Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 316: The Dates on the Spines

December 25, 3 p.m. Moisture fogged the second-floor window. Downstairs the frying oil had just been put away, and the scallion-oil smell crept up the stairwell, dispersing when it reached the radiator.

Li Huilan had gone to the Arbitration Commission that afternoon to submit a document for Lao Kan's wage case. Only she and Lu Jibai remained in the building.

A ring of water marked the long table from the morning's wipe-down. She ran the rag over it again, wrung it out on the windowsill, her knuckles stiff with cold.

Lu Jibai lifted the camphorwood chest down from atop the metal cabinet, supporting the base, steadying the corners, only letting go once it sat solid.

"Don't tip it," he said. "Take them out one volume at a time."

She drew out the eight volumes inside and laid them one by one on the long table. The first volume wasn't in the chest—she'd read it on the night of the 23rd, wrapped it in those two sheets of old newspaper to take home, and brought it back today wrapped in the same paper. The four corners were still folded to the back; she hadn't swapped for fresh wrapping.

She unwrapped the newspaper and placed the first volume at the head. Nine volumes stood in a row, spines facing out.

Blue cloth covers, faded to gray-blue. A line of small pen-written characters ran down each spine, pressed so deep the strokes were tangible under a fingertip. Lined up together, the writing sat at identical height on every volume, each beginning with the volume number.

"Who's the table of contents for?" Lu Jibai asked from the other end of the table.

"Myself."

She nudged each of the nine volumes forward until the spines were flush.

"The firm's copy can wait until I've finished all nine," she added. "This page stays with me."

"Fine."

She took a blank sheet from the case-file paper and laid it at the window end of the long table. Using the plastic ruler from Li Huilan's desk, she drew two vertical lines, dividing the page into four columns.

The header, three lines:

Shen Qian, Trial Notes, nine volumes.

One line below: December 25, 3:25 p.m.

Below that, the column names: Volume, Date Range, Page Count, Subject Matter.

She started copying from Volume One.

Volume One, Mar. 2004 – Jan. 2006

"Page count." She opened to the first page. The yellowed sheet folded in half was still tucked there—He Xiufen's handwriting, nine lines. She copied it down: sixty-two pages.

"Subject matter." She paused, pulled out the page of notes she'd made on the night of the 23rd, counted as she wrote: work injuries, two; wages, three; elder support, one; courtyard wall, one. Seven items total.

Volume Two, Mar. 17, 2006 – Sep. 2008.

Page count copied. For the subject matter column, she transcribed the line from the last page of Volume One: Jiangbei Brick Factory, wages owed to thirty-seven people.

Then she added six small characters beside it: see last page of Volume One.

The characters came out cramped; she didn't rewrite it. His margin notes were cramped the same way, squeezed into the narrow edge, a stroke pushed half a space upward when the line ran out.

From Volume Three onward, she couldn't fill the subject matter column.

Without opening them, she had no way of knowing what was inside. Only dates on the spines. She set the pen down on the third row's cell, the nib pressing a tiny dot before lifting again.

The volume numbers were written in Chinese characters. She looked them over one by one: one, two, three—each stroke dead straight. On the seventh volume's "seven," the horizontal stroke was half a space shorter than the vertical, the same quirk as his "three" in Volume One, where the bottom horizontal was shortest.

She kept copying page counts. When she reached Volume Nine, she pinched the spine and lifted slightly—the thinnest volume, the paper's thickness palpable through the blue cloth by touch alone.

She checked the nine lines of dates one against the next: Volume Three ended in March, Volume Four began in April; Volume Five ended in December, Volume Six began in January. One month closed the book; the next month's first day opened a new one.

The last three volumes were different. Volume Seven ended in March, and Volume Eight also began in March; Volume Eight ended in June, and Volume Nine began in June. A single month split across two notebooks—the first filled to the last page, the writing continuing into the next.

Only between Volumes One and Two was there a gap of a month and a half. Volume One ended in January '06; Volume Two began March 17. February was missing. She didn't know what that section had held, and she didn't add anything to fill it.

The first six volumes spanned twelve years. She did the math in her head: March '04 to November '16, twelve years, six volumes. The last three, nine months.

Twelve years written on the spines—just six small lines.

She laid the ruler horizontally across the page, pressing a straight indent beneath the nine rows of dates, aligning the start and end of each line.

The radiator clicked; water moved upward.

Lu Jibai, at the table by the door, tore off a strip of white paper and copied the dates line by line in pen.

"The list only gives years," he said, sliding the strip over. "The spines give months. The months need to be added."

"Where?"

"On the photocopy," he said. "Don't touch the original."

She retrieved the photocopy from the metal cabinet—one page, writing on both sides. He checked the nine rows of dates against the spines, line by line, pausing half a beat at the seventh row before continuing.

When finished, he added a line in the blank space at the page's foot: Spine date ranges—Vol. 1, March 2004 to January 2006; Vol. 2, March 17, 2006 to September 2008...

Below it he signed: Annotator: Lu Jibai, December 25.

"The person who annotates signs his own name," he said, pressing the cap onto the pen.

"You're not reading it."

"I can copy the dates for you," he said. "The subject matter column is yours."

She moved Volumes Seven, Eight, and Nine out of the row and stood them at the far end of the long table, near the wall. Their spines faced the wall, backs to her.

"These three go at that end."

"Why that end?"

"Read in order. When I reach Volume Six, then it's their turn."

"What if the earlier volumes mention Baixi Village before then?"

"Then I'll follow the order, and write it down when it comes."

He reached over and took Volume Seven. Its cloth was darker than the first six, the corners worn white and fraying. The lower corner of Volume Seven had a curled tear—the mark of years of turning pages.

He held the spine to the window light for a look, then set it down slowly, steadying the corner with his hand before letting go.

"December 2016," he said.

"Yeah."

He didn't say more, just placed Volumes Eight and Nine beside Seven, all three spines facing the wall, lined up even more precisely than she'd done herself, each flush with the table's edge.

She filled in the dates for those three rows.

Volume Seven, Dec. 2016 – Mar. 2017.

Volume Eight, Mar. 2017 – Jun. 2017.

Volume Nine, Jun. 2017 – Aug. 2017.

Page counts copied, the last volume thinnest. The subject matter column—all three rows left blank.

Blank wasn't for lack of wanting. To fill that column, she'd have to open them.

She'd come this far, her hand resting on Volume Seven's spine, and still hadn't opened it. The day the chest was opened, He Xiufen had said before going downstairs: if I'd given them to you earlier, you'd only have used them to fight his lawsuit. You wouldn't now.

Wouldn't now. So what would she do with them? She still hadn't figured it out. Read them for herself? Take them to someone? Write them into a page meant to be handed over? Those three things produced different words.

"Any word on the certificate?" she asked as she wrote.

"I asked this morning. Still under review." He folded the paper strip in thirds and tucked it into the photocopy. "Nothing further until the review's done."

When she'd finished, she held the page up to the window and looked it over. Straight column lines, even spacing, the last of the four columns glaringly empty—only two of nine rows filled—like a form someone had abandoned halfway through.

She slipped the page into Volume One, behind the title page, leaving just a sliver of white edge showing.

[Thud. Nine volumes, nine rows. First six volumes, twelve years.]

At 4:40, footsteps on the stairs—slow, step by step. He Xiufen came up carrying a tray: two bowls of noodles, one tossed, one in broth, a single pair of chopsticks resting on the tray's edge.

"Neither of you came down for lunch," she said, setting the tray on the table by the door. She pushed the tossed noodles toward Lu Jibai's hand, the soup noodles toward Shen Zhixia. "Paper can stay on the table. Bowls don't go on that table."

She didn't leave immediately. She stood looking at the row of volumes on the long table. Nine standing — six facing outward, three toward the wall. She wiped her hands twice on her apron, reached over, and straightened the first volume's spine by half a fraction before turning to the table of contents.

She picked it up, holding it in both hands, running her finger down the rows one by one. When she reached row nine, she went back and looked at the first row again.

"First column's awfully empty."

"Haven't read them yet."

"Empty's fine," she said, setting the paper back down and squaring all four corners. "Fill in that column yourself once you've read them. Don't ask anyone."

"Not even you?"

"There's nothing to ask me." He Xiufen said, "He had rules for writing the spines: volume number at the very top, dates dead center, equal margins above and below. He said standing on the shelf, they'd line up straight even viewed sideways."

She looked down at the nine volumes again. The small writing did sit dead center, even spacing above and below, and lined up together, every row matched.

"What if I fill this column in wrong?" Shen Zhixia asked.

"Cross it out," He Xiufen said. "Cross it out, but don't tear it off. Leave it on the page. Those crossed-out words in his notebooks—he never tore out a single one."

Her hand rested on the newspaper around Volume One, pressing the folded corner flat, then lifting it again. "Still the same two sheets of newspaper. He wrapped things the same way—four corners folded to the back."

Then she tipped her chin toward the wall end of the table. "Those three—that's Baixi Village."

"I know."

"I've never taken off the covers," she said. "And he never told me what was inside. All these years, I've only ever seen the outside."

After a pause, she added, "I won't ask what's inside. And you—don't rush it."

"Read in order," Shen Zhixia said. "Finish one volume, record one page, fill one column."

"Eat first. The paper won't run away."

He Xiufen picked up the empty tray, draped the rag over her arm, and stopped at the top of the stairs.

"No hurry," she said. "He's waited all these years. A few more days won't matter."

Then she went down, footsteps descending step by step. The pot lid clattered below; the water was boiling again.

She returned to the table and sat down, pulling the soup noodles closer. A film of oil had already congealed on top. She lifted a chopstickful of noodles, her eyes resting on the white edge jutting from Volume One, not opening it.

At the wall end of the table, the three volumes' spines faced the wall, the gray-blue cloth bleached pale by the window light.