Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 3 : Blocked

The first call lasted four minutes and twelve seconds. ”Sorry” came up twice.

Shen Zhixia crouched on the edge of the flowerbed outside her building entrance, her phone pinned between her shoulder and ear, flipping through her contacts with her other hand. The breakfast stall was clearing away its steamer baskets, bursts of white steam rising and drifting past her calves.

”Zhixia, I wonʼt beat around the bush.” There was the sound of papers being flipped on Chen Weiʼs end. ”Sorry—we really are short-handed here. Our director asked me the day before yesterday whether I knew anyone reliable. But yesterday afternoon, your firm called our director.”

”What did they say?”

”They didnʼt say anything bad about you.” Chen Wei paused. ”What they brought up was those materials in your possession.”

A plastic bag at the edge of the flowerbed was caught by the wind and rolled along the ground a couple of times. She stretched out a foot and pinned it.

”I never touched any of those materials,” she said. ”I wrote it clearly on the back of the handover form—I didnʼt change a single byte of the original data.”

”I believe you,” Chen Wei said. ”But whether our director believes you isnʼt up to me.”

”Chen, I just need one place to finish out the remaining eleven months of my internship. Photocopying, running errands, taking intake notes—Iʼll do all of it.”

”Send me your resume,” she said. ”Sorry—wait for this to blow over.”

”Wait for what to blow over?”

”I donʼt know either.” Chen Weiʼs voice dropped. ”Zhixia, you were only there a month. How did it come to this?”

After hanging up, she checked the call duration and typed four words into her notes: Wordʼs out at the firm. Then she deleted them.

The second call was to Zhao Guangnian. It rang for a long time. On the other end there was the sound of water, like someone washing vegetables.

”Attorney Zhao, itʼs Zhixia.”

”Hey, Zhixia.” He spoke slowly. ”How are Zhiʼanʼs studies? Heʼs in his second year of high school now, right?”

”Heʼs doing okay.”

”Has the rent gone up? Back in your dadʼs day, two rooms in the old town only cost eighty a month.”

She laughed. ”Attorney Zhao, I want to ask something. If I switch to another firm to continue my internship, how does the year get counted?”

The water stopped.

”I know about that,” he said. ”Your original firm has to issue you documents. A written consent to transfer, and an internship evaluation. Miss either one, and nothing goes through.”

”What if they wonʼt issue them?”

”Then youʼve got a problem.” Zhao Guangnian sighed. ”There are three people here, plus me, in one room. If you want to come work, Iʼll always keep a desk for you. But when it comes to paperwork, I canʼt get involved. One word from them, and my little operation tips over.”

”I understand.”

”Donʼt get worked up just yet,” he said. ”Iʼll ask around over the next couple of days and see who can make it work.”

She thanked him. Just before hanging up, he added, ”Zhixia, that set of case notes of your dadʼs—do you still have them?”

”Iʼve never dared to go through them,” she said. ”Iʼve moved three times, but the box is still with me. Whatʼs inside, I canʼt say for sure.”

There was silence on the other end for two seconds. ”Then donʼt throw them out,” Zhao Guangnian said. ”I wonʼt say anything more.”

The third call was the shortest. It was a firm sheʼd sent her resume to three months earlier. The front desk transferred her to someone in HR. She gave her name and said she wanted to ask about an internship position.

”This yearʼs slots are full.”

”Iʼm not asking for a slot,” she said. ”Iʼll work as an assistant, no pay, as long as the internship can be put on record.”

There was a pause on the other end. ”Youʼre Shen Zhixia, arenʼt you?”

”Yes.”

”Weʼre not hiring right now.” The call ended.

She sat on the edge of the flowerbed and rested her phone on her knee. The screen lit up. It was from Zhiʼan: Sis, the teacher says the materials fee is due this week.

She opened her bank text and glanced at it. 3,920. Rent was due next Wednesday: 1,800.

She replied ”Okay.” Then she thought for a moment and added: Donʼt buy those cheap refills from outside—three for ten yuan—they run dry after two pages.

After sending it, she stood up. Her legs had gone numb from crouching, and it took a couple of steps before they felt normal again.

The wind was strong at the subway entrance. She stood by the entryway when a WeChat message popped up from Qiu Tong.

”Zhixia, are you okay?”

After a dozen seconds, another message came.

”The office lights stayed on until midnight last night. The finalized attendance sheet was delivered to the Arbitration Commission at 8:30 this morning. The signature was Attorney Lüʼs.”

She replied: Thanks.

Half a minute later, she asked: Did you see that page?

Qiu Tong: I didnʼt dare look. I only saw that when Attorney Lü came out of the conference room, the stack of papers in his hand was thinner than it had been in the afternoon.

Below, the crowd surged up the stairs. Someone bumped into her and apologized. She typed out Got it, sent the message, and shoved her phone back into her pocket.

The Municipal Bar Associationʼs service hall was on the second floor. The ticket machine bore a label reading ”Member Services · Internship Management.” She took a number. There were still fourteen people ahead of her.

While waiting, she counted the people in the hall. A young lawyer clutching a thick case-file bag kept checking his watch. A middle-aged man was filling out a form slowly, pausing to ask the window, ”For this column, should I put native place or place of birth?” The clerk inside was in her forties, her glasses chain hanging around her neck, speaking without inflection.

Her turn came.

”What do you need?”

”I was doing my internship at Hengzheng. My internship agreement was terminated yesterday. Iʼd like to ask what procedures I need to follow to continue my internship at another firm.”

The clerk pulled an information sheet from a drawer and tapped the lower section with her pen. ”The original internship law firm issues written consent to the transfer, along with your internship evaluation. Once the materials are complete, weʼll process the change for you.”

”What if the original firm wonʼt issue them?”

”Then this internship period doesnʼt count,” she said. ”After switching firms, it starts over from the beginning.”

”Starting over means a full year?”

”After a full year, the firm submits your materials and we arrange the assessment.” She pressed the number slip flat on the corner of the desk. ”Without the evaluation, we canʼt accept it here.”

”Then can I apply on my own?”

”You need the materials.” She looked up at her. ”First, talk it through with your firm. Then come back.”

”What if I canʼt talk it through with them?”

”Then itʼll have to wait.”

The person behind her handed over a stack of papers. ”Mine already has the firmʼs stamp on it.” She stepped aside.

Beside the water dispenser at the end of the hallway, she read through the information sheet from beginning to end. There were four items to submit. The last one read: Internship evaluation issued by the original internship law firm, including the supervising lawyerʼs opinion. In her head, she went through the order again: without that one item, she couldnʼt produce any of the first three.

On her way downstairs, she got off on the wrong floor and ended up in front of the bulletin board in the lobby.

The top poster was printed large: Public Interest Legal Service Month · Workersʼ Rights Focus. Under the speaker column was the name Han Chongli, Vice President of the Municipal Bar Association. In the photo he wore a dark suit, looked straight into the camera, and smiled with calm assurance. She thought of that hand in the hallway yesterday afternoon, and those words: ”Stand on the side of the law.”

To the left of the poster was a glass display case containing group photos from past public interest legal service events and a list of names. The lettering on the brass plaque was tiny. She searched from bottom to top and found a name in the second row.

Shen Qian.

The photo was taken many years ago. A roomful of people stood beneath a banner. Her father was near the edge of the second row, a case-file bag under his arm, not looking at the camera. She stood there for a dozen seconds or more. Someone passed behind her and asked, ”Looking for someone?”

”Just looking at the photo,” she said.

The person said ”Oh” and walked away.

She didnʼt take a photo. She didnʼt reach out to touch the glass. She turned and walked out.

The rental was on the sixth floor: two bedrooms and a living room. By day the living room doubled as kitchen and editing room. At 9:40 p.m., Tang Guoʼs streaming light was still on, white light thrown against the white wall. The table was piled with orange peels and a plastic takeout container.

Shen Zhixia opened the door and changed her shoes. On the table sat a neatly placed helmet, a patch of paint worn off the brim.

Tang Guo sat cross-legged on the floor cutting video, one earbud in, not looking up. ”Thereʼs noodles in the pot.”

”Mm.”

”Whose is this?” Tang Guo asked suddenly.

”Ma Jianjunʼs.”

”Whoʼs Ma Jianjun?”

”That delivery rider from the ER yesterday.” Shen Zhixia washed her hands at the sink, water running down over her wrists.

Tang Guo pulled out her earbud and got up from the floor. ”You went to the hospital yesterday—so heʼs the one you saw.” She paused. ”You didnʼt go to the firm today.”

”I had a day off.”

”Yesterday when you came home, your pant legs were soaked to the knees.” Tang Guo walked over and dimmed the light one notch. ”This morning you left at seven. From the window I saw you crouched by the flowerbed downstairs making calls for an hour. At noon you came back, kicked your shoes off at the door, and kept the curtains drawn all afternoon.”

Shen Zhixia shut off the water and pulled out two paper towels, drying her hands very slowly.

”I was fired,” she said.

Tang Guo stood still. Two seconds later, she turned and went to the coffee table for her phone.

”What are you doing?”

”Posting something.”

”Posting what?”

”Posting what happened to you.” Tang Guo opened her account page. ”Iʼve got 1,800 followers, and they get around in local circles. If they have the nerve to bully people like that in their office, then theyʼd better be ready to stand in the comment section.”

”You canʼt.”

”Why not?”

”Because the moment I put it out there, every firm in this city will know I fell out with my supervising lawyer over a clientʼs documents,” she said. ”After that, who would dare take me on?”

Tang Guo set the phone face-down on the table. ”Then whoʼd dare take you on now?”

She didnʼt answer.

Tang Guo sat down and pushed the bowl of noodles toward her. The noodles had gone soft and clumped together. An egg sat on top, the yolk poked open by Tang Guo herself.

”Eat first,” she said. ”If you donʼt, Iʼll post it tomorrow.”

Shen Zhixia picked up her chopsticks. Halfway through the bowl, the phone on the table started vibrating—once, twice, then without stopping.

Tang Guo picked it up, swiped a couple of times, and froze. She handed the phone over.

”Look at this.”

On the screen was a group chat named ”Jiangzhou Courier Mutual Aid Group.” The latest message was a screenshot, black text on a white background:

”To cooperate with the platformʼs special account security review, accounts involved in abnormal orders on July 18 will have dispatch service suspended until they pass review. Affected riders are requested to submit a statement explaining their situation.”

Below the screenshot, someone @ʼd a name: @Ma Jianjun Old Ma, look at yours.

Further down were dense replies. The bottom one asked: How many days does this review take?

No one answered.

Shen Zhixia called the number from her own phone. On the sixth ring, he picked up.

”Attorney Shen.”

In the background there was the sound of an iron gate being pulled, and someone shouting.

”Whatʼs wrong with your account?”

”I just opened the app, and it popped up saying thereʼs an issue with my account and I need to submit a statement.” He paused. ”Those eight orders I ran this morning—their settlement page wonʼt open either. Thereʼs more than a dozen of us outside the station right now, all the same.”

”All of you filed for arbitration this month?”

The line went quiet for half a second. ”Attorney Shen, I donʼt read much. Just tell me—can I still work this month or not?”

She opened her mouth, but on the other end someone shouted, ”The Station Managerʼs out!” Ma Jianjun hurriedly said, ”Iʼll come find you later,” and the call cut off.

Shen Zhixia put her phone on the table. The bag of materials had been sitting under her chair since yesterday, its opening tied shut tight. It took her a couple of tries to get it open, and she dumped the contents onto the table. Twenty-three printed screenshots, one IOU torn from an exercise book, and one case receipt. She sorted them by date and pressed each one flat.

Tang Guo was peeling a second orange. When she finished, she pushed half of it over.

”What are you doing tomorrow?”

”Going through all of it,” she said. ”I need to figure out exactly what they took from him.”

Tang Guo turned off the streaming light, and the room dimmed a notch. The desk lampʼs small circle of light fell on the sheet at the bottom, on the place stamped with a red thumbprint. Shen Zhixia moved the July 12 page aside, left the third one, and laid it over the IOU.

She got up, moved the top screenshot aside, pulled out the IOU underneath, and turned it over. The back was the blank side of exercise-book paper, printed with faint horizontal lines.

The pencil was in the drawer, its tip blunt. She scraped it against the edge of the table twice.

Three monthsʼ wages. Six hundred thirty for stitches and X-rays. One hundred twenty in July fines. She wrote out three lines, leaving the fourth blank.

”What goes on that line?” Tang Guo asked.

”The pages they erased.”

Tang Guo said nothing. She nudged the desk lamp half an inch closer to her.