Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 22 : The Twenty-Eighth Trip

When the oil in the noodle shop downstairs started crackling, she dialed Old Zhouʼs number. The first call went unanswered.

The second call rang seven times before the other end picked up with a ”Hello?”—roosters crowing in the background.

”Master Zhou, itʼs Little Shen. Come by the firm this morning. Liu Fuguiʼs coming too.”

The line went quiet for a moment, like someone had kicked a plastic bucket.

”Coming,” Old Zhou said. ”First bus. Iʼll be there at nine thirty.”

”Iʼll save you a bowl of noodles.”

”Donʼt put noodles on for me,” he said. ”Iʼll bring my own steamed buns.” After two seconds he added, ”Iʼm not after anything. I just want to say what I saw.”

The call ended. She went downstairs. He Xiufen was rolling dough on the worktable, the sheet turning in her hands, flour dusted across it. The roll-up door was only half open, raised to waist height, and the wind came in underneath.

”Got him to come.”

”Mm.” He Xiufen folded the dough. ”At the table today, ask him three things: how many baskets went onto the scale that day; who tore those six pages out of the weighing room register; and whose hand wrote that receipt. Donʼt ask anything else.”

”What if he wonʼt admit it?”

”Then he wonʼt admit it.” The knife split the folded dough in two with one cut. ”Lay out the evidence. Once heʼs sitting at this table, the one hanging his head will be him, not you.”

”Are you going to ask?”

”Iʼm not asking questions,” He Xiufen said. ”If heʼs willing to back down, Iʼll give him a step to come down on. If he pushes forward, thereʼs no step here.”

At quarter to eight, the phone rang again. It was Guo Jianguo.

”Girl, are you coming this morning?”

”Two this afternoon. Iʼll bring our director,” she said. ”Is the form still on the wall?”

”Yes,” the old man said. ”I went up first thing this morning and checked. Didnʼt let anyone touch it. The contractʼs in my pocket.”

At exactly nine, someone came up the stairs: a quilted vest over a plaid shirt, a ring of keys jingling at his neck, a thermos in one hand and a kraft paper bag tucked under his arm.

”Director He.” Liu Fugui smiled first. ”So youʼre still running a noodle shop here.”

”The firm earns its money; the noodles earn theirs.” He Xiufen pointed to the chair across from her. ”Sit.”

He sat, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip. She cleared off her table and laid out four items one by one: the page numbers copied from the register into her notebook, along with the traced shape of the torn edge; the original weighing slip; the full text of the receipt she had copied, including the three characters traced from it; and at the edge, held down by the six-word note he had written in his own hand last time—Account settled, with proof.

Liu Fuguiʼs eyes stopped on those six words, and the smile on his face faded halfway.

”Lao Wangʼs business—last time, we already went over it.” He capped his cup. ”Heʼs remembering wrong. At sixty-seven, if you try to count dates with him, youʼll never get them straight.”

”Today weʼre not counting on memory,” she said. ”Three things.”

”Go on.”

”First thing. October 10 through 15, six pages were torn out of that register in the weighing room. Thereʼs still half of a ʼ10ʼ left at the torn edge.” She pushed the tracing of the torn edge toward him. ”You said there were dozens of entries a day, eight lines per page. If those six pages are empty, then whereʼs the grain you took in during those two weeks?”

Liu Fugui tapped his fingers on the edge of the paper. ”The register was looked after by people in the house. It got torn and ragged. Who knows.”

”Second thing. When Old Zhou left, he handed that bundle of carbon copies from behind the cabinet directly to you. Last time, you said you borrowed them to make copies.”

”I made copies. Theyʼre in my cabinet,” he said. ”Iʼve been busy and havenʼt returned them.”

”Third thing.” She turned the weighing slip around and pointed to the scratch mark. ”The writing on this paper and the writing on that receipt came from the same hand. Neither was my clientʼs.”

Liu Fugui leaned back. The chair legs groaned.

”Handwriting.” He laughed. ”You people talk about handwriting. I donʼt know handwriting. If you say that wasnʼt Lao Wangʼs hand, fine—go say it in court. If the court accepts it, Iʼll accept it. Isnʼt that right, Director He?”

He Xiufen said nothing.

”Let me say one more thing.” Liu Fugui unscrewed the cap and screwed it back on. ”What exactly are you? Youʼre not a lawyer. If you collect money on his behalf, whose is it when you get it?”

”The power of attorney is signed with Director Heʼs name,” she said. ”Iʼm the one who runs the errands.”

”A runner.” He nodded. ”Then letʼs settle your running fee today.”

Footsteps came up the stairs, not fast, stopping at every step, mud on the soles. When Wang Changshun came up, he first scraped his shoes on the doormat. Seeing people in the room, he didnʼt come any farther. He held his cap in his hand and sat on the little stool against the wall.

Liu Fugui glanced at him. ”Good timing. Lao Wang, think about it yourself—arenʼt you remembering it all wrong?”

”Iʼm not confused,” Lao Wang said.

”Sixty-seven years old.” Liu Fugui unscrewed his cup. ”A year, two years—I can wait right along with you.”

Downstairs, the stove suddenly sputtered, like water hitting hot oil. Another set of footsteps came up the stairs, heavier this time, one deliberate step after another. Old Zhou scraped his shoes at the door for a long while before coming in. A blue padded jacket, the cuffs shiny with grease, and in his hand a cloth bag holding half a steamed bun.

”Which oneʼs Fugui?” he asked.

Liu Fuguiʼs hand went still on his cup.

”Uncle Zhou.”

”I came to get a look at the man.” Old Zhou sat in the chair by the door, set his cloth bag on his knees, and sat crooked, not fully upright. ”That day, I was the one watching the scale.”

The room went quiet for a moment.

”What I counted was the baskets going onto the scale,” he said. ”Seventy-three baskets. I scratched marks in the doorframe with my fingernail. Seventy-three marks.”

[Thud. Seventy-three baskets. Today, a second person has counted.]

”Then that young fellow wrote the slips. Every time a basket went up, the sole of his shoe would press against the side of the scale platform.”

”I said, ʼThe scaleʼs off.ʼ You answered me: ʼYouʼre seeing things.ʼ”

Liu Fugui set his cup on the table. ”Uncle Zhou, how old are you?”

”Maybe my eyes are bad.” Old Zhou nodded. ”Then after New Yearʼs, why did you take back my keys?”

Liu Fugui didnʼt answer.

”I handed those carbon copies to you bundle by bundle.” Old Zhou pressed his cloth bag. ”I said, keep these papers safe. Where are they now?”

”At home.”

”Bring them.”

”Didnʼt bring them today.”

”As for court,” Old Zhou said, ”if you say go, Iʼll go.”

[Thud. The hand that wrote that receipt—someone has identified it.]

Only then did He Xiufen speak, and not loudly. ”Fugui, I donʼt set traps for people here. If you bring out the money today, this matter dies on this table—once you walk out that door, I wonʼt mention it to anyone. If you donʼt, we file the complaint tomorrow, and Iʼll front the money for the handwriting appraisal.”

”Those six pages—if you didnʼt tear them out, then produce them. If you canʼt, then you know better than I do whoʼll be blamed for whatʼs missing from them.”

Liu Fugui pulled a cigarette from his pocket and turned it half a circle between his fingers. He didnʼt light it.

”How much do you want?”

”Five thousand two hundred fourteen.”

”Where did that number come from?”

”From your own mouth. Net weight 4,740 jin, at 1.1 per jin.” She flipped to that page in her notebook and held it flat. ”The slip originally had 5,140 written on it, then it was crossed out and changed lower. I wonʼt hold that change against you today. Iʼll calculate based on the number you yourself gave.”

”I gave forty-two hundred.”

”To whom?” She pushed the copied page forward and pressed her finger on the three-character signature. ”This writing is not Lao Wangʼs hand. Today, bring the person who wrote it here, and Iʼll ask him face-to-face: when was the money handed to him?”

Liu Fugui stared at those three characters for a long time.

”That was written by my nephew,” he said. ”Here, my accounts and receipts all go through his hand. That day Lao Wang didnʼt come, so I wrote one up ahead of time and set it aside.”

”The money wasnʼt paid, the man wasnʼt there, and the receipt was already written.” She said. ”What kind of accounting is that?”

”Maybe I held back a little.” He suddenly relaxed, leaning back in his chair. ”A whole cart of corn, seventy-some baskets—everyone holds some back. Donʼt keep picking at that one sentence.”

”Iʼm not picking at it,” she said. ”Iʼll take these six pages and this receipt and lay them where they belong, and let whoever holds the measuring stick do the picking.”

He Xiufen got up and went downstairs, then brought up two bowls of noodles. She set one by Lao Wangʼs hand and one by Old Zhouʼs hand, chopped scallions floating on the broth. Old Zhou lifted the bowl and took a sip of soup, then tucked the steamed bun back into his cloth bag.

”I donʼt have that much cash on hand,” Liu Fugui said. ”The grain money wonʼt come back until before New Yearʼs.”

”How much do you have?”

He went downstairs once, and when he came back he spread the kraft paper bag on the table, pulled out a bundle of cash, counted off a stack of twelve hundred, and pushed it over.

He Xiufen reached out and pushed the money back. ”Iʼm not taking half.”

Liu Fugui glanced at her, knocked his lighter against the table, and counted again. This time he counted slowly, once, then again: twenty-six hundred-yuan notes on top, seven one-yuan notes underneath, all laid flat.

[Thud. Twelve hundred canʼt offset those six pages.]

”Twenty-six hundred and seven,” he said. ”The remaining half, before December tenth.”

”That settlement receipt—did you bring it?” He Xiufen asked.

”No.”

”Bring it the day you deliver the money. Cross it out in front of Lao Wang and sign it.”

”All right.”

He Xiufen took two sheets of paper from the drawer and spread them out. She wrote accordingly: both parties determine that for the corn consignment payment from October 11 three years ago, the amount is fixed at 5,214 yuan; 2,607 yuan has been paid; the remaining 2,607 yuan is to be paid in full before December 10. The original ”Account Settled” receipt is to be returned by Liu Fugui and voided upon payment.

When she finished, she read it aloud to Lao Wang, swapping ”fixed amount” and ”remaining balance” into words he would understand: the agreed price was 1.1 per jin, so with the weight, the total, how much heʼd receive today, and how much was still owed.

”Did you hear it clearly?”

”I heard it clear,” Lao Wang said. ”I understand.”

He pressed a thumbprint onto each sheet, then traced his name stroke by stroke. When he wrote the ”Shun” of his name, the three strokes on the left went down with a little halt in each one, and the last stroke flicked upward, like it had left a little hook.

Liu Fugui signed too, quickly. The final stroke swept all the way down.

When the money was pushed over, Lao Wang wiped both hands on his knees before reaching out. He didnʼt count it. He grabbed it in one fist, stuffed it into the inner pocket of his padded coat, and pressed it twice with his hand.

Then he bent down and pulled the half-used exercise book from his woven plastic sack.

”Little Shen.” He turned to the last line. ”This trip—you write it down for me.”

She took it. The notebook had twenty-seven lines, the handwriting crooked, strokes often poking past their place. Some lines had been written for him by other people. She pulled out a pen and wrote below them: November 29, arrived. Received 2,607. Still owed 2,607.

When she finished, she pushed it back. Lao Wang lowered his head to look at that line, though he couldnʼt see it, and just placed his hand on the paper.

His eyes reddened. He didnʼt make a sound. He wiped them once with the back of his hand, then put his cap back on with the brim pulled low.

Liu Fugui rolled up the paper bag and tucked it under his arm. At the top of the stairs, he turned back.

”Uncle Zhou,” he said. ”Youʼre seventy-three this year, arenʼt you?”

Old Zhou didnʼt look up. He put the little piece of steamed bun in his mouth and chewed slowly.

[Thud. Half received. The case is not settled.]

She folded that half sheet of paper and pressed it under the ledger on the table. The number on the paper was 2,607. The other 2,607 was still tucked away in someone elseʼs pocket.

After that line in the notebook, she added three words: Watch him closely.