Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 11 : Whoʼs Managing Him

The things on the table were divided into two piles.

On the left were the papers: the IOU torn from an exercise book, its lower-right corner stamped with a red thumbprint; twenty-three printed screenshots, stapled into a stack, their edges still carrying warmth from the printer; three bank statements, and in the payer-account column, every entry began with the surname ”Wang.”

On the right were her notebook and a pen.

She spread the notebook flat and turned to the middle page. Two ruled lines divided it into three columns: what heʼd done, who was managing him, whoʼd paid him.

The first column was the fullest. Which districts heʼd run over the past three months, which day it rained, which intersection heʼd once taken a spill at—he remembered all of it better than any attendance record.

Sheʼd expected the third column to be the hardest, but once she started writing, it came out surprisingly neat: entry after entry, the notes all read ”delivery fee.” The money had genuinely reached his hands.

The second column still held only two and a half lines. The work badge, the old card, plus half a line: ”Who recorded him as late that morning?”

She used her pen to draw a circle in the blank space beneath that half line.

On her phone she pulled up the ”Notice on Matters Concerning the Establishment of Labor Relations” and read through its three articles one by one. The first said both sides had to be qualified parties. The second said the employerʼs rules and regulations applied to the person, that the person was subject to the employerʼs labor management, and that the work was paid. The third said the work he did was part of the employerʼs business.

After reading, she pressed the page flat against the table. Article one: the respondent was a registered company. It couldnʼt run. Article three: he delivered takeout, the box was printed with the Hurricane Express logo, the orders ran through Hurricane Expressʼs software, and when a customer asked ”Which company?” he answered ”Hurricane Express”—none of that could run either.

Only the middle article. For that, her hands were empty.

To prove a person was being managed by someone, what did you need? She listed in the margin: shift-scheduling charts, fine slips, late slips, the hands that issued work badges. When she finished, she counted. None of it was in her possession. The charts were in the group chat, the papers were at the station, and the badge had been taken back to be destroyed. The three stacks of paper in front of her were all photocopies.

She wrote two dates side by side at the bottom of the page: evidence submission deadline, the 23rd of this month; hearing, November 6.

The other sideʼs three defense points were copied onto another page in a single horizontal row: they wouldnʼt recognize the person, wouldnʼt recognize the money, wouldnʼt recognize that paper.

She could still block the first point—heʼd run more than ninety days, over ten hours a day, and the other side had never denied a word of it. The third was also manageable: the IOU had no company seal, but the red thumbprint belonged to a living person. The slipperiest one was in the middle: ”The payer account is unrelated to the respondent.”

To take that point apart, there was only one path: investigate that man surnamed Wang and see whether he was moving money on the companyʼs behalf.

She calculated the cost of that path. A citizen representative had no investigation order; she could only file another request asking the arbitration tribunal to go retrieve the evidence. Even if they retrieved it, the other side would sit there and say, ”Thatʼs an outside service provider settled on a monthly basis,” and push the papers right back.

[Thud. Find the man named Wang, and all heʼll tell you is: I transferred it for someone else.]

She set her pen down.

She flipped back to the earlier page. At the bottom margin was a line of small writing sheʼd jotted down this afternoon while He Xiufen was speaking: saying heʼs a person is useless; you have to answer whoʼs managing him.

The middle column was still empty, but now she knew what she needed to ask.

The next afternoon, the rain fell fine and dense, drumming against the plastic awning outside the noodle shop.

He Xiufen wiped the square table in the back twice and pulled the stool out a little farther. Ma Jianjun came in with his helmet tucked under his arm, a patch of his shoulder soaked through, the collar of his uniform jacket turned up. The logo on the left chest had been washed down to half.

”Sit.” She straightened. ”Three things.”

”Phone, card, IOU.” He laid them out one at a time, the IOU wrapped in an old cloth. ”Lawyer Shen, I didnʼt dare turn it on.”

”I didnʼt tell you to.” She unfolded the cloth and pressed the IOU flat on the table, the ”Sun” in the signature facing up. She pushed the phone back toward his hand. ”You keep the phone. When I tell you to tap, you tap.”

He Xiufen set a bowl of noodles by his hand and carried her cloth back over to the stove.

Ma Jianjun didnʼt touch the chopsticks.

She turned to a new page and wrote the date.

”Iʼll ask, you answer. If you donʼt know, say you donʼt know.”

”Ask.”

”Every morning, who tells you which area youʼre running that day?”

”It pops up on my phone. The system dispatches it. If I donʼt accept, points get taken off.”

She wrote: Dispatch—system.

”Who makes the schedule?”

”The station manager. He posts it in the group in the morning. A chart—what times, who runs which area, whoʼs off. Itʼs all written on it.”

”If you donʼt want to run one day, who do you tell?”

”Him.”

”And thatʼs enough?”

”If he says itʼs fine, itʼs fine.”

Her pen stopped. She circled the word ”system” and added a line beside it: leave requests—go through a real person.

”Who fines you?”

”Him. Thirty for being late, fifty for rejecting an order, more if I go over time.”

”And the money deducted—whose pocket does it go into?”

”Donʼt know.” He shook his head. ”The chart just says itʼs deducted.”

”Who records you as late?”

”Him. Every morning thereʼs a piece of paper with names on it. He posts it in the group.”

”Who puts together the pay sheet?”

”Also him. One a month. The front lists how many orders I ran; the back column lists how much was deducted. I canʼt read the thing clearly. Whatever it says, thatʼs what it is.”

”Who transfers the money?”

”The Wang guy. I asked once. He said donʼt ask about how the money moves.”

”Who issued the work badge?”

”The station manager, the day I started.”

”Whatʼs printed on the badge?”

”Hurricane Express.” He thought for a moment. ”And a photo of me, on a blue background.”

”When customers ask which company youʼre with, what do you say?”

”I say Hurricane Express.”

She wrote that down and moved the pen lower.

”The day the badges were collected—you were there.”

”I was. He collected them one by one at the door. Afterward he posted in the group saying the old badges were void.”

”Is that message still there?”

Ma Jianjun hesitated. ”I canʼt read much. The group gets dozens of messages a day. I never look at them.”

She moved her notebook aside. ”Open the phone and go into that group. Iʼm only looking at the announcements. Nothing else.”

His fingers were thick, the nails black with grime, and it took him two swipes to open the group. The screen protector was peeling at one edge. He turned the phone toward her and scrolled up message by message, very slowly.

The first was a handwritten chart, the lines straight and even. The top line read ”Chengnan Station No. 1.” The lower right corner was signed with the surname ”Sun.”

She pulled the IOU over and compared the two side by side. Same writing style; the pen even paused in the same spot.

Farther up was a notice, a dozen or so words: old work badges void, a uniform replacement coming soon, and until the new badge arrived, the work uniform would count.

Farther up still was a name list. The date at the top read July 18. Three names, and after the last row: ”30.”

His own name was in that last row.

”When was this one sent?”

”That same morning.” He scrolled up. ”It rained hard that day. I got to the station post by 6:40.”

”Who told you to be there at 6:40?”

”The message in the group the night before.” He swiped up and found it. ”It said thereʼd be heavy rain the next day. Anyone at post before seven would count as full attendance.”

She wrote that down. The notice was sent by a real person. The attendance rule was also made by a real person.

”Does it say anywhere what time you arrived?”

He leaned closer and looked. ”No. It just says late, and then a thirty after it.”

She nodded. The list had no time. Only a conclusion.

”What about the badge photo?”

”Xiao Duan posted one.”

She told him to ask Xiao Duan for an original picture. Ma Jianjun held down the voice-message button, his voice low and muffled: ”Xiao Duan, send me that photo of the badge.”

Half a minute later a voice message popped back. A television was on in the background: ”Iʼm here, Iʼm here. Sending it, sending it. Iʼve been restricted from taking orders for thirty days, so Iʼm home every day digging through my phone. I can find anything for you.”

The photo came through: a blue badge hanging around a neck, the stationʼs roll-up door behind, two words painted above the doorway.

She arranged these images in her mind one by one, but didnʼt take any photos of them. The originals were all on this phone, and this phone was in his hands.

”Listen.” She gave the phone back to him and pressed both hands flat on the table. ”No replacing this phone, no taking it in for repair, no factory reset. Donʼt delete a single message from that group, and donʼt leave it.”

”Why would I leave the group?”

”Because if you do, all of this disappears.”

Ma Jianjun gripped the phone in his palm. ”What about on the day of the hearing?”

”Bring it yourself. Whoever holds the originals has to appear.”

”This phone is worth more than a person.”

”More than you.”

He Xiufen laughed from the stove, came over with a bowl, and nudged it toward him again. ”Eat. The noodles are gonna get soggy.”

Only then did Ma Jianjun pick up his chopsticks. He ate two bites and stopped.

”The station manager once said something to me.” He laid his chopsticks across the bowl. ”That day I stopped him at the station entrance and asked about the money owed. He said, ʼGo ahead and sue. As far as the companyʼs concerned, you donʼt exist.ʼ”

He Xiufenʼs hand paused while wiping the table.

”What else did he say to you?”

”Just that.” Ma Jianjun said. ”He left right after he said it, and that afternoonʼs orders were still dispatched by him.”

She wrote the quote down word for word.

”Lawyer Shen.” He pushed the bowl aside a little. ”Iʼm on their chart. Iʼm in that group. Every day I get called out, every day I get money deducted. How am I not one of their people?”

She gripped her pen and said nothing.

”That sentence,” she said, ”you say it yourself on the day of the hearing.”

”I wonʼt say it right.”

”You just said it fine.”

He picked up the bowl and drank the soup, then tipped the empty bottom toward her.

At night, the roll-up door downstairs was shut, but the light in the little room stayed on.

She filled in the middle column.

Who was managing him—Station Manager Sun. He posted the shift schedules, recorded late arrivals, issued fines, made the pay sheets, handed out the badges, took the badges back. One message in the group, and the next day eleven people all went to change their numbers.

After each line, she noted one piece of evidence she could actually produce: a shift schedule photo, the late-arrival list, the notice voiding the old badges, that exact quote, the IOU, the badge photo.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. He Xiufen came up carrying a bowl of ginger soup and set it on the corner of the desk. ”Drink. Rainy day.”

Shen Zhixia picked it up and drank. He Xiufen looked at the checklist in the lamplight, studied it for a moment, but didnʼt flip through it.

”The things you can produce, list them one by one after the entries.” He Xiufen said. ”Your dad used to list them like that too.”

”Only after listing them all do I realize my hands are empty.”

”Emptyʼs good.” He Xiufen picked up the bowl and walked out. ”The empty places are exactly where you need to go tomorrow.”

The door closed. Shen Zhixia read the checklist from top to bottom. When she reached the line ”Dispatch—system,” her pen stopped.

That line was the only one today she hadnʼt filled in. If Lu Jibai were sitting across from her, heʼd only ask: the algorithm dispatched those orders—what does that have to do with the company?

She put a question mark beside that line, then added three more words: who set it.

Who loaded the dispatch rules into that system? Who set the online times? Who decided that rejecting an order meant a points deduction? She couldnʼt answer any of that today.

Her phone buzzed on the table. Shen Zhiʼan had sent: ”Sis, after monthly exams I want to buy a study guide. Itʼs 35 yuan.” She replied: Okay. After replying, she held the message up beside the checklist on the table—35 yuan, and 21,400.

She pressed her pen beneath the question mark for two seconds.

[Thud. First prove who dispatches his orders, then ask who pays him.]

She wrote ”Dispatch Record” on the last line of the checklist and left two blank spaces after it.

Outside the window, the streetlights were on. The rain had stopped. The IOU was still pressed inside the notebook, its red thumbprint facing up.