Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 66 : Nothing to Do with Party A

”Get the paper. Donʼt argue with him.”

He Xiufen stacked the two bowls and tipped the leftover broth into the sink. It was just past six, and the big pot on the stove hadnʼt come to a boil yet, but she said it first.

Tang Guo sat on the bench by the door, two cardboard boxes at her feet from last nightʼs move, the ”Guo” character on their sides facing outward. One hand rested on the livestream lightʼs switch—she pressed it, then let go. Sheʼd barely slept, and her eyelids were swollen.

”How many are going.”

”Two.” He Xiufen said. ”Any more and it looks like youʼre there to start a fight.”

”What if he gives us attitude but not the paper.” Shen Zhixia asked.

”Then today you acknowledge him as the landlord.” He Xiufen slung the rag back over her shoulder. ”The paperʼs in his hands. Today, thatʼs the only thing you want.” She thought for a moment, then added, ”Donʼt sign. Donʼt press a fingerprint. Donʼt write any numbers for him.”

”What if he asks me to write.”

”Say you canʼt read.”

Before leaving, she slipped two tea eggs into Tang Guoʼs pocket. Tang Guo held the eggs, standing at the door without moving.

”My two sheets of paper are locked behind that door,” she said. ”If he wonʼt give them to me, how am I supposed to get them today.”

”Today we donʼt take them.” Shen Zhixia shouldered her bag. ”First we look at the paper in his hands. Take another photo of that notice on the door; if something newʼs been posted, photograph it separately from yesterdayʼs.”

Downstairs at 7:20, three stops by bus. Morning rush hour. People squeezed in at the front door carrying bagged soy milk, plastic bags cutting thin white lines into their hands. Tang Guo hugged the light the whole way without speaking, the eggshells in her pocket crushed to pieces in her palm.

At Minsheng Road, she went to unlock the electric scooter first. The chain had been wrapped around twice; she had to wiggle the key twice to get it open. Dust had settled on the seat, and she wiped it with her sleeve before pushing the scooter over by the flower bed. Under the bushes—overnight, two cigarette butts had appeared.

The hallway was clearer in daylight than at night: the anti-theft door at the building entrance, covered with a ”No Parking” sticker, stood open. The wall at the third-floor landing had a large damp patch peeling away, and the sound-activated light came on for three seconds at every footstep.

The pile of luggage on the fifth-floor landing was gone. Yesterdayʼs printed notice was still stuck to the door, the tape at all four corners untouched. A new one had been pressed up beside it, also printed—whole unit, one bedroom, monthly rent 2,200, call first to view. A phone number below.

She stared at the string of digits for three seconds, then flipped open her notebook. The number sheʼd copied down last night was written right after the words ”the paper on the door”; sheʼd assumed back then it was Youyuʼs number.

Two numbers. Not a single digit different.

Beside the new lock hung another brass padlock. The plastic zip tie was still wedged in the keyhole—she hadnʼt let anyone cut it last night.

Tang Guo raised her phone and photographed the rental notice on the door, then the two locks.

”Take a photo of mine too,” she said. ”So he canʼt claim in a couple days that we posted it.”

A man in his early fifties stood at the stairwell entrance, gray jacket, a ring of keys in his hand with a worn plastic tag dangling from it. A younger man in his early thirties crouched by the doorframe, phone propped on his knee, a property listing open on the screen.

”Youʼre the one who came yesterday.” The man spun the key ring around his finger. ”Iʼm Zhao. Zhao Guangtian. My nameʼs on the deed.”

”Iʼm with Zhengping Law Firm.” Shen Zhixia said. ”Tang Guo is the tenant of this unit.”

”Tenant.” He chewed on the word. ”I donʼt care who you people are. My property, my call.”

”Her things are still inside.”

”I havenʼt touched a single item of hers. Pushed it all out to the hallway. The two sheets of paper are locked in there—come get them within three days.” He paused. ”After three days, this place needs to be empty.”

”My lease runs to May ninth next year,” Tang Guo said.

”You signed with him,” Zhao Guangtian said. ”Thatʼs got nothing to do with me.”

The young man by the doorframe looked up. ”Sis, youʼre here about those two sheets of paper?”

”About the paper, and about money.”

”Thereʼs no money here.” Zhao Guangtian pushed the door open a crack without stepping in, just peering inside. ”The stuff they outfitted the place with is still in there—washing machine, fridge. Canʼt move them out, and I donʼt dare touch any of it. Iʼve been keeping an eye on it for them. Three months now.”

”My mortgage is 4,200 a month,” the young man said, resting his phone facedown on his knee. ”Two months now—my dadʼs been covering it.”

”Are there other units in the building?” Shen Zhixia asked.

”Two more upstairs were rented out to them too. One on six, one on eleven.” Zhao Guangtian said. ”Neitherʼs seen a payment since April.”

She wrote this down. Tang Guo stood in front of the two locks, slipped her phone into her pocket, then pulled it back out. The light was still on.

”Then letʼs start with this: which payment are you missing.”

She opened her notebook and pressed the pen to the page.

”How many years did you sign with Youyu? Monthly or annual payment?”

”Three years. Monthly.”

”How much per month.”

”2,200.”

”When was the last deposit?”

Zhao Guangtian pulled a folded stack of papers from the inside pocket of his jacket. The top sheet was a bank statement, still creased from where it had been pressed flat at the counter. ”I went specially to print this last week.” He shook it open. ”March nineteenth. The March payment was nine days late. Since April, not a single payment—April, May, June. Three payments. 6,600.”

The numbers on the statement stopped at March nineteenth; everything below was blank.

”When the March payment was late, did you call them?”

”I did. Customer service said it was a system upgrade, give it three days.” He said. ”Three days later it really did arrive. So I believed them.”

”And after that?”

”After that, every call was ʼWeʼve logged your situation.ʼ” He stuffed the papers back into his pocket. ”Iʼve got a grade-school education. I donʼt know how to screen record or screenshot. So I just called every other day. Iʼve been calling ever since.”

”Did you ever tell them in writing that you were terminating the contract?”

”In writing, no.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled up, found a few messages, and turned the screen toward her. ”I sent these. I said if you people donʼt pay, Iʼm taking the place back. He replied, ʼWeʼre processing it.ʼ”

”Donʼt delete these.” Shen Zhixia said. ”Screenshot them and send them to me. Use the number from the door.”

Zhao Guangtian pressed the screen, captured the screenshots, and sent them over.

”How did you sign with them in the first place?”

”Their sales rep came door to door.” He gestured upstairs. ”Said theyʼd handle the property management, furnish the appliances, pay on the tenth of every month—one contract for three years. I went with it to save myself the hassle.”

Shen Zhixia wrote this down, then opened her phone and pulled up the Party A column of Tang Guoʼs rental contract, copying Zhao Guangtianʼs name onto the same page.

”Tang Guo moved in on May tenth,” she said. ”Two thousand deposit, paid out of her own pocket. One yearʼs rent, 24,000, was transferred by the bank in one lump sum to Youyu on May eleventh.”

”Transferred to who?”

”Youyu.”

”Then thatʼs got nothing to do with me.” Zhao Guangtian said.

[Thud. One side collected a yearʼs rent; the other side is missing three monthsʼ.]

She checked both sidesʼ statements against the paperwork. Neither was lying.

Tang Guo had been standing at the stairwell the whole time, motionless. She set the livestream light on the step, its beam aimed at the door, phone mounted on the stand. The light was on.

”I paid a full year,” she said.

”Whoʼd you pay it to?” Zhao Guangtian asked.

”Youyu.”

”I havenʼt seen one cent.”

The two of them stared at each other. Someone came down the stairs, squeezed sideways between them, heels clicking against the concrete, step after step. The neighboring door opened a crack; an old woman stuck her head out, looked at the two locks, and closed the door again.

Tang Guo glanced down at her phone. The repayment schedule was still open, next monthʼs row reading: the 20th, 2,000. She locked the screen and put it back in her pocket.

The young man looked at the light. ”What are you recording for?”

”Iʼm recording myself standing at the door,” Tang Guo said. ”And you standing at the door too.”

”Go ahead.” He raised his phone and waggled it at her. ”Iʼm recording too.”

”Mr. Zhao,” Shen Zhixia closed her notebook, ”could I take a look at your contract with Youyu?”

”If you look at it, can you pay me?”

”I need to see it to know who the money should be claimed from.”

The young man turned his phone over on his knee. ”Dad, show them.”

”Whatʼs the point.”

”Looking wonʼt rub the words off.” He stood and brushed the dust off his pants. ”Besides, someone needs to deal with our side of this too. Sis, can our money be claimed together with theirs?”

”They canʼt be combined,” Shen Zhixia said. ”Her money went out through a bank; your money should have come in through rent. Two separate claims. They get written up separately.”

Zhao Guangtian lowered the cloth bag from his shoulder, the zipper catching. He pried the opening apart and pulled out a folded double-page document, soft from handling, edges frayed. He spread it on the stair railing, one palm holding down each end.

One page was the two parties; the other was the terms. Party A: Zhao Guangtian, with his own signature and a fingerprint pressed beneath his name. Party Bʼs column was a printed company name, a red seal stamped at the end, exactly across the perforation.

She photographed this page first. Sheʼd seen this full name before—the Party A on the rental contract in Tang Guoʼs phone was this exact string of characters. Four names on four documents, and this was the first time two of them matched.

She paged down. The rent payment column read: Party B shall remit the monthly rent of RMB 2,200 to Party Aʼs designated account before the tenth of each month.

Below that, a new line, one short sentence. She leaned in with her phone for a close-up, then stepped back and framed the whole page.

[Thud. He collects 2,200 a month; she repays 2,000 a month.]

She opened her notebook and wrote both numbers down: 2,200. 2,000. Stacked one above the other, two hundred apart. She added another line, multiplying 2,200 by twelve—26,400. Then a line above it, Tang Guoʼs one-year amount: 24,000. Three numbers squeezed onto one page. She looked at them for a while, unable to see where that two hundred difference should ultimately fall, or where the extra 2,400 came from.

Zhao Guangtian took his hand off the paper, and it curled back on itself. His finger tapped on that short sentence.

”Rent that the tenant pays to Party B under the agreement is unrelated to Party A.” He read it smoothly, not stumbling over a single word. ”Read that line carefully.”

”Iʼve read it.”

He rolled the contract into a tube, tucked it back into the cloth bag, and zipped it shut.

”Her yearʼs rent went to him,” he said. ”She hasnʼt paid me one cent for this year.”

She opened her notebook and under todayʼs date wrote one more line: Three days. Two sheets of paper still locked inside.

The hallway light went out for three seconds. Tang Guo reached over and slapped the wall; the light came back on.

”Then my yearʼs rent,” she said, ”whose hands is it in now?”