Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 99 : Output Next Day

August 28th. The hardcover notebook sat open at the top right of the long table, the date already written, three lines left blank beneath it.

She dialed a second time.

The number was the eleven digits from Shi Lei's waybill.

"Hongkun Certification Department. Please dial an extension."

She read the digits one by one, and on the third pass she pressed zero. The voice repeated: Please dial an extension. Zero didn't register.

She flipped back a page. On the white slip, that number half-covered by the corner of a box—she could only make out a 29. It might be an item count, a batch number, or nothing at all. She pressed two, then nine.

It rang three times.

What came through first was background noise: a copier feeding paper sheet by sheet, the same sound she'd heard through the door on the sixth-floor hallway. A man answered.

"Certification Department."

"I've got a batch of documents," she said, keeping her voice flat. "Translation and certification, rush job. Overseas project."

"What language."

"English."

"How many pages."

"Three hundred or so."

Paper rustled on the other end. "We don't take loose jobs."

"I know. We're sending it as a batch."

"Who referred you?"

"A friend from Chengnan. Told me to go up to the sixth floor."

He didn't follow up on that, didn't ask the friend's name. "When do you need it."

"Within a couple of days. What's the rate?"

"Per page. Quote once the documents arrive."

"I need a number first, to report up the chain."

"Rush jobs come out next day." He said, "In before 3 PM today, pick up tomorrow afternoon. After 3, next batch goes to next week."

She held the pen, tapped it twice against the paper. Three hundred pages, rush job, two days. He'd given her the turnaround. Short turnaround, money moves fast.

"The contents—you don't look at them?"

"Why would we." His tone didn't shift. "We check that everything's complete. Once the certification's complete, we issue."

"Whose name goes on the form?"

"Whoever pays."

"I've got a few accounts on my end. Any of them works."

"Up to you." He said, "The name on the form has to match the name on the outbound remittance. If it doesn't match, the bank won't accept it."

She turned that sentence over in her mind before continuing: "I want real forms. Stamped, usable out in the world. I won't accept copies."

Half a second of silence.

"Real forms need someone to sign them."

The pen in her hand didn't move.

"Leave a number."

She recited the landline number from downstairs. He repeated it back; the last digits matched. He hung up.

She pressed the receiver back into place, palm slick with sweat. Outside, an electric scooter passed through the alley, brakes squealing. She thought of that half-seen face by the elevator—a voice through a wire, no face to match.

[Thud. "Once the certification's complete, we issue"—she'd heard that sentence twice today.]

The second time came through a phone line and an extension number. The first time was at the elevator, muffled by a hard-shell bag facing away from her, landing in Shi Lei's ear. Same sentence, same room—one person picked it up at the door, another had it handed to her over the phone.

What identity had she been wearing just now?

She opened a fresh page and wrote four lines: Output next day; they don't ask what's inside, only whether it's complete; the name on the form must match the name on the outbound remittance; real forms require a signature. When she finished, she drew a line under the first entry, the pen tip hovering over blank space.

For money to leave Jiangzhou, it needed a form to write its name on; under that name, a stack of paper. And the turnaround on that stack of paper—he'd just quoted it to her.

[Thud. Statute Quick Search: Cross-border payments under the current account are processed on the basis of genuine, lawful transaction documents.]

[Thud. If the documents are complete, the bank must process it. It doesn't ask how many hands the money passed through on its way.]

She copied the line into her notebook. Trade payments needed customs declarations; investment payments needed approval documents. But the service trade route—one contract, one invoice, one tax receipt, and it could move. Translation, certification, consulting: those labels were the easiest to stick on, and the hardest to verify. The paper was real, the stamps were real—only the "why does this need translating" never got asked.

She'd found the stated purpose. It wasn't on the signboard, wasn't in the business registration. It was written on the payment reason they'd hand over themselves: translation and certification service fee.

At ten, downstairs started prepping lunch ingredients, scallion oil smell drifting up first.

He Xiufen came upstairs carrying two plastic bags, set a stack of receipts on the corner of the desk bound with a rubber band.

"Eighty-one entries." She nudged the rubber band tighter. "As of this morning. The rest come in by the thirtieth."

"Still twenty-four short."

"Counting down the days." He Xiufen sat and glanced at the open page. "Made the call?"

"Made it. To that number." She turned the notebook around. "These lines at the bottom—I copied the conversation."

He Xiufen read from top to bottom. At the line "Real forms need someone to sign them," her finger paused, slid down, stopped at the words "Leave a number."

"You gave out a number."

"The landline downstairs."

He Xiufen lifted her hand off the paper. "Fine." She paused. "From now on, when that phone rings, I answer it."

"The landline doesn't have a unit number on it."

"Numbers can be traced." He Xiufen said, "And even if they find it, they'd need the nerve to knock on a door in this alley. I'll shoulder that one myself."

She set the stack of receipts aside and read the lines again. "That 29—you put it to work."

"I did. It picked up."

"It picked up doesn't mean it takes orders from you." He Xiufen said, "Next time, ask what it is first, then dial. I won't fault you for this call—it's the biggest thing that number's ever earned."

She reached over and flipped the kraft paper envelope at the corner of the desk, crease facing down.

"One thing he said—did it land?" He Xiufen said. "The name on the form has to match the name on the outbound remittance."

"It landed."

"Then the two shells line up nicely." She tapped the tabletop with one bent knuckle. "Minanli Property, Anyu Business—those two offices on the fourth floor exist so there's a name to fill in. Whichever name goes on the translation form as payer, that's the name the money has to leave under. One character off, the bank rejects it. They even thought that far ahead for themselves."

"So the stated purpose is fabricated, but the paper is real."

"Right." He Xiufen said. "The translation is real, the stamp is real, the date on the form is real. What's missing is the story in that one sentence: 'why this money is being paid out.' Once the story exists, there has to be a stack of paper under it; and the paper needs a signature. And the signer isn't in that building—they don't even accept documents in that office. The person who receives the documents and the person who receives the money were never the same face."

"Then it's at the bank."

"Don't write those two words down yet." He Xiufen said. "First write down what was said today: what time you called, how you got transferred in, which lines he answered, which one you drew out. Sign it, fingerprint it, into that envelope."

"Not into the housing case file?"

"No." He Xiufen said. "When you made that call, you were posing as their client—didn't even give a surname. Asking for a quote isn't a crime, but the words that came out of your mouth were all made up. This thing can't walk anywhere on its own. It only points."

She stood, picked up a bowl of vegetables, and headed downstairs. At the stairwell she turned back.

"Twenty-seven units, twenty-four lock photos now. Three left—Tang Guo makes them up tomorrow. The thirtieth is the day after tomorrow, and that date on the list has seven households queued up. That side's clock matters more than this phone call."

Shen Zhixia answered, untied the rubber band, and sorted the receipts one by one by unit number.

Around the sixtieth receipt she paused. This household's name had no signature after it, just a fingerprint pressed crooked, the last joint dragging a smudge. She moved it to the bottom, pressed it down, kept sorting. The drawer sat by her right hand, that envelope weighted at the very bottom. The left column's first line also recorded a signature—a "Shi," with an upward flick on the last stroke. Those two columns had been written for three days now, and the conclusion column was still blank. She pushed the drawer shut.

At 7:40 PM, she dialed Zhou Yu's number.

"The stated purpose is out." She said. "Translation and certification service fee, under trade in services. Rush jobs come out next day. He quoted me the turnaround—form first, money after."

Paper rustled on his end. "Slow down."

She told him the entire call from start to finish, adding at the end: "I said I wanted real forms. He answered: 'Real forms need someone to sign them.'"

"Write that line into the materials exactly as he said it. Not one word changed." Zhou Yu said.

"Does this count as finding the stated purpose?"

"It counts as finding the right direction." He said. "Trade payments need customs declarations, investment payments need approval documents. Trade in services is the lightest—one contract, one invoice, one tax receipt, and it moves. The route matches, the stated purpose matches. The missing piece is still the same one."

"The signer."

"Right. Someone signs, the bank releases. That two-day turnaround he quoted lands exactly on our date—if the form is out before the thirtieth, the money can move." Zhou Yu paused. "I'm working the outbound route on my end. For service trade remittances, anything over fifty thousand US dollars in a single transaction requires a tax registration filing. The filing form doesn't sit at the bank—it sits in the tax system. It has the payer and the payee on it. I'm going to look at that form."

"Twenty-four million, all paid out as translation fees?"

"Can't be. Either they split it into small amounts and move it piece by piece, or they find a company that's genuinely buying services from abroad and put the form under their name." Zhou Yu said. "That sixth-floor company—first line of their business scope is translation services. Ask if they actually have the capability: they do. Ask what they've ever translated: nobody checks."

"I'll go with you."

"Focus on getting the evidence ready for the September 3rd cross-examination first." He said. "One more thing—that number, don't dial it again. Same number calls twice, they remember the number twice."

"Noted."

"I'm still tracking down who's signing." He said at the end. "Names are harder than purposes. If anything moves before the thirtieth, I'll call."

After hanging up, she sat and read the lines again, then sent a text to Lu Jibai:

Call went through. Stated purpose is translation and certification service fee. Form first, money after.

She got up to wash her cup, dried it, put it back. When she sat down again, the screen was lit.

The people who sign won't be on a phone line.

She copied this into the notebook. At the word "sign," her pen stopped. Last time he'd said "someone at the bank has to sign." Today's line was the continuation of that same thread: not telling her how to find them, only where they wouldn't be.

At 9:40 PM, her phone buzzed again. A six-second voice message from Shi Lei, street noise drowning the background:

"Sis, tomorrow at 3 PM, sixth floor's got another shipment."

She replied with one word: Go.

She turned off the desk lamp and went to draw the curtains, flipping the desk calendar forward a page, then back. The September 3rd paper still sat on top of the calendar. Under the glass desk pad, the paper strip with a single date on it, folded in half with the twenty-seven-unit list, still lay there. On the thirtieth on that list, seven households awaited their locks.

[Thud. Two days.]

She turned off the light and went downstairs. The noodle shop's rolling shutter was already down. A single lamp still glowed over the small square table where He Xiufen sat, an account book spread open in front of her. The landline had been moved to her side, right next to the hand that held the pen.