Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 284: Six-Page Statement of Defense

At exactly three o'clock, the office phone rang.

"Zhengping Firm." On the other end was the court clerk from the west-facing window of the Chengdong District Court's Litigation Service Center. "The defendant's agent submitted a Statement of Defense at the window at 2:50. Six pages, one attachment. You can pick up your copy today."

"The agent came in person?"

"The agent came in person. I logged the exact time in the intake register."

"Is the attachment an original?"

The rustle of paper on the other end. "A photocopy. The original wasn't turned in."

"I'll be there in forty minutes."

She hung up and wrote a line in her notebook: November 5, 3:00 p.m., call from the court; Statement of Defense, six pages, one attachment, photocopy. When she finished, her pen hovered over the word "photocopy," tapping twice.

Her bus card was at the very bottom of the drawer. She zipped the file bag, buttoned her coat to the second button. Downstairs someone was stirring a wok as she left, and the smell of scallion oil followed her all the way to the bus stop. On the bus she counted the days again: the complaint had been served on the defendant on October 23, the answer period was fifteen days, deadline on the 7th. Two days left.

At 3:50 she reached the west window of the court.

"Six pages, one attachment." The clerk slid the documents out. "Tomorrow at 10:00 a.m., Third Mediation Room, second floor. The court is organizing an evidence exchange between both sides. The answer period ends on the 7th—don't save everything you need to supplement for the afternoon of the 7th."

"One original for the court, one copy for us."

"Right. Don't try to pass off a photocopy as the original."

She counted the pages on the spot. Six pages, twenty-seven lines per page. The bottom of the last page was stamped "November 5, 2026," and below that, in the agent's signature line, was a handwritten name—very small, with the firm name stamped over it. There was only one attachment, paper-clipped behind page six, and it was clipped on crooked.

"His agent also asked: will you be sending anyone to the evidence exchange tomorrow?"

"What did you answer?"

"I said I don't know if they're coming or not. I open the window at nine."

She folded the six pages in half. The single attachment page she didn't fold—she slid it into the front pocket of the file bag separately.

At 4:20, upstairs at Zhengping Firm. The exhaust fan hummed in waves; downstairs, the kettle was boiling again. She laid the six pages out by page number, taped down the corners, and made herself a cup of instant coffee. The sugar tin was on Lu Jibai's desk. She didn't go over to get it.

The first line at the top of page one: "Statement of Defense." Second line, the respondent: Feng Guoming, male, thirty-seven. Below that, three requests. The first asked the court to dismiss all the plaintiff's claims. Only three lines dealt with the marriage: how many years they'd been married, that they had a daughter, that there were "occasional arguments" between husband and wife. From the fourth line on, it was all about the child. It ran until page six.

She wrote a small note in the margin of page one: He's asking for dismissal, but four of his six pages are about fighting for the child. He knows what this case is really about.

[Thud. Count first. Whose name appears most often in these six pages?]

She marked the margins with a pencil and counted—twice. The plaintiff's name, thirty-eight times. The child's name, eleven times. His own name, sixty-one times. She wrote the three numbers on a sticky note and slid it under her cup.

Then she opened a blank sheet of paper and drew a vertical line down the middle. On the left, she copied his claims. On the right, she wrote what evidence they actually held.

One: "The daughter has lived with the respondent and the respondent's parents since birth; her time living with the plaintiff was extremely brief."

In the right-hand column, she stared at the page for a while, then wrote: Currently empty.

The Women's Federation registration form only had one line: "One daughter, age nine, Liuhe Primary School." What she did have were the pages from October 15 through November 1—Chinese seventeen pages, math fourteen, every single page complete, every character inside the grid. Eighteen days. The left side said "since birth." The right side said eighteen days.

She pulled the small slip of paper out of the side pocket of the file bag and compared it. Three lines were written on it—the child's surname is Feng, the house was left by his father, my mom lives right upstairs and can help. In these six pages, all three lines appeared. Not one was missing.

Below the empty box she added two small notes: Tomorrow 6:40 a.m., breakfast stall at the alley entrance. The 8th, at the school.

At 4:40, footsteps on the stairs. He Xiufen came up carrying a bowl of noodles with a rag folded underneath.

"There was extra downstairs." She set the bowl at the corner of the desk and glanced at the vertical line. "Left side, his words. Right side, the paper you're holding."

"Yeah."

"Who taught you this?"

"Figured it out myself."

"I transcribed legal filings for three years. Did it the same way." He Xiufen draped the rag over her shoulder. "By the third year, I didn't need to fill in the left column anymore. The moment he opened his mouth, I knew which box was empty."

"These six pages of his have plenty of empty boxes."

"If it's empty, leave it empty. Don't patch it with words." She reached the top of the stairs and turned back. "His answer period runs to the 7th."

"The 7th."

"Fill in what you can before the 7th. What you can't—write 'empty.'"

She ate half the bowl of noodles and left the broth, pushing the bowl aside for fear of splashing the papers. Downstairs, a bowl clinked twice against the edge of the sink.

Two: "The plaintiff has long worked night shifts, sleeping by day and awake by night, leaving no time to care for the child."

This one couldn't be attacked as a lie. On the right she wrote: Shift change certificate, one page, issued November 2, submitted through the window on the 3rd. Then she pulled a fresh sheet out of the file bag—the schedule He Lan had a colleague photocopy just this morning, the November page. The box for the 1st said "Morning," 7:30 to 3:30. The 2nd said "Shift Swap." From the 3rd on, column after column all the way to the end of the month—all "Morning."

She smoothed the page flat and read it twice.

Through October 31, she really had worked nights. The cramped signatures crowding the top half of the homework grids—those were signed when she got home at eleven at night, fumbling in the dark. She wasn't going to argue he was lying. She was going to argue that on those nights, the child had been standing in front of her.

Three: "The plaintiff's income is unstable, and after switching to day shifts her income has decreased significantly."

This one was harder than the last. She had the October pay stub: gross pay 5,800 yuan, with a night shift allowance of 320 yuan broken out on its own line. Switch to days, and that 320 was gone. The words "decreased significantly" held up on paper.

She checked the clock—5:00 exactly—and called He Lan.

"It's me. What time does payroll get off? Can you go over today and get a six-month wage statement, have them stamp it, and mark which six months? I need it for the evidence exchange tomorrow at ten."

"Six months." Plastic bags rustled on the other end. "Payroll closes at 5:30. I'm home; it's twenty minutes away."

"Then go now. Bring it to me at the alley entrance, tomorrow 6:40."

"Okay." A pause. "He filed?"

"He filed. Six pages."

"Six pages." He Lan repeated it. "He wants the child?"

"He does. He wrote that she's been living with them all along."

The line went quiet for a few seconds. She could hear the sound-activated light in the stairwell click off and on. "What else did he write?"

She thought for a moment, then gave the three lines first: "The child's surname is Feng. The house was left by his father. His parents live in the same building and can help with childcare."

"That's his mother on the fifth floor," He Lan said. Another pause. "Did he also say I don't make money without night shifts?"

"He wrote about income."

"He says seven or eight thousand a month, and none of it ever came home." Her voice dropped. "Does that count as paper?"

"Doesn't count." Shen Zhixia set the pencil down. "So that box stays empty too. Leave it empty. Don't patch it with words."

"Tomorrow, 6:40."

"6:40, alley entrance."

After hanging up, she drew a circle next to "six-month wage statement" and wrote beside it: He Lan goes today, must be stamped; deliver at alley entrance tomorrow morning.

Four: "The respondent earns 7,000 to 8,000 yuan a month, has a fixed residence, and his parents are healthy and able to assist with childcare."

On the right she wrote two words: No paper.

Six pages, 1,900 characters, and not one pay stub, not one bank statement, not a single number with a source. He wrote "seven or eight thousand" into the Statement of Defense just like he said it with his mouth—it never lands on paper.

Her pencil stopped at the second half of that line: able to assist with childcare.

From the middle stack of child-related documents, she pulled out four police call records and read the address field on each. June 9, August 3, September 17, October 12—four records, all listing the same place: Chengdong District, the house his father left, third floor.

The two who could "assist with childcare" were the grandparents. They lived on the fifth floor.

On the August 3 and October 12 records, the caller was the child. She drew a faint circle in pencil around the "Caller" field—light enough to erase. Twice, from that address, from that unit, the child had dialed out.

Five: "The plaintiff is emotionally unstable. She once threw a loud tantrum at a hospital in this city—emotionally out of control, as reported by informed sources. This is an important reason for the respondent to seek custody."

Reading this, she pushed her cup aside and flipped to page six, sliding the attachment out from under the paper clip.

One page, photocopied. A5 size, or half an A4, with a cut edge—cut slightly uneven. The back side showed through pale gray.

One handwritten line on the front:

"He Lan threw a loud tantrum at the hospital, emotionally out of control."

She turned it over. Blank.

No hospital name. No date. No signature. No thumbprint.

She flipped back through the six pages. Third page, fourth paragraph. Fifth page, first paragraph. Fifth page, third-to-last paragraph. Three places described the same incident, and each one opened with the same phrase: "As reported by informed sources." Who the informed sources were—the Statement of Defense itself never said.

[Thud. Words on paper don't know people. They know where they came from.]

At 5:20, footsteps on the stairs. Lu Jibai came up, coat still on, hands empty.

"You're back?"

She pushed the six pages toward him. He didn't start from page one. He pulled out the attachment at the bottom first and looked at it for two seconds.

"Where's the original?"

"Not submitted. The window said he only filed a photocopy."

He laid the page flat, pressed his index finger against the blank space at the bottom right, then lifted it. "There should have been a signature here. Submitting a duplicate requires stating its source. If the provenance can't be explained, this page doesn't make it into the case file."

"If it doesn't make the file, it doesn't make the courtroom."

"Tomorrow at ten, ask three questions in front of the clerk: Is there an original, who wrote it, when was it written." He slid the page back to her. "If he can't answer, the page stays on paper for now. What you've got in your boxes—fill those in first."

"The fifth box can't be filled."

"Then write 'empty.' Don't plug it with talk." He glanced at the sheet of paper on the desk before going downstairs. "The box left empty—that's the one he has to answer for first on the stand."

The stairs creaked a few times, then went quiet.

She looked at the attachment again.

The handwriting wasn't fast or slow; the strokes had rounded ends, and the last dot of the character "cry" dragged long. Below it, nothing. The edge was cut—whatever had been on the top or bottom half of that original sheet, whoever cut it didn't want it seen.

She copied the line into her notebook and stopped halfway: there was nothing to put in the "date" box. Her pencil pressed a small dot into the paper.

She started a new line: Attachment, one page, photocopy; one line of text; no hospital name, no date, no signature; original not attached; paper trimmed.

She aligned the six pages, bound them with two loops of a rubber band, and slid them into the file bag. The attachment she left on the outermost layer, one corner sticking out.

There was no signature on the photocopy.