Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 314: The Camphorwood Chest

At eight-fifty, someone in the alley was taking down pickled vegetables that had been airing overnight. A bamboo pole stretched overhead and dripped two drops of water. The noodle shop's roll-up door was half raised, and the pot on the stove was giving off white steam.

Shen Zhixia stopped at the foot of the steps.

A chest sat on the steps. Camphorwood, with iron corners wrapped around all four edges. The paint on the iron was worn away, exposing a whitish layer beneath. There was a circular water stain on the lid—where a tea bowl had once sat, long ago. The hasp on the front had one broken foot, held together with red copper wire, the wire's end sticking up, dark with age.

He Xiufen stood behind the chest, still in her apron, pressing both hands against it.

"It's not nine yet."

"I wanted to come down early," Shen Zhixia said.

"You didn't need to." He Xiufen nudged the corner of the chest with her toe. "It wasn't going anywhere. It's been waiting here all these years."

Shen Zhixia crouched down and lifted the edge with the back of her hand. The chest didn't move. The wood was cold.

"It's heavy."

"Nine volumes," He Xiufen said. "Not counting the chest."

"You moved it from home to here yourself?"

"I hired a hauler to drop it at the alley entrance." He Xiufen said. "From the alley entrance to here, I moved it inch by inch."

"Yet you said one person couldn't carry it up."

"Couldn't carry it upstairs," He Xiufen said. "You know how narrow these stairs are."

The two of them took hold of the chest, one at each end, and lifted it from the steps. It was heavier than its neat, rectangular shape suggested—the moment it left the ground it sagged, and Shen Zhixia's fingers dug into the underside, her nails pressing painfully. She was on the higher step and went up two steps first; the chest tilted with her.

"Keep it level," He Xiufen said from below. "Level as you go."

The stairs were narrow. At the landing, the chest wouldn't turn. He Xiufen stopped first, the chest's corner against the wall, scraping off a layer of dust that landed on the lid.

"Set it down."

They set the chest on the steps, both breathing hard. The second-floor door was open. Lu Jibai stood inside the doorway, watched for two seconds, then came down.

"I'll take this end."

He Xiufen moved her hands away and stepped back, one hand on the railing.

"Keep it level," she said. "What's in that chest is paper."

With two people lifting, the chest was steady. Lu Jibai took the lower end, moving back one step as the chest came up one step, back one step, up one step. Shen Zhixia couldn't see his face from above—only the strip of stairway under the chest, the steps falling away one by one. At the second-floor doorway, they rested the chest on the threshold for half a minute.

"Into the inner room." He Xiufen came up behind them. "Put it on the long table. Has the table been wiped?"

"I wiped it yesterday," Shen Zhixia said.

"Wipe it again."

Lu Jibai moved a case file aside and ran his palm from one end of the table to the other, gathering a line of dust into his hand. They set the chest down. The half-volume of old magazine under one table leg creaked, but the table held.

He Xiufen stood in front of the table, resting both hands on the lid for a while before undoing the copper wire. It was wound tight, several turns, and she could barely see it—her fingertips poked and picked at it.

"Your father twisted this wire himself," she said.

Shen Zhixia reached over.

"Let me."

She picked at it a few times, and the wire came off coil by coil. On the last coil it snapped loose and flicked a white line across the back of her hand—no break in the skin. She opened the hasp and lifted the lid. The smell of camphorwood and old paper rushed out, instantly overwhelming the scallion-oil scent from the stove downstairs.

The chest was lined with newspapers, several years old, brittle at the edges, flaking at a touch. She peeled the layers away one by one.

Nine volumes.

Blue cloth covers, hardbound, the cloth polished to a sheen, the corners worn bald. A line of small characters on each spine, written in fountain pen, pressed so deep the paper was indented—you could see the shallow groove from the side. The nine volumes were lined up neatly, except the innermost one sat half an inch out from the others.

Shen Zhixia pushed it flush.

She counted them. One, two, three... nine. She looked up when she finished.

"Nine volumes."

"Nine volumes," He Xiufen said. "Nine is what he told me."

He Xiufen took the ledger notebook from inside her padded jacket, flipped to the last page, and pulled out a sheet of paper folded in half, smoothing it flat. The paper was yellowed, with two crease lines and a slightly frayed corner.

"This page has been tucked in my notebook for years," she said. "Always blank. If I wanted to write something, I couldn't figure out what, for years."

"You've figured it out now."

"I don't need to think about it now." He Xiufen bit the cap off a pen. "Just copy from the spines."

At the top of the paper she wrote a line: "Shen Qian, Trial Notes, nine volumes, entrusted to Zhengping Firm." She paused after writing it, then went back over the character for "entrusted" with an extra stroke.

"Volume one, 2004 to '06."

Shen Zhixia lifted the back cover of the first volume halfway, checking only the number in the lower right corner of the last page.

"Sixty-two pages."

She closed it, put it back, pushed it level. "Volume two, '06 to '08." "Seventy-eight." "Volume three, '08 to '10." "Eighty-four."

By the fourth volume, He Xiufen would read a year range and Shen Zhixia would report a page count, neither saying another word. The door to the inner room opened a crack—Li Huilan came out for water, glanced at the spread on the long table, and went back in with her cup.

"Volume seven," He Xiufen read, "winter 2016."

Shen Zhixia opened the back cover of the seventh volume. The last number was one hundred and twelve. Her finger pressed on that page for a moment before she closed it.

"One hundred and twelve."

"Volume eight, 2017."

"Ninety-eight."

"Volume nine, 2017, summer onward."

The ninth volume was thin. She opened the back half-page. The last number was sixty-four.

Winter 2016, 2017, summer 2017. She turned these three dates over in her mind, asked nothing, and pushed the ninth volume back so it sat flush with the others.

He Xiufen wrote at the bottom of the page: "Delivered by He Xiufen, December 22nd." She held out the pen.

Shen Zhixia wrote on the next line: "Received by Shen Zhixia," writing slowly, then read it over. Nine lines of writing on the page—one line per volume, volume number, years, page count. Not a single line missing.

[Thud. Nine volumes, received. Not entered into the Justice Checklist.]

"Should we stamp it?"

"No." He Xiufen said. "This is my writing, not the firm's."

"Should the firm keep a copy?"

"Make one copy, put it in the file." He Xiufen pushed the paper back. "You keep this one yourself."

She pulled over the chair by the door and sat down, bracing one hand on her knee as she lowered herself.

"My legs won't hold up anymore. Sit."

Shen Zhixia sat at this end of the long table. Lu Jibai didn't sit; he stood at the other end, one hand on the back of a chair.

"After he got out, he came to the noodle shop twice," He Xiufen said. "The first time I didn't recognize him."

"He'd lost weight." Shen Zhixia said.

"Thin. Half his hair had gone white." He Xiufen said. "The first time he only ordered a bowl of broth. I said broth was free, and he said then give me two extra noodles."

"The second time was winter. Around three in the afternoon, quiet. He carried it from the alley entrance all the way to the door. His hands were shaking when he set it down. I made him a bowl of noodles and added an egg. He ate half and left the other half, chopsticks resting unevenly across the bowl."

"He said: Director He, keep this with you."

"I asked what it was. He said: trial materials."

"I asked how long he wanted me to keep it."

He Xiufen paused.

"He said: give it to Zhixia after she's gotten her practice certificate and finished a case on her own."

Shen Zhixia pulled her hand back from the lid of the chest and placed it on her knee.

"I asked him why," He Xiufen said. "He said: if I give it to her too early, she'll only use it to sue me."

"There was one more thing." She said. "He said: she has to win a case for someone else first. Then she can come look at mine."

"What else did he say?"

"I said: what if she never comes to ask you about it? He said: she will." He Xiufen said. "I said: what if I forget? He said: you won't forget."

"I didn't forget," she said. "I just didn't dare."

Shen Zhixia's hand clenched once on her knee, then loosened.

"That year, downstairs, I told you—if you wanted to ask, go ask him about that chest of his." He Xiufen said. "I meant the one under your family's bed. This one—I never said a word about it."

"Why?"

"I gave him my word." He Xiufen said. "A promise to someone can't be turned into a favor for someone else."

"Then why give it to me today?"

"The two things he set—you've met them both." He Xiufen said. "The certificate came in July. He Lan's case went into effect November 29th."

"That's not what I'm asking."

"I know what you're asking." He Xiufen said. "Yesterday, after signing those three pages, I'd already made up my mind. This chest doesn't go into that list. The firm's affairs belong to the firm. He is my own affair."

She closed the ledger, pressing both palms against the cover.

"Sitting at home, it was just a chest. Brought up here, it has a place to be."

"I've only ever seen the covers," she continued. "For the first few years the chest was under my wardrobe with the winter quilt stacked on top. Moved twice: once when I rearranged the wardrobe, once when the upstairs leaked and I raised it half a foot."

"I never untied the cover. I don't know what's written inside."

"Aren't you going to look?"

"No." He Xiufen said. "I recognize his handwriting. But the cases inside—I don't want to know what he was thinking about any of them. Some things a person doesn't say while they're alive. Once they're gone, what's written on paper isn't meant for me to hear."

She stood up, closed the lid, and wound the copper wire around the hasp twice—it wouldn't tighten, so she just tucked it. Her palm swept across the lid, wiping away the dust.

"That thing he said—at the time I only half understood it."

Shen Zhixia looked up.

"If I gave it to you too early, you'd only use it to sue me."

He Xiufen walked to the door, her hand on the doorframe, and turned back for one last line.

"You wouldn't do that now."

She went downstairs. The stairs sounded for a few steps and then went quiet. From below, someone called out, "One bowl of plain noodles, extra broth," and an aluminum basin clattered against the counter. A moment later someone in the alley asked if they'd be open tomorrow. He Xiufen answered from below: yes.

Lu Jibai came over, lifted the chest, held it close, and carried it to the corner, setting it on top of the metal cabinet. He nudged it so all four corners sat half an inch from the wall.

"Put it here," Shen Zhixia said.

"Half an inch from the wall," he said. "The lime's in the cabinet. Paper won't take on damp up there."

She folded the list page in half and tucked it into the first page of her notebook, closed the notebook, and pressed the cover flat with her palm.

Shen Zhixia stood in front of the metal cabinet and pressed her hand once on top of the chest. The copper wire was cold against her palm.