Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 35 : The Unban Quota

She dialed the customer service number twice.

The first time she got the last digit wrong and reached a different company, where an automated voice read a property notice for half a minute. The second time, the call connected. The automated voice read for three minutes, transferred her to a live agent, put her on hold, then after another forty seconds a young man's voice stated an agent number.

"This account was permanently restricted due to abnormal transaction activity."

"Under which rule?"

"The platform's service rules."

"Which provision?"

"…… What I have on this end is only the conclusion."

"Who made it?"

"The system determined it."

She switched the receiver to her left hand and pressed the tip of her pen against the paper. "Which system, under which company, and does the person who made the determination have an employee number?"

There was the sound of typing on the other end. The typing stopped. "I can't look that up."

"Where do I submit an appeal?"

"Open the notice in your Rider App. There's an entry inside."

"I've read the twenty notices. Apart from this number for you people, there's nothing in them."

The other end went quiet for two seconds. "Then I'll note down your situation and pass it upward."

"Pass it up to whom?"

"The platform."

"Who at the platform?"

"…… Once I finish the record on my end, I'll submit it."

She stopped the recording and turned her phone over. The number on the screen stopped at seven minutes and twelve seconds.

[Thud. The person answering is human. The person who made the decision isn't on this call.]

He Xiufen came upstairs with a bowl of hot water and stood by the desk, watching her write.

"Got it recorded?"

"Got it recorded." She pushed the paper forward. "He gave an agent number but wouldn't give an employee number. Three sentences: based on platform rules, determined by the system, passed up to the platform."

"Write his exact words, word for word." He Xiufen set the bowl down on the corner of the desk. "If he didn't give an employee number, write 'employee number not provided.' Don't write in anything he didn't say."

"Mm."

"What matters about this call isn't what he recited—it's who wasn't in it," He Xiufen said. "The person sitting on that end was reading a script. The hand that pressed the button is sitting somewhere else."

She wrote the time and the number in the corner of the page, signed it, and tucked it into the case file.

"What about the court?" He Xiufen asked.

"The Administrative Reconsideration opinion has been taken in. We're waiting for the ruling."

"Then we wait." He Xiufen glanced out the window. "Today you need to go down there again. Over on Back Street, there are fewer people than yesterday."

"Two fewer."

"There'll be fewer still," He Xiufen said. "From today on, the twenty of them check in every three days. If anyone misses a check-in, send someone to their door."

"Can't they just report a number in the group chat?"

"A number in the chat doesn't count," He Xiufen said. "If the other side can call them one by one, then you have to go door to door. The paper only has weight when someone's actually been there."

A little after ten, she reached Back Street.

Under the repair shop tarp, only six plastic stools were occupied. Their accounts had been down for three days, and everyone had retreated to their rented rooms. Two or three had ridden to other districts to try their luck, then come back saying it wasn't worth going—gas cost money, too.

Luo Cheng was squatting on the top step with his phone turned sideways, a calculator on the screen. He held the phone out to her: 720, 1,100, and two more rows below.

"I've got four hundred eighty left on my card."

"The scooter?"

"Swapped to a used one last month. Payments of seven hundred twenty, deducted on the twentieth." He put the phone back. "Rent was paid on the fifteenth. The next rent is in twenty-seven days."

"Your wife?"

"She's stocking shelves at a supermarket. Two thousand four a month." He stayed squatting, tucking both hands into his sleeves. "This morning she asked me, why are you always sitting around the house these days."

"What did you say?"

"I said the account's gone."

The wind made the tarp sag. Inside, someone had lined up three plastic stools as a card table; whoever lost bought cigarettes. She stood to the side and watched for a while without saying anything.

"Yesterday afternoon someone called me," Luo Cheng said. "Different from the one Lao Chang got. This one was polite. Said they'd looked at my situation, and as long as my name got crossed off the list, the account would start processing the same day."

"Did you save the number?"

"I did." He pulled up the call log. An unfamiliar number, one minute and fifty-two seconds.

She copied the number into her hardcover notebook and capped the pen.

"I'm not going to persuade you about crossing your name off."

Luo Cheng looked up.

"There's no persuading you," she said. "If I told you the money would be in your hands in half a month, I'd be lying. The hearing date hasn't been set, and even once it is, I can only say this much: which company owes this money has to be argued in court with evidence. That account you're holding right now is someone else's word. Trading a signed piece of paper for his word is your own call. Do the math yourself."

Luo Cheng stubbed out his cigarette on the step, pressing it three times before it went out.

"Give me the truth," he said. "Do you believe we can get it back?"

"Belief is empty," she said. "I've got three forms, one work order, twenty notices, and the recovery document from Yunfan—all in the file. These are paper. Whether paper can turn into money, I won't make you any guarantees."

Luo Cheng stared at the ground for a while. "Then I'll trust you halfway."

Someone came out from under the tarp. Ma Jianjun had sat there all morning—his account was among those twenty, and he hadn't received a single order in three days. He was holding a piece of paper folded in quarters. He walked over and unfolded it on Luo Cheng's knee.

"July eighteenth," he said. "Six forty in the evening, the rain at its heaviest. The system sent me an order. Late penalty, thirty. I fell crossing the bridge. My knee still has a patch this big."

He folded the paper back up, then unfolded it again and slapped it down on a plastic stool.

"I'm not withdrawing," he said. "The name on this line—I wrote it with my own pen. Anyone who wants to cross it off can come do it themselves."

Luo Cheng pinched the corner of the half sheet, then let go and closed the calculator on his phone.

Xiao Duan came over from the far end of the alley with earbuds in, playing one voice message after another: tomorrow at seven, under the tarp, whoever arrives should report the number in the group. Thirteen people had replied. Deng Wei arrived at noon carrying a plastic bag with a few job flyers inside, the edges curled by the wind.

"Chengnan Cold Storage unloading. Two hundred forty a day, paid the same day," he said. "I'll take five men over tomorrow. Anyone with no account to run, come with me."

"Can you take six?"

"I can." Deng Wei pulled out a flyer for Luo Cheng. "Six thirty in the morning. I'll introduce you around. Once the money's in your hands, cover that seven hundred twenty first."

She took out her phone, dialed a number in front of them, and put it on speaker. The other end was noisy, like someone dragging chairs in a hallway.

"Ms. Shao, one question."

"Go ahead."

"On a labor remuneration claim, can we apply for Preliminary Enforcement?"

"You can apply," Shao Hong said. "But it takes two things: the facts have to be clear, and the rights and obligations have to be definite. Right now you've put three companies on one page. Which one owes the money hasn't landed in your evidence yet. Until you can fill in that line, I can only record the amount for you."

"Can we start from the one who owes the least and work down?"

The other end shuffled papers. "Fill in that line first."

The call ended. No one under the tarp spoke. Ma Jianjun picked Luo Cheng's helmet up from beside the card table and tucked it under his arm.

"Go with them to the cold storage tomorrow," he said. "Earn money first. I'll keep an eye on things here."

By evening, fourteen people sat under the tarp. The list had twenty. Of the missing, one was still back in his hometown, one's phone was out of service, and two said they'd think it over. Deng Wei wrote each line down in his notebook, slowly, stroke by stroke.

It was past seven by the time she got back downstairs at Zhengping Firm. Lao Song was sitting on a plastic stool outside the noodle shop, half a bowl of noodles in front of him, a film of oil already congealed on the surface of the soup.

"The station's been clearing things out these last two days," he said. "That table was carried off yesterday morning. I didn't know the men carrying it, and the car they drove wasn't one of the station's."

"Where did they take it?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask." He lifted a bite of noodles. "The papers taped to the wall were torn down, too. The work badges were taken back twice. The second time, they went around asking one by one who still had an old one."

"Yours?"

"I turned it in last year when I got that fifty percent."

"What about the half sheet of paper propping up the table leg?"

"What I told you last time was that I didn't take it." He rested his chopsticks on the rim of the bowl. "What I want to say today is, when they carried the table off, there was nothing under that corner anymore. The leg wobbled."

[Thud. The hands clearing things out are busier than the signing pen.]

"Noted," she said.

"How many were sitting under the tarp today?" Lao Song asked.

"Fourteen."

"The list has twenty." He pushed the bowl aside. "I won't go into court. I won't change that."

"I know."

"On the day of the hearing, I'll sit outside." He wiped his hands on his pants. "Who came from where, who arrived when, who didn't show, whose home phone changed—I'll write it down in my notebook. You all go in, and I'll be at the door. Tomorrow I'll go over too and count heads with Deng Wei."

"Why does it have to be outside the door?"

"My whole life was ruined by one piece of paper," he said. "That paper had my thumbprint on it. When they read it out to me, that line wasn't there. I won't go through that door." He stood up. "The names outside the door—I'll keep watch over them for you."

She said all right, and offered to print him a list of the twenty names, but he waved it off.

"I know the list," he said. "I don't recognize paper."

At eight forty, her phone rang. The screen showed a number she had seen before.

"It's me."

"Say it."

"In the next couple of days, some of your twenty people will get calls saying their accounts have been reinstated."

She didn't make a sound.

"Two will be reinstated first," Lu Jibai said. "Once two accounts are unbanned, the remaining eighteen get harder. That line will be laid on the table the day of the hearing."

"Why are you telling me?"

"I didn't want the first time you heard it to be from across from me."

"Who are you saying this for?"

The other end paused.

"Who pressed the account ban?" she went on.

"I can't answer that."

"I know you can't answer. I'm asking whether you know."

"Tomorrow at three in the afternoon," he said. "That convenience store downstairs from Hengzheng."

"I'm not going into that building."

"You don't have to go inside. It's just downstairs."

"What can't be said over the phone?"

"It can't."

"Is it related to this case?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

The other end didn't answer right away. She heard something drop onto a table, like a coin, or like a key.

"It's about your father."

The call disconnected. She lowered the phone from her ear; the screen was already black. She had never told this person anything about her family—not a single word.

There were footsteps in the hallway. He Xiufen came up with a bowl of noodle soup, walked in, and saw her sitting there, the phone still in her hand.

"Who called?"

"Lu Jibai."

"What did he say?"

"Tomorrow at three, downstairs from Hengzheng," she said. "He says it's about my father."

He Xiufen set the bowl on the table, and the bottom of the bowl struck with a sharp sound. She didn't ask a second question. The fluorescent tube in the hallway hummed, and the steam from the soup rose along the rim of the bowl.

"Go," He Xiufen said. "Before three, count the names over at the cold storage."

She opened the hardcover notebook to the second page. Three lines of things to ask about and count had been written there before. On the fourth line she wrote: Why does he know my dad.

She capped the pen. Downstairs, the scallion-oil smell had died away, leaving only the cold air of the iron wok. She sat there, and she didn't turn off the light.