Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 2 : The Red Thumbprint on the IOU

Behind the triage desk on the third floor of the emergency department, the nurse looked up at her.

”Family? Whatʼs the patientʼs name?”

Shen Zhixia opened her mouth. The two syllables stuck in her throat. She knew the patientʼs name. What she didnʼt know was what to call herself in relation to him.

Water was still dripping from the ends of her hair. A drop landed on the yellow ”Caution: Wet Floor” sign by her feet. She pressed her wet hands against her pants, leaving five damp prints.

”Ma Jianjun,” she said. ”Iʼm here for Ma Jianjun.”

”The chair at the end of the hallway.” The nurse lowered her head and typed. ”Heʼs been waiting for you for a while now.”

The cardboard box was checked at the convenience store downstairs from Hengzheng, tucked beside the freezer. Two yuan. The shop owner gave her a handwritten number ticket. The ticket was in her pocket, one corner gone soft and soggy.

At the end of the hallway stood a row of plastic chairs. A yellow raincoat was draped over the back of the middle one, the hem still wet, a small puddle spreading beneath it on the floor. The man in the chair saw her and stood.

Mid-forties, buzz cut, gauze wrapped around his head, a dark patch seeping through at one edge. His blue work jacket was unzipped, revealing a faded white crew-neck shirt underneath. A helmet rested by his feet, a patch of paint scraped off the brim.

”Attorney Shen?”

”How do you know itʼs me?”

He turned his phone around. At the top of the call log was Hengzhengʼs number.

”I searched for lawyers on my phone. Your firmʼs ad came up first—free consultations for wage-theft cases. I called. A girl at the front desk answered. I said I was a delivery rider owed back pay. She asked my name. I told her Ma Jianjun. She paused, then gave me your number.”

Shen Zhixia stayed standing. Didnʼt sit.

Qiu Tong. The head that had popped over the partition this afternoon.

”Did I get it wrong?” Ma Jianjun studied her face. ”Your girl said youʼd left today. I figured leaving didnʼt stop a person from taking calls.”

”Not exactly wrong.” She wiped the water from her palms onto her pants. ”How did you hurt your head?”

He moved the raincoat off the chair and pushed it toward the armrest. ”Sit down.”

She sat at the far end. The plastic chair was cold. The wet fabric of her pant legs clung to her legs. The emergency room door at the far end of the hall opened once; a nurse wheeled a cart past, the wheels loud against the tile. An old woman held up an IV bag, supported by her son, shuffling step by step.

Ma Jianjun pulled a small pack of tissues from his pocket and set it on the chair between them. The packaging had a restaurantʼs name on it, the corners creased and worn.

”Chengnan Station No. 1. Behind the shopping center. Iʼve been there over two years.” He sat back down, hands clasped between his knees. ”Julyʼs pay never came. August, nothing. September, still nothing. The station manager says the company hasnʼt released the funds.”

”Three monthsʼ wages. How much total?”

”I calculated it myself.” He held up a hand. ”At the old rate, twenty-one thousand. At the rate they changed last month, seventeen thousand. I donʼt know which one to go by.”

”Who sets the rate?”

”The station manager. He says the system adjusts it. The rider app only shows the number of orders, not the rate. At the end of the month it spits out a total, and you tap confirm.”

”Do you tap it?”

”Yeah.” He said it flatly. ”If you donʼt, the next order wonʼt come through.”

”Did you sign any papers?”

”Signed one. Called a Flexible Employment Service Agreement. One page. They took it back after I signed. Didnʼt give me a copy. I asked why not. He said theyʼre all the same, the company keeps them on file.”

Shen Zhixia took out her phone, opened the notes app, and typed a few words: flexible employment agreement, no copy retained. She stopped typing. When had she started taking notes like this?

”Who transfers your pay?”

”A private account. Surname Wang. The memo says ʼdelivery fees.ʼ”

”Who issued the uniform youʼre wearing?”

Ma Jianjun lifted the front of his jacket to show the yellow label on the left chest. ”The station issued it. Helmet, delivery box, uniform—all with this logo.”

”What about your work badge?”

”The one you hang around your neck, for swiping in and out.” He paused. ”The station manager took it last week. Said it was a system upgrade, theyʼre all being replaced.”

The deleted pages, and the badge that had been taken away. Same thing.

”Whatʼs the station managerʼs relationship to you all?”

”He says weʼre partners.” Ma Jianjun thought for a moment. ”I asked him what partner meant. He said if you donʼt want to work, you donʼt have to take orders.”

”What about clocking in? Where do you do that?”

”On the phone app. The location is the stationʼs address.” He tilted his head toward the window. ”Six-forty in the morning, you can clock in just standing at the station gate.”

”What about July 18th?”

”The rainstorm. I clocked in at six-forty. At eight-forty they marked me late. Fined thirty.” He touched the dark patch at the edge of the gauze, then let his hand drop. ”That month they fined me four times—a hundred and twenty total. I asked the station manager why. He said the system flagged it, he couldnʼt do anything.”

”How many times did you go to the station?”

”Last Wednesday, with two other guys.” He raised a hand toward the gauze, brushed the edge, let it fall. ”The station manager wouldnʼt show. Then four guys came out, black T-shirts, said letʼs talk outside. I said Iʼm not leaving until the moneyʼs settled. Someone grabbed my arm. I pulled back and bashed the back of my head on the metal track of the roll-up door. Then someone filmed me with their phone, said I was wrecking the station.”

”The person filming you—station people or outsiders?”

”Didnʼt know them. One of them handed me a paper, said if I signed it theyʼd start the payment process. I didnʼt get a clear look at what was printed on it—just a page of text. I said Iʼm not signing. I want cash.”

”What happened to that paper?”

”Never got it. Later, Lao Song in the group chat signed. Got fifty percent back.” He added, ”Thereʼs another guy—still hasnʼt seen a cent.”

Shen Zhixia added two more lines to her notes. She stared at the text for two seconds, then flipped the phone face-down on her knee.

”Did you file a police report?”

”Yeah. Two officers came, took a statement, gave me a case receipt.” He pulled a small, tightly folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his work jacket. The edges were frayed. ”The ones who hit me were gone by then. They said the company had hired them as security—not station employees.”

She took the paper. Date, case number, a police station stamp. She handed it back. He tucked it into his pocket and pressed it twice through the fabric.

”Paid the exam fees?”

”Stitches and X-rays. Six hundred thirty. Out of my own pocket.” He paused. ”My wife works nights at a garment factory. I didnʼt tell her.”

”What about your records? What did you keep?”

Ma Jianjun lifted the raincoat off the armrest. Underneath was a plastic bag—one of those supermarket ones, rolled up twice. He pulled the bag onto his lap and slid out the stack of papers.

A4 printer paper, stapled in the upper left corner. Twenty-some pages. The edges rough from the print shopʼs paper cutter. He flipped through them one by one: clock-in records, dispatch records, fine breakdowns, shift notices posted in the group chat.

”Year before last, they miscalculated my pay once—short seventy. I screenshotted it and went to the station manager. Got it back.” He said, ”After that, every Friday Iʼd screenshot everything. Saved it up. The print shop charges one yuan a page. These cost twenty-three.”

She looked through them page by page. The screenshots had timestamps and order counts. The fine column was in red. At the very bottom was a page torn from an exercise book, folded three times.

”Amount owed to Chengnan Station No. 1 for July delivery fees and fine refunds, totaling 21,400 yuan, to be settled before August 15.”

Below it, a red thumbprint. Next to it, the character ”Sun.”

”Is there a company stamp?”

”No. I asked him to stamp it. He said the stamp was in the city, heʼd press his thumb first.” Ma Jianjun held up the page. ”Does this count?”

She didnʼt answer. Her finger paused on those two characters, then moved away.

”These screenshots—the originals are on your phone?”

”Yeah. The paperʼs just a printed backup.”

”Donʼt switch phones. Donʼt drop it.”

”Already dropped it once.” He looked a little embarrassed. ”Screenʼs cracked in a corner. Still works.”

”Iʼm not here to shake anyone down.” He pressed the page back onto the stack. ”The medical bills are on me. I just want my three months. I keep my word. What Iʼm owed, I collect. What I owe, Iʼd sell everything I own to pay back.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Voice messages from the rider group chat started stacking up. A rough voice: ”Lao Ma, donʼt go to the station alone.” Another: ”Lao Maʼs at the hospital, leave him be.” One more asked: ”Did you find a lawyer yet?”

He pressed the side button and silenced it.

”Twenty-some people in the group, all shortchanged.” He said, ”Last month a few of us filed an arbitration application. They said the materials werenʼt complete yet. Now theyʼre telling me to back off. Says whoever sticks their neck out gets it first.”

Shen Zhixia looked at the edge of the stack. The name on the top line of page seven—sheʼd tapped it with the end of her pen just this afternoon.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A message from Tang Guo: Did you get home? She turned the screen off.

”Attorney Shen.” He pushed the plastic bag toward her. ”Can you take my case?”

She did the math in her head. Three thousand nine hundred twenty in the bank. Rent due next Wednesday. Zhiʼanʼs course materials fee, three hundred sixty. Those nineteen pages of attendance sheets would be submitted to the Arbitration Commission by Hengzheng tomorrow morning, stamped with Hengzhengʼs seal.

The side he wanted to sue had hired the very firm that had fired her this afternoon.

”I canʼt take it,” she said.

Ma Jianjun nodded. His face didnʼt change.

”I was fired this afternoon,” she said. ”No law firm. No lawyerʼs license. The firm wonʼt issue my internship evaluation.”

He looked at her cuffs. Her sleeves were still dripping. The hallway was silent.

”Can you litigate?”

”Yes.”

”Then whatʼs the problem?” he said. ”The lawyer they hired earns my three monthsʼ wages in a single day. I canʼt afford a lawyer. I hire someone who can litigate. Thatʼs not allowed?”

She opened her mouth, still working out how to respond, when the PA system at the far end of the hall crackled.

”Ma Jianjun, please proceed to Examination Room 3.”

He stood, bracing one hand on the chair, and pressed the plastic bag into her hands.

”Hold onto these for now. I canʼt tell which ones are useful. Youʼll see it better than me.”

Two steps away, he turned back, picked up the helmet from the floor, and set it on the chair beside her.

”Keep the helmet too. I canʼt ride for a couple days.”

”Why would you need a helmet if youʼre not riding?”

”Iʼll come get it,” he said, walking toward Examination Room 3. As he walked, his left shoulder rode a little lower than his right.

The PA crackled again, this time calling someone elseʼs name.

Shen Zhixia sat back down and rested the helmet on her lap. A streak of water along the brim—she wiped it away with her thumb. She pulled the stack of papers from the plastic bag. The first page: July 12, clock-in at 6:40.

She flipped to the third page. July 18. Clock-in also at 6:40. Followed by two characters in red.

”Late.”

Her finger stopped on those two characters.