Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 259: Minor Injury, Second Grade

The kraft paper file envelope lay open on the innermost table of the noodle shop. She laid the pages out one by one, sorting them by date for the second time: two pages of outpatient medical records, one color ultrasound report, two payment slips, one photocopy, and at the very end, a blank sheet of paper reading "September 20, No. 1 Hospital Emergency, Dr. Zhang; four photos not yet printed." On the cover, the line "Shen Zhi'an — September 20, 2026" faced upward.

Zhi'an sat across from her, splitting disposable chopsticks. Split one pair, set it down, split another, arranging them in a neat little row. Three scratch marks on the back of his hand had scabbed over with a thin crust, the topmost one already fading.

"Day three," he said.

"Today's the twenty-second."

"The twentieth, they said three days. Today counts as three."

She gathered the papers back up, stacking them one on top of another, edges squared. "Counting to three still means waiting."

He Xiufen pushed through the curtain from the stove, carrying two bowls of noodles. One bowl had an extra egg nestled on top; she set that one in front of Zhi'an.

"Eat first. You count the days, but the days don't count you."

"Auntie He, I can keep track."

"Keeping track won't pay your wages." He Xiufen rested the chopsticks across the rim of the bowl. "Finish up and go upstairs. Did you do today's practice sheet?"

"Done."

"Then do it again."

He smiled faintly and lowered his head to eat. Shen Zhixia watched him push the egg to one side, saving it for last.

She hadn't made a single phone call these past two days. Not the school, not the police, certainly not Xu Qing. The only things she'd touched were this file envelope and the four photos on her phone.

At 17:29, her phone rang. A landline number on the screen — one she recognized: on the twentieth, at the duty desk, she'd copied this string of digits onto the inside flap of the envelope.

"This the family of Shen Zhi'an?"

"I'm his older sister."

Paper rustled on the other end. "Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock. Bring him to the station."

She set her chopsticks down. "The appraisal came back."

"It came back."

"Has it been filed?"

"We'll talk when you get here." The voice was low, no hedging. "Bring his ID card. You bring the household register. Nine o'clock. Don't be late."

The call ended. She stood there, the phone still pressed to her ear. The exhaust fan over the stove whirred loudly.

"What time?" He Xiufen asked.

"Nine."

Zhi'an paused his chopsticks. "What did he say?"

"Said to come in at nine."

"What for?"

"He didn't say." She flipped the phone face-down on the table. "Said we'll talk tomorrow."

He Xiufen turned off the burner and wiped her hands with a rag, stopping midway.

"Tomorrow you bring two things: his ID card, your household register. Nothing else."

"What about the medical records?"

"Don't bring them."

"What if he asks whether I have injuries?"

"Having them is one thing. Having them and bringing them today are two separate statements." He Xiufen hung the rag on its hook. "Answer the first one. Don't rush to the second."

At 8:30 the next morning, Lu Jibai came in from the alley, carrying a thin document folder. He sat down and drank two sips of water before speaking.

"I'll be there at 8:40 tomorrow," he said. "Original power of attorney, practice certificate, firm letter — I'll have them all."

"Will they let you in?" Zhi'an asked.

"No. Defense counsel isn't present during interrogation; that's the rule." He set his cup down. "I'll be in the second-floor hallway. When you come out, don't talk at the door. Walk to the stairwell first."

"Why not talk there?"

"Too many people pass by the door. Every word you say, someone will remember for you — and remember it differently."

Shen Zhixia put the file envelope away in a drawer, locked it, and tucked the key into the inner pocket of her jacket.

"Before he goes into that room, I'm giving him three rules," she said.

"What three?"

"Answer what they ask. Don't volunteer what they don't. Listen to the whole question before answering."

Lu Jibai nodded once, then looked at Zhi'an. "One more to remember. When they print the statement, read it line by line, out loud, slowly. If you come to a word that isn't what you said, say the sentence is wrong."

"And after I say it's wrong?"

"He'll have you correct it. Wherever you correct, you press a thumbprint." He pulled the folder closer. "Don't be afraid to correct. Corrections leave marks, and the marks are made by your own thumb. The sentence you don't correct — that's the one someone else will read for you someday."

Zhi'an scattered the row of chopsticks, then lined them up again.

"I'll remember."

[Thud. Three days are up. From today, anyone can open this page.]

September 23, nine o'clock. Chengdong Police Station, second floor, interrogation room.

The room was small, one table and two chairs. On the table sat a monitor, beside it a printer, and at the corner a telephone. Above one wall, a black dome housing covered the camera. The window was cracked open; outside, someone was backing up a car, the horn beeping twice before going quiet.

Two chairs in the room — one against the wall, one by the door. The older officer pointed at the one against the wall. "Sit."

Zhi'an sat down. She stood half a pace behind and to the side, the household register resting on her lap, both hands pressing down on it.

The younger officer sat at the table, fingers resting on the keyboard.

"Shen Zhi'an." The older one flipped through a stack of papers. "You were called in today for two things."

He pulled a sheet out from underneath. The paper was new, the edges still crisp.

"Notice of Appraisal Opinion. I'll read it: the Jiangzhou Municipal Public Security Bureau Physical Evidence Appraisal Institute issued an appraisal opinion on September 22, 2026. Qin Hao sustained bilateral nasal bone fractures and a fracture of the left frontal process of the maxilla. Injury severity: minor injury, second grade."

He pushed the page across.

"Read it over. Ask if anything's unclear."

Zhi'an took it, held it with both hands, raised it slightly, and worked his way down line by line. His eyes stopped at the four characters "minor injury, second grade."

"Is that serious or not?"

"The grade is the medical examiner's call. I can only tell you what it's called in legal terms." The officer said, "If you have objections, within three days of receiving this notice you may apply in writing for a supplementary appraisal or a re-appraisal. State your reasons clearly and submit them to the investigating unit."

"What counts as an objection?"

"If you think the conclusion is wrong, or something wasn't examined."

"I think it's right," Zhi'an said. "I did break his nose."

The officer didn't respond to that. He moved on.

"Second item. On September 22, the branch bureau approved case filing with the responsible officer's authorization. The charge: intentional injury. You are now suspected of the crime of intentional injury."

Zhi'an squeezed the paper; the edge immediately creased. He hurriedly tried to smooth it flat with his fingers, but it stayed wrinkled.

"I have a question."

"Ask."

"This crime — how many years?"

"That's not what today is about."

"I want to know."

"Today you're only receiving two things: the appraisal and the case filing." The officer set his pen down. "Sentencing isn't on either of these pages."

Shen Zhixia's fingernails dug into her palm. She wanted to swallow the words "up to three years," wanted to choke back the second half of what came after "minor injury." He Xiufen's instruction — "don't say a single word of legal language" — pressed against the root of her tongue. She flattened her hands on her knees; the edge of the household register had left a crease.

"You have the right to retain defense counsel," the officer continued. "Have you?"

"Yes."

"The power of attorney is in the file. I've seen it. Is he here today?"

"In the hallway," Zhi'an said.

"Defense counsel can't be present during questioning. That's the rule." The officer glanced toward the door. "Your sister will be present as legal guardian. She sits and listens."

The younger one looked up at her briefly, then lowered his eyes again.

"Now, about the evening of September 19." The older officer flipped back to the previous stack. "What you said last time, say it again today. Think carefully. If you misspoke last time, you can correct it today."

"I saw them cornering her in the alley," Zhi'an said.

"When you saw them, what were they doing?"

"He was holding up his phone, telling her to say something. She said it once, he said it didn't count, told her to say it again."

"How do you know she'd said it once already?"

"August 31, third floor, east stairwell. I was there that time."

"After you walked over, who threw the first blow?"

"The one in the work uniform grabbed me from behind and lifted me up. My feet left the ground."

"Then?"

"He kicked me in the stomach. I broke free and punched him once."

"Where?"

"The nose." He paused. "I didn't mean to hit him there."

"After the punch?"

"He fell backward. The other two caught him. I took Xu Qing and left."

"Did you hit him a second time before leaving?"

"No."

"Have you been in contact with Xu Qing these past few days?"

"No." Zhi'an said, then after half a beat: "My sister won't let me call."

The officer's pen stopped. He looked up at her. "You won't let him?"

"I told him her words can only be said to the police," she said.

The officer lowered his head, finished writing, and tapped the tip of his pen on that line. "I've recorded that. What I wrote down doesn't reflect badly on you."

"That kick he gave you — were you injured?" he continued.

"My stomach bruised, and he scratched the back of my hand. Three lines."

"Have you seen a doctor?"

Zhi'an tilted his head slightly, looking at her.

She didn't move, fingers pressing on the household register. Zhi'an answered on his own. "Yes. September 20, three in the afternoon, Jiangzhou No. 1 People's Hospital."

"Where are the medical records?"

"I have them," Zhi'an said. "Didn't bring them today."

The officer's pen hovered, glanced at him, didn't press further, and wrote: "Shen Zhi'an sought treatment at Jiangzhou No. 1 People's Hospital on September 20. Medical records to be submitted later."

The printer whirred, spitting out a stack of paper, heat rising off it. The younger officer separated the pages, two copies, and handed one over.

"Read it through."

Zhi'an pulled the paper close and read aloud, voice low. He stopped in the middle of the third page.

"I was very angry at the time, so I swung back and punched him."

He looked up. "This sentence is wrong."

"What's wrong with it?"

"I wasn't angry." He pressed his finger on the three characters for "very angry." "I was trying to push him off. He had me locked up, my feet couldn't touch the ground. I broke free, and that's when I threw the punch."

"You want to correct it."

"Yes."

The older officer turned the paper around, drew two diagonal lines between the lines of text, crossed out "very angry," and wrote "trying to break free" beside it. When he finished, he had the younger officer verify it.

"Press your thumbprint here."

Zhi'an pressed his right thumb into the ink pad, then onto the correction, holding it for two full seconds before lifting. A dark red print on the page, slightly smeared at one edge.

"It's corrected," the officer said, pulling the paper back. "The three words you crossed out yourself — no one can un-cross them."

[Thud. "Angry" crossed out, thumbprint applied. Words crossed out are harder to take back than words written in.]

Both copies checked over, signature, date. The younger officer counted pages and had him press a thumbprint on the final page.

"Done." The older officer stood. "You can go."

Eleven twenty. The window at the end of the corridor stood open. Lu Jibai sat on the bench beside it, the document folder on his knee, a bottle of mineral water at his feet, cap still sealed. Zhi'an came out first, head down, walked three paces, and stopped at the stairwell. She followed behind and handed over the Notice of Appraisal Opinion.

Lu Jibai took it and read from top to bottom. When he finished, he went back to the line reading "Injury severity: minor injury, second grade" and stared at it for a long time. Someone carrying a cup of water walked from one end of the corridor to the other, white steam rising from the paper cup.

"No re-appraisal," he said.

"Why not?" she asked.

"The injury is real." He folded the paper in half, then in half again. "It's not the injury we're fighting."

"Wouldn't dragging it out help? Every day of delay, their side loosens up."

"A re-appraisal means another full round of waiting. All those extra days go into the file — and into our file too." He handed the folded paper back to her. "They can write a lot of things with those days. We'd still only have this one page."

Zhi'an leaned against the stairwell railing, the back of his hand catching the light from the window. The three scabs had developed white edges.

"I crossed out 'angry,'" he said.

Lu Jibai looked up. "Which sentence?"

"That one. 'I was very angry, so I swung back and punched him.'" He raised his thumb; a trace of red still lingered on the pad. "I changed it to 'trying to break free' and pressed my thumbprint."

"The thumbprint is what matters," Lu Jibai said. "If they want to write 'mutual fight' on paper later, the first sentence has to establish that you had anger in your heart. With anger, that punch becomes retaliation."

"I did have anger in my heart," Zhi'an said. "He was holding up his phone, forcing her — how could I not be angry?"

"Having anger, written on paper, is motive. Breaking free, written on paper, is what happened in those few seconds." Lu Jibai unscrewed the water bottle and held it out to her.

She didn't take it. She pushed the bottle back, folded that page properly, tucked it into the inner pocket of her jacket, planning to return it to the file envelope when they got home.

"What about this afternoon?" Zhi'an asked. "What do we do when we go back?"

"Practice sheets," she said.

Footsteps sounded at the stairwell. The older officer came down carrying a folder, walked up to them, and looked at her first.

"Three o'clock this afternoon. Both of you. Come in again."

"Is there something else?"

"One more paper."

He continued down the stairs, then turned back after two steps. "Three o'clock. Don't be late."

Zhi'an watched his back. "What paper?"

Lu Jibai slipped the water bottle into the side pocket of his folder and stood.

"We'll find out this afternoon," he said.

[Thud. That paper this afternoon — it hasn't been printed yet.]