Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 83 : The Account Specified in the Contract

Shen Zhixia flipped the defense statement to the second page and used the stapler to pin down the top corner, afraid the draft from the window crack might lift the paper.

"Our bank, in accordance with the entrusted payment method specified in the contract, paid the funds into the account specified in the contract, and has fulfilled its duty of review as agreed. There was no fault."

She read that sentence twice, the second time more slowly. Then she pulled out a blank sheet and copied the words "paid into the account specified in the contract" onto the top. Beneath it she drew two vertical lines, making three columns.

"So, which number is it?" Her pen tip tapped twice over the first column.

Tang Guo's loan contract was at the top of the file. She pulled it out and flipped to the third page. On the left it read "Merchant Name"; on the right, a string of digits was printed in the box—nineteen digits, crisp and even. She counted once, then counted again, and copied the number into the first column.

Three stacks of bank statements lay spread across the long table. He Xiufen had folded their corners last week: one corner labeled "Youzhu," one "Youjia," one "Xinhe." She flipped to the disbursement date and found that 24,000-yuan transfer, located the counterparty account column, and copied it into the second column.

The two numbers sat side by side. The first six digits matched. After that, they went their separate ways.

She pulled her chair forward another half-foot and looked again. The string on the left was printed in the loan contract; the string on the right was what the money actually took out the bank's door. Last month she had counted names: the contract said the rent recipient was four characters; the payment voucher said ten. Today she counted numbers. The names differed by six characters; the numbers differed entirely.

[Thud. The contract has one account number printed on it. It sent the money to a different one.]

[Thud. Statute Quick Search: Entrusted payment funds must go to the transaction counterparty named in the contract; if the account doesn't match the contract, the money should never have left that door.]

She left the third column empty for now. From another stack she pulled out the photocopy of Kong Xiulan's contract. The merchant account box was blank; someone had filled in nineteen digits by hand, the last three squeezed past the line and overlapping the printed text beside it. She copied that number down, pressing hard enough that the writing showed through the back of the page.

All three columns were filled. The first six digits were identical in each.

"Tang Guo."

"Yeah?"

"The sixty-six copies from this afternoon—the photos of the signature column."

"Done." Tang Guo came out of the inner room carrying a stack of photos held together with a clip. "Sorted by unit number. Two households are missing—contracts are back in their hometowns."

Shen Zhixia flipped through them one by one to the "Merchant Name" column. Sixty-four photos: apart from Kong Xiulan's, every one printed the same account number as Tang Guo's. Then she picked out the last four digits of the middle-column number and searched for them across the sixty-some photos. On the second stack, her fingertip stopped—not a single match.

The contract listed only one account. The number the bank sent money to appeared in none of those sixty-six contracts.

[Thud. That box on the contract: some people can write a number into it, and some people can write a number out of it.]

She wrote small notes in pencil beneath the three columns. Halfway through, she crossed out the word "meaning" and left only three words: Not the same number.

Tang Guo leaned against the doorframe, not leaving. "People in the group chat are asking today—a bank that big, if we win, can we actually get the money?"

"What did you tell them?"

"I said I didn't know."

"Good answer." Shen Zhixia pressed the photos back into a stack. "When it comes to money, don't promise a single word."

He Xiufen came down from upstairs with her enamel mug; the bottom of it clanked twice against the wooden stairs. She walked to the table and looked first at the blank sheet.

"Three columns." Shen Zhixia set down the pencil. "Left is the contract-printed number. Middle is what the bank actually sent to. Right is what someone wrote into Kong Xiulan's blank box."

He Xiufen held the mug and studied the paper for half a minute, then set the mug on the table corner, took the sheet, and raised it to the window, tilting it into the light.

"Its second-branch sentence—read the first half again."

"Our bank, in accordance with the entrusted payment method specified in the contract, paid the funds into the account specified in the contract."

"It hasn't admitted any fault." He Xiufen put the paper back down. "What it's admitting to is a different thing: it claims it followed the contract and sent the money out. That sentence is something it wrote and signed itself. You don't have to put words in its mouth."

"Then I'll ask it: where's the contract?"

"Ask about the number. Not the name." She said, "The name is printed by them; the number is what they counted out themselves. If you ask about the name, they'll say typo. If you ask about the number, they won't have an answer."

"Out of the sixty-six copies—how many are blank like hers?"

"Just hers," Shen Zhixia said. "The rest all have printed numbers."

He Xiufen held the mug but didn't drink. "So there was one batch printed in advance, and one batch left blank for someone to fill in. Which batch was the blank one?"

"The door-to-door batch. The afternoon of April 16th. A man in a white shirt brought the papers into Kong Xiulan's shop and had her sign wherever he flipped."

"That man had a pen, and he had a stamp." He Xiufen said, "A pen fills in numbers. A stamp prints names."

Shen Zhixia nodded. He Xiufen's fingertip rested on the third column.

"That blank box—someone wrote in it." She turned the paper around. "The number on the copy you're holding may not be the same as the one in their hands. When court opens, ask them this: which contract was this payment disbursed under? Have them produce that one too. If they can produce two contracts, you've got two numbers. If they can't, then they owe you one."

"What if they say there is no such contract?"

"Then that sentence falls right on their own head." He Xiufen pressed the paper back onto the table. "They wrote that the money went to the account specified in the contract. On that day, they can't produce that contract. The evidence submission deadline is August 10th. If that sentence doesn't hold up, the second branch is left with only half a sentence."

"Tomorrow I'll write this number onto a single page and file it as an appendix to her contract."

"The index has to be clearly written. Count each page."

"Once I file it, he'll have a copy."

"The other side is a party too." He Xiufen picked up her mug. "He has to look."

July 10th, morning, at the court's Litigation Service Center. She took a number and sat waiting in the third row. In the hall, the form-filling counter had a stack of blank index sheets; the shared ballpoint pen was tethered to the table corner by a plastic cord.

A woman at the window received her materials and flipped through two pages.

"Supplementary materials? Where's the index?"

"What should the index say?"

"List every page. And specify which document it's being added to."

She moved to the form-filling counter and crouched down, writing line by line: Appendix, one page—Minsheng Li Building 6, Unit 301, tenant's loan contract, payee account number row; attached contract photocopy, one set; total pages. On the second line, an old man asked which column the unit number went in. She pointed to the fifth column, then lent him her pen to cross out the character he'd written wrong.

Her number was called. She counted the digits on that page once more. Nineteen digits—transcribe one wrong, and the whole trip was wasted.

The clerk flipped to the last page, read the number aloud, and looked up.

"Serve a copy on the defendant too."

"How many copies?" she asked.

"One for the plaintiff, one for the defendant, one for the record. Go make two more copies. You can bring them back this afternoon."

She stood at the window for a moment. Three copies—she'd only made one. She went downstairs, turned into the copy shop at the mouth of the alley. Twenty cents a page; she made two. The owner said one yuan twenty cents. She counted six coins out of her pocket and laid them down. Back in the hall, the clerk aligned the three sets, fastened them with a paper clip, and handed over a receipt. When Shen Zhixia took it, she glanced at the date: July 10th.

"Has the hearing date been set?"

"You'll be notified separately."

She stepped out. The steps were bleached white by the sun. She pulled out her phone, looked at it, didn't send any message, and put it back.

Back at the alley entrance, the noodle pot was at a boil. The smell of scallion oil rose from below. The long table's line stretched to seven people. Ma Jianjun sorted the "Three-Complete Set" forms by building into stacks, binding each with a rubber band.

"A hundred nine households in Shi Lei's group, thirty-five from Chengxi." Tang Guo reported the tally. "Seventy have all three items. The four new households' contracts are still in their hometowns; they'll make it up tomorrow."

"We'll photograph them all together tomorrow," Shen Zhixia said.

A voice message came in. Shi Lei's ran sixty seconds: the person she'd asked about had gone in through the side gate again yesterday morning, stayed twenty minutes, and come out empty-handed. Shen Zhixia recorded the fifth time in her notebook and added a note: Empty-handed on the way out.

Kong Xiulan called too, asking whether those three words were useful. She said yes, and told her to photograph the shop's shift schedule from that day as a backup.

"For tonight's livestream, I want to show these numbers," Tang Guo said, dragging the light stand out from under the table. "Three numbers on one page. Not saying a word—just put the image up."

"Show the image. Don't read the numbers aloud."

"Why not?"

"Because if you read them, they can change them tomorrow." Shen Zhixia folded up the three-column sheet. "Just say one thing: the account printed on their paper and the account they actually sent money to are not the same. That one sentence will carry you five minutes."

Someone downstairs called up: "Sister—the bank's side—can we really beat them?"

She walked to the stairwell and rested her hand on the railing. "I don't know if we can beat them. Their paper says 'the account specified in the contract'—I compared the number on the contract with the number the money went out under. They're not the same."

"So it's their own writing?"

"The words are their own typing."

Someone downstairs laughed, and someone else asked when the money would come back. That one she didn't answer.

At ten to eight, her phone lit up on the table corner. She'd never saved that number under a name. From last winter until now, it had always been a string of digits.

First message: Supplementary materials received.

Second message: What you're looking for isn't in the pages I gave you.

She carried the phone to the stairwell. He Xiufen was straightening the last two forms.

"What did he say?"

"He said what we're looking for isn't in the pages he gave us."

He Xiufen pressed the forms under her enamel mug before looking up. "Those three items—he submitted them. Go through them. How many of them did he not give you?"

"Not one. I have all three."

"Then he's the one who picked them."

Shen Zhixia typed with her head down. Typed a line, deleted it; typed another, deleted that too. Finally she sent three words: Which page.

The screen stayed lit. No more words came in.

She went upstairs and spread the last page of the defense statement under the lamp. The evidence list had three lines: loan contract, disbursement voucher, business license photocopy.

She laid out a blank sheet of paper and copied the three lines down, writing slowly, lining each one up neatly. When she finished, she left a blank line at the bottom.

That blank line—for now, she didn't write anything.