Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 8 : Suspended from Taking Orders

As she handed in the supplementary materials, the woman at the window first compared the four pages. The entity information printed from the Public Information Registry—legal representative, registered address, date of establishment, registration status—was black text on white paper.

”The name matches,” she said. ”Todayʼs the third day. Thereʼs still time.”

”Thereʼs one more.” Shen Zhixia pushed another sheet across. ”A response to the mediation proposal.”

The woman at the window glanced at the header. ”This doesnʼt go through me. Give it to Arbitrator Shao.”

Shao Hong was at the end of the second-floor hallway, the key already in the lock. She took the page and read it standing. One line: Does not agree to the mediation proposal; requests a ruling according to law.

”Your client knows.”

”Knows. He said it in front of me.”

Shao Hong pressed the page on top of the case file, turned the key, and let her in. The room was still the same mediation room. The mineral water bottles had been cleared away; a ring of water stains remained on the long table. The curtains were half drawn.

”The other sideʼs defense opinion and evidence list—take a copy with you.” Shao Hong pulled a stack of photocopies from the case file. ”This should have been shown to you before filing.”

There were four entries on the list. Item two: Settlement Statement. Item three: attendance record excerpts (two pages). Item four: Special Account Security Review Statement.

She recognized the first three; sheʼd seen them on that table in the mediation room. The fourth she had seen at the station entrance, and when it was handed over, she hadnʼt gotten a receipt. But she flipped through to the end and didnʼt find that form.

”That statement—they didnʼt submit it.”

”If itʼs not on the list, itʼs not in the file.”

[Thud. They knew it themselves, too—there wasnʼt a word of his on that page.]

”The Notice of Acceptance will be issued this afternoon.” Shao Hong pressed the cap onto her pen. ”Evidence submission deadline is fifteen days. Once the hearing date is set, youʼll be notified separately. If you have applications, now is the time.”

She took out the one sheʼd written last night on exercise-book paper: a request that the Arbitration Commission collect from Chengnan Station No. 1 the originals of the complete July-to-September attendance records, shift schedules, and settlement basis documents.

Shao Hong read it twice. ”You want the originals.”

”They submitted two pages of excerpts.”

”Iʼll accept this and refer it to the tribunal for a decision.”

”One more thing.” Shao Hong pushed the photocopies toward her. ”On the day of the hearing, bring the originals—receipts, the IOU, your phone. If you put a printout before the tribunal and the other side asks where it came from, you wonʼt have an answer.”

”Someone from the other side came yesterday afternoon.” Shao Hong closed the case file. ”Asked when the Notice of Acceptance would be issued. You keep the date in mind, too.”

On her way down, the window clerk called her over and handed her a page. The Notice of Acceptance. The paper was new, the corners stiff, printed with the acceptance date and cause of action. She stood on the steps and read it twice, folded it in half, and tucked it into the side pocket of her bag, next to the Power of Attorney.

At 3:40 p.m., when she reached Chengnan Station No. 1, there were more people squatting in the back alley than last time. The little shopʼs plastic stools had all been moved outside, and three more people sat on the rear seats of their electric scooters, each holding half a steamed bun. The Notice to Relevant Persons was still taped to the glass door, but the lower right corner had been torn off, leaving only the word ”pursue” and a date.

Ma Jianjun sat on his box. The box stood upright, the label on its side worn fuzzy at the edges. At his feet a plastic bag was spread out with five or six phones on it, screens all lit.

”Received this morning.” Lao Song stood up first. ”Listen.”

The first voice message was a woman reading a notice, flatly: After verification, you have engaged in conduct that violates the Platform Service Rules, and the platform has terminated its service cooperation with you.

The second was a man yelling: Station Manager Sun wonʼt answer his phone. The rolling shutter was only halfway up, and no matter who went over, no one was there.

The third was quiet, saying customer service had called: withdraw the complaint and the account can be restored.

She took the phone and scrolled up through the screenshots in the group chat. The earliest was from 9:03 a.m., the latest at 11:20. Eleven people, including Ma Jianjun. Some had been given a thirty-day Order Restriction; some had their service cooperation terminated. Ma Jianjunʼs was among them. In the reason line was the same sentence: After verification, you have engaged in conduct that violates the Platform Service Rules. Which rule had been violated—not one word said.

[Thud. Eleven phones received the same sentence on the same day, and not one of them knew which step had gone wrong.]

”What about the phone numbers?”

”Iʼve got screenshots,” Lao Song said. ”Three numbers. Two are customer service. One was a man who said heʼs with operations here in Jiangzhou.”

”What exactly did he say?”

Lao Song thought for a long moment. ”He said, ʼWithdraw that complaint, and Iʼll restore your account.ʼ”

She pulled out her notebook, wrote down the date, listed the three numbers beneath, and copied down the exact words one by one. When she looked up, she saw a young man in his early twenties squatting by the wall, holding up his phone, not saying a word.

”You too?”

He handed over his phone. Beneath the notice on the screen was a line of fine print: To appeal, please submit through the Rider App. He had clicked appeal, and a message popped up: Appeal processing.

”My nameʼs Xiao Duan,” he said. ”I started riding on the seventeenth of last month. For the past month, Iʼve only been getting about half the orders, and I havenʼt been paid once.”

He paused, then turned toward the man on the box.

”Brother Ma. That arbitration, maybe you should—”

”Donʼt say that.” Lao Song cut him off.

”Why canʼt I say it?” Xiao Duanʼs voice rose. ”Your case got filed, and the ten of us got banned because of it. If you withdraw it, everyone can get back on the road. Youʼre one man fighting them—how long can you drag this out?”

Ma Jianjunʼs hand lifted from his knee and settled back. He didnʼt look at Xiao Duan. He looked at the plastic sheet spread on the ground.

”You think Iʼm the one telling you to withdraw?” Xiao Duan pressed. After that, he didnʼt go on either.

”Whether to withdraw isnʼt for me alone to decide,” she said.

Xiao Duan turned his head. ”Youʼre the lawyer. You say.”

”Iʼm not a lawyer.” She set her bag on the ground. ”I appear in court for you on the strength of a Letter of Recommendation stamped by the community office. I donʼt charge. You all need to get that straight first.”

She handed the phone back to Xiao Duan, turned, and scanned the phones on the plastic sheet, looking over one lit screen after another.

”If anyone calls you today and tells you to withdraw, write down his exact words, when he called, and what number he used. If anyone comes to your door and asks you to sign something, say you canʼt sign and tell him to leave the paper. These notices in your hands are your own. Donʼt delete them, donʼt clear the cache, donʼt take the phone to a repair shop.”

”What good is writing that down?” Xiao Duan said.

”He banned your accounts.” She held up the notebook. ”What gave him the right?”

”The platform rules.”

”Who made the rules? Who opened the accounts? Who wrote the reasons?”

Xiao Duan didnʼt answer.

”If he can ban your account, it means he has power over you.”

[Thud. On the day he couldnʼt receive orders, someone pressed pause—and the notice was unsigned.]

Lao Song suddenly fished a paper folded several times from his pocket, unfolded it halfway, then folded it back. ”That settlement receipt I signed last month—the money came through at fifty percent. Yesterday, I got one of these too. Thirty days.”

”Your accountʼs been restricted too?”

”Restricted.” Lao Song stuffed the paper back. ”The money you signed for is one thing. Whether you can keep riding is another.”

Her phone buzzed in her bag. Zhiʼan: Sis, this weekʼs living expenses. She typed back: Iʼll send it tomorrow. Then she put the phone away.

She tore a page from her notebook, crouched down, and placed the paper and pen beside Ma Jianjunʼs hand.

”Withdrawing an arbitration application takes one sheet of paper. Iʼll write it now and deliver it to the Arbitration Office tomorrow morning. You wonʼt even have to come up to the office.”

Ma Jianjun looked at the paper. Xiao Duan went quiet. Lao Song crushed his cigarette butt against the sole of his shoe. The dozen or so people in the alley all looked over.

He picked up the pen and rubbed his thumb along the barrel twice, but didnʼt lower it. After a while, he laid the pen sideways on the paper.

”Iʼm not withdrawing.”

”Think it through.”

”The money, I accept. If they never give me the twenty thousand yuan, I accept that, too.” He said, ”I just want to know whether that morning I was working for them.”

[Thud. He didnʼt run a single order today. Put that one in the books, too.]

She took the paper back, folded it in half, and tucked it into the notebook. She turned to a new page, wrote down todayʼs date, and looked up at him.

”From today on, any day you canʼt get orders, send me a message. Every day you have no work, Iʼll record it.”

”Will keeping this record get it back?”

”Keep the record, and there will come a day when we can demand it.”

Lao Song, standing nearby, asked, ”His account—thereʼs really no other way?”

”I canʼt tell you there is.” She closed the notebook. ”If you can still run orders, run. If you canʼt, donʼt sign anything. Anyone with last monthʼs settlement screenshots, send them to me.”

She stood up and asked one more question: ”The person in charge at the station—whatʼs his surname?”

”Sun,” Lao Song said. ”Like the Chinese word for ʼgrandson.ʼ”

Her pen stopped on the page for half a second. The surname on the IOU was written exactly the same way—short strokes, one horizontal, one vertical, nothing more. Writing it down was easy. Pinning that name to a person? She couldnʼt produce a single stroke. She closed the notebook and added nothing.

As she left, Xiao Duan stood up from the wall and followed a couple of steps.

”Then Iʼll keep a record too.”

”Record what?”

”When they call.” He shook his phone. ”When my mom asks why Iʼm not making money, at least Iʼll have something to say.”

The registered address listed in the Public Information Registry gave a street name in Old Town District, followed by a building and room number. She found her way there. The building was old, with cardboard boxes piled in the stairwell corner. On the fifth-floor door hung three signs: a bookkeeping firm, a trading company, and a new one with very small lettering.

The door was opened by a girl in her early twenties. Vouchers and glue were spread over the desk, and a plastic basket of express deliveries sat by her feet. When Shen said the name Hurricane Express, the girl pointed toward the basket.

”Leave the mail in the basket. Someone comes to pick it up.”

”Who usually picks it up?”

”I donʼt know.” The girl stacked the vouchers inward. ”I just started last month. There are a lot of names in this office. I only handle the receiving.”

She stepped back into the hallway and took two photos—one of the room number, one of the three signs. The hallway window faced west, the sun low, the light slanting onto the screws of the second sign. This address could receive mail. But the person who picked up the mail had never once laid eyes on Ma Jianjun.

The street Lao Song had mentioned was two bus stops away. The sky was still light when she walked over, but the lamp at the alley entrance was already on. The noodle shopʼs sign was wooden, four characters with half the paint flaked off. The menu was taped to the glass: scallion oil noodles, eight yuan; add an egg, two yuan; braised dishes listed below.

She looked up. In a second-floor window, a white sheet was taped to the inside of the glass, printed with: Zhengping Law Firm. Its edges curled and fluttered whenever the wind passed.

She stood in the doorway looking at the price list. She could count out eight yuan from her pocket—not enough for the extra egg.

The curtain lifted, and a woman in her fifties came out, her apron covered in oil stains, carrying an aluminum basin where the bowls clattered together.

”Youʼve been standing at the door staring for ages.” Her voice was loud. ”Staring at it wonʼt make it cheaper.”

”Iʼm looking for Director He.”

”Thatʼs me.” The woman set the aluminum basin on the counter. ”Whatʼs your surname?”

”Shen.”

Her hand wiped twice on the apron and stopped. Water from the basin ran down the edge of a bowl and dripped onto the concrete floor—one drop, two drops.

”Zhao Guangnian called the day before yesterday,” she said. ”Said thereʼs a girl working the ridersʼ wage case with no firm to stay at, and told me to keep an eye out.”

She looked Shen up and down, then lifted the curtain aside.

”I hear youʼre fighting the ridersʼ lawsuit? Come up, have a bowl of noodles.”

The stairs were narrow, and the smell of scallion oil rolled down from above. She hitched her bag higher; the Notice of Acceptance in the side pocket pressed against the back of her hand. She raised one foot after another, step by step.