Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 18 : Making His Mark

Lao Wangʼs three-wheeler was parked under the locust tree at the fork in the road, two burlap sacks spread across the cargo bed. A wooden crate sat on top, its lid not quite closed. A corner of plastic sheeting poked out. Inside were two cabbages and a bundle of just-dug radishes, the mud still wet.

”Whatʼs all this for?” she asked.

”Going out empty and coming back empty—people will laugh.” He patted the side of the cargo bed. ”Get on.”

She was wearing old rubber shoes but still stepped in the mud. When she climbed up, he reached out an arm as if to steady her, without touching her. The cart was electric and hummed as it moved. The front wheel rolled through a puddle, and mud flecked onto the burlap. He let out an ”ah,” as if it had splashed onto him.

”Director He gave me one instruction,” she said. ”Once weʼre there, just listen. Donʼt argue.”

”Mm. What she says is solid.”

On both sides of the field path, corn stubble stood in neat rows, the cut sections pale. She set her canvas bag on her lap and went through it: one case file, a notebook, a pen. At that square table yesterday morning, there had been seven people. Five had brought originals, and sheʼd photographed each one, front and back. Two couldnʼt produce anything—one had changed phones, and the otherʼs group chat had long since fallen apart. She wrote those two names down and drew a line beside them.

When the townʼs rooftops emerged from behind the trees, he pulled to the side of the road.

”Little Shen.”

”Mm.”

”That paper you mentioned last night. I brought it.”

He pulled a plastic bag folded into a small square from an inner pocket of his padded jacket. Inside was the power of attorney. Sheʼd read it to him over the phone the night before: his name in the client column, He Xiufenʼs name in the representative column, and the last line for his signature.

”Where do I sign?”

”The last line.”

He spread the paper on the burlap, squatted down, and braced his knees against the edge of the cargo bed. She took the fountain pen from her bag—there was an old nick on the cap—and handed it to him. The old man gripped it and held it for a while.

”This writing, Iʼll have to copy it stroke by stroke.”

”Take your time.”

So he wrote slowly: Wang, then Chang, then Shun. He paused at every stroke, leaving gaps between them. The characters came out square and a little crooked, and his palm was sweating. When he came to the left three strokes of ”Shun,” he set them down one by one, top to bottom, and on the last stroke he gave the end a slight upward flick, like a little hook.

”With Director Heʼs name on it,” he folded the paper and pressed it back into his inner pocket, ”does the money come to me, or to her?”

”To you,” she said. ”Her name on it is her standing behind me.”

”Standing behind what?”

”Iʼm not a lawyer yet. If I lose your money, she has to cover for me.”

The old man pressed his hand over the pocket twice. ”Then Iʼm not the one getting the short end.”

A weighbridge stood at the entrance to the courtyard on the east end of town.

Frost had settled on the platform, half melted and glistening. Beside the scale was a small window, its glass filmed with dust. Half the white paint on the courtyard wall had flaked away, but the remaining words were still legible: Buying Corn, Wheat, Soybeans. A pile of corn stood in the yard under a plastic sheet. The wind crept beneath it, making the plastic flap over and over. A corn sheller sat in the corner, and the ground was covered with broken kernels and husks that crunched underfoot.

Liu Fugui was drinking water behind the counter. He was in his forties, a checkered shirt under a padded vest, a ring of keys around his neck.

”Hey, Lao Wang.” He set the thermos on the counter. ”What brings you here?”

”I came for my money.” Lao Wang stood outside the counter, his cap clutched in his hand.

”Money.” Liu Fugui smiled. ”Sit down first. Weʼll talk it over.”

”Iʼm not sitting.”

”Fine, donʼt sit.” He fished out a pack of cigarettes from below and offered one to Lao Wang, who didnʼt take it. He put one in his own mouth, didnʼt light it, and spun the lighter in his hand. ”Youʼre Little Shen, right?”

”Shen Zhixia.”

”One of Director Heʼs people.” His eyes paused on her notebook. ”This money of Lao Wangʼs, let me explain it to you. You know the market these last two years. Corn prices kept falling and falling. The buyersʼ trucks show up, and if the moistureʼs a little high, they knock the price. They turn on you faster than a page flips. I run this buying station and just earn hard money. Last month I lost twenty thousand. Donʼt blame me.”

”I donʼt blame you,” she said. ”I came to hear what you have to say.”

”He owes me money.” Lao Wangʼs voice rose. ”Three years now. Iʼve been here twenty-seven times.”

”Twenty-seven times.” Liu Fugui grinned. ”You keep a close count.”

”I remember.” Lao Wang reached into his padded jacket.

”All right.” Liu Fugui set down the lighter and pulled open a drawer. The metal drawer clattered. He rummaged for a moment, took out a sheet of paper folded in half, unfolded it, spread it on the counter, held it down with two fingers, and pushed it toward Lao Wang.

”Look at this.”

Lao Wang leaned in, both hands braced on the counter. He couldnʼt read.

”Read it to me.”

”Read what?” Liu Fugui said. ”Thatʼs your signature.”

”When did I ever sign anything?”

”On the twenty-first of the twelfth month last year.” He turned the paper back toward himself and read slowly, one word at a time: ”Received this day from Wang Changshun corn payment of four thousand two hundred yuan exactly. Account settled.” When he reached the signature, he said, ”Bottom line: Wang Changshun. Look for yourself.”

Lao Wangʼs lips moved twice, but no sound came out. His hands braced on the counter, the knuckles going white one by one.

”I never signed it.”

”Lao Wang—”

”I never signed it!” He slapped the counter, and the sheet metal rattled. ”When did I ever see your four thousand two hundred? I never saw a cent of it!”

She opened her notebook and uncapped her pen.

”Boss Liu, say that again.”

”Say it again?”

”Every word you say, Iʼll write it down,” she said. ”You say yours, and Iʼll record mine.”

Liu Fugui stared at her for a moment, then took the paper back, folded it, and pressed it under the thermos.

”Last year, on the twenty-first of the twelfth month, he stood outside this counter and I counted the money out to him—4,200. Based on the net weight of that plotʼs grain: 4,740 jin.”

”Do the math for me.”

”4,740 jin.” He paused. ”At one yuan ten.”

”That makes 5,214,” she said. ”That paper of yours says 4,200. A difference of 1,014.”

”Deductions, freight, bag charges.” He shifted the thermos. ”Itʼs been over a year. I canʼt remember every detail. Donʼt turn arithmetic into a case.”

”On the twenty-first of the twelfth month, he was here at your place.”

”He was here.”

She turned to look at Lao Wang. The old manʼs cap brim trembled.

”I went there that day,” he said. ”The door was locked.”

”Locked?”

”Locked.” His voice was hoarse. ”I squatted by the base of the wall all afternoon. At noon I chewed half a piece of dry flatbread, and I didnʼt get home until dark.”

”Youʼre remembering wrong,” Liu Fugui said.

”Iʼm not remembering wrong.”

”Does that notebook of yours say so?”

Lao Wang shut his mouth.

”Iʼll take a photo,” she said.

”Of what?” Liu Fuguiʼs hand pressed down on the paper. ”This is my property. Youʼre not the government.”

She uncapped her pen and copied it down word for word. When she reached ”four thousand two hundred yuan exactly,” she looked up. Behind the counter there was another table, and on it stood a thick ledger, its pages uneven. In the middle of the page was a gap, the torn edge ragged. The inner door curtain lifted for a moment, revealing half a young face, then dropped back. Behind the curtain someone called out a number: ”Thirty-seven.” As if keeping accounts.

She also copied the three characters of the signature stroke by stroke.

”Please sign it,” she said. ”What you just said—sign your name and write the date.”

”I wonʼt sign.”

”Then Iʼll write here: Liu Fugui, oral statement, refused to sign.”

”You cheeky girl.” He took a sip from the thermos, then took the pen from her hand and wrote a string of numbers in the corner of the page. He handed the pen back with the nib pointed toward her. ”My phone number. If you need to ask something, call me.”

That string of numbers was written very smoothly.

Liu Fugui walked Lao Wang to the gate. He patted Lao Wang on the arm. ”Uncle Wang, go home and think it over. Maybe youʼre remembering it wrong. The writing on that paper—I canʼt conjure it out of thin air.”

Lao Wang didnʼt answer. At the gate he stopped and looked back at the weighbridge.

”That scale,” he said.

”What about the scale?” Liu Fugui asked.

Lao Wang stared for two seconds, didnʼt answer, climbed onto the three-wheeler, and straightened the handlebars. Back in the yard, the plastic sheet was still flapping, over and over.

He didnʼt speak the whole way back, keeping a tight grip on the handlebars. The road out of town was paved with old flagstones and jarred them as they went. She sat in the cargo bed, one hand steadying the wooden crate. A radish rolled inside and bumped against a cabbage.

Near the fork, he stopped.

”Well?”

”Let me compare.”

She laid the contents of her bag on the burlap: the power of attorney heʼd signed that morning; her phone, open to the photo of the document receipt list from the day before yesterday, the name heʼd written that day in the corner of the photo; the receipt sheʼd copied into her notebook, including the three characters sheʼd reproduced; and the string of numbers Liu Fugui had written in the page corner.

On a fresh page she drew a vertical line. On the left she wrote ”Liu says,” on the right ”Wang says.” She didnʼt write her own conclusions—He Xiufen had said the file must never contain what sheʼd worked out on her own.

Left: twenty-first of the twelfth month, at the counter, counted the money out to him, 4,200.

Right: twenty-first of the twelfth month, went there, door was locked, squatted all afternoon.

[Thud. Testimony Comparison, once.]

[Thud. Both accounts, on this one page.]

The old man leaned in to look. He couldnʼt make anything of it, so he just watched her face.

[Thud. First point: on the day he says he counted out the money, this notebook says the door was locked.]

She found the page in the debt notebook on her phone. ”Thereʼs a line in your notebook.”

”Which line?”

”Twenty-first of the twelfth month, went there. Door was locked.” She said, ”Your grandson wrote it.”

The old manʼs mouth opened slightly.

[Thud. Second point: the figure he gave and the figure on that paper are 1,014 apart.]

[Thud. Third point: he says the name was written by you.]

[Thud. This pair counts only once.]

She laid the three pieces out side by side.

On the far left was this morningʼs power of attorney. The three characters of the name Wang Changshun stood there, crooked. In ”Shun,” the left three strokes were set down one by one, top to bottom, and the final stroke hooked upward just a little, like a small hook. In the middle was the phone screen, the photo of the document receipt list from the day before yesterday: the same three characters, the same upward hook. On the far right was the signature line she had copied—at the time sheʼd only cared about making it look alike, but now, looking again, she saw that the name had not been written that way. The left three strokes were joined into a single downward drag, and the opening stroke had been brought up from below.

She looked for a long time.

”Well?” the old man asked.

”The ʼShunʼ on this paper wasnʼt written by you.”

”I canʼt read.”

”You donʼt need to read.” She said, ”The writing knows the person.”

He wiped his hands on his padded jacket, took the paper, held it upside down, and stared at it for a long time.

It still wasnʼt enough to take to court. She would need the original receipt for comparison, someone to do a handwriting examination, and the money to pay for it. And the original was now under Liu Fuguiʼs thermos—he wouldnʼt even let her take a photo of it.

”Little Shen.”

”Mm.”

”What if I really am old and muddled?”

”Youʼre not muddled.” She said, ”Thereʼs a date on it, a figure, and a name. The date doesnʼt line up, the figure doesnʼt line up, and the name wasnʼt written by you.”

She turned back to her notebook and wrote half a line under the vertical mark, ending it with a question mark.

Whose handwriting is this?

[Thud. The handwriting isnʼt his.]