Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 63 : The Cut-Off Second Half

On the afternoon of June 16th, the noodle shopʼs door had been fitted with a bamboo curtain. Whenever someone went in or out, it slapped against the frame with a sharp crack. The sky was overcast, dampness seeped up from the cracks in the concrete floor, and the smell of scallion oil hung in the room with nowhere to go.

Lu Jibai sat at the table against the far wall. A bowl of noodles sat in front of him. The broth had long since gone lukewarm, a thin film of oil congealing across the surface. His chopsticks lay across the rim of the bowl, untouched. Today he wore a dark shirt with the cuffs buttoned, and there was no phone on the table.

She pushed through the curtain, sat down on the bench, and set her bag by her leg. First, she studied him.

”When did they bring the noodles out?”

”Eleven forty.”

”You asked to meet at noon.”

”Traffic.” He said, ”Itʼs clear now.”

She didnʼt pick that up. From behind the stove, the owner stuck his head out and called over, asking if both bowls should be started. Lu Jibai raised a hand in that direction, then lowered it.

”I never said I was eating.”

”If youʼre not eating, consider it my treat.”

From beneath his bowl, he slid something out: a paper folded into quarters, the edges worn pale, smaller than a palm. He pushed it across to her hand. His fingers pressed on the fold for a second, then released.

She didnʼt reach for it.

”What is it.”

”The water sample your father sent for testing back then. This company did the analysis.”

Only then did her hand come down. The paper was cold, having been pressed flat for a long time, carrying a smell like mothballs and old paper mixed together. As her thumb skimmed the crease, she felt something else tucked inside — something not flat.

”Where did this come from?”

He picked up his chopsticks, stirred the noodles once, then set them back down.

”Iʼm asking where this newspaper article came from.”

”I heard you.”

”You always give half a sentence.” She said, ”ʼHeʼll hand over two copies, donʼt take just one,ʼ ʼThe next person who calls you wonʼt be Wang Yuhai.ʼ Everything youʼve said has been right, but you never say the second half.”

”The second half isnʼt pleasant to hear.”

”I can sit through unpleasant.”

Lu Jibai glanced at the bowl of noodles. The oil on the surface had formed a fine ring around the edge. ”This is something you have to investigate yourself.” He said, ”What I can give you is these four words.”

”Youʼve already withdrawn from representing the platform.”

”I have.”

”The money this time didnʼt go through your hands. I know what youʼve covered for me.” She pressed her fingers on the fold, not opening it yet. ”But this paper isnʼt covering for me. Itʼs giving. Explain yourself first.”

”This piece of paper isnʼt me covering for you.” He lifted his eyes to her. ”Donʼt let your mind go there.”

Someone at the next table picked up their bowl and left, the stool scraping against the floor. Outside the bamboo curtain, a street sweeper passed by, playing its tune the whole way.

”Why give it to me today?”

”Because today youʼve got an effective judgment in hand, and twenty peopleʼs money went into their own bank cards.” He said, ”If Iʼd given it to you six months ago, the first thing youʼd do is rip it up and ask who sent me.”

”Then who is this paper being passed on behalf of?”

”Myself.”

With that, he stood up. The chair legs dragged half a sound across the concrete. He bent down for his briefcase by his feet and, on the way, tucked the noodle money under the soy sauce bottle, pressing it perfectly flat.

”Attorney Lu.”

He stopped in front of the bamboo curtain, didnʼt turn around.

”When did you get this paper?”

A car passed outside, the wind lifting the curtain strips to reveal a gap. He stood in that light, a bright patch falling across his back.

”I had this paper in my keeping,” he said, ”back when you didnʼt know who I was.”

The bamboo curtain slapped the door frame again. Through the gaps, she heard the owner at the counter settling the bill: the gentleman already paid, both bowls counted.

Only then was her bowl of noodles brought out. Steam rose, spilling onto that quarter-folded paper on the table, pressing the curling corner down a little.

She moved the chopsticks off the bowl and unfolded the crease first.

The newspaper was a Jiangzhou Evening News from nine years ago. Beneath the masthead, the date was printed: November 19th. The lower half of the front page carried an article, with a two-line headline. Her fatherʼs name was embedded in the second line.

Baixi Village had discovered cadmium in their well water, over forty villagers had gone through physical exams; the factory dumping waste on the east side of the village denied everything; the lawyer handling the case for the villagers was surnamed Shen.

She read line by line. What she read were all things she remembered: her fatherʼs name, the day he was taken away, the three years that followed. The six characters ”forging a test report” appeared four times in the article, every occurrence in quotation marks. Nine years ago, sheʼd been fifteen. She remembered the papers spread across their dining table more clearly than her own birthday. These words in the newspaper, though — this was her first time reading them.

There was one thing she didnʼt remember.

Midway through the article, one line read: ”Upon re-testing by Qingyuan Testing Technology Co., Ltd., the results did not match the initial test.”

The four characters of ”Qingyuan Testing” were circled in red ink — circled twice. On the second pass, the pen tip had poked a small hole through the paper, the ink bleeding out along the edge, as if the mark had bitten back into the words. The circle was drawn heavily, and before the pen landed, there were two testing dots beside it.

Further down, at the end of the paragraph, a small line was tucked in: ”(Continued on page four).”

This newspaper only had one page. The bottom half was classified ads, rows of little boxes for drain clearing, ghostwriting and copying services, moving and hauling. She read through every box, as if the fourth page might squeeze out from one of the cracks.

When the article mentioned the factory east of the village, it used only the phrase ”a certain chemical enterprise,” followed by the same note: ”(See page four for details).” The factoryʼs name was on that page. The verdict was on that page too. She held only this page.

The thing tucked in the fold was still there. She slid it out — not ad paper.

A small strip of paper, only half its original width. Cut, not torn: the line was straight, running clean from top to bottom. Handwriting in pen on it — blue-black ink after nine years, now browned.

One line, half a sentence: ”The signature is mine,”

Then it was blank. The cut ran right past the last word, leaving not even a punctuation mark.

Nine years ago at that dining table, her father had spread the copy of the test report between the two of them and said those exact words. The signature is mine, but I didnʼt write that report. Then heʼd picked up his bowl, hadnʼt gotten one bite down, and gotten up to pour himself water. That day she was fifteen. All she remembered was the way his hand hovered over the cup for a long time while the water ran.

The half sentence on the paper, and the first half of what heʼd said that day — word for word, exactly the same.

She knew what had been cut away. Sheʼd memorized it for nine years. The blade had landed exactly after that pause, slicing off the second half. She stared at the straight edge, bracing her hand against the table.

She recognized this handwriting. When her father wrote the word ”I,” the final stroke always pressed a beat longer and flicked upward at the end. No matter who told him to stop, he never changed it. During her middle school years, sheʼd copied materials for him. Once sheʼd written the word ”I” wrong, and heʼd circled it in red pen, writing six characters beside it: Donʼt break the last stroke.

She held the strip of paper up to the window. The paper was thin; against the light, faint ruled lines were visible.

Turning it over, there were pencil marks on the back, very light, as if written through several layers of paper: September 17th. The horizontal strokes were straight, the vertical strokes straight, each stroke precise, as if measured against a ruler. This wasnʼt her fatherʼs handwriting.

September 17th. She turned the date over in her mind: not his birthday, not the day he was taken, not the day of the verdict, not the month he entered the hospital for the last time. She couldnʼt find a place where it belonged.

From September 17th to the November 19th on the newspaper: two months and two days. What lay between, she didnʼt know.

The soup had gone cold. She folded the two papers flat again and sat there until the next table had turned over twice.

At two that afternoon, she went upstairs.

A lock hung on He Xiufenʼs door, a note clipped to the hasp, written in large characters: Gone to the Bar Association to deliver materials, back before dinner. From the small room next door came someoneʼs lowered voice, talking to a divorce consultation on the phone.

She paused in front of the counter. Under the glass desktop, those papers were still pressed — on top, a copy of the refund list He Xiufen had just put there yesterday, twenty lines, not one more; underneath, a half-page of old paper with curled corners, the edge of one character peeking out. She didnʼt reach to lift it.

Back in her room, she pulled the box from under the bed. Hard-shelled, the corners taped over, the brass clasp rusted. Sheʼd moved four times, and each time it went under the bed. The last person to bring up this box was Zhao Guangnian, last autumn, on the phone. There had been water sounds on his end. All heʼd said was ”Then donʼt throw it out.” Nothing else.

She had a rough idea what was in the box, but sheʼd never gone through it carefully: an address book, a pen with the cap broken off, a few pages of legal codes heʼd copied by hand, one photo of her mother, and a kraft paper envelope, unsealed.

First she flipped through the address book. The early pages held numbers for the Bar Association, the courts, the appraisal office. Tucked in the back was a page for Baixi Village, with three names written on it. Two had check marks. A line was drawn under the third, running to the edge of the paper and stopping.

She touched the envelope too. Inside was the copy of the test report — sheʼd read it once, at fifteen, only looking at the signature at the bottom. What was printed in the header of the report, she hadnʼt glanced at again in nine years. Today she pulled it out half an inch, then pushed it back.

She folded the newspaper back into its quarters and pressed the strip of paper into the crease, laying it on top of the envelope. The lid closed, the brass clasp clicking.

Then she sat on the edge of the bed and took out her phone, searching ”Qingyuan Testing.”

The Public Information Registry page came up. Jiangzhou Qingyuan Testing Technology Co., Ltd., established twenty-six years. Business status: Active. The first line of the scope of business read: water quality testing. Registered address: Shuangqiao Road, Chengxi. The name in the Legal Representative column was one she didnʼt recognize, with a small note beside it: changed once, five years ago.

Established twenty-six years. It had existed nine years ago. She stared at the word ”Active” for a while before realizing sheʼd been waiting for ”Deregistered.”

A company still running. A door still unlocked. She took a screenshot.

Back on the search page, she searched her fatherʼs name together with the company. The first result was a repost of that article from nine years ago, dated three days after the Jiangzhou Evening News. The account that reposted it had long since been deleted. In the autocomplete below the search box was a line — the seven characters most frequently searched together: Qingyuan Testing Baixi Village.

She took a second screenshot.

Then she pulled up He Xiufenʼs number, looked at it, and set the phone down. He Xiufen would first ask who gave her the paper, and she couldnʼt answer that. And an unanswered question would feel worse than not having the paper at all.

[Thud. First line of the Unsettled Ledger: cleared.]

[Thud. Only the last page remains: Baixi Village · Shen Qian.]

[Thud. At the end of that line, a new stroke has appeared.]

[Thud. You didnʼt add it.]

She took out the ledger and wrote a line under June 16th: Qingyuan Testing, Shuangqiao Road, Chengxi. Active. After capping the pen, she added another half line: Masthead date, November 19th, nine years ago.

The word ”re-test,” she copied out separately, circled it, and marked a question mark beside it. If there was a re-test, there was an initial test. Who did the initial test? The newspaper didnʼt say.

Downstairs, someone called for another bowl. The exhaust fan ran without pause. The sky stayed gray, dampness fogging the window. She reached out and wiped a streak across the glass. Her fingertip came away wet.

She didnʼt close the ledger. Instead, she turned her phone to the new search page and typed four characters.

Qingyuan Testing.

The cursor blinked after them. She didnʼt type anything more.