Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 61 : The Money Has Reached the Court

”Iʼve drafted a plan. First, let me show you the numbers.”

Liao Hong pushed the sheet out from under the edge of his desk, his finger still pinning the corner of the paper. A4, two sections. The top section had one printed line: Distributable Amount: 22,168 yuan. The bottom section had two names, with blank spaces after each.

”Until you submit your position, Iʼm not putting anything in writing,” he said.

She laid her hardcover notebook on the desk. ”What did Lawyer Qiu submit?”

”Yesterday morning at ten. An Application to Participate in Distribution, with one opinion.” Liao Hong pulled a page from the file. ”He wants a proportional share.”

The page was written with scrupulous politeness: Zhou Defaʼs case involved a claim of 113,000 yuan plus delayed-payment interest, both being ordinary monetary claims, and he requested proportional payment from the frozen funds under Wang Deshanʼs name. The last line added: of which 78,000 yuan was money heʼd advanced for workersʼ wages—by nature, also labor remuneration.

She worked the numbers in the margin of her notebook. 19,800 divided by the two claims combined, 132,800, times 22,168—3,300.

Last month on the steps, the figure Lawyer Qiu had quoted for Zhou Defa was 2,900, when the account had 19,040 frozen in it. In the ten-odd days since, the account had grown by over two thousand, and the increase also got divided proportionally. Her share came to 3,300.

Between 3,300 and 19,800, the gap was 16,500.

”Iʼll draft my position,” she said.

”Write it.” Liao Hong clicked his stapler. ”Once itʼs written, three oʼclock this afternoon, the side room. Heʼll be here too.”

She put three points in her notebook:

One: The judgmentʼs main text reads ”unpaid labor remuneration.” In enforcement, this category comes before ordinary monetary claims.

Two: This account was frozen on April 19, with the seizure registration completed first. Zhou Defaʼs case only applied for a rotating freeze on May 22.

Three: For Zhouʼs case to claim distribution of funds under Wang Deshanʼs name, he still doesnʼt hold a single effective document bearing Wang Deshanʼs name.

The first point Liao Hong himself had said. The second was a date from her notebook. The third was his own words from the counter two days ago. None of the three were things sheʼd made up.

Three oʼclock in the afternoon, the side conference room.

Two long tables pushed together end to end. Lawyer Qiu sat at one end, she at the other. Lawyer Qiu came through the door first, with one more person trailing behind him.

The man was in his fifties, stooped. He reached for the armrest of a chair before easing himself down slowly. The cuffs of his jacket were frayed, and the creases of his fingers were stained with black that wouldnʼt wash out. He set a plastic bag on the table—inside, a worn old notebook, its corners curled as if it had been opened a hundred times.

Zhou Defa. The name behind those 113,000 yuan, now sitting across from her for the first time.

Lawyer Qiu spread out his materials: a termination-of-enforcement ruling, the judgment, and a stack of receipt slips with thumbprints pressed on them. She handed over her one-page position, three points, single sheet.

Liao Hong read it aloud from beginning to end, then laid both case files side by side.

”The two sums are different in kind,” he said. ”The papers in the Zhou case spell out a debt and interest. The papers in Shen Zhixiaʼs case spell out unpaid labor remuneration. In enforcement, unpaid labor remuneration takes priority over ordinary monetary claims.”

”That 78,000 was wages too,” Lawyer Qiu said. ”Money he took from his own family that year to pay the twenty-odd workers under him.”

”Is that what it says on paper?” she asked.

Lawyer Qiu didnʼt answer that. He flipped her page over and studied the back, as if a fourth point might appear there.

”What you advanced was your own money,” she said. ”The judgment in your case says Hengtong owes you a sum of money. My twenty lines here—each one is one workerʼs own hours of labor. Both are blood-and-sweat money, but on this page, they only rank by whatʼs written.”

”Itʼs all money.” Lawyer Qiu pressed the cap onto his pen.

”Mm. Not in the same column.”

Liao Hong picked up the second point: ”For the Zhou case to participate in distribution of the funds under Wang Deshanʼs name, he first needs an effective document with Wang Deshanʼs name on it. The joinder application he submitted the day before yesterday is still under review. Until itʼs approved, this account is not open to his case.”

”Iʼll wait.” Lawyer Qiu nodded. ”Itʼs not the first time Iʼve waited.”

”You wait, and Iʼll follow procedure.” Liao Hong picked up his pen and filled in the plan. After the first line he wrote: Ma Jianjun and nineteen others, 19,800 yuan. After the second: Remaining balance and all future daily deposits, continued freeze, handled in a separate matter.

”That 3,300 under proportional distribution—do I object?” Lawyer Qiu asked, then answered himself. ”No, I donʼt.”

He pushed the plan over to her side. ”Sign it. Once you sign, what youʼve said today is on paper.”

She signed. Before sheʼd even set the pen down, Zhou Defa reached across and pulled away the two pages of the judgment schedule sheʼd left open on the table.

He didnʼt look at the numbers, only the names. His index finger moved down line by line, lips moving, no sound. At the nineteenth name, his finger paused, then continued.

”Twenty.” He pushed the two pages back, then pulled the old notebook from his plastic bag and opened it to a page, laying it in front of her. A page dense with twenty-odd names, the strokes soft, each name stamped below with a fingerprint—the prints much heavier than the names.

”That year, when I paid my workers, I had them press their thumbs the same way,” he said. ”In my notebook—twenty-three.”

”Old Zhou.” Lawyer Qiuʼs voice was a warning.

Zhou Defa closed the notebook, drew his hand back to rest on the back of the chair, and looked out the window at the bare tree.

Out in the corridor, a fluorescent light flickered. Zhou Defa walked ahead and stopped at the stairwell, turning back.

”That account. Who found it for you?”

”The court sent the inquiry.” Lawyer Qiu got there first. ”Once a case enters the file, itʼs not a secret.”

Zhou Defa looked at her. The look didnʼt linger. She stood still.

”Oh,” he said, and started down the stairs, gripping the railing, one step at a time, very slowly.

Lawyer Qiu stayed behind. Only when the footsteps had faded down to the second floor did he speak: ”He didnʼt ask twice.”

She said, ”Does what you said still hold?”

”It holds.” He shifted the canvas document bag to his other hand. ”Heʼs not fixated on you as a person. If he ever does fixate on you, heʼll spend the rest of his life sleeping next to that account. You leave him his clean slate; he leaves you your peace.”

”Then what are you going to tell him?”

”Iʼll say I found the account myself.” He descended two steps, then looked back. ”Lawyer Shen, you moved fast this time. When my application gets approved, I wonʼt be so polite.”

June 5, 10:20 a.m., Window No. 3.

Liao Hong turned the screen partway toward her. A new line had been added to the case fund ledger:

June 5, 10:20 · Deposit · 19,800.00 · Settlement payment from Jiangzhou Hengtong Delivery Service Co., Ltd. acquiring merchant ID (assisted deduction)

Followed by a string of numbers. Nineteen thousand eight hundred yuan, exactly. The number sheʼd run through her mind so many times, now printed on the courtʼs ledger—a round figure, no cents, no decimal.

[Thud. Case funds received: 19,800 yuan, entered into this courtʼs enforcement fund account.]

[Thud. The money is in the courtʼs account. The people havenʼt received it yet. The case stays open.]

[Thud. First line of the Unsettled Ledger, another half entry written.]

”The assisted deduction notice went out yesterday morning.” Liao Hong pulled the confirmation letter out to show her. The payment companyʼs page carried a fresh official seal. ”They deducted what was in the account. After the deduction, 4,323 remains.”

4,323. On the thirty-first it had been 22,168, and it had kept growing. She ran it through her head: 391 a day, five days made 1,955, added in came to 24,123. Minus the 19,800 transferred out, leaving 4,323. The numbers matched.

”What about the Zhou case?”

”The plan was served on him. He didnʼt raise an objection.” Liao Hong put the confirmation back into the file. ”That 4,000-plus, together with the daily deposits going forward, stays frozen until his joinder application is processed.”

He pulled a blank form from the drawer and pushed it across. The header read six characters: Enforcement Fund Refund List.

Below, twenty rows, five columns each: Name, ID Number, Bank, Bank Card Number, Signature.

”Money arriving in the account and money reaching peopleʼs hands—two separate steps,” Liao Hong said. ”Disbursements go out in batches, next weekʼs batch. The list has to be complete, the people have to be here, the cards have to match—only then does the money walk out that door.”

”The cards have to be in their own names.”

”In their own names.” He pressed the cap onto his pen. ”Name doesnʼt match, card doesnʼt match, the money gets returned and the process starts over. The funds stay in the account the whole time—nobody can touch them. Including you.”

Six in the evening, upstairs at the Zhengping Firm.

He Xiufen came up carrying two bowls—one of noodles, one of soup. She used her elbow to shove the stack of files to one side of the desk, clearing half the table, and spread the refund list flat on the glass top.

”Draw twenty boxes,” she said. ”One box, one person.”

Shen Zhixia posted in the rider group: The money is in the courtʼs account. Now I need card numbers. When you send yours, write clearly: name, bank, and the card must be in your own name.

Deng Wei replied first—a string of numbers, followed by ”Iʼll keep count of the twenty. Donʼt call them one by one.”

Luo Cheng sent a photo of his card with one digit covered by his own finger. Xiao Duan asked why he was covering it. His reply: My wife knows the PIN for this card.

Nineteen entries. She verified them one by one: name, bank, card number. When she reached the nineteenth, she flipped her phone over to check the group chat.

The last message was a voice memo from Lao Chang, forty-seven seconds long.

She played it. Heavy wind; he was probably still on his bike.

”Lawyer Shen, that card... I canceled it last year. When my account got banned, I was afraid theyʼd pull money off my card, so I canceled it. This past year all my moneyʼs been cash, hand to hand. A new card means I have to go to the bank in person, and it takes ten-plus days from application to issuance. I canʼt take half a month off right now.” He paused. ”Can you send it to my wifeʼs account instead?”

She listened, then set the phone down. The last line of the refund list was still blank. In the name column, two black characters: Lao Chang.

He Xiufen nudged the soup bowl toward her.

”Money sitting in the courtʼs account looks the safest, but itʼs actually the most crowded,” she said. ”Twenty people, twenty cards, twenty signatures. One missing piece, and the door wonʼt open. What you transferred in was money; what you have to send out is paperwork.”

”Putting it in his wifeʼs name—would that work?” She repeated the question aloud.

”No.” He Xiufen draped her rag over the back of the chair. ”The person receiving the funds is him. The card is his wifeʼs. The two columns wonʼt match. The court goes by the twenty names on that paper. Whose name comes up, whose card has to match.”

”June 12,” Shen Zhixia said.

”Right. His fifteen days runs out on June 12.” He Xiufen said, ”He could file an appeal now, and the second-instance court would schedule hearings. But this sum of yours is already out of his hands. All heʼs got left is waiting to see when your last twenty cards get filled in.”

On the last page of her notebook, she wrote: June 12. Below it, another line—Refund list, twenty rows. Nineteenth row complete. Twentieth row blank.

Another message popped up in the group, from Lao Chang, @-ing Deng Wei: My cardʼs canceled. Can the money go to my wifeʼs account?

Below it, a row of voice message bars. Nobody played them.

She copied the last line of the list onto a separate sheet and slid it under the form. First thing tomorrow morning: go and ask, with the card number blank, if the person shows up—does the court accept the money going through.