Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 40 : Reading Up to Item Three

The clerk at the window turned the Proof of Service around.

"Write your full name."

Shen Zhixia's pen paused over the "Agent" column. She wrote three characters, not the word "Lawyer."

January 4th, just after New Year's, and the dusty smell in the third-floor corridor of the Arbitration Office still hadn't cleared all winter. Deng Wei stepped up to sign, writing stroke by stroke, as if filling out a school enrollment form for a child. After signing, he stepped back half a pace and watched her pick up two stacks of paper: the thick stack was the Arbitration Award for the twenty applicants, with the Schedule stapled beneath; the thin one was a copy of Respondent One's seven-day explanation.

"One person per line on the form. Count them," the clerk said.

She counted. Twenty lines, one per person. Every figure had been copied from the Settlement Sheet on the Recovery Disk, not a cent off. Below the twenty lines, there was no total—whoever had written the award hadn't given her one.

Shao Hong came out of the inner room and stood by the window, hands in the pockets of her cardigan.

"Take the award back and read it over slowly. Let me put it to you in three sentences," she said. "First, Respondent Two and Respondent Three, after lawful notice, did not appear, and this tribunal proceeded under default procedure. Once the award is served on them, it counts. They have fifteen days to file suit. If the deadline passes and they haven't paid, you apply to the court for compulsory enforcement."

"From what day do the fifteen days start?" Deng Wei asked.

"From the day they receive it," Shao Hong said. "If they dodge service, there are other ways to serve papers. You don't need to worry about that for them."

"Neither of those two companies showed up on the day of the hearing," Deng Wei said. "Every letter we sent came back."

"The returned letters are still in the case file," Shao Hong said. "Whether they show up or not, the money is still their debt."

"Second, those twenty lines on the Schedule are written against those two companies," Shao Hong went on. "Third, the tribunal does not support your claim against Respondent One."

She said it evenly: "Dispatch records, deduction records, payouts—the three items you submitted to this tribunal are all reproduced copies recovered from backup. Respondent One does not accept them, and I have no originals in hand to compare. This award makes no finding on whether an employment relationship exists between the applicants and Respondent One."

"My evidence-collection application."

"This tribunal made a demand of Respondent One. It answered with one line: the original records are under preservation, and touching even one of them requires procedure." Shao Hong glanced at her. "This booklet of mine can't push that door open."

[Thud. The ones who didn't come still owe money.]

Shen Zhixia turned the award to the last page, then closed it and pulled a page from the thin stack. It had arrived the afternoon of January 2nd—one page, three sentences: the account ban was based on the Rider Service Agreement and Platform Service Rules; the reason for the batch processing was a system determination; the appeal channel was online customer service in the Rider App Help Center.

[Thud. One page, three sentences, and not a single way in.]

"Respondent One, come collect the award," the clerk called toward the far end of the corridor.

Lu Jibai came over from the far end. He signed, accepted his copy, flipped to Item Three, looked at it for two seconds, then closed it.

"Item Three is the part we won," Shen Zhixia said.

"Item Three isn't what I asked for," he said. "What I wanted was the line on the page before—'this tribunal did not accept it.'"

"You said yourself that not denying storage isn't the same as accepting a reproduced copy."

"I did say that." He tucked the copy into his case file. "Next time, in a different venue, I'll still say the same thing."

"The money on this paper can't be touched today. Not one cent," she said. "Whose account that money is sitting in—you know that better than I do."

"I don't know," Lu Jibai said. "I only know it isn't my client's account."

He left first. Shao Hong watched him through the window, squared the stack of proofs of service, and slid them into a drawer.

At six in the evening, on Back Street behind Chengnan Station No. 1, under the tarp in front of the repair shop, the fluorescent tube flickered twice before it came on.

Deng Wei had gotten seventeen people there. The other three were stuck working at the cold storage and couldn't get away, so Deng Wei set his phone between two foam boxes on speaker and let those three listen in.

She sat on a folding stool and spread the award open on her lap to read it aloud.

"Item One: Respondent Two and Respondent Three shall, within ten days of the effective date of this award, pay Ma Jianjun and the other nineteen applicants the amounts listed in the Schedule."

"Do you want the names read?" Deng Wei asked.

"Read them." She drew the Schedule closer to the light. "Ma Jianjun. Luo Cheng. Lao Chang. Xu Li…"

She had reached the seventh name when Luo Cheng cut her off. "Ten days—counted from what day?"

"Not from today." She lowered the paper. "They have fifteen days to file suit. If they don't, this award takes effect. Then if ten more days pass and they still haven't paid, only then can you apply to the court for compulsory enforcement, and only then can their accounts be touched."

"Then how long are we supposed to wait?" Luo Cheng rubbed his hands; the black from the repair shop sat in the cracks of his fingers. He'd switched to a secondhand scooter, with an installment payment of 720 due on the 20th.

"I can't give you a date," she said. "All I can tell you is that I'll be there at every step."

Someone on speakerphone coughed: "I hear you. I just put something on the stove over here."

Xu Li edged half a step forward. "On my line, it's my wife's name written there."

"The amounts were calculated by account number, and the case was filed under your own names," she said. "Both pages have to carry your name before it counts."

Lao Chang laughed from the back, the sound never quite landing. "The account is his, I did the runs, the money goes into his card and then he transfers it to me—I said that last time. So which page is it written on this time?"

"It's written in the application that bears your signature," she said.

Lao Chang wiped his hands on his sleeve and didn't ask again.

Xiao Duan stood up from inside the circle, holding up his phone. "Sis, read that explanation page too."

She read the three sentences again. When she reached "the appeal channel is online customer service in the Rider App Help Center," Xiao Duan turned his phone screen toward the light.

"That call you made last time," he said, "seven minutes and twelve seconds. You said you wanted to appeal, and he said the way in was in the notice. I've gone through this notice from start to finish—there isn't a single word."

"Eighteen accounts are still grayed out," Lao Chang added. "When they banned them, one line. When they unbanned them, one line. Only two got unbanned."

"Those two weren't out of the kindness of their hearts," Xiao Duan said. "Someone did the math and picked two who could be made to relent."

Lao Song didn't go under the tarp. He sat outside on the bed of a three-wheeler, notebook open on his lap, recording the people who'd come and the times, line by line. When he heard the talk inside wrap up, he tossed in a remark: "If the entrance is written on paper, someone still has to be able to walk through it. Only then is it an entrance."

She turned to the last page. "Item Three: the applicants' claim against Respondent One is dismissed."

Silence fell under the tarp. An electric scooter passed outside, its headlight sweeping through a gap and across the cardboard boxes and a plastic stool on the ground.

"I've read this line out to you plainly," she said, raising her head. "The money is written on the paper. The hand that controls the people hasn't been written in. This round ends here. That entrance in the explanation—one day I'm going to make them read it out themselves."

"So doesn't that mean the two days were a waste?" someone muttered from the back.

"As long as the money is written down, it wasn't a waste," Deng Wei said.

Ma Jianjun had been standing at the outermost edge the whole time. He took his hand out of his padded jacket pocket, then slid it back in.

"That part about Item Three—when does it get written down?" he asked.

"Not in this booklet," Shen Zhixia said. "In the court's book."

"Then this folded paper of mine," he said, pressing a hand to his inner pocket, "will have to stay tucked away a while longer."

"Keep it on you."

Deng Wei gathered his phone and stood up. "Before the money goes into the account, if anyone hands you a blank paper, don't sign a single word."

"Not signing," Lao Chang said.

"Not signing," Xu Li said.

It was past ten by the time they got back to Zhengping Firm. He Xiufen turned the award face down on the long table and set one finger on the Item Three line.

"He's been gnawing at 'not originals' for two rounds," she said. "Think about why he insists on biting down so hard on that phrase, on that line."

"He doesn't want us making our case with those three forms."

"He wants you to go get the originals," He Xiufen said. "What did I say on the night of the 25th?"

"Originals are for the next round."

"The next round is here. The Arbitration Commission doesn't hold that key; the court does." She tapped the table. "Get the three forms and that Work Order in order, then put in one sentence: the original dispatch records, deduction records, and Generation Logs are in Respondent One's system—ask it to produce them."

"What if it won't?"

"If it can't show a legitimate reason and still won't hand them over, the court may take what's written on those papers as you say," He Xiufen said. "This one wasn't handed to you by him. You found it yourself."

[Thud. If he won't hand over that page, that page speaks for itself.]

"How long will that take?" she asked.

"A year at least," He Xiufen said. "But this time is different—that machine is locked in someone else's house, and the court has to go in and look for itself."

"One more thing." He Xiufen pulled a paper from the bottom of the case file—the Complaint filed on December 5th, its edges worn soft from being turned. "The day you filed it, you only had two names."

"Now there are four companies, three nameplates, one account."

"Then don't walk into court with two names." She pushed the paper back. "Count for yourself how many can fit at the first-instance table."

As she nodded, the rolling shutter downstairs rattled.

"There's someone waiting for you downstairs. He's been standing there for half an hour," He Xiufen said. "He paid for his own noodles—eight yuan. I didn't take a cent less."

In the noodle shop, the last table still had its light on. Lu Jibai sat near the door, an empty bowl in front of him, his case file standing at the table's edge.

"I'll write Item Three again," she said, pulling out the stool across from him but not sitting.

"Write it in which book?"

"First Instance."

He looked at her for two seconds.

"That half sentence of Shen Qian's," he said, "I'll finish it when you can catch it."

"How will I know when I can catch it?"

"At that table today, you didn't have a single original within reach." He picked up his case file. "It was the same for your father back then."

He pushed the door open and left. Wind followed in through the gap, rattling the plastic wind chime behind the door twice.

By the time she went upstairs, He Xiufen had already gone to her room. The desk lamp on the long table was still on. She flipped the hardcover notebook to the page for "Things to Ask, Things to Count": the blank line after "Account Ban," the "seven days" written below it, and further down, "two pieces of paper, two dates, one person who handed over the paper"—all still there, line after line.

[Thud. Unsettled Ledger: Chengnan Station No. 1, Ma Jianjun—this line has been traced over once more.]

Under that half line of writing, a small extra mark had appeared, as if someone had traced over it again in pencil, the stroke not yet closed.

She pulled the first page of the Complaint out from the very bottom of the case file and spread it under the lamp. In the defendant column were two names, the paper's edge already worn.

She drew a pen from the holder and started a new line in the hardcover notebook, writing: First Instance—Original Logs, Order to Produce.

Downstairs, He Xiufen was closing the rolling shutter. She stopped halfway and said something to someone from the neighboring shop. The smell of scallion oil climbed up the stairs.