Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 36 : The Name Shen Qian

December 19, a little after nine in the morning. Back Street behind Chengnan Station No. 1.

The mechanic at the repair shop dragged the air pump under the tarp and ran it. The rubber hose whipped across the ground, rattling in bursts. Water dripped from the tarpʼs edges, soaking a small patch of concrete.

Under the tarp were fourteen plastic stools. Nine were occupied. Six people had gone to Chengnan Cold Storage to unload goods—Deng Wei had taken them at seven in the morning. Two hundred forty a day, paid the same day. One number was still out of service. Two were still back home and hadnʼt made it back. Two had said ”let me think it over” yesterday and didnʼt show today.

She called roll from the hardcover notebook. By the time she reached the last name, all nine had answered. At a quarter to ten, Deng Wei called from the cold storage with a count: all six were there, already unloading the third truck. She wrote the numbers under the names: nine, six, one, two, two.

Lao Song sat in the folding chair with the broken backrest, his notebook open on his knee. He didnʼt count heads. He kept time.

”Two accounts came back on,” he said.

She pressed the cap onto her pen. ”Which two?”

”Lao Changʼs and Luo Chengʼs. At seven forty, Lao Chang opened his. The screen wasnʼt grayed out anymore. At eight ten, Luo Chengʼs got unbanned too.”

It went quiet under the tarp. Someone stubbed a cigarette out against a stool leg.

She walked to the east side. Lao Chang was holding his phone with both hands. The status bar on the Rider App read ”Account Status Normal.” Luo Cheng stood half a step behind him, hands in his pockets—he hadnʼt gotten on the cold-storage truck that morning. At eight ten, the moment his account lit up, he returned the work slip Deng Wei had given him and rode straight to Back Street to tell everyone.

”Which section is the unban notice under?” she asked.

Lao Chang scrolled up, then down. ”There isnʼt one,” he said. ”At seven forty I opened it, and it was just working.”

”Did anyone call you?”

”No,” Luo Cheng said. ”After that number last time, there hasnʼt been a second one.”

He took out his phone and scrolled up through the call log until he reached yesterdayʼs one minute and fifty-two seconds. Below it was blank. He held the phone up so anyone could see.

A low voice from the back row said, ”Then why just you two?”

Luo Cheng didnʼt answer. He set the phone on a plastic stool, screen up, and left it there.

Ma Jianjun came in from outside the tarp and put his electric scooter on its stand by the stove. He looked first at the phone on the stool, then at Luo Cheng.

”The accountʼs yours,” he said. ”Whether you withdrew or not, say it yourself.”

”I didnʼt withdraw.”

”All right, then.”

Lao Chang said, ”I didnʼt withdraw either. The account isnʼt even mine, so I had nothing to withdraw.”

She picked up the phone and handed it back, then turned to a fresh page in her notebook.

”Donʼt turn this onto anyone today,” she said. ”You wonʼt figure it out, and this isnʼt the place to try. What you need to record is something else—when they banned you, the reason on all twenty notices was word for word the same. When they unbanned you, there wasnʼt a single word.”

She wrote two lines:

Lao Chang (using his brother-in-lawʼs account), December 19, 7:40 a.m., status restored. No notice, no reason.

Luo Cheng (own account), December 19, 8:10 a.m., status restored. No notice, no reason.

”These two pages are the most valuable thing today,” she said. ”Both of you screenshot the screen: what time it was restored, which phone you screenshotted from, who was present. Same format as last time.”

Lao Chang immediately bent over his phone to screenshot. Luo Cheng stood there for a moment before picking his up.

Lao Song turned a page in his notebook. ”Ban twenty, and you make people hate him. Unban two, and you make people watch each other.”

She copied that line down too. Outside the tarp, someone was drying gloves over the stove, and the smell of scorching drifted over.

The convenience store downstairs from Hengzheng sat at the corner of the office building. A ”Hot Drinks” sticker on the glass door was curling at the edges. When she pushed the door open, warm air and the smell of oden hit her together.

She had arrived at 2:53 and stood by the pot without sitting.

At exactly three, the door opened. Lu Jibai came in and went to the counter first.

”Coffee.”

”Sugar?”

”No.”

The clerk handed him a paper cup. He carried it to the row of high stools by the window and sat down. He placed a kraft document envelope on the counter and pushed it halfway toward her side.

She didnʼt sit. She took the envelope and pulled out the page inside.

Single-sided, one page. ”Duplicate Copy” was printed in the bottom right corner.

The title was ”Application for Separate Handling and Preliminary Review of Subject Qualification.” The requested relief had two items: one, that the claims of these twenty applicants be filed and heard separately; two, that before examining the employment relationships between each applicant and each respondent, the tribunal first examine whether the twenty applicants jointly raised their claims based on the same facts.

She read it line by line, then set the page back on the counter.

”When will I receive this?”

”Tomorrow.”

”Then what does giving it to me today count as?”

”A day.”

She looked at him.

”This page is for the Arbitration Office, not for me.”

”I know.”

”What are you trying to do?”

He turned the paper cup half a circle. ”This page doesnʼt ask whether they ever ran out on orders. It asks what gives them the right to stand here together.”

”Separate handling—twenty people become twenty cases.” She said, ”Your side has no shortage of lawyers. On our side, thereʼs only me. One person canʼt hold out into a second month. Twenty people might last seven days. Youʼve done that math, and so have I.”

”This page wonʼt win the case,” he said. ”Itʼs meant to split you apart. Winning or losing comes later.”

The clerk fished a piece of radish out of the pot with long chopsticks. Steam rose. She stood by the pot and said nothing.

”At the hearing, how does your side plan to deal with the evidence?” she asked.

”Iʼll only speak to the one piece on my end that holds up.”

”Which piece?”

”Find it yourself.” He raised his eyes to her. ”If I say it first, youʼll only need to remember one line.”

”Is the piece you mean that ʼthose three forms arenʼt originalsʼ?”

He didnʼt answer. He took a sip of coffee.

”Two accounts got unbanned today,” she said, shifting. ”Lao Changʼs and Luo Chengʼs.”

”I know.”

”Who did it?”

”Thatʼs not for me to answer.”

”Yesterday you said you couldnʼt answer.”

”Yesterday it was that I couldnʼt answer,” he said. ”Today itʼs that someone wonʼt let me answer.”

”You shouldnʼt have come.”

”I know.” He pushed the page back toward her. ”Your twenty filings say there was ʼa common fact of unpaid wages.ʼ This page asks ʼwhy together?ʼ Those arenʼt the same thing.”

”Iʼll fix it,” she said.

”Mm.”

She pressed her hand to the edge of the page. After a while, she sat down—on the same row of high stools, two empty seats away.

”You said it has to do with my father.”

”Mm.”

”The name Shen Qian is in the judgment. Itʼs on the Bar Association roster. You could find it with one search.” She said, ”Why say it to my face?”

He set the cup down.

”His name hangs on a wall on Hengzhengʼs first floor. Nine years, and no oneʼs taken it down,” he said. ”I walk under it every day.”

”Heʼs not the only name hanging there.”

”No, he isnʼt.”

”Then why mention him alone?”

”Because of this page,” he said. ”It asks what gives them the right to stand here together. Your father was hit with that exact kind of question once.”

”Which time?”

”The part he had—he thought it was enough.”

”Who decides whether it was enough?”

”The one who decides isnʼt at this table,” he said. ”The schedule is out.”

”Which day?”

”Youʼll receive it today.”

The oden pot was still bubbling. She looked at him.

”Finish the half you left out.”

He stood and tossed the cup into the trash by the door.

”Your father also thought evidence would speak for itself,” he said. ”It wonʼt.”

”Then who will?”

He walked to the door and put his hand on the glass handle.

”Shen Qian,” he said. ”Donʼt put that name into your complaint yet.”

The door opened. The bell above it rang once, and cold air poured in.

[Thud. Thereʼs no such name in the ledger.]

[Thud. The question isnʼt whether he recognizes him. Itʼs why heʼs saying it now.]

She stood alone for a while, slipped the page back into the envelope exactly as before, and held it to her chest. When she left, the ”Hot Drinks” sticker was snapping against the glass.

Back at the noodle shop, two of the three tables downstairs were occupied. He Xiufen stood at the stove, shaking out a rag and draping it over the edge of the pot.

She sat on the little stool by the stairs and first recounted the morning: two accounts unbanned, no notice, no reason. Even customer service couldnʼt name who had approved it.

”If they could lift two individually, someone is making choices,” He Xiufen said. ”What did that record from yesterday say?”

”Based on platform rules, system determination, and feedback to the platform.”

”A system doesnʼt pick people.” He Xiufen turned the flame down. ”Today it picked two. The hand that picked them showed itself once today. Keep those two screenshots. Put them in line with that record.”

”Already kept.”

She paused, then told her about the afternoon: the page, the phrase ”separate handling,” the line ”those arenʼt the same thing.”

He Xiufen listened, then dropped the lid onto the pot. ”He gave it to you one day early. You still have time to revise the materials. You owe him for that.”

”Mm.”

”Thereʼs more.”

”He said itʼs connected to my father,” she said. ”He said my dadʼs name is hanging on a wall on Hengzhengʼs first floor, and he passes it every day.”

He Xiufen didnʼt answer that. She shut off the burner and turned to look at her.

”When did he say it?”

”As he was leaving.”

”Said it and left?”

”Mm.”

”Then he didnʼt answer.”

”Why did he bring up my dad alone?”

”What does it matter whether he knows your father or not?” He Xiufen said. ”What matters is that he chose this moment to say it. If he wanted people to know youʼre Shen Qianʼs daughter, he wouldʼve said it in front of two or more people. He chose to say it in a convenience store, to you alone. Thatʼs handing something to you. Donʼt be in a hurry to pick it up.”

Someone at the stairway called her name. The voice-activated light flicked on, then off. She went downstairs. A courier stood at the door holding a kraft envelope. The sender line read: Jiangzhou Municipal Labor Dispute Arbitration Institution.

Back upstairs, she opened it. Inside was a Hearing Notice.

Case: Labor Remuneration Dispute. Applicants: Ma Jianjun and twenty others. Respondents: three companies, all named. Hearing time: December 26, 9:00 a.m. Location: Third Arbitration Tribunal. Below, a line of small print: All joint applicants must appear in person; the representative must bring the original Representative Nomination Letter.

She placed the notice at the corner of the desk, then pulled out a sticky note and copied the half sentence word for word—Your father also thought evidence would speak for itself. When she finished, she placed the note together with the hearing notice and pressed them down on top of the twenty powers of attorney at the very top of the case file.

He Xiufen carried in a bowl of noodles and glanced at the stack of papers.

”The twenty-sixth.”

”Mm.”

”Seven days.” He Xiufen set the bowl at the corner of the desk. ”Long enough for you to call those twenty names three times.”

”It is.”

”Eat,” she said. ”Seven days. Donʼt wear yourself out before then.”

She picked up her chopsticks. The noodles had already gone mushy, but she still ate them, bite by bite, until the bowl was empty.