Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 296: Proof of Service

At nine fifty, the plastic bin at the security checkpoint held Zhi'an's schoolbag. The bag went through the machine, and the guard tapped the bin's edge with his finger. "Take out your phone."

Zhi'an pulled out his phone and placed it in the bin, stepped back, and walked through again. The second time the machine stayed silent. He tugged his school uniform sleeve down over the back of his hand, hiding the patched tear.

The room at the west end of the first floor had its door open, a long table against the wall. Four pages lay on the table under a clear plastic folder, beside a box of red ink paste, the lid still unopened. Zhou Yu and another prosecutor came in first, the court clerk following behind, two pens clipped to her pocket.

"Shen Zhi'an." Zhou Yu called his name. "Sit here. Your sister sits to your right, defense counsel at the other end."

Lu Jibai opened his notebook, a pencil balanced between his fingers. Shen Zhixia set her bag by her feet and rested both hands on the notebook in her lap.

"Ten o'clock." Zhou Yu glanced down at his watch. "Today I'm reading one thing only. Four pages. I read it, you listen. After I finish, you sign."

Zhi'an straightened his back, then settled again, fingers brushing against the seams of his pants.

Zhou Yu lifted the first page.

"In the case of Shen Zhi'an, suspected of intentional injury, the Jiangzhou Municipal Public Security Bureau Chengdong Branch filed the case on September 22nd and transferred it to this office for review and prosecution on November 13th. This office returned it for supplementary investigation on November 20th and re-accepted it on November 22nd. Review is now complete."

He took a breath and continued.

"Upon review, it is found that: after 6:40 PM on September 19th, in the alley behind the school, Qin Hao, Meng Yang, and Du Qiang cornered the student Xu Qing. Qin Hao held up his phone and demanded Xu Qing repeat what she had said on August 31st. Shen Zhi'an stepped forward and pulled Xu Qing behind him. Du Qiang grabbed him from behind, lifted him, his feet leaving the ground. Qin Hao moved in and kicked him once in the abdomen. After breaking free, Shen Zhi'an turned and threw one punch. Qin Hao fell to the ground, his nose bleeding. Shen Zhi'an stepped back in front of Xu Qing and did not throw another blow."

The heating pipe in the room clanked.

"This Court finds that: there was an ongoing unlawful infringement. Shen Zhi'an's punch was thrown to stop the infringement, to free himself and his classmate. One punch, then he stopped. There was no pursuit. Qin Hao's injury, assessed as a minor injury of the second grade, does not constitute serious harm."

He turned the page.

"Shen Zhi'an's conduct constitutes justifiable defense. By law, he bears no criminal responsibility."

Another page.

"In accordance with the relevant provisions of the Criminal Procedure Law of the People's Republic of China, this Court has decided: no prosecution shall be initiated against Shen Zhi'an."

He squared the four pages and slid them forward.

"That's all," he said. "Did you hear it clearly?"

Zhi'an's hands were still pressed to his knees. After a moment he spoke, his throat catching. "So I'm not being sentenced?"

"You were never sentenced," Zhou Yu said. "You were never convicted. What's written on these pages is this: what you did is not a crime under the law. You bear no criminal responsibility."

"That punch." Zhi'an paused.

"That punch is written on page two," Zhou Yu said. "The grabbing came first, the kick came first. Only then did that punch come. If any word is wrong, say so now."

Zhi'an shook his head—twice—then looked over at his sister. Shen Zhixia lifted her hands from her notebook and pushed them half an inch toward him, without touching him.

Zhou Yu pulled out the bottom sheet and laid it in front of himself.

"Proof of service. You sign here, and press your thumbprint. The four-page decision—here's your copy, keep it yourself." He slid the four pages into an envelope and handed it over.

The ink paste lid twisted open, red. Zhi'an picked up the pen. His wrist hovered a moment before it came down, the three characters written slower than usual. After the name he looked up. "Where do I press?"

"Under your name. Press hard."

His thumb went down, came up—one red print, the edge slightly smeared. He pinched his finger and looked at it. "It smeared."

"Smeared still counts." Zhou Yu turned the paper around and pressed the smudge flat with the pad of his finger. "I'll accept this one." He pulled another sheet from beneath and pushed it down the table. "For defense counsel. Sign."

Lu Jibai signed, writing the date in the box.

"Same for this." Zhou Yu pushed another page across. "Shen Zhi'an's release on guarantee pending trial is lifted today. We'll notify the branch bureau to execute it. The decision letter you're holding is void as of today. Keep it if you want, but don't use it as a document anymore."

Shen Zhixia took three papers from her bag and laid them on the table: the decision on release on guarantee, the guarantee statement, and the notice of obligations for a person released on guarantee. On the September 23rd form, the guarantor line bore her name.

"I'll keep these," she said.

"Keep them," Zhou Yu said. "None of them count anymore." He paused. "One more thing I'll read to you. This entire case file is sealed under the provisions for minors. From now on, no one outside the handling of a case can access it without approval."

Zhi'an asked, "What does 'sealed' mean?"

"It means this stack of paper doesn't follow you," Zhou Yu said. "When you fill out forms in the future, you write 'none' in that box. You've never been convicted."

"Does the school know?"

"The school isn't in this file," Zhou Yu said.

"Ten forty-five." He glanced at his watch. "You can go. Out this room, walk west, take that stairwell down."

As he stood, Zhi'an clutched the envelope hard enough to crease it, then loosened his grip and smoothed it flat again.

The corridor was long, radiators against the wall, paint flaking in patches.

Zhi'an walked half a step ahead of his sister, then suddenly turned. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"I know," Shen Zhixia said.

"On August 31st, I didn't do anything wrong either."

"I know." She pressed the envelope back into his hand. "Hold it properly. Don't crush it."

Three people came from the other end of the corridor.

Qin Hao's mother carried a blue plastic bag, the edge of an X-ray film sticking out of the opening. Lawyer Zhao walked at her back right, briefcase tucked under one arm, her other hand holding up her phone to check the time. Chen Maolin trailed last, suit sleeves rolled to the wrist, both hands empty.

As they passed, Qin Hao's mother stopped and glanced at the envelope in Zhi'an's hand.

"Haohao's nose is still crooked," she said.

Lawyer Zhao touched her elbow lightly. "Eleven o'clock. Prosecutor Zhou is waiting inside."

The three of them continued in.

Chen Maolin didn't move. He waited until Shen Zhixia came level with him, then squared his stance. "It's not over."

"Seven days," Lu Jibai said from behind, his voice low. "If you want to file, file."

Chen Maolin looked at him and gave a thin smile. "Whether I file depends on the paper."

"Then we'll see about the paper."

Out the building door, the wind hit them. The concrete steps at the courtyard gate were cold.

Just past eleven, Zhi'an opened the envelope and pulled out the four pages, reading them one by one. He read slowly, his finger tracking down each line, leaning closer when the characters were densely stroked.

"What does this sentence mean?" He pointed at a spot.

"Justifiable defense," Lu Jibai said. "The moment this appears, nothing else below it needs to be written."

"'Upon review, it is found' on the first page—did Prosecutor Zhou write that himself?"

"He wrote it. And someone had to sign above it."

"Who?"

"The chief procurator."

Zhi'an nodded, stacked the four pages in order—very neatly—and slipped them back into the envelope. He sat for a while, then asked, "That fingerprint spot—can I wash it off?"

"Yes," Shen Zhixia said. "Wash twice and it's gone."

At eleven twenty-five, someone came out of the gate.

Qin Hao's mother led, the bag of films crushed into a ball in her fist. Lawyer Zhao stuffed papers into her bag as she walked. Zhou Yu stopped inside the gate, folded the sheet in his hand into his pocket, gave a small nod from ten-odd paces away, and turned back.

Zhi'an watched the door. "Did he just nod?"

"He did," Lu Jibai said.

"At who?"

"At you."

Zhi'an started stuffing the envelope into his schoolbag, stopped halfway, pulled it out again, and slid it in sideways, holding it in his hand.

November 25th, noon, downstairs at the noodle shop. Steam rose from the stove, fogging the glass door.

Zhi'an went in first and tossed his schoolbag onto the chair against the wall. He sat upright, but the schoolbag refused to sit straight. He Xiufen looked up from the stove. "Two eggs?"

"Two."

"How many signatures did you do yesterday?"

"Three," Zhi'an said. "And one thumbprint. It smeared."

"Smeared still counts." He Xiufen brought the noodles over, two eggs perched on top, one left, one right. "Has the school asked?"

"No one's asked," Zhi'an said. "The homeroom teacher only asked how far I'd caught up on my homework."

"How far?"

"Page seven."

Shen Zhixia let out a small laugh and carried her water glass upstairs.

On the second floor, the same papers still lay beneath the glass desk pad. She crouched down, dragged the cardboard box out from under the desk, and lifted the lid. The school uniform was on top, the tear in the left sleeve unwashed and unsewn. She pressed the three documents under it: the decision on release on guarantee, the guarantee statement, the notice of obligations. The envelope went on top—four pages of decision inside, the red seal in the bottom right corner stamped perfectly straight.

The lid went back on, the box slid back under the desk.

Lu Jibai sat in the chair by the window, pencil laid across his notebook. "Seven days—until December 1st. Within seven days they can appeal to the next-higher procuratorate, or skip the appeal and go straight to court."

"And if they file?"

"If they file, the paper makes another round." He picked up the pencil. "The three items from the supplementary investigation are in the file. The two lines have a source, the two hundred yuan has a timestamp, that phone holds half a sentence. If they come again, we answer the same way."

"What if I miss a sentence?"

"You won't," he said. "You've read it enough times now."

[Thud. This case—the paper has been read to the end.]

[Thud. Seven days. If no one turns it over from behind within seven days, this case is truly closed.]

He Xiufen untied her apron, draped it over the back of the chair, sat down, and wiped her hands on her pants.

"So this case is done."

"Done," Shen Zhixia said.

"I'm fifty-six," He Xiufen said. "I've kept that light upstairs burning for more than twenty years. After I handle one last case, I'm done."

Shen Zhixia's pen stopped on the page. "What did you say?"

"I said I'm old. It takes me a rest halfway up these stairs." He Xiufen reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, smoothed it open on the table, and pushed it over. "This one's already waiting."

Three lines on the paper. A phone number, a surname—Kang—and below that, a line in her handwriting: Her mother left a sheet of paper, written by her own hand. A brother and sister, one wants to split it, the other says it's fake.

"You never used to take these kinds of cases," Shen Zhixia said.

"I still don't. If I take it, it's my last one."

"So you're really retiring."

"Really." She pushed the paper another half inch forward. "Tomorrow morning at nine, she's coming. You keep that light upstairs burning."

"I will."

"Come up at eight thirty, wipe the table, move those two chairs aside, make some space."

"Space for what?"

He Xiufen stood and tied her apron back on, one hand on the stair rail as she started down. "For what she's bringing. That kind of paper, once it's spread out, there's no room to sit anywhere in this place."

The stairs creaked. She was gone.

Shen Zhixia tucked the folded sheet into her notebook, flipped to the last page, and added a line: November 25th, twelve noon, Kang. The notebook closed, resting on top of the envelope.

Downstairs, Zhi'an called out, "Vinegar."

"Get it yourself," she said.