Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 67 : Losing Two Thousand Four Hundred

Three sheets of paper lay spread across the counter, their corners curling up.

The one just out of the printer was still warm. Shen Zhixia smoothed it with her palm, pressing the curled edges flat. The first was the electronic lease from Tang Guoʼs phone—sheʼd read it line by line last night and reprinted it from the photos this morning. The second, at the bottom of the stack, was the loan contract, a bankʼs name across its header. The third was the Entrusted Leasing Contract Zhao Guangtian had spread across the stair railing—the original still in that cloth bag of his with the jammed zipper, its edges frayed.

Four names lay across the counter. The Party A line was a string of company names, identical across two documents; the notice on the door was signed with a phone number that matched the newly posted rental ad digit for digit; the deduction line showed that bank. And then there was the deposit Tang Guo had scanned to pay—the recipient was only four characters: Youyu Apartments. Shorter than the full company name, and far less formal.

A corner of the old newspaper, folded in quarters under the glass countertop, stuck out. She reached over and tucked it back in without unfolding it.

Footsteps came from the stairwell—slow, pausing at every step. He Xiufen carried an enamel mug in one hand and a kraft envelope under the other arm, her apron still slung over her shoulder. She set the mug at the edge of the counter and stopped in front of the three sheets.

”So you laid it all out.”

”Laid it all out.”

She braced both hands on the counter and looked down. She read slowly: names first, then amounts, then the fine print. On the third sheet, her finger paused over the line: ”Rent paid by the lessee to Party B in accordance with the contract has no relation to Party A.”

”Four names.”

”Four names.”

”And the money.” She looked up. ”Youʼve got names all over the table. Whereʼs the money.”

Shen Zhixia opened her notebook and laid it beside the papers. Three figures crowded the top of the page: 2,200. 2,000. 2,200 times twelve: 26,400. A line above them showed the year—24,000.

”On the landlordʼs side: 2,200 a month, 26,400 a year,” she said. ”On the tenantʼs side: 24,000 a year. It collects 24,000 and has to pay out 26,400.”

He Xiufen picked up the mug and took a sip of water.

”How much short.”

”2,400.”

”Whoʼs covering it.”

She couldnʼt answer.

”You knew when you did the math that it was 2,400 short.” He Xiufen set the mug back down; the bottom clinked against the glass top. ”At 2,200 a month rented out, thatʼs 26,400 a year. Paid a year upfront at 2,000, thatʼs 24,000. Itʼs already eating 2,400 on its own. If it lived on that margin, it wouldʼve starved to death long ago.”

”It doesnʼt live on the margin at all.”

”It pays the margin out of pocket.” He Xiufen slid the loan contract out from the bottom and set it aside by itself. ”The money comes from this piece of paper.”

She set three fingers down, one on each sheet.

”The bankʼs money, paid to it in one lump sum. Its money, paid to the landlord month by month. Your money, paid back to the bank month by month.”

”The landlord gets its money. You owe the bank. Whatʼs in the middle”—she lifted her hand and pressed one finger into the bare countertop between the papers—”is empty.”

Shen Zhixia looked down at that gap. The three sheetsʼ edges sat close together, only a fingerʼs width of white between them.

”That means itʼs always holding a yearʼs worth of money,” He Xiufen said. ”Twenty-four thousand per unit. Ten units, a hundred units. Itʼs not the landlordʼs, itʼs not the tenantʼs. It sits in their account for a full year.”

”What do they do with it.”

”Acquire more properties.” She picked up the mug again. ”Take units from landlords at 2,200, rent them out at 2,000. Itʼs not that they canʼt do math. Theyʼre using the next personʼs money to plug the last personʼs hole. As long as new people keep coming in, nobody sees the hole.”

”What if no one comes in anymore.”

”Then it all empties out.” She set the mug down. ”That extra 2,400—where it is right now, you tell me.”

[Thud. One year: 24,000 in, 26,400 out.]

”The 2,000 deposit—who did she scan it to.”

”Just those four characters. Youyu Apartments.”

”Company takes money under a short name, signs contracts under a full name,” He Xiufen said. ”If something goes wrong, neither name will own up.”

”That 400 number on the last page—I called it last night,” Shen Zhixia said. ”I only gave the room number, and the person on the other end said, ʼMs. Tangʼs unit.ʼ I never gave a surname.”

He Xiufenʼs hand paused on the mug handle.

”So the lineʼs connected.”

”Connected. I asked about the lock change three times. They logged it three times.”

”If someoneʼs on duty, someoneʼs paying wages.” She pushed the mug farther away. ”And whoeverʼs paying wages—youʼll find them eventually.”

”The property stewardʼs surname is Li,” Shen Zhixia said. ”I sent three more messages this morning. Still no reply.”

”Reply or no reply, itʼs all about a piece of paper.” He Xiufen said. ”When he does answer, ask him one thing—where do you file my contract.”

”Thereʼs one piece of paper you havenʼt got.”

”Which one.”

”The one between it and the bank.” She pushed the loan contract back toward her. ”Why would the bank hand over a whole yearʼs money in one payment—not to you, not to the landlord. There has to be a document in between, spelled out clearly: whoʼs borrowing, how much, and whoʼs on the hook if things go wrong.”

”That documentʼs in the bankʼs hands.”

”Itʼs in your opponentʼs hands.” He Xiufen said. ”Whereʼs the deposit receipt.”

”Locked inside the unit with the contract. The landlord gave us three days.”

”Three days—thatʼs the twentieth.” She wiped her hands on her apron. ”Bring a box when you go. Get the originals out first. Printed copies can win lawsuits. Originals win them better.”

The call came in just before eleven. Lawyer Qiu.

He asked if she was busy, then went straight into it before she could answer: Zhou Defaʼs joinder application had been docketed for review. The money left in Hengtongʼs account was still frozen under another case—not a cent could move. He told her not to worry about it.

”Does Zhou Defa know.”

”He does. He told me to pass along a message—heʼs keeping the tally, no rush.”

”Iʼve seen that ledger of his.”

”The one with twenty-three names,” Lawyer Qiu said. ”He said if youʼve got spare paper on hand, save him a page.”

She acknowledged. After hanging up, she added a line to the last page of her notebook: Hengtong, remaining funds frozen under separate case, joinder review in progress. She finished writing and folded the page over, pressing her fingertip along the back, like sealing a mark.

”That pageʼs been turned,” He Xiufen said from the other side of the counter. ”The notebook in your hand now—the first page isnʼt even full yet.”

”I know.”

”Where do you go next?”

”Investigate it.”

”What are you going to investigate with. Youʼve got the contract. Youʼve got the numbers.” She pushed the mug aside. ”What you donʼt have is the rules.”

”Meaning what.”

”The courts canʼt touch the first half of this. Housing is under the Housing and Construction Bureau. Money is under the bankʼs rules.” He Xiufen wiped her hands on her apron. ”If it dares to collect a yearʼs rent upfront, dares to pull the loan in one draw—there has to be something governing it. Go find that something.”

[Thud. Statute Quick Search, unlocked.]

[Thud. It only points to which one to read. It doesnʼt read it for you.]

She grabbed her phone and started searching. The old computer under the counter took a minute and a half to boot—she couldnʼt wait. The document wasnʼt long. She scrolled section by section, and halfway down, her finger stopped.

One clause read: Housing rental enterprises may not collect rent for a period exceeding three months in a single collection.

A few lines below, another: Funds from rent loans shall be disbursed directly to the borrower and may not be disbursed directly to housing rental enterprises.

She copied them into her notebook, line by line. When she finished, she pulled up the photos of the two contracts and cross-checked from the top: a full yearʼs rent, collected in one payment; bank funds, paid straight into Youyuʼs account.

It had violated both. There was also a clause saying the deposit may not exceed one monthʼs rent—theyʼd taken exactly 2,000, one month. That one they hadnʼt violated.

”Nice to read aloud.” He Xiufen leaned over for a glance. ”Those two lines can get it fined. If you want to use them to get the loan refunded—youʼre a long way off.”

”Whatʼs missing.”

”That it admits it.” She shook the kraft envelope—a sheaf of materials from the Bar Association. ”And one more thing—how the money got approved in the first place. Who signed off, who authorized it, who saw it wasnʼt compliant and still released a yearʼs worth of money.”

Shen Zhixia flipped to a fresh page and wrote down the three tasks for the day: 1. Retrieve originals on the twentieth. 2. Ask about the document between it and the bank. 3. Save those two clauses—Housing Bureau and bank. At the end of the third line, her pen paused, and she added four more characters: Who approved the money.

Flip-flops sounded on the stairs. Tang Guo came up with her hair half tied back, the livestream light in her hand, its switch still glowing. She set the light on the counter; the white beam made the folded newspaper corner under the glass stand out even more.

”Sis, I cut two versions of the video,” she said. ”Titleʼs all set: ʼOne Yearʼs Rent, 24,000—Landlord Never Saw a Cent.ʼ”

”Donʼt post it yet.”

”Until when.”

”Until Iʼve asked what needs asking.” Shen Zhixia pushed the notebook toward her. ”If you post it now, theyʼll know someoneʼs onto them. They close the books, scatter the people—and I wonʼt even be able to find out who their legal representative is.”

Tang Guo looked down at the lines, stared for a moment, then exhaled through her nose.

”Fine. You say post, Iʼll post.”

”On the twentieth, Iʼm going with you to get those two documents out,” Shen Zhixia said. ”The deposit receipt and the original contract. Both.”

”And once theyʼre out?”

”I canʼt ask the next question until I have the paper.”

”I lived in that apartment for a month and seven days,” Tang Guo said. ”Moved in on May tenth.”

He Xiufen went downstairs and came back with a bowl of noodles, setting it by her hand. Steam rose from the rim. She didnʼt speak.

Tang Guo turned her phone over and laid it screen-up on the counter. It was the bankʼs app—a column of numbers glowing, the repayment schedule listed row by row. Her finger tapped its way down; each row lit up as she touched it.

”The twentieth,” she said. ”Every month, the twentieth. Two thousand.”

The three sheets were still spread across the counter. The borrower line on the loan contract bore her name; she remembered the signing process clearly—from filling in the name to signing, tap by tap, sheʼd counted, seven taps.

He Xiufen nudged the bowl closer to her and came around to her side of the counter.

”That apartment,” she said, ”is no longer hers.”

”I know.”

”But this debt still is.” She pointed at Tang Guoʼs phone. ”Her name on the signature line—that makes it hers. The landlord lost three months. Sheʼs lost a year—and borrowed money at that.”

Shen Zhixia opened her notebook and started a new line, writing todayʼs date. She didnʼt stop there; she added another line: The apartment is no longer hers. The debt still bears her name.

”Are we paying this month,” Tang Guo asked.

”Yes.”

”Iʼll pick up some work tomorrow.” She pressed the phone dark. ”Two thousand—I can still cover a month.”

”Being able to pay it doesnʼt mean you should.”

”Then who should.”

Three sheets lay on the counter, a fingerʼs width of empty space between them. In that gap, there was no name at all.