Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 272: Attached to the File

On the morning of October 13th, second floor of the Zhengping Firm.

He was halfway down the third page when Lu Jibai set the pen down and smoothed the edge of the paper flat with his knuckle. Two stacks sat on the desk: on the left, duplicate copies of the seven-material list, corners curled; on the right, five pages of draft paper, page numbers written in the lower right corner—"one" through "five," stopping at "three." The first two pages lay pressed beneath an old notebook, line spacing stretched wide, one sentence per line.

Shen Zhixia sat across from him, her notebook open on her lap.

"First page, first line." She read it aloud. "'He was still in front of me, still coming at me.' October 8th, interrogation record, page three. He changed the wording himself, then pressed his thumbprint to it."

"Mm."

"Underneath, you wrote 'the unlawful infringement had not yet ended.'"

"That's what the paper says." Lu Jibai picked the pen back up. "I didn't touch his words. The second half has to be connected to something else."

"Connect it to which pages?"

"The August 31st sequence for the lead-up, the twelve seconds of footage for those few seconds, and Wei Changlin's three pages for another person's eyes." He tapped the top of the third page. "This page covers one thing only: after he broke free, he threw only one punch, and when that punch landed, the other man was still right there in front of him."

Shen Zhixia worked her way down, checking line by line: "September 19th, 6:46 p.m., the other side called the police. September 20th, afternoon, injury examination, two pages. The 22nd, appraisal opinion, minor injury, second grade. October 3rd, the fried skewer stall, investigation record, three pages, twelve seconds of footage. October 9th, seven materials, one page, seven items."

"All in there."

"7:50 p.m." She stopped. "Where did you get that time?"

The pen tip stayed on that line.

"The other side submitted their complaint on September 27th, with imaging diagnostics attached, dated the 19th." Lu Jibai said. "I can't remember the exact time. I may have read it off the duty desk on October 9th."

"Then cross it out if you can't remember."

He didn't answer. He crossed out the line and wrote a new one beneath it: Night of September 19th, Municipal No. 2 Hospital, emergency imaging diagnosis.

"A pity?"

"A pity." He set the pen down. "But if this reaches the procuratorate and they check it against the original, and the numbers don't match, the first four pages all go soft with it."

The fourth page covered only the injuries. Abdominal contusion, three scratch marks on the back of the right hand, the left sleeve torn from shoulder to elbow, four photographs, all taken September 20th.

Lu Jibai read the page through again, then stopped the pen on one line: "'Medical records state: patient was beaten by another person.' This sentence has to go."

Shen Zhixia didn't respond. She kept checking the date column.

"On those two pages, in the chief complaint and the present illness history, every section ends with 'history provided by the patient himself.'" He said. "Quoting it would be quoting his own words. The other side only has to say, 'That's what he told them,' and it stops being a hospital record and becomes his personal account."

He crossed out that sentence with the pen tip, leaving only "abdominal contusion" and "three scratch marks on the back of the right hand."

"The physical exam was written by the doctor." He said. "Only what the doctor wrote holds up."

The fifth page was the shortest: five lines. The first three finished the excessive-force argument: a minor injury of the second grade doesn't constitute serious harm, and the defense did not clearly exceed necessary limits. The fourth line was the request. The very last line was left blank.

"The signature line is blank."

"I'll fill in the date tomorrow." He said. "Finish it today, file it tomorrow at ten. The date on the paper has to match the register."

"Page numbers."

"One of five." He turned to the first page's lower right corner and wrote the number, stroke by stroke.

"The seven-material document had pages numbered one to seven." She noted it down. "This time, five pages."

"Five pages, one thing per page. Anything more and nobody reads it."

Before noon, nobody called Chen Maolin, and he didn't call either. The kitchen fan downstairs ran until 1:30 before falling silent. Nobody mentioned the fifty thousand. He Xiufen came upstairs once, still in her apron, and read all five pages from beginning to end. When she reached the request on the fifth page, she squared the stack and tapped it twice against the tabletop.

"You wrote it sharper than his own words."

"I didn't write it sharp." Lu Jibai said. "I just put the order right."

"Putting the order right is what makes it sharp." He Xiufen set the pages back down. "Make two copies. One to file, one to keep. Don't put the spare in the case file—keep it in a separate slot. If someone ever wants it, it needs to be findable."

[Thud. Words on paper, first read aloud to your own people.]

At seven that evening, two of the downstairs tables were cleared. Zhi'an slung his backpack over the back of a chair, and before he'd even sat down properly, Lu Jibai spread the five pages out under the lamp.

"I'm reading this to you."

"Really reading it."

"I promised."

He read slowly. When he reached the sentence in the middle of the first page, Zhi'an laid his hand flat on the table and pressed each of his five fingers down one by one.

"That line is mine."

"October 8th. The version you corrected yourself."

"That's not what I wrote at first." Zhi'an said. "I originally wrote 'was still going to hit me.'"

"You changed it for the better." Lu Jibai said. "Whether he'd hit you was a guess. 'Coming at me' was something you saw. The paper only keeps what you saw."

He read the second page, reaching "arms wrapped around him, feet off the ground," and Zhi'an looked up.

"My heels left the ground." He said. "Just that one moment. My feet were in the air."

"That's exactly what's written." Lu Jibai slid the paper down half an inch. "Your own words in the record have to line up with what your feet felt in that moment. If they line up, they'll believe the second half of the sentence."

When he reached the fifth page, He Xiufen brought up three bowls of noodles from the kitchen. She set the last bowl in front of Zhi'an, chopsticks resting on the rim. Zhi'an didn't pick them up.

"'Shall not bear criminal responsibility in accordance with the law.'" He read the words aloud. "Are those the law's words, or yours?"

"The law's." Lu Jibai said. "We're only laying this case up against that phrase."

"Does it fit?"

"Whether it fits, someone has to take it away and read it."

"Eat." He Xiufen pushed the garlic bowl to the middle of the table. "Tomorrow those five pages go in, you take care of three things: don't leave the city, don't go asking anyone about this, and however you answered on the 8th, you answer the same way from now on."

"I know."

"Say it."

"Don't leave the city. Don't ask around. Whatever I said on the 8th, I keep saying." He lifted a chopstick-full of noodles, then set them back down. "Sis, should I not come to the office tomorrow?"

"No." Shen Zhixia said.

"I was just asking."

The next morning, ten o'clock, Chengdong Police Station.

Shen Zhixia sat on the third plastic chair in the hallway, her notebook tucked under her arm, knees pressed tightly together. The duty room door was open a crack. Voices leaked out in fragments—words indistinct, only the sound of paper turning.

At the duty desk, Lu Jibai placed his practice certificate, firm letter, and power of attorney on the left, and the five pages in the middle.

"Defense Opinion, five pages." He said. "One copy for filing, one for your signature of receipt."

The officer took the five pages, flipped straight to the last page to check the signature block, then read backward, page by page. He read the first page slowly, stopping in the middle.

"'He was still in front of me, still coming at me.'"

"October 8th, interrogation record, page three." Lu Jibai said. "He changed it himself, then pressed his thumbprint."

"I remember this line." The officer lifted the page slightly. "That day he changed two things."

At the fourth page, he paused over the two crossed-out spots.

"You crossed these out."

"A number I can't source, I don't write."

"You crossed it out and still submitted it."

"The cross-outs stay. So whoever reads it can see exactly what we removed."

The officer didn't respond. He finished the fifth page, pulled a pen from the wire basket, and wrote in the lower right corner of the duplicate's first page: Received Defense Opinion, five pages, October 14th. He signed, pushed the duplicate back, and opened the register to add a line, his handwriting square and even: Defense opinion, five pages, attached to file.

[Thud. Paper attached to the file no longer belongs to the one who wrote it.]

"This end of the case is nearly due." The officer squared the five pages and slid them into a kraft envelope, pressing the flap flat. "The file gets organized in the next few days, then it goes up to the sub-bureau's legal affairs section for review, and after that to the district procuratorate."

"What day?"

"I won't give you a date." The officer said. "The speed doesn't get decided in this room."

"Will we know when it reaches the procuratorate?"

"Once it transfers out, the procuratorate will notify you." He stood the envelope up in the wire basket. "The release conditions stay unchanged: ask before leaving the city, and if you can't be reached, we go looking for whoever signed."

"What about Meng Yang's phone?"

The officer looked up at him.

"The report came back." He said.

"Was that segment on it?"

"That I can't tell you."

"So whether it's there or not, I'm not allowed to ask."

"You ask, and I answer up to here." The officer nudged the basket farther in. "When it's at the procuratorate, you can look yourself. I won't be standing there stopping you."

"What I need is for it to be in the file." Lu Jibai said.

"It's in the file." The officer said. "Last time, that seven-item document of yours—I read it page by page to two people from our station. When I finished, nobody said a word. These five pages, I'll do the same."

Lu Jibai tucked the duplicate into his folder and picked up his practice certificate from the desk, closing it with care.

He stepped out of the duty room, and Shen Zhixia stood up.

Only when they reached the steps did she speak: "What did he say?"

"He said 'attached to file.'"

"What else?"

"The report came back."

"What report?"

"Meng Yang's phone."

"Was it on there?"

"He said he couldn't tell me."

"Didn't say yes, didn't say no."

"Didn't say." Lu Jibai switched the folder to his left hand. "He said 'can't tell you' slower than he would've said 'no.'"

There was a cracked patch of concrete on the steps. The two of them walked down on opposite sides of it.

"Then we wait for the file to move." She said.

"We wait." He said. "Once it's out that door, the five pages are truly handed over."

At 8:30 that night, the desk lamp in the apartment flickered twice before coming on. Zhi'an was washing dishes in the kitchen, water running low, bowl knocking against bowl, one clink at a time.

The phone rang. He Xiufen.

"Tomorrow morning, take someone." There was an exhaust fan humming on her end, pressing over the line like white steam. "Surname He, with her daughter, nine years old. She called the office a while ago, cried for five or six minutes, couldn't get a full sentence out."

"What happened?"

"Her husband beats her. Not just once. This time she got out with the child."

"Did you ask if she has evidence?"

"I didn't." He Xiufen said. "Let her tell it herself first. In a case with a child involved, look at the child first."

"What time tomorrow?"

"Nine. I gave her your number. If she calls tonight, just listen. Don't push."

After hanging up, Shen Zhixia turned to a fresh page in her notebook and wrote the date. She'd just finished "October 14" when the screen lit up. An unfamiliar number. It rang four times before she answered.

"Is this Lawyer Shen?" The voice was hoarse, trailing off at the edges.

"It is."

"Director He told me to call this number."

"Mm."

There was a soft intake of breath on the other end, then the sound of someone pressing a palm over the receiver—holding it for a long moment before letting go.

"I left." She said. "I took Xiaotian with me."

"Where are you now?"

"Chengbei. My cousin's place."

"Is Xiaotian asleep?"

"She won't sleep." The voice dropped lower. "She's afraid I'll leave."

"Tomorrow morning at nine, bring her." Shen Zhixia said. "I'll be waiting at the office."

"There's a mark on her face." The woman said. "I let her hair down to cover it, but it doesn't cover."

Shen Zhixia pulled the cap off her pen and pressed it onto the paper.

"Tomorrow, when you come, start from whatever sentence you need to start from. I won't interrupt."

The other end went silent for a few seconds, then suddenly broke, and five words squeezed out through tears: "He hit Xiaotian."

In the notebook, those five words went beneath the date, pressed harder than usual.

Zhi'an came out of the kitchen carrying two upside-down bowls, water dripping from the rims through his fingers.

"Sis, what am I eating tomorrow morning?"

"Egg noodles."

"Oh." He walked to the cupboard and set the bowls one by one into their slots, then turned back. "Who was crying just now?"

"A child's mother."

Zhi'an straightened the last bowl, closed the cupboard door, and walked toward his room. He stopped at the doorway.

"Sis, what's the kid's name?"

"Xiaotian."