Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 290: Twenty-Six Seconds

In the file review room, a fluorescent tube overhead flickered—once per second, half a beat slower than a second hand.

November 16, 8:57 a.m. The woman behind the case management window led him into the side room. A long table, two chairs, a desktop computer, a photocopier. On the wall, a sheet of paper: Lawyer File Review Rules. Someone had penciled a line under item three.

Two case files went onto the table. One thick, one thin, paper labels on the spines with handwritten volume numbers.

"Lawyer Lu." She pushed the register toward him. "Name, practice certificate number, start time—write them yourself. Count your own photocopies, tell me the number when you leave. The disc can't be copied. If you want to view it, use this computer."

He filled it in and gave his certificate number. She handed over the disc still in its paper sleeve. The sleeve had a line of small print: sealing date and inspecting officer.

"Give it back when you're done."

He opened the first volume. The file index listed each item with page numbers. Indictment opinion, six pages. One forensic appraisal. Three interrogation records—Xu Qing, two for Meng Yang, Du Qiang, two security guards, the homeroom teacher's interview records. Wei Changlin's investigation record, three pages. Explanatory notes for two surveillance camera clips. One electronic data examination report for Meng Yang's phone. Two evidence collection inventories.

He read the indictment opinion twice. Last paragraph of page six: Suspect Shen Zhi'an, male, seventeen, student at Chengnan Middle School, no prior record. Page five flattened those two minutes into one narrative: Shen Zhi'an got into a dispute with Qin Hao over student friction, threw a punch at Qin Hao's face, causing bilateral nasal bone fractures and a left maxillary frontal process fracture.

Across all six pages, the words "held him from behind" never appeared. Neither did "lifted him up." Or "feet left the ground."

He bit the cap of his pen and started copying from the interrogation records. The one from the night of September 19, eleven pages: Zhi'an said, "He hit first. I didn't mean to hurt him." The September 23 record, nine pages: "really angry" crossed out and changed to "tried to break free," a right thumbprint pressed beside the alteration, his signature and the handling officer's squeezed into the margin. The October 8 record, four pages; six sentences contained the word "later," and the last one: "He was still in front of me, still coming at me." He copied down to the page number, paused, and flipped back to glance at the last page of the third record.

One appraisal opinion, two findings: bilateral nasal bone fracture, left maxillary frontal process fracture—minor injury, second grade. Beneath it, the hospital's line: "Advised hospitalization for observation."

Two evidence collection inventories. The first was the seven items he'd submitted on October 9, with an officer's signature in the lower right corner. The second was evidence the police gathered themselves—from the school, the hospital, the police station. Both clipped into the same folder.

He turned the page. Page five of Xu Qing's record had one line: "He held Zhi'an from behind, lifted him up, and Zhi'an's feet left the ground." Last line of page seven: "He only threw one punch after breaking free. Just one. He didn't hit again after that."

Du Qiang's record, page two: "He told me to hold him from behind. Said once I had him, he'd kick." End of page three: "He gave me two hundred yuan. Transferred it on WeChat. Said it was for helping."

He drew a square in the margin beside that line.

The two security guards' statements were two pages apart. One wrote: "When we got there, that kid was standing in front of the girl, hand still raised. I went up and pinned him." The other wrote: "The guy in the blue work uniform at the mouth of the alley ran off."

The homeroom teacher wrote about August 31: the office, one class period, the recording. On the last page she added one line: "I criticized him. He stood there and took it."

Wei Changlin's three pages matched what he'd recited at his stall in early October: the fryer, several men, one shout. The twelve seconds he'd kept himself captured a slice of the alley mouth, cutting out just before the punch—impact outside the frame.

Two camera clips. One faced the alley, lens cover half cracked, half the frame black. The other faced the fried skewer stall, capturing only a pair of shoes in front of it.

The second volume was thin, holding one paper sleeve with a disc. The electronic data examination report stated: lawfully seized September 29, sent to the municipal public security bureau for examination; one video file recovered, duration twenty-six seconds. The opening lines described the phone's condition: hairline crack on the lower right of the screen, still able to power on, data extracted by the examiner. He copied down the words "still able to power on."

Two pages later was Meng Yang's statement. The file had two of them. Asked whether he'd filmed anything, he said in both that he hadn't.

The last line of the report gave the recording time: September 19, 6:45 p.m. One page over, the injured party's call log—alarm received 6:46 p.m. One minute.

Further down, not a single line stated whose finger pressed the shutter.

He flipped his notebook to a fresh page. Writing the first character, his pen tip pressed into the paper.

At eleven, he put the disc into the machine.

The progress bar crawled forward frame by frame. After watching all twenty-six seconds, he rewound to the beginning.

Shaky footage. The alley was already dark, half a storefront's light spilling onto the wall. The first five seconds: a girl in a school uniform backing away—four steps back until she hit the wall, both hands raised at her chest. Second six: a boy came in from the left and stood in front of her. Second fourteen: the man in the blue work uniform held him from behind, both hands threading under his armpits, lifting—both feet left the ground, soles toward the camera, his backpack slipping off his shoulder, hanging from his arm.

Second seventeen: Qin Hao stepped forward, raised his leg, and kicked—his foot drove into the stomach; the upper body bowed backward. Second nineteen: he broke free, shoulder twisting, the hands that had held him from behind loosening, feet hitting the ground.

Second twenty: he threw one punch. The screen froze on that frame—a fist against a face, landing on the nose bridge side.

Second twenty-one: the face snapped back, and the frame dropped, the hand holding the phone jolting. When it lifted again, only the ground and two pairs of shoes.

Second twenty-four: when it came back up, the boy had already retreated in front of the girl in uniform, both hands hanging at his sides, not moving again. Qin Hao sat on the ground, one hand over his face. Second twenty-five: someone shouted from the skewer stall, voice muffled. Second twenty-six: black.

He watched it four times. Second pass, he stopped at second fourteen; third pass at second twenty. Held it there. Fourth pass straight through, no skipping. He drained the remaining water from his cup—it had gone cold long ago. The fluorescent tube kept flickering.

Compared to Wei Changlin's twelve seconds, this clip was held in someone's hand, the frame swaying with the person—but it never broke. The moment the fist went out, the point of impact was inside the frame.

He wrote in his notebook:

18:45, filmed.

0:14, held.

0:17, kicked.

0:19, broke free.

0:20, one punch.

Impact in frame.

When he finished, he counted his photocopies: eighty-three pages. He reported the number to the woman at the door. She took back the disc, checked the writing on the sleeve carefully, then wrote eighty-three in the register.

It was after twelve when he stepped out. He stood on the steps for a while, notebook pressed to his chest, looking up at the building. The files were in that building, the papers were in that building, and those twenty-six seconds were in that building too. Tomorrow afternoon, he would be walking into that building to hand over three pages.

At 6:30 p.m., the exhaust fan under the noodle shop was running, and the smell of scallion oil drifted up the stairwell.

She'd gone home before coming back, leaving dinner for Zhi'an. Zhi'an had only asked one thing: "Any word from their side?" She'd said no. Zhi'an grunted and went to his room to do homework.

The lights on the second floor of the Zhengping Firm were all on. She spread the archiving ledger on the table, rubber bands holding down the paper edges. He Xiufen came upstairs with a plate of pickled radish, the account book tucked under her arm.

When Lu Jibai came up, he was holding one blank sheet and his notebook.

"Read it," He Xiufen said.

He read from the beginning. Only dates, times, page numbers, and original text. Not one adjective added. When he reached the appraisal: "Two fractures, minor injury grade two." Xu Qing's record: "He held Zhi'an from behind, lifted him up, Zhi'an's feet left the ground." Du Qiang's record: "He told me to hold him from behind. Said once I had him, he'd kick." "Two hundred yuan, sent on WeChat. Said it was for helping."

Her hand stopped on the tabletop, fingers pressing against the file cover. He glanced up at her. "Should I stop?"

"Finish it."

"The video is twenty-six seconds, filmed at 6:45 p.m. Second fourteen: held from behind, both hands through the armpits, lifted, feet off the ground. Second seventeen: leg raised, kick to the stomach. Second nineteen: broke free." He turned the paper over. "Second twenty: one punch, landing inside the frame. Second twenty-four: he retreated in front of Xu Qing, both hands hanging, didn't move again. Qin Hao sat down. Second twenty-five: someone shouted. Second twenty-six: black."

The room went quiet for a few seconds. Downstairs, a bowl clattered against the sink.

[Thud. Sequence visible, only then does it count.]

She pulled the October notebook from the drawer and flipped to October 1. At the bottom of that page she'd written one line: Missing a pair of other eyes. She drew a horizontal line through it, all the way to the edge of the paper.

He pulled a sheet from the back of his notebook, turned it sideways, and wrote three lines.

"One: the emergency room register. The file only has a photocopy of the medical record—no page from the register, and no one who was ever asked that question." He finished writing and looked up. "Two: the two hundred yuan. The file only has Du Qiang's statement. No transfer record. Three: Qin Hao's phone. Never extracted."

He Xiufen picked up a piece of pickled radish and chewed before speaking. "Three items. One in the hospital, one in WeChat, one in his pocket."

"I submit tomorrow afternoon. Three pages of defense opinion, one page of collection application." He capped his pen. "Tonight, first write these three lines into the application. The opinion I'll write tomorrow morning."

"Is the morning enough?"

"Six pages of indictment opinion and not one word about being held. Three pages is enough."

She pushed the file cover aside. "That clip on his phone. I want to see it."

"No."

"Just twenty-six seconds."

"It's part of the case file." He tucked the paper under a rubber band. "If you watch it, and later someone asks whether you know about this footage, you say yes. Then they ask if you know all of it—what do you answer with?"

"I'm his sister."

"You're his legal guardian." He said it evenly. "Tomorrow afternoon I go in and submit. You stay at the firm."

She drew her hands off the table and set them on her knees. Downstairs, the exhaust fan shut off. The stairwell went so quiet she could hear someone dragging a stool in the noodle shop.

"Why doesn't the indictment mention the hold?" she asked.

"Because if they write that in, the sentence after gets harder." He Xiufen nudged the plate toward the center. "Think it through yourself. Don't ask us."

She didn't ask again. She picked up a piece of pickled radish, bit down—crisp.

She read the three lines on the paper, one by one, and when she got to the last she looked up. "Meng Yang's phone—who does it belong to?"

"His," Lu Jibai said.

"What did he say in his statement?"

"In both records, he said he didn't film anything."

He Xiufen stacked the empty dishes and picked them up with one hand. "Then these twenty-six seconds—whose finger pressed it?"

He capped his pen. "The report says it was this phone. It doesn't say whose hand."