Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 13 : Second Arbitration Tribunal

November 6. Daylight hadnʼt fully broken. The stove downstairs started first, the pot lid clattering against the rim, over and over, oily cooking smoke creeping up through the stairwell cracks.

He Xiufen was ladling porridge by the stove and stopped halfway.

”Three rules,” she said. ”When the arbitrator asks you something, answer exactly that. If he doesnʼt ask, donʼt spill it on your own. And—when your client can answer it himself, let him answer. Donʼt reach so far.”

She carried the plate over. He Xiufen picked up two steamed buns and set them at the edge of the plate. ”Eat before you go. If your stomach growls in the hearing, people will think you have a guilty conscience.”

Back in her small room, she went through the canvas bag again: the original Letter of Recommendation, the Power of Attorney, the Evidence List, printouts of twenty-three screenshots, a copy of the IOU, receipts, filing receipts. She checked each one, and for each silently recited what it was meant to prove.

The white shirt was one of two Hengzheng had issued. The second button had fallen off once, and she had sewn it back on herself with black thread, a little crooked. Over it she wore the washed-thin gray jacket. She faced the window glass and fastened the crooked button.

When she came downstairs, He Xiufen was clearing the table without looking up. ”Itʼs fine if you canʼt win today. Just make sure you get everything said.”

[Thud. Today it isnʼt about whoʼs been wronged. Itʼs about whether the name is written on the paper.]

At 7:50, fog had risen at the entrance to the arbitration office.

Ma Jianjun was already standing at the bottom of the steps, dark blue jacket, sleeves a little too short, both hands tucked into the sleeves. He wasnʼt wearing his work uniform.

”Why arenʼt you wearing it?” she asked.

”If I wore it, Iʼd look like I was going to work, not coming to a hearing.”

He handed her the plastic bag: old phone, old SIM card, IOU, receipts, filing receipts—nothing missing. She pried the bag open and looked inside, pressed the phoneʼs power button. The screen lit, battery half full, the startup animation running for half a minute.

”Didnʼt swap it,” he said. ”You said I wasnʼt allowed to.”

The Second Arbitration Tribunal was at the end of the second-floor corridor, a small nameplate on the door. She pushed the door open. The room was smaller than sheʼd expected: one long table, three chairs arranged at the head, and a plastic card on each side reading ”Applicant” and ”Respondent,” the corners worn white. Tribunal rules hung on the wall.

Someone was already seated across from them. Lu Jibai, white shirt, a case file open on the table. Beside it, a pencil case, zipper open, all pen tips pointing the same direction. He glanced up once—not at her face, but at the canvas bag by her hand—then looked back down and turned a page.

When Shao Hong came in, the corridor light buzzed. She had short hair and carried a stack of case files. She set her click pen on the right side. The clerk followed, a young woman, who adjusted the keyboard as soon as she sat down.

”Verify identities,” Shao Hong said.

”Applicant, Ma Jianjun.”

Ma Jianjun stood. The chair leg scraped the floor. He sat back down.

”Citizen Representative, Shen Zhixia.”

She heard the phrase ”Citizen Representative” attached before her name, spoken aloud in this room, and her fingers tightened on the bag strap.

”Respondent, Hurricane Express (Jiangzhou) Network Technology Co., Ltd., authorized representative, Lu Jibai.”

”Show me the original Letter of Recommendation and the Power of Attorney.” Shao Hong held out her hand.

She handed over the two sheets. Shao Hong checked slowly: the community stamp, the printed phrase ”Matters Entrusted,” the red thumbprint at the end—one by one.

”Who retained the representative?”

”I did,” Ma Jianjun said.

”Is there a fee?”

”No.”

Shao Hong wrote a line in her notebook, then moved through the procedure: any recusal requests, any supplementary evidence, any final statements. Both sides said no recusal.

”Applicant, state your claims.”

She stood. The first sentence came out a little unsteady. When she reached ”request confirmation that an employment relationship existed between the applicant and the respondent from July to September,” she pressed her left hand flat against the paper, holding it to the table, and the second half steadied.

”Item two: the applicant requests that the respondent pay unpaid delivery fees and refundable fines, totaling 21,400 yuan.”

”Respondentʼs defense.”

Lu Jibai didnʼt look at his notes. ”Three points. First, no employment relationship existed between the applicant and the respondent. He registered himself and decided himself whether to accept orders. No shifts, no base pay. Second, his pay was settled monthly by an outside service provider, and the paying account has no connection to the respondent. Third, that IOU was personally issued by an outside individual and bears no company seal.” He turned a page in the file. ”Our supplementary defense and evidence are in the same document: the actual employing entity in this case is an outside third party.”

Shao Hong wrote down the three points. ”Evidence presentation and examination begins. The applicant presents evidence first.”

First item: the IOU. A page torn from an exercise book, the edges rough. ”21,400 yuan” was written large. At the signature line, a ”Sun,” with a red thumbprint below it.

”This paper came due on August 15,” she said. ”The money never came.”

”As to this evidence, I donʼt dispute that it exists,” Lu Jibai said. ”It bears no company name and no seal. The person who wrote this paper is not known to us.”

”We do not know him.”

”The respondentʼs rosters contain no such name. If you want to know who wrote it, you should ask the hand that wrote it.”

Shao Hong wrote: authenticity undisputed; relevance and the identity of the issuing party disputed.

Second item: the three photos from the group chat. A handwritten shift schedule, ”Chengnan Station No. 1” written at the top and a ”Sun” signed in the lower right. A late-arrival list from July 18, three names, the last one followed by ”30.” And a notice voiding old work badges. The printouts were grayish. She pushed the three sheets forward side by side.

”All three were posted in the Chengnan Station No. 1 ridersʼ group. The signature on the shift schedule is in the same hand as the one on the IOU. The list has no date on it—the night before, the group said heavy rain, arriving before seven counts as full attendance, and at 6:40 he was already standing in the guard post.”

”What time he stood where, our side has never denied,” Lu Jibai said, pushing the three sheets forward half an inch. ”Late, full attendance, thirty yuan—all recorded and calculated by the station. The signature is one hand. The group is a station group. Add these three sheets together, and the respondentʼs name still isnʼt on any of them.”

Shao Hong noted it.

Third item: the work badge photo. The original sent by Xiao Duan. Blue badge, with photo, the company name printed on it, hanging around his neck, the stationʼs roll-up door behind him.

”This badge was issued by the station. He wore it every day while delivering orders.”

”Having a company name printed on a badge is not employment,” Lu Jibai said. ”As to who issued this badge, who took it back, and when—our side has no record.”

”The one who took it was Station Manager Sun, on the excuse of a system upgrade. No receipt was given.”

”Nor is there a single word of a record on our side.”

Shao Hong wrote it down.

Fourth item: the twenty-three screenshots. She had just pushed the printouts forward when the other side spoke first.

”Iʼd ask the applicant to clarify which phone these twenty-three came from,” Lu Jibai said. ”A printout of a screen doesnʼt prove itʼs a real page.”

”The originals are on the applicantʼs own phone.”

”Did you bring it?” Shao Hong asked.

Ma Jianjun pulled the phone out of the plastic bag. Two cracks crossed the screen. He pressed the power button, stood up, turned the screen around, and scrolled up through the group messages one by one: group name, time, who sent it, what was sent. The clerk held the printouts and checked line by line, pen tip tapping the paper.

”Verified consistent,” Shao Hong said. ”Let the respondent take a look.”

The clerk passed the phone over. Lu Jibai scrolled a few times, his fingertip pausing for a second on one of the cracks, then handed it back.

”I donʼt dispute the source,” he said. ”What I want to ask is: who are the people posting in that group?”

”People from the station,” she said. ”The notices were posted by the stationʼs account.”

”The stationʼs account is not the respondentʼs account.”

[Thud. He isnʼt taking apart the words you wrote. Heʼs taking apart the column you stand in.]

Fifth item: eleven violation notices. Sixth: the exact words from customer service calls. She spread out the eleven sheets. The reason line on every single one was the same: ”Upon review, you were found to have violated Platform Service Rules.” Which rule was violated—not one word written.

”On the same day, eleven people received the same exact line,” she said. ”That afternoon, a customer service rep even called back and said the complaint had been withdrawn and the account could be restored. The one that can ban accounts and restore them is the respondent.”

”Accounts are a technical service provided by the platform,” Lu Jibai said. ”Terminating the service cooperation means terminating the service. One remark by a customer-service worker cannot represent the companyʼs decision.”

”The name on the notice is yours.”

”The name is the platformʼs, and the rules are the platformʼs. Neither equals employment management.”

Shao Hong wrote down a couple of lines.

Last item: the Notice to Relevant Persons that had been posted at the station entrance and circulated in the group. A corner had been torn off the lower right, but the remaining words were still there. She read the signature block: ”Hengzheng Law Firm, Lu Jibai, Lü Hang.”

When she read out that name, the room went quiet for a beat. She looked up and saw the other sideʼs hand stop on the pen cap for half a beat before pressing down.

”A company with no employment relationship with its riders—why would it send a letter into the Chengnan Station No. 1 ridersʼ group saying it had preserved their group messages as evidence and would hold the organizers of the wage protest accountable?” she said. ”Who was this letter meant for?”

”This letter was sent by us on the respondentʼs behalf to stop infringing conduct, and it has nothing to do with employment,” Lu Jibai said. ”Only because you spoke in the group could it become evidence. Who you work for wonʼt change because of one letter.”

Shao Hong noted that too.

”Applicantʼs representative, anything else to submit?”

”Nothing.”

”Then let me ask the applicant a few questions.” Shao Hong laid her pen flat and turned to face Ma Jianjun.

”What time did you report for work?”

”According to the shift schedule, 6:50. The day of the heavy rain, I was in the guard post at 6:40.”

”Who made the shift schedule?”

”Station Manager Sun.”

”What happened if you didnʼt go?”

”Points deducted, fewer orders sent.”

”That thing used to accept orders—whatʼs it called?”

”Hurricane Express Rider App.”

”Who dispatched the orders?”

”They pop up on the screen by themselves. When it chimes, you have to look. If you donʼt, theyʼre gone.”

”Could you choose not to accept them?”

”Yes. But if I didnʼt take them, thereʼd be no orders.”

”Who paid your wages?”

”A man named Wang.”

”Who is this Wang?”

The air conditioning vent clicked. Ma Jianjunʼs hands rested on his knees, his fingers curling slightly.

”I donʼt know.”

Shao Hong waited two seconds, held the pen beneath that answer, then closed her notebook. ”Two issues in dispute. One: whether an employment relationship existed between the two parties. Two: who bears the amount stated in the IOU. Both sides debate these two points, three minutes each.”

She spoke faster than the three minutes allowed. She said he stood in the guard post every day; said he was on that schedule; said his money was docked, his badge taken, his account suspended—the suspend button was in someone elseʼs hand, and when it was pressed, the notice was signed ”Platform.” When she finished, her palms were damp.

In Lu Jibaiʼs three minutes, the subject never changed: ”the respondent.” Going online was autonomous. Accepting orders was autonomous. Settlement was handled outside the case. Management was at the station. After the last sentence, he zipped the pencil case halfway.

”Final statements. Applicant.”

Ma Jianjun stood, both hands braced on the edge of the table.

”I get up at 5:30,” he said. ”A little after six, Iʼm standing in the guard post. When an order pops up on the screen, I run. When Iʼm done, in the evening, I check in in the group. If Iʼm late, my money gets docked. If Iʼm fined, that gets docked too. My uniform, my box, my hat—all of them have your name printed on them. I canʼt read many words. Everything written was written by someone else for me. I didnʼt come today to talk too much.”

He stopped.

”I just want to ask one thing: am I one of your people or not?”

The clerkʼs hand paused, then continued typing. Shao Hong watched him finish and asked, ”Done?”

”Done.”

”Respondent.”

”Our position stands as stated in our defense,” Lu Jibai said. ”The respondent has never denied that the applicant delivered orders. What the respondent denies is that he is the respondentʼs person.”

”Applicantʼs representative, any supplement?”

”Yes.” She opened her notebook to the page with the slip of paper tucked in. ”That question he just asked—I only answered half of it. The other half is the things on him that could prove who was managing him. One after another, none of them are in his hands, and none of them are in the case file—”

”Arbitrator.” The other side spoke. ”Iʼd like to ask the applicantʼs representative one additional question.”

Shao Hong nodded.

”That work badge,” Lu Jibai said. ”Who made it, who issued it, who took it away.”

”The badge has the respondentʼs company name printed on it, and it was issued by the station,” she said. ”A while ago, Station Manager Sun took it back under the name of a system upgrade. There was no receipt, and itʼs no longer in his hands.”

Lu Jibai turned back through the case file, page by page, and stopped at one.

”The one who scheduled shifts was him. The one who fined him was him. Attendance was recorded by him. The badge was also taken back by him,” he said. ”He doesnʼt even have the badge anymore—so what grounds do you have to say the respondent was managing him?”

Only the clerkʼs keyboard sounds remained in the room. Tap. Tap.

She opened her mouth, the notebook open in her hands. The top line was what she had written before the hearing: Who exactly is Ma Jianjunʼs employer?

”Applicantʼs representative?” Shao Hong asked.

”... I will supplement after the hearing.”

”Written supplementary opinion, submit it to the first-floor window within three days.” Shao Hong clicked her pen. ”That concludes todayʼs hearing.”

When she sat down, the chair leg scraped against the concrete floor.

After the hearing, Ma Jianjun put the phone and the rest back into the plastic bag one item at a time, wound the two bag handles twice around his fingers, and tied it shut. Lu Jibai passed by with the case file, stopped at the stairwell, and without turning back said only: ”Three days.”

The footsteps went down level by level. Ma Jianjun stood at the door waiting for her. Only after she had shouldered her bag did he ask quietly:

”That bit just now—was he asking you?”

”He was asking me.”

He looked down at the plastic bag by his feet. After a moment, he asked, ”Did I say something wrong?”

The window at the end of the corridor faced north. In the courtyard below, a row of electric scooters was parked with their boxes outward. The words on the boxes were soaked through with mist, patch after patch, unreadable.

She couldnʼt answer a single word.