Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 64 : Beneath the Glass Desktop

The paper pressed beneath the glass desktop was sealed around all four edges with transparent tape. The adhesive had been applied over a decade ago; it was yellowed and brittle to the touch. She worked a fingernail under the lower right corner, lifted the glass half an inch, and propped it with an old case file.

She remembered exactly where each sheet lay: on top, a photocopy of the refund list, twenty rows; the middle page was grid paper; beneath that, an old page with a curled corner, only half a character visible at the edge, the ink blue-black.

She folded the newspaper in her hand into quarters and slid it to the very bottom, aligning it with that half page. She didnʼt unfold it—unfolding it would expose that half sentence. She only let the masthead corner face outward, the small print reading November 19 visible.

The two corners were half an inch off. She reached in, nudged the newspaper up until both corners aligned. The glass settled back down; the trapped air squeezed out, pressed flat across the paper.

Footsteps on the stairs. Two steps at a time, skipping the middle one—He Xiufen.

She came in carrying a bulging plastic bag, the drawstrings biting into her wrist, a key clutched in her other hand. She set the bag on the counter first, and that was when she noticed the old case file propping up the corner of the glass.

”Youʼve been messing with my glass desktop.”

”I put a piece of paper under it.”

”What paper?”

”My fatherʼs case.”

He Xiufen pushed the plastic bag half a foot aside and leaned over to look at that corner of the masthead. She didnʼt ask questions. First she untied the bag, pulled out a Bar Association document, and held it down by her side. Only then did she lower her head.

”Underneath. Lift that corner.”

The glass rose half an inch. He Xiufen slipped two fingers in, pressed down on that page, and drew it out; the newspaper slid halfway out beneath her hand. The red-circled line came into view.

”Retesting by Qingyuan Testing Technology Co., Ltd. yielded results inconsistent with the initial test.”

She read it slowly, one word at a time. Her finger hovered above the red circle but didnʼt touch it.

”Your fatherʼs case,” she said, ”started with this line.”

”Who gave you this paper?”

”Lu Jibai. Noon today, at the noodle house.”

He Xiufen pressed the glass back into place and slowly straightened. She didnʼt respond to that. She turned, pushed the small kitchen door open a crack, and checked the stove.

”He gave it to you,” she said. ”When you took it, did you ask clearly?”

”I did. He said this paper counts as his own.”

”Counts as his own.” He Xiufen pulled the door shut. ”A piece of paper kept under pressure for nine years, only brought out today. Donʼt just remember the paper—remember what sits between those two dates.”

Shen Zhixia didnʼt answer. She arranged that line in her mind again.

”Qingyuan is a company,” He Xiufen said, sitting down—the first time sheʼd ever spoken from behind this counter. ”When you investigate a company, donʼt start by feeling around for people. First look at who runs it now and what seal they earn their bread with.”

”Inspection and testing,” Shen Zhixia said. ”Test reports have to carry a qualification seal. Samples that get tested have to be retained.”

”Retention is its rule. Rules and conscience arenʼt the same thing.” He Xiufen lifted the enamel mug, then set it back down. ”Nine years later, whether that retention was ever cleaned out—two possibilities. What youʼre looking for isnʼt whether it kept the records, but what day they were disposed of, and whose hands did the disposing.”

”The water for the retest wasnʼt something the company scooped from the well itself.” Shen Zhixia said. ”Someone sent it in. Someone signed for it. Someone paid.”

”Right.” He Xiufen said. ”Of those three, at least one or two left something on paper.”

”The half page under the glass,” Shen Zhixia said, looking down at the desktop. ”When do I get to see it?”

He Xiufen followed her gaze.

”A page your father wrote, torn in half. One half is with me.”

”The other half?”

”He said he needed to show it to someone.”

”Who?”

”He never said.” He Xiufen stood and walked toward the stairs. ”I asked once. He said, donʼt ask. If I tell you, nobodyʼs going to sleep easy.”

She paused at the top of the stairs.

”If you pull it out now, youʼll only get half a page. You need something else in hand before it connects.”

”What something?”

”Go find it yourself.” Her shoe was already on the step below. ”If I knew, Iʼd have found it already.”

Shen Zhixia stood alone behind the counter for a while. Beneath the glass, two paper corners sat flush—one curled, one pressed perfectly flat.

[Thud. The words on this page—I wonʼt rush you.]

Before seven, the scallion-oil scent from the kitchen downstairs crept up through the cracks in the stairs and filled the whole floor. She went down for noodles.

The fluorescent tube outside the noodle house was dead at one end, light slanting hard against the plastic sheeting. At the innermost table sat a man, his arm clad in a half-sleeve cover, a dark blue short-sleeved shirt washed pale—Ma Jianjun.

When he saw her, he stood first, fished a handful of cash from his pocket, and walked toward the stove. The shop ownerʼs head was down over a pot of noodles; she waved him off.

”Yesterdayʼs noodles,” Ma Jianjun said.

”The man who paid already covered it.”

”That was her director spotting her.”

”Spotting means treating.”

Ma Jianjun held the money in his hand, standing his ground. He Xiufen came in from the back, water still on her hands.

”Twenty peopleʼs worth of noodles,” she said. ”Who are you paying back for?”

”Iʼll cover it first. If they show up to eat, weʼll sort it out then.”

”If you cover it, youʼre treating.” He Xiufen slung the rag over her shoulder. ”Sit down.”

He slipped three ten-yuan notes under the chopstick canister and only then sat back on the stool.

”I didnʼt come just to repay money.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and pushed it across to her. Printed. A blank stripe ran down one edge where the printer had run low on toner; twenty rows, one name per row, and the column after each name filled in by hand, the characters crooked, each crammed into its own box.

The header line read: Where everyoneʼs working now.

Luo Cheng, cold storage, daily settlement. Lao Chang, supermarket shelf-stocker, night watchman. Xiao Duan, auto repair shop apprentice. Xu Li, with a renovation crew. Deng Wei, construction site foreman. Row by row, all twenty people, not one missing. The last row was his own name. Behind it: building supply store delivery, has a vehicle.

”Xiao Duan asked around one by one. Took two days.” He said. ”Printing cost eighty fen a sheet. I paid.”

She read through line by line, then pushed the paper back. He pushed it over again.

”Keep it.”

”What would I do with it?”

”If something comes up for you—someone to run errands, someone who knows the streets, someone to stand beside you and speak up—pick from the list.”

He paused. The tan line at his wrist showed past the sleeve cover.

”I know the Shuangqiao Road area in Chengxi well. I used to run deliveries on that route. Which alley jams at what hour, which gate wonʼt let you in—Iʼve got it all memorized.”

She looked up at him. ”I never said I was going to Chengxi.”

”This afternoon, you were upstairs on the phone asking how to check qualifications. Your voice drifted out the window.” He pushed the paper back toward her hand. ”I was waiting outside for an hour.”

She looked at the last row for a few seconds.

”Is this your own matter?” he asked.

”Itʼs mine.”

”Then it counts for us even more.” He withdrew his hand from the table. ”I waited half a year for that money. While I waited, I told myself: the day you need something, Iʼm standing on your side for once.”

”Fine.”

”About the account thing—you said weʼd settle it separately.” He suddenly added.

”We will.”

”When?”

”Itʼs written in my notebook.”

”Just remember it.” He folded the paper, tucked it back into his pocket. ”I wonʼt rush you.”

He left after finishing his noodles. Before going, he slipped the three ten-yuan notes out from under the chopstick canister and, while the shop ownerʼs back was turned, tucked them into the money box by the stove. He Xiufen came out to clear the bowls and saw. She said nothing.

”Money gets recovered one debt at a time.” She stacked the bowls. ”These twenty are done. The one in your hands has only just begun.”

At 9:40, the phone buzzed in her hand. Voice call—Tang Guo.

She pressed answer. Wind came through first from the other end, and the sound of passing cars.

”Zhixia,” Tang Guo said, ”I canʼt get into my apartment.”

”Where are you?”

”Downstairs. The landlord changed the locks.”

”When?”

”This afternoon. I came back from work and my key wouldnʼt turn. Then just now they brought someone to open the door and moved all my things into the hallway.”

She switched the phone to her other hand.

”Is there a notice stuck on the door?”

”Yeah. Printed, taped at all four corners.”

”Donʼt tear it off.”

”I didnʼt.”

”What did the landlord say?”

”He said the apartment company hasnʼt paid him for three months. He said the deed has his name on it—if heʼs not getting his money, the people living there can get out.” Tang Guoʼs voice dropped a little. ”I argued with him. He held up the key and said heʼd just had it changed today.”

”Is your contract in hand?”

”Itʼs electronic, on my phone.”

”And the rent?”

A pause on the other end.

”I just took out that loan last month. One year, 24,000. The money went straight to Youyu in one payment. Iʼm paying two thousand a month, debited from my card, through next May.” Tang Guo said. ”Zhixia, I canʼt live in that apartment, and I still have to pay back the loan.”

”What the apartment owes and what you owe the bank are two separate debts.” Shen Zhixia said. ”Donʼt sign anything. Donʼt press your fingerprint to anything. Donʼt write them a single piece of paper.”

”Are you coming now?”

”Iʼm coming. Minsheng Road, Chengdong?”

”Fifth floor. The hallwayʼs full of my stuff.”

”Keep recording.”

”Iʼm recording. The lightʼs on too.”

She hung up, took the helmet from the hook behind the door. Coming downstairs, He Xiufen was at the counter checking accounts. She didnʼt look up.

”Where to?”

”Chengdong. Tang Guoʼs apartment went wrong. Landlord changed the locks.”

He Xiufen set the pen down.

”Look at the lock first, then the paper,” she said. ”Take photos. And donʼt play peacemaker.”

That community on Minsheng Road was even older than this building. A few holly bushes in the flower bed by the gate, a cracked propaganda sign stuck in the middle. The fifth-floor hallway light was voice-activated—any noise and it snapped on, stayed lit three seconds, then died again.

Four cardboard boxes, one suitcase, and two woven sacks were piled at the top of the stairs. The boxes had her name and a phone number written in marker—left over from moving day.

A printed sheet was taped to the door, one strip of tape at each corner. She photographed that paper first—the full thing, then a close-up, making sure the date on the bottom line was legible. Then she photographed the lock: new, with an uncut plastic zip tie still hanging from the keyhole. Then the pile of belongings in the hallway.

A man in his fifties stood by the door, a key ring and a rolled-up paper clutched in one hand. Beside him, his wife. Then two young men—one with arms folded, the other holding up a phone, filming.

Tang Guo sat on the suitcase, clutching the livestream light. It was on, aimed at the small group by the door.

”Iʼm recording,” she said.

”What are you to her?” the man asked.

”Iʼm her friend.” Shen Zhixia said. ”Youʼre the landlord?”

”I am. My nameʼs on the deed.”

”Who did you sign your contract with?”

”Youyu. Three years, monthly payments. The first year and a half was on time. Starting in March, they started dragging.”

”Do you have a notice of termination in hand?”

”I canʼt even find their people—who am I supposed to notify?” He unrolled the paper in his hand, then rolled it back up. The edges had gone soft. ”The apartmentʼs mine. Three months and I havenʼt seen a cent. My sonʼs still paying off his own mortgage.”

”Not being able to find Youyu is between you and Youyu.” Shen Zhixia said. ”The person living here has a contract in hand, and a one-year loan. That money—the full sum—was paid to Youyu last month.”

His wife stepped forward half a pace. ”Then who pays us?”

”The same people.” Shen Zhixia said.

Tang Guo passed her the phone. The lease contract was electronic, Party Aʼs full name printed on the first page, a red electronic seal stamped below. Scrolling further, a loan contract. In the disbursement column: a bankʼs name. Amount: 24,000. Twelve installments. The first had already been debited.

She photographed both pages, and took a separate shot of the bankʼs name on that one line.

”Can we sue over this?” Tang Guo asked.

”Yes.”

”Sue who?”

”First, gather all the papers.” Shen Zhixia said. ”Donʼt tear down the notice on the door. Donʼt delete the contract. Donʼt delete the debit-notification text.”

A few households had cracked their doors open, heads peeking out. An old woman said quietly, Miss, youʼve got work tomorrow, donʼt you. The hallway light died for three seconds, then came back on.

Tang Guo never let go of that light. It shone on the concrete floor of the hallway, on the boxes, the names on the boxes facing up, the phone numbers facing up.

”I spent three days picking this apartment,” she said.

Shen Zhixia photographed the zip tie too.

[Thud. The lock is new. The contract is old.]