days?"

"We'll talk after three days."

He didn't push. He stood and pushed the window half open. Wind rushed in. The exhaust fan downstairs turned on at the same moment, carrying a wave of scallion oil smell upward.

At ten-thirty, they went downstairs together. He Xiufen was dropping noodles into the pot. When she saw them, she lifted the curtain.

"You eaten?"

"Yes."

"He hasn't." He Xiufen added another handful of noodles to the pot. "You need a full stomach to stand firm and say you did nothing wrong. Sit."

When the noodles came, He Xiufen sat down across from them and held out her hand. "The medical record."

Shen Zhixia handed her the two pages. He Xiufen wiped her hands on her apron first before taking them, read from top to bottom, then tapped the end of page two with her chopsticks.

"The doctor's signature is there. These pages can't be erased. Chief complaint, physical exam, treatment—all three are complete." She laid the paper flat and pushed it back. "The hospital system keeps an electronic copy. Every modification leaves a trace, sturdier than the one in your hand. Make two photocopies of these pages: take one photo straight-on, one at a slight angle—capture the paper edges, the signature, the date, all in frame. The straight one is for people to look at. The angled one is for the ones who don't believe you. If someone someday says the paper was doctored, show them the angled shot."

"What about the original?"

"Don't fold the corners. Don't laminate it. Don't put it under anything wet. If someone wants to see it, let the paper speak for itself. Don't read it for them."

Zhi'an wiped tables with a rag by the stove, the three scratches on his right hand still vivid.

"Keep that hand away from water." He Xiufen didn't turn around. "I'll do the dishes. Go untie that stack of disposable chopsticks and move the box to the door when you're done."

"I can carry it."

"Then carry it."

Only after her brother walked off with the box did Shen Zhixia lower her voice. "The school wants him to stay home for a few days."

"What did you tell him?"

"That he's staying home for a few days."

"Mm." He Xiufen turned the flame down. "Don't phrase it as 'the school won't let you.' He'll hear the difference."

[Thud. Two photos of the paper. One for those who'll look. One for those who say they don't believe.]

Eight in the evening, at home.

She'd finished the dishes and was drying her hands when she saw Zhi'an sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, screen lit. At the top of the contacts list were two characters: Xu Qing. The green dial button hadn't been pressed yet.

She walked over and held his hand down. The back of it was still faint yellow from iodophor.

"Let go."

"Don't call."

"I just want to ask if she's okay."

"You can't."

"You've talked to her too." He looked up. "On the night of the nineteenth, at the police station."

"That night I was her sister. At the police station. Someone there was recording the time. Every question I asked landed on paper." She said, "You're home now. You take your own phone and call her. What gets written down on their end is the name 'Shen Zhi'an.'"

"So what if they write it down? I'm not asking her to say anything."

"She doesn't have to say anything. You call, and by tomorrow that sentence gets flipped: he reached out to her." She lowered her voice. "Then she has to answer one more question: has he called you. And where does she answer it? Sitting in the police station."

He pulled his hand back, gently, like he was afraid of waking something. The phone stayed in his hand.

"Then tell me what I do tomorrow and the day after. Sit and wait for a piece of paper?"

She turned and laid things out on the table one by one: the school uniform in the plastic bag, the torn cuff still turned out; a photocopy of the medical record; the ultrasound report and a stack of receipts at the bottom.

"These two pages record that you were grabbed, kicked, and scratched on the back of your hand," she said. "You want to protect her? Protect yourself on this paper."

"What about the punch I threw?"

"It's on here too. The line about abdominal contusion and tenderness—that's the kick you took."

He stared at the two pages for a moment, then laughed, very short. "You lawyers—can you do anything except wait?"

"Waiting is doing something."

"Then why don't you wait?" His voice hardened. "Since the night of the nineteenth, you've been running around, handing in papers."

"I can't make this call either," she said. "Xu Qing's number isn't in my phone. I don't have her on WeChat either."

He froze. "You don't even have her number."

"I do. Written on a sticky note, handed to the police along with the application."

The room went quiet. Downstairs, someone pulled a roll-up shutter, the metal rattling long and loud.

"Sis." He turned the phone over, screen-down, and pushed it half an inch toward her. "Then you keep it."

"I won't." She pushed it back. "Put it in the drawer. Tomorrow, you take it out yourself."

"What for?"

"For when you need it. When she's said everything she needs to say on her own, and one day she wants to say something to you—then you can call."

"And if she never does?"

"Then this call never gets made. Not in this lifetime."

He didn't respond. He lay back on the bed, arm draped over his eyes. His right hand hung out, the three scratch marks cutting across the back of it.

At quarter to nine, she took the kraft paper envelope downstairs.

Today she'd added the four items from yesterday: two pages of the outpatient record, the ultrasound report, two payment receipts, and a photocopy of the record. The four photos were still in her phone. As per the usual practice, she wrote the date on a blank sheet: September 20, Municipal No. 1 Hospital emergency department, Dr. Zhang; four photos taken, not yet printed. When finished, she tucked it inside the flap of the envelope, matching the cover label: "Shen Zhi'an, September 20, 2026."

The noodle shop's shutter was halfway down, only the lamp by the door lit. Lu Jibai sat at the table nearest the door, a glass of plain water in front of him and a plastic bag on the table.

She set the envelope at the corner of the table, date facing up.

"The injury exam record came back yesterday," she said. "I want to take it to the front desk tomorrow, with a note attached—what day, where, which doctor."

"Don't turn it in yet."

"Why not?"

"Hand it in now, it's just a piece of paper." He pressed the flap flat. "Wait until the day they write down 'mutual fight,' then hand it in. That's when it becomes something."

"Who would call it a mutual fight?"

"Nobody ever volunteers that they were in the wrong." He said, "You show this now, and it gives them a convenient explanation: two people got into it, each has a receipt, each has injuries. You'd be giving away half your argument for free."

She folded the flap once, then again. "How long do I wait?"

"Until those two characters get written down." He pushed the plastic bag toward her. "The pharmacist said this one doesn't sting. The scrape on the back of his hand that broke skin—don't clean it with alcohol."

"You saw the photos."

"I did. The third one. The writing inside the collar is crooked."

"He wrote it himself."

"Good framing." He said, "And the angled shots?"

"I'll take them tomorrow."

"When you do, put the paper on the windowsill. No flash. One flash and the crease line at the edge of the paper disappears."

She nodded and slipped the ointment into her pocket. Inside, only the sound of water running at the sink.

"If this page sits too long, will it just... disappear?" She suddenly thought of her brother's words—you can't do anything except wait.

"Paper doesn't disappear." He turned off the tap and turned around. "What disappears is people forgetting why it's there. Remember that."

[Thud. This page isn't submitted yet. It's waiting for a word someone else says first.]