Read Novel Full Chapter 7 : The Fine Column
The ticket machine spat out A037. Six people were still ahead.
The hall had been converted from an old building: four rows of blue plastic chairs, a water dispenser against the wall, a note taped to the water bottle—"Please return empty bottles to their place"—one corner of the paper curling up. Ma Jianjun sat in the chair by the aisle in the third row, hands on his knees, the electric scooter key clenched in his palm. She stood and counted the documents again: two application forms, written in pen; the original Letter of Recommendation plus one photocopy; the Power of Attorney; copies of both ID cards; an Evidence List followed by twenty-three printed screenshots, outpatient receipts, bank statements, the IOU, and a copy of the Case Receipt.
The woman at the window turned the application to the second page and stopped.
"Hurricane Express Chengnan Station No. 1." She turned the paper around and tapped the line with a fingernail. "What is this place?"
"Where he works."
"That's not an entity. The respondent has to be a name that can be served."
"His work uniform, his delivery box, his helmet—all printed with Hurricane Express."
"Just because the brand is printed on them doesn't mean you can serve the brand." She pushed the paper back. "A copy of the business license, or print out entity information from the Public Information Registry. Supplement it within five days."
"What about the account that pays him?"
"Which account?"
"One payment in the middle of every month, labeled delivery fee. The payer is named Wang. It's a personal account."
"A personal account can't be the respondent."
[Thud. In the respondent column, what you wrote is a place name.]
She gathered up the papers and stepped aside from the window. Ma Jianjun half rose from his chair, then sat back down. The water dispenser gave a glug; bubbles rose from the bottom of the bottle.
At the next window, the first sound was paper. A thick stack, carried in a kraft envelope with two white strings wound around the button, a white label taped to the side and numbered in pencil, one through fourteen. The person behind the window took it and paged through sheet by sheet, then looked up.
"Mr. Lu, all fourteen cases here?"
"For the seventh one, I've supplemented a service address." The man took the receipt. "Could I get another one?"
She turned her head. White dress shirt, cuffs buttoned neatly, one hand holding the now-empty envelope, the other glancing over the receipt.
She'd seen that face before. On the wall by the elevator at Hengzheng, among the row of partner photos, his was near the front, with his title printed underneath. The youngest one.
"This service address for the seventh case is written as Chengnan Station No. 1," the person behind the window said. "No one at the station will accept it."
"Send it to the registered address," he said. "Hurricane Express (Jiangzhou) Network Technology Co., Ltd. You can find it in the Public Information Registry."
She couldn't quite name the feeling. Like picking something off someone else's desk and, before she'd even pulled her hand back, it was already in her own pocket. She fished a pen from her bag and wrote that string of words onto the back of a blank application form. By the last two words, the nib dragged a little.
When he turned, their eyes met across the distance of two windows.
"In the respondent column," he said, "you wrote a place name."
"Not anymore."
He folded the receipt in half, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and glanced at the paper in her hand. "Shen Zhixia."
"You know me."
"Lü Hang mentioned you."
"What did he say?"
"That the stack he told you to check, you didn't finish checking."
"I did finish."
"Then being over here is your own doing."
[Thud. Today someone read out the respondent's name to the whole hall.]
The person behind the window pushed half the stack of papers back out. "Hold on to these two application forms for now. There's a mediation room free on the second floor this morning. The other side has over a dozen cases scheduled to be discussed together. If you want to talk, go upstairs. If not, turn in the supplementary materials and follow the procedure."
She looked back at the man on the chair. "Talk or not?"
Ma Jianjun stood and shoved the key deeper into his pants pocket. "Talk."
The room at the far end of the second-floor hallway had a sign taped to the door: Mediation Room (2). Inside were a long table and four chairs. Two plastic water bottles sat on the table, their caps half twisted off. The air conditioner's filter gave off a damp smell and hummed when it ran.
Shao Hong was in her forties, with short hair, a stack of case files at her elbow and a click pen at the corner of the table. She first went over the procedure: before filing, they would ask once whether both sides were willing to mediate. If mediation succeeded, it could be closed the same day. If not, the case would proceed, and they'd receive written notice of acceptance or rejection within five days. Once she'd explained, she drew the materials to her side and checked them one by one: the original Letter of Recommendation, the Power of Attorney, copies of both ID cards. She paused at the red thumbprint at the end of the Power of Attorney.
"He pressed it himself."
"What's the relationship?"
"I hired her," Ma Jianjun said.
Shao Hong squared the pages into a stack, turned back to the Letter of Recommendation, reread the authorized matters, and wrote a line in her notebook: the representative is a citizen recommended by the party's community, with no practicing certificate.
"Does what she says on your behalf count?" she asked Ma Jianjun.
"It counts."
"Is the company willing to talk?" Shao Hong asked the other side of the table.
"Yes." Lu Jibai fastened his cuff again. He skipped pleasantries and laid out three points: at registration, he signed the Service Cooperation Agreement—crowdsourced, solely responsible for his own profits and losses, no shifts, no base pay. His money is settled by a service provider, and the paying account isn't the company's. That IOU bears only the signature of someone named Sun, not any entity.
"The company can offer a proposal today," he said. "Following the way other riders have been handled: ten thousand yuan. Sign today, the money arrives today, the account gets unbanned, and the case is withdrawn."
"Could I have a copy of the materials the other side brought today?" she asked Shao Hong.
Shao Hong pulled a photocopy from the case file and slid it over. The Evidence List had four items: the Service Cooperation Agreement, the Settlement Statement, two pages of attendance record excerpts, and the Special Account Security Review Statement.
She turned first to that statement. In Ma Jianjun's own handwriting, line by line, it recorded what time he'd left home that day, what time he'd stood at the gate, and what time someone had stopped him. At the very bottom, the printed fine print was still there: I confirm that during the above periods I did not accept orders according to platform rules, and I voluntarily accept handling of my account.
"This line wasn't written by him." She turned the form toward Shao Hong. "It's printed. The signature blank is empty. He didn't sign."
Shao Hong wrote a line in her notebook.
Next came the attendance excerpt. The first row listed employee number and name, followed by three columns: clock-in time, online duration, and orders that day. Farther right, one column read "Late," and another read "Fine": thirty yuan.
[Thud. On their form, "Late" and "Fine" are printed in the same cell. This form is in the case file.]
She pulled out the two pages and pushed them to the middle of the table.
"You submitted this form."
"Attendance is recorded by the station, and the fine was imposed by the station," the other side said.
"The station fines people on your behalf."
"When the station deducts from a rider who fails to meet service standards, it's in the nature of liquidated damages, not a deduction from wages."
"Then why is it in your file?"
"Because it shows he didn't complete service according to the rules that day."
"The form says 'Late,'" she said. "Late relative to whom?"
Lu Jibai didn't answer right away. The AC vent clicked.
"Ms. Shen," he said, "not a single page in your hand can answer that 'whom.' The agreement says Party B decides on its own whether to come online. There are no shifts, no attendance obligation. You can say 'late' a hundred times, and it won't conjure up an employer."
The agreement was a photocopy. She turned two pages. In the Party A column was that same string of words from before. Midway down, one line read: After Party B goes online to provide services, they shall provide services according to the platform's published rules; the platform has the right to handle orders that fail to meet service standards. She pointed to the line and read it aloud.
"In this line, is the 'handling' done by his hand, or by the station's?"
"Handling means deducting service points and affecting dispatch."
"What the form says isn't points deducted. It's a fine."
"The fine was written by the station."
"A form written by the station. Why is it in your file?"
Shao Hong set down her click pen. "I'm noting two things: who submitted the form, and who deducted the money. We'll get to them as the procedure moves forward."
She turned to Ma Jianjun. "You tell us yourself. Ten thousand yuan. Sign today, and it arrives today."
Ma Jianjun didn't look at her. He looked at Shen Zhixia. The fingers resting on his knees curled once.
"I just have one question," he said to the other side of the table. "Am I one of your people or not?"
No one in the room answered. A water bottle cap got bumped and spun halfway around on the table.
"If I am, then lay out three months of accounts. If they come out to the exact cent, I'll accept it," he said slowly. "If I'm not, then that morning, what right did you have to dock me thirty yuan?"
[Thud. The words he wants are not on any page.]
Shao Hong's writing hand paused. Lu Jibai looked at him for about two seconds, then turned to her.
"The Letter of Recommendation says labor arbitration," he said. "When this reaches court, you'll have to do it all over again."
"I know."
"Ms. Shen, your client's one sentence is worth more than that stack of materials of yours."
She opened the application to the second page. In that column, the words "Hurricane Express Chengnan Station No. 1" had been crossed out. Beside them, one word at a time, she wrote out the string of words she had copied down. On the last two words, the chair legs across from her scraped against the cement floor.
"Submit the supplementary materials within five days," Shao Hong said. "When the Notice of Acceptance comes through, I'll call you."
"The mediation proposal stays open for three days." Lu Jibai folded the empty envelope. "If we don't hear back after three days, we'll file a defense according to procedure."
The corridor ended at the stairs. When she came out, he was standing at the stairwell, one hand on the handrail, as if waiting for something, or as if waiting for nothing.
"Mr. Lu."
"Those twenty-three screenshots of yours," he said, "when you get back, first prove which phone they came from."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Some evidence has to be authenticated in court."
He went on down, leather shoes striking the cement steps, one step at a time. He turned the corner and was gone.
She stayed where she was, turning that over. The twenty-three screenshots had been taken on Ma Jianjun's phone and stored in Ma Jianjun's photo album; he had flipped through them for her one by one. On the day of the hearing, the people sitting across from her would ask only one question: where did this piece of paper come from?
Ma Jianjun came out and walked over to her. "What'd he say just now?"
"Told me to keep an eye on your phone."
"What's wrong with my phone?"
"From today until the hearing, don't switch it, don't repair it, don't delete anything. Don't retract a single message in the group."
"What could happen to a phone?"
She didn't answer. The door at the bottom of the stairs opened, letting in a wave of heat from the street. He pulled his phone partway out. The screen was still warm.