Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 315: First Volume

At 9:10 on December 23rd, the queue ticket machine at the Chengdong District People's Court Litigation Service Center spat out a slip of paper, its edges still warm.

Kang Wenying and Kang Youxing sat in the row of chairs by the door, one empty seat between them. Kang Wenying had the cloth bag resting on her lap. It was flat, and she smoothed it out twice. Kang Youxing's padded jacket cuffs were pilled, and he held a plastic document folder wedged tight under his arm.

Shen Zhixia spread her cloth bundle across her lap and went through the contents one by one. The People's Mediation Agreement, four pages, her own copy soft at the edges; the Judicial Confirmation Application, two pages, each signed once at the bottom; a photocopy of each ID card; the mediation committee's copy of the agreement; queue ticket A037.

At 9:30, the screen jumped to A037.

A young woman sat behind the window, dark blue sleeve protectors over her cuffs. She didn't look up, just held out her hand.

"Materials."

Shen Zhixia passed the paper bundle through. The woman flipped through page by page, reached the fourth page of the agreement, then turned back to check the date at the bottom of the first page.

"Signed December 9th," the clerk said. "Both of you applying together?"

"Both of us," Kang Wenying said.

"Original ID cards."

Two cards went in. The clerk compared the photos to their faces, looked back at the cards, looked again, then slid the originals back out.

"Fill out two copies of the Service Address Confirmation Form. Write clearly which address can receive mail, and write the phone number clearly."

Kang Wenying wrote slowly, box by box, then passed the pen over. Kang Youxing pulled the paper toward himself. He started with the address, hesitated when he got to the two characters for "power plant," then kept writing. Filling in the phone number, he paused before the first two digits, as if trying to remember them.

The clerk stamped the last page of the application with a blue receipt stamp, wrote in the date, tore off a narrow slip, and pushed it out.

"Receipt. Go home and wait for a call. Both of you need to be present on the day of questioning. If one is missing, we don't proceed."

"What will they ask?" Kang Youxing asked.

"Whether this agreement is really yours, whether anyone pressured you." The clerk placed the pen back in its holder. "Whether you have any objections to it."

"No," he said. "I acknowledge the date."

When he said it, he glanced toward Shen Zhixia. She kept both hands on her lap and didn't respond.

"That's for you to say yourself," she said. "I can only sit beside you."

"What do we bring on the day of questioning?" she added.

"ID cards. The original agreement. Nothing else."

"You file within thirty days of the agreement taking effect. Today's the fourteenth day. You'll make it."

"And after confirmation?"

"After that, this page has one more thing attached to it," the clerk said. "Whoever doesn't follow the dates written on it, the other party takes the ruling and applies for enforcement. Judicial confirmation is free."

Kang Youxing took the receipt, read it top to bottom, folded it in half, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his padded jacket, next to the four-page agreement. After it was in, he pressed the outside with his hand.

[Thud. Thirty days, counting from the date of signing. You're on day fourteen.]

The radiators in the hall were hissing. Going out meant descending a short flight of steps; wind came from the direction of the carport. Kang Youxing stopped on the second step.

"On the twenty-seventh I'll go to the cemetery to look at plots."

Kang Wenying shifted the cloth bag to her other arm. "Tell me once you've picked one. The stone needs inscribed lettering. You give it to me."

"Inscribed, not carved."

"Inscribed," she said. "You give it to me."

"That eighteen thousand in the passbook—I withdrew it on the twenty-second," she added. "It's in my card now. Before the thirty-first."

Kang Youxing pressed a hand to his waist, then headed toward the bus stop. After seven or eight steps, he turned back.

"That eighteen thousand. Before the thirty-first."

"Noted," Shen Zhixia said.

At 2 p.m., second floor of Zhengping Firm.

Shen Zhixia moved a chair to the metal cabinet and climbed up to reach the box on top. It was heavy; she hooked both hands under the rim, pulled it forward half an inch, then let it down.

Footsteps on the stairs. Lu Jibai came in and caught her elbow with one hand.

"Don't stand on a chair holding that."

"Then how do I carry it?"

"Get down first."

She stepped down. He lifted the box from the cabinet and set it on the long table by the window. The copper wire was still the two loose loops from yesterday, the wire end sticking up.

Shen Zhixia lifted the lid and pulled out the first volume.

"Volume One," he said.

"Volume One."

"What about the rest?"

"Leave them."

He didn't push, just went into the inner room and came out with a stack of old newspapers, pulling out two sheets and handing them to her.

"Wrap it. Don't fold the corners."

"You're not going to look at it." She pressed the newspaper onto the volume.

"Case files I can review for you," he said. "Your father's notebook, I won't touch. When you finish this volume, just let me know."

She wrapped the volume in two layers of newspaper, folded the four corners to the back, and slipped it into her cloth bag. The bag bulged too much to zip shut, so she left it half-open and cradled the bottom with her hand.

Before leaving, she glanced at the glass desk pad on the inner table. The paper beneath it was still turned face down, its corner slightly more curled than yesterday. She didn't lift it.

At 3:30, the pot of water downstairs started to whistle. She went down.

At 7:40 p.m., at home.

Zhi'an had spread a stack of papers across the dining table, a pencil half-sharpened, eraser shavings swept into a small pile. An orange sat at the other end of the table, split into two halves.

"Jiejie, this counts as a case file?" He held the pencil between his fingers and craned his neck for a look.

"No."

"Then how late are you staying up? "

"Just a while."

He tapped the pencil against the edge of the table and bent back to his writing.

Shen Zhixia set the cloth bag on the table and unwrapped the newspaper layer by layer. She moved the desk lamp half a foot toward the table's edge; the light fell on the paper.

The blue cloth cover looked grayish white under the lamp. The hardcover's corners were worn through, the cardboard showing. She opened the cover.

Two large characters on the title page: "Shen Qian." In the lower right corner, two years separated by a short dash. Below the years, one small line:

"Every case that went to court gets one page."

She moved the lamp another inch closer.

The first page began with date, time, and place: March 16th, 8:40 a.m., District Court, Third Chamber. Below that, two lines: Case type, work injury. Client, surname Li, factory worker.

Below, most of the page was left blank, with only three lines written:

1. Which two fingers.

2. Was there a guard on the machine.

3. Who sent her to the machine.

Below the three lines, a narrow strip at the margin read "see Volume 4." At the page corner, another small line in pencil: "In the photos, the guard is set aside, removed."

She turned the page. The second case was wages, the third wages, the fourth elderly support, the fifth a dispute over two households' courtyard wall. The dates were sometimes half a month apart, sometimes two months. Each case began with a date and time, and each one, on the page before the day of court, had those three lines.

On page fifteen, the margin held a different note: Client said she couldn't read; had him read it aloud once. Below that, a new line: "Read it twice. The second time she wasn't listening. I finished reading."

At the foot of page seven: "Today I asked one extra question. The opposing lawyer followed that question for half an hour."

"Ask, then sit down. Don't chase it." Those were the words at the foot of page forty, written after the third line of an elderly support case. She counted: six pages had notes added after their third lines, the longest four characters. "Don't chase." "Don't ask." "Wait for him to finish."

She got up to pour water and set the cup at the corner of the table. Water spilled over the rim before she stopped pouring. She pulled out a tissue and wiped the edge of the table.

She slowed down when she reached page fifty-two.

A loading crew, eleven men, unpaid wages. The three lines from the night before court were still there. Below them, no judgment, just one line:

"She needs the money to get through the New Year. Keep it tied up in court, and she won't make it through the year. Withdraw."

At the corner of the page, a faint pencil mark: "Owed her six hundred."

She smoothed the page flat and pressed her palm against the paper, only lifting her hand after a long moment.

Then she took out her own notebook and turned to the December 19th entry.

Lao Kan, eleven months, 260 a day. Three lines below:

1. When did he start on site.

2. Who gave the work orders.

3. The work-hours logbook—who has it.

The margin read "see Volume 3." Another line had been crossed out twice but was still legible: "Did he ever sign anything."

She laid both notebooks side by side on the table. Her handwriting was thin, the way the strokes began and ended the same. When he wrote the numeral "three," the last horizontal stroke was the shortest. Both notebooks started with the date, then the three lines, a narrow strip left at the margin, volume number marked at the page corner. She flipped to the back of her own page. There was also half a crossed-out line there, and the direction of the strike matched the one on page fifty-two: from upper left to lower right.

When she was little, he used to write in notebooks like this at the end of the dining table by the window. When he finished, he'd close it, clip the pen to the cover, and say he was leaving early tomorrow. She'd asked him what he wrote. He'd said, it's for doing things for people, not for people to read. The back of his hand always had a permanent blue-black stain that wouldn't wash out.

She counted the cases: two work injuries, three wage claims, one elderly support case, one courtyard wall case. From March 2004 to January 2006. For the five that had been decided, the results were written on the last line at the bottom of the final page—a few words, a number.

[Thud. Seven cases.]

She added up the pages across all seven: sixty-one pages. Page sixty-two began fresh.

There was no case on that page, just one line:

"This volume ends here. Next volume begins March 17th, 2006: Jiangbei Brick Factory, thirty-seven men's wages."

She read the line twice.

The three Baixi Village volumes were Volumes Seven through Nine, with five volumes and ten years in between. She flipped back one page in the first volume, then forward again, and read that line once more.

Then she turned to a blank page in the notebook and wrote at the top: December 23rd, Volume One, sixty-two pages.

Below, three notes:

1. Page heading is date and time.

2. Three lines written the night before court, no extra questions.

3. Narrow strip left at the margin, marked "see Volume [number]."

After writing, she added one more line: When he wrote "three," the last horizontal stroke was the shortest.

Her phone buzzed on the table. Lu Jibai.

"How much have you read?"

She replied: "One volume."

Half a minute later, another message: Take your time. No rush.

She flipped the phone face down on the table. The screen lit up briefly, then went dark. Next door, Zhi'an turned off his light, and the strip of light under the door vanished.

She wrapped the first volume back in newspaper, folding the four corners to the back. She stood it upright on the cabinet, next to her own notebook—both spines facing out, the same height.

She turned the desk lamp half a turn inward, and the circle of light shrank until it fell exactly on the spine of Volume One.