Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 62 : Chengnan Station No. 1

June 12, 10:00 a.m. Window No. 3, Enforcement Affairs Center.

”Appeal papers donʼt come through me.” Liao Hong nudged the stapler to the corner of his desk. ”They go to the trial division. You want to ask, second floor.”

”Todayʼs the last day.”

”I know itʼs the last day.” He shifted the stack of blank notice forms aside. ”Iʼll ask around before close this afternoon.”

She didnʼt go upstairs. Instead she spread the checklist on the counter and read it again: twenty rows, five columns—name, ID number, bank, account number, personal signature. The first nineteen account numbers, checked three times last night. The twentieth row, first column, was printed with ”Lao Chang.” The next three columns were blank.

”The money from both orders has hit the account.” Liao Hong said. ”First installment, twenty-five thousand, came in May sixth. Second installment, June fifth. Enforcement fee was taken out first, standard procedure. The rest gets divided line by line according to the wage arrears in the judgmentʼs schedule. The details page goes with the checklist.”

”That Wang Yuhai case—”

”First-instance judgment. Todayʼs the last day.” He slipped the payment companyʼs reply back into the file. ”If he wants to go up, thatʼs a different door. The money in this account is out of his reach now. Four thousand three hundred twenty-three still in there, plus whatever comes in daily—all frozen, waiting for that joinder ruling on Zhou Defa.”

”Moneyʼs one thing. Whether heʼs on this list or not, it doesnʼt affect todayʼs payout.”

”Doesnʼt affect it.” Liao Hong nodded. ”Iʼve reported the batch. Next Monday, 9:00 a.m., first-floor lobby. People show up, cards show up, this page is complete.”

At noon she crossed the street and went into the bank across the way. Took a number, waited, sat down at the counter, and asked one question: if a person brings their ID to open a savings card, can they get the card today.

The teller said yes. Card issued on the spot, account number printed then and there.

The sun was hard when she came out. She called Lao Chang. It rang seven times before he picked up. Wind and traffic on his end.

”Chang Shifu, Monday, nine oʼclock, first floor of the courthouse for the payout. Tomorrow morning, seven-thirty, line up at the bank. Bring your ID. Open a card in your own name. Come straight over when itʼs done.”

Two seconds of silence on his end.

”Half a day not running, thatʼs one eighty.”

”Whatʼs going onto this card is more than one eighty.”

”Fine,” he said. ”Seven-thirty. Iʼll be there.”

At 4:50 p.m., she stood outside the second-floor trial division window. The clerk behind it flipped through the register beside him, looked up, and told her: no materials had come in for this case today.

Five oʼclock sharp. The iron gate at the top of the stairs came halfway down.

She stood on the steps and opened her notebook. Under the June 12 line she added: Appeal period expired, no appeal materials at trial division. When she finished writing, she pulled the refund list from its folder and looked at that last blank row, standing there for a while.

June 15, Monday, 8:40 a.m. First-floor lobby, Jiangzhou Municipal Court Enforcement Affairs Center.

Two long tables set against the wall. Liao Hong and a clerk sat behind them. On the tables: two ink pads, three pens, a binding machine. A red velvet rope ran in front, separating people from the tables.

She stood outside the rope.

Nine oʼclock. They started calling names. Deng Wei was first. He set his ID and card side by side on the desktop, gave his name, and wrote fast. The clerk read the last four digits of the account number. He nodded. Pressed his thumb to the ink pad, stamped it after his signature, and wiped his fingers twice on his pant seam as he straightened up.

Second was Luo Cheng. He pulled out his phone and took a picture of the list.

”No photos,” the clerk said.

”Iʼm just taking my own row.” He put the phone away. ”For my records.”

One by one. She checked people off outside, marking rows on the list in her hand. Some showed up with the reflective strip of their work uniform sticking out from under their jackets. Some came in pajamas, slippers dragging across the tile. Theyʼd all seen the numbers on the schedule—calculated from each personʼs hours—and each of them knew whether their number was big or small, and whether it was fair.

Eleventh was Ma Jianjun. A reflective vest over a dark-blue T-shirt. He took his ID from the vestʼs inner pocket; the corners were worn soft. He laid it on the desktop, next to his card. He said his name loud, and stood straighter after. The clerk read the last four digits. He said, ”Correct.” Thumb to ink pad, signature done in one stroke—no hesitation, no pause.

He didnʼt head for the door when he finished. He stood beside her, watching the rest of them go in.

”Not rushing back to haul freight?”

”Whatʼs the rush.” He tucked the ID back into that pocket. ”Iʼm standing here watching. I donʼt leave until the last nameʼs signed.”

When Xiao Duan finished, he came over to her holding his receipt, voice low: ”Shen Lushi, my accountʼs still banned. That half year plus of lost work—”

”Thatʼs not on this paper,” she said. ”This paper is for what you ran and didnʼt get paid. The ban is a separate calculation.”

”So when do we calculate it.”

”Itʼs not lost.” She rolled up the list. ”Go pay this monthʼs rent first.”

He laughed a little, folded the receipt, and tucked it into his jacketʼs inner pocket.

The nineteenth person finished. The wall clock read 9:50. She was the only one left outside the rope. Both hands rested on the red velvet rope; it was slack, and she just let her hands sit there, no pulling. The checklist on the table, row twenty, still blank.

She walked to the door to look. A row of electric scooters parked below the steps, locked up every which way. At 9:55, a man in a gray jacket jogged across from the other side of the road, hair blown upright by the wind, a paper bank envelope gripped in his hand.

Lao Chang. He reached the door and stopped to catch his breath, holding the envelope up to show her first: ”Got it. I was there at seven-thirty this morning. First in line.”

”Go in,” she said.

He slid the card out of the envelope, the plastic still cool from its wrapper. He put the card on the table, ID next to it. The clerk asked for his account number. He couldnʼt recite it; he just pushed the card forward half an inch.

In the signature box, he wrote stroke by stroke—three characters, very slow, and the last stroke held. Thumb to ink pad, the print landing after his name, heavier than the name.

Twenty rows. Complete.

The clerk squared the list and pressed the binding machine down with a click. Liao Hong picked it up to count the rows, flipped a page to verify, and nodded.

”Money goes out this afternoon,” he said to her. ”Fast ones arrive today, slow ones tomorrow or the day after. People showed, cards showed, signatures showed—Iʼll make you a copy of this page.”

”Twenty rows.” She counted again.

”Twenty rows,” he said.

”What about Wang Deshanʼs side?”

”Went through the passbook—that was the companyʼs collection. The line under his own name is still open, not closed.” Liao Hong shut the case file. ”His daughter-in-law called last week. Same question: is it over yet. I told her, not for a while.”

She wrote those three words in her notebook, after the line under June 12.

Lao Chang stood nearby, not leaving yet, still holding the empty envelope. He asked, ”Shen Lushi, the account number was empty, the person showed up, this money—”

”Itʼs there,” she said. ”Your rowʼs been filled in.”

He folded the empty envelope and tucked it into his pocket. At the door he turned back: ”The teller asked what the card was for. I said collecting wages. He had me write three words on the form—ʼfor wage collection.ʼ I thought itʼd take ten days or so. He said itʼs same-day.”

At 3:40 p.m., her phone started going off.

The first was a screenshot Deng Wei posted in the group chat: a bank deposit notification, the amount blurred out. Then the second, the third. By five oʼclock, nineteen screenshots had lit up from twenty accounts in the group. The last one was Lao Changʼs: he was standing in front of an ATM, the screenʼs text huge in the photo, the whole picture tilted.

Six in the evening. The noodle house below the Zhengping Firm.

He Xiufen carried two stools down from upstairs and said tonight was on the firm—one bowl of noodles per person, with an extra braised egg. The dining room filled up. The range hood hummed. The smell of scallion oil pushed out through the doorway.

Ma Jianjun arrived last. He didnʼt touch his chopsticks first. From the vestʼs inner pocket he took a stack of cash and set it on the table, straightening it, counting bill by bill. Counted once through, squared the edges with his thumb, counted again. Halfway through the third count he stopped, looked around the room, and pushed the stack to the corner of the table.

”This money, I can hold onto it,” he said.

Then he reached into the pocket again—the four-times-folded copy of the judgment. The paper was fraying, one fold line close to splitting. He Xiufen took it, ran two strips of clear tape along the fold, pressed it flat with her palm, and handed it back. He refolded it into quarters, tucked it back into the vestʼs inner pocket, and pressed his hand once over the pocket opening.

Luo Cheng transferred seven hundred twenty from his account on his phone, then turned the screen for Deng Wei to see: ”On the twentieth, no waiting on the cold storage daily settlement.”

Deng Wei pulled the letter of authorization—twenty names on it—from his notebook, smoothed it flat, and folded down a curled corner: ”Iʼll keep this. Weʼll use it again next time.”

Xiao Duan sat on a plastic stool by the door with a bowl of noodles, eating while scrolling through the screenshots in the group.

[Thud. Enforcement funds disbursement complete: twenty rows, twenty signatures, twenty cards in their own names.]

[Thud. Ma Jianjun et al., twenty-person labor dispute case. Justice Points recorded in full.]

[Thud. Unsettled Ledger, first entry, final stroke written.]

The bowl of soup at the tableʼs corner was still steaming. She laid the photocopied refund list across her knees and looked up at that line—Chengnan Station No. 1, Ma Jianjun.

Sheʼd read that half-line many times: the first characters had been set down long ago, and the back half had been filled in stroke by stroke. Today, the last stroke went down, and the whole line stood level.

He Xiufen took the photocopy, walked behind the counter, lifted the glass top, and pressed it underneath, on top of everything else. Beneath the glass there already lay several sheets of paper: the photocopy of Wang Changshunʼs carbon-copied receipt, torn through; a page of grid paper; and half a sheet of old paper, its corner curled.

”Of those twenty rows, the hardest was the last one.” He Xiufen pressed down on the glass. ”The first nineteen people had cards already. The twentieth had to go get a new one made, himself.”

”He was in line at seven-thirty.”

”I know.” He Xiufen draped the rag over the back of a chair. ”Money doesnʼt walk through the wrong door. Itʼs the paperwork that does.”

She didnʼt touch the half sheet of old paper.

When she came out of the noodle house, the scallion-oil smell still clung to her clothes. She stood on the steps, facing the evening breeze. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Lu Jibai.

”Something I should give back to you. Tomorrow noon. The noodle house.”

She stared at the screen for a few seconds, then typed back: What time.

He replied: Twelve.

She looked up at the noodle houseʼs sign, those three characters darkened by years of cooking smoke. Tomorrow noon.