Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 5 : The IOU Only Recognized July

The pencil tip landed on the fourth line and punched a gray dot.

Sheʼd meant to write ”the pages they erased.” The tip hovered twice, then pulled back—she couldnʼt count what those pages were worth.

”You said first figure out exactly what was taken from him.” She spoke to the desk. ”Iʼve been looking for two days.”

[Thud. Four items on the checklist. Go through them one by one.]

The words floated up above the stack of papers sheʼd spread out, marching down line by line.

[Thud. Item one: three months of wages.]

The pencil ticked a small check next to the first line on the back of the IOU. That line was one sheʼd written herself.

[Thud. Item two: six hundred thirty yuan spent after the injury.]

A second check. She had the paper for this one too: the outpatient receipts were in his hands, the Case Receipt in hers.

[Thud. Item three: the two hours on July eighteenth.]

The pencil stopped. On the third line sheʼd written ”July fine, one hundred twenty.” Sheʼd always thought it was one thing with two different descriptions: that day heʼd stood in the rain at 6:40 and clocked in, at 8:40 heʼd been marked late, thirty yuan deducted, four times in a month. But the checklist pulled those two hours out separately, without converting them into a single yuan.

”Two hours still count,” she said.

[Thud. He was out in the rain that day. Those two hours didnʼt count as his work.]

[Thud. Item four: the gear he wore to run deliveries.]

”Gear counts as justice.”

[Thud. He depends on that gear to eat.]

She glanced toward the chair. The deep-blue helmet was still there, a chip of paint knocked off the edge, resting on her chair. No one had touched it. That night, when he was going to get his injury looked at, heʼd left the helmet behind, saying heʼd come back for it. Sheʼd thought at the time it was just something people said.

She spun the pencil once between her fingers, back to the first line.

”The IOU only covers July. He worked three months.”

[Thud. Itʼs all under item one. Whether the paper acknowledges it is your job.]

She understood. The checklist was the account; paper was the road. The account showed three monthsʼ wages, but the paper only acknowledged one piece—the other two months sheʼd have to find something to pad them with herself.

She checked the time: 7:40. She dialed Ma Jianjunʼs number. It rang six times before he answered. Wind on the other end, and the clatter of an electric scooter jolting over a bump.

”Where are you?”

”At the station entrance.” He kept his voice low. ”They gave me a piece of paper. Says I have to turn it in tomorrow before theyʼll review.”

”What paper?”

”I donʼt read well,” he said. ”The words on it, Iʼve been staring at them all morning.”

”Wait at the entrance. Iʼm coming over.”

Two subway stops, then a six-minute walk. Chengnan Station No. 1 faced the main road, its roll-up door raised halfway. A recruitment poster with red background and white lettering was stuck on the glass: Riders Wanted—Monthly Income Over Ten Thousand; Bike Provided, Housing Covered, Daily Settlement. The words had faded white from the sun, both corners curled up. Four or five people squatted by the door, helmets on the ground, cigarette butts arranged in a short row. Nobody was talking.

Seven or eight steps down the back alley, a little shop selling spicy pepper soup had two long benches out front. Ma Jianjun sat on the outer one, a bowl of soup untouched, the shaved patch on his scalp still hairless. When he saw her, he stood up, then sat back down.

He pushed a stack of papers toward her. On top was the outpatient billing receipt, folded in three, the crease worn soft. Wound cleaning and sutures, tetanus shot, X-ray. Six hundred thirty.

”Keep this safe,” she said. ”Donʼt fold the original. Donʼt stuff it in a pants pocket. Youʼll need it later.”

”Report to who?”

”Donʼt ask who yet. Once you have paper in hand, then I have something to say.”

He moved his phone between them and opened the bank app. The screen brightness was maxed out and still looked gray. He scrolled down line by line: from March onward, a deposit landed mid-month every month. The payer name had two asterisks in the middle. The note said ”delivery fee.” March: 7,920. April: 9,600. May: 8,700. June: 8,640. Scrolling back, July: nothing. August: nothing. September: nothing.

”That July payment, I had to go ask for it,” he said. ”August third, he wrote one out on exercise book paper in the station. Said itʼd definitely be settled by the fifteenth.”

That sheet was now in the side pocket of her backpack. August fifteenth had been two months ago.

”They never paid a cent of August. Why didnʼt you ask?”

”I asked twice,” he said. ”They said the system was upgrading.”

”For two months.”

”Thatʼs what I said.”

She took out her phone, noted the four amounts in order, then flipped through his stack of screenshots for the end-of-month ones. The amount column was a row of zeros. Order count below: July, 1,140 orders; August, 1,020; September, 1,100.

She ran the calculator twice. June, 8,640, divided by Juneʼs order count, came to 7.3 per order. At that rate, a month of Julyʼs work was over eight thousand—but the IOU said 21,400. A chunk more than one month of work.

Either that paper was acknowledging three months, or the rate had been changed. The paper had just a ”Sun” on it. Either explanation could be denied.

”So?” Ma Jianjun asked.

”Iʼve got a number.” She pushed the phone back. ”August and September, rate times order count, comes out around fifteen thousand. Whether that number gets acknowledged depends on what they say.”

”Fifteen thousand.” He repeated it, as if weighing it on his tongue.

”Let me see that paper first.”

He pulled a printed sheet from his pocket, folded in four, the edges oily. The header read ”Special Account Security Review Statement.” There were two blank lines in the middle for filling in. At the bottom was a line of fine print, the line heʼd stared at all morning:

I confirm that during the above period I did not complete order acceptance according to platform rules and voluntarily accept account processing.

She read it and set the paper down.

”Donʼt sign.”

”If I donʼt sign, he wonʼt review.”

”Sign and he wonʼt need to.” She pointed at the fine print. ”Putting your name on this is admitting you didnʼt work that day. Those two hours are item three on my checklist. If you press it down yourself, what do I have left to demand?”

He stared at the line, Adamʼs apple bobbing.

”Then what do I write?”

”Write the facts.” She took out her own pen and sketched on the back. ”What time you reached the station. What time you clocked in. What time you headed out. How many orders you delivered. What the rain was like that day. When you were marked late. Sentence by sentence. When youʼre done, photograph it. Hand in one copy. Keep one yourself.”

At ”keep one yourself,” she paused.

Three days ago, in the afternoon, sheʼd hunched over the small conference room table at Hengzheng and written the same idea on the back of a handover form.

”Take two photos,” she said. ”Front once, back once.”

”I donʼt know how to take that on my phone.”

”Iʼll teach you.”

An electric scooter stopped at the mouth of the alley. A rider in his fifties straddled it, chewing a bao. He glanced at the station entrance, then looked their way. He stuffed the last bite in his mouth and chewed it down before speaking.

”Lao Ma.”

”Brother Song.”

”I signed.” Lao Song flipped his phone around to show her. ”Fifty percent. Came on the fifteenth last month.”

On the screen was a transfer. The note read: settled.

”Settled is what they wrote,” he said. ”After I signed that paper, they had me click ʼconfirm receiptʼ on the phone too.”

”You didnʼt keep a copy.”

”Keep what copy?” He crushed the plastic bag in his hand. ”Lao Ma, donʼt stand at the entrance. Those guys in black have been coming by a lot the last two days.”

”Iʼm not out to cause trouble,” Ma Jianjun said.

”Iʼm not trying to persuade you.” Lao Song looked toward the alley mouth. ”Iʼm just telling you where I am now.”

He rode off. Seven or eight meters out, he looked back and threw out a last line: ”Lawsuits, I donʼt understand them. I just know my fifty percent was for that month. You sit on it a year, you wonʼt grow fifty percent.”

Ma Jianjun skimmed the oil off the surface of his soup with a spoon, three skims, and didnʼt drink.

”Can I still ride this month?”

”Your account isnʼt in my hands.”

”So thatʼs a no.” He smiled a little. ”Thatʼs what I figured.”

”If you can ride, ride,” she said. ”Order records. Dispatch records. All useful stuff. Donʼt skip a single day. If you canʼt ride, donʼt sign that paper either. Thatʼs the most important thing right now.”

He nodded, slow.

”Tomorrow Iʼm going to the community and the subdistrict union,” she said. ”To get you a recommendation for a Citizen Representative.”

”What representative?”

”Your case needs someone to appear in court on your behalf. I donʼt have a lawyerʼs license, so I canʼt get through that door unless the community or the union is willing to put out a recommendation.”

”And if it doesnʼt come through?”

”If it doesnʼt, Iʼll figure out another way.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out two hundred-yuan notes, and pushed them toward her. ”Take this for cabs first.”

”Put it away.”

”I mean it.”

”So do I.” She pressed the money back toward his hand. ”Your money isnʼt actually in your hands yet. When you get the first payment, you can settle with me.”

He didnʼt push again. His open hand wiped twice across his pants and tucked the two notes back into his pocket.

On the way out, she looked back once. The recruitment poster was stuck to the glass, both corners curled. Behind the roll-up door it was dark. A figure stood inside, not coming out.

It was nearly nine when she got home. Tang Guo was doing a catch-up livestream in the inner room; light leaked from under the door crack, voices rising and falling. Zhiʼan had replied to her message: two characters, ”Received.”

She spread the materials out again, pulled a clean sheet of printer paper, and copied down the four items, one per line.

Item one: three monthsʼ wages. After it she wrote: four bank transaction records, order count screenshots, unit rate to be confirmed. August and September have only screenshots, no paper.

Item two: six hundred thirty yuan. Receipts all present. Keep originals safe.

Item three: the two hours on July eighteenth. Clock-in screenshot, dispatch records, and that document he must not sign.

Item four: the gear he used to run deliveries. Helmet at her place. Uniform on him. Work badge in the Station Managerʼs hands.

When she finished she set down the pen and read it over again. After each item sheʼd left half a line. The half-lines all asked the same thing: Who dispatched the work? Who drew up the shifts? Who imposed the fines? Who took back the badge? Four questions on the page, all pointing at the roll-up door raised only halfway, and at the ”Sun” on the paper who never showed his face.

She pulled the IOU over. The fourth line was still blank.

This time she knew what to write. Not ”those pages they erased”—the pages were paper, and beneath the paper was another layer.

Writing it down was easy. Getting it back required someone willing to stand up and say: That day he wore the work uniform with the logo printed on it, ran orders according to a shift schedule someone else drew up, had money deducted by someone elseʼs rules, and stood frozen in the rain for two hours.

For that step, she didnʼt have a single piece of paper in her hands.

[Thud. The four items must be pursued together. First prove one thing: whose man he really is.]