Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 87 : The Defendant Column

The filing hall sat at the far end, the electronic screen above the window ticking to number forty-seven.

July 22nd, 9:20 in the morning. The photocopy stand at the east end was still in the same old spot, the price sheet showing three yuan sixty.

The cardboard box rested by her feet, and she lifted the ledgers out one by one. The roster had been assembled at the print shop: white covers, the corners taped over with wide adhesive strips, roughly a hundred households per volume. When she reached the eleventh, she straightened and counted: eight on the bottom, three on top, the stack level with her shoulder.

He Xiufen stood to the side of the window and slid her lawyerʼs certificate and firm letter through, the complaint resting on top of the roster volumes.

Inside the window was a woman judge in her forties, short hair, a pen tucked at her temple. She looked first at the cover of the top volume, where one column bore handwritten characters: Party Roster (1).

”Eleven volumes.”

”One thousand and forty-two households,” He Xiufen said.

The judgeʼs hand stopped on the cover. She looked up. ”How many households?”

”One thousand forty-two. One complaint, one Representative Election Form, eleven volumes of the party roster.”

Shen Zhixia lifted the top two volumes onto the counter so the judge could flip through. The judge paged down row by row, stopping at page three.

”These rows—the signatures donʼt match the names on the roster. Different handwriting.”

”Eleven households,” He Xiufen said. ”The name on the contract is the personʼs own, but the signature wasnʼt written by them. They want to be plaintiffs. What they want is to have that loan taken out from under their names.”

”Put them in a separate volume.”

”They are. The first of the restarted volumes—itʼs marked on the cover.”

The judge flipped forward a few more pages, then back.

”The other households—all signed by the individuals themselves?”

”One line under each household: personal signature, fingerprint, ID number, last digits of the deduction flow.” He Xiufen said. ”Those who can read and write signed one column at a time themselves. Those who canʼt have their own fingerprints on the registration form, with two witnesses signing alongside.”

”How many representative plaintiffs.”

”Three. Jiang Bo, Shi Lei, Tang Guo.”

”On the election form—how many peopleʼs signatures.”

”Nine hundred eighty-seven households. The remaining fifty-five are out of town; they confirmed by phone, recordings kept, and mailed in their authorization letters by registered mail.”

The judge copied those three answers onto a form, writing slowly.

”Litigation claims—three?”

”Three,” He Xiufen said. ”First, confirmation that the loan attached to each personʼs name is not their obligation; second, the three companies refund all deducted amounts; third, the bank bears its own share of responsibility for the entrusted-payment segment.”

”How many defendants.”

”Six.”

He Xiufen pushed the handwritten page through. The judge read it line by line: Jiangzhou Youzhu Information Technology Co., Ltd., Jiangzhou Youjia Business Services Co., Ltd., Jiangzhou Xinhe Trading Co., Ltd., Jiangzhou Bank Chengdong Branch—then the two from the fourth floor of Wanshun Building: Jiangzhou Minanli Property Co., Ltd. and Jiangzhou Anyu Business Consulting Co., Ltd.

When she reached the last two lines, her pen tip paused.

”These two. What do you have on them.”

He Xiufen drew a thin folder from her bag and pushed it through: a photocopy of a delivery note, the receiving-unit column printed with ”Jiangzhou Hongkun Investment Management Co., Ltd.”; two pages of business registry screenshots showing registered addresses at Fourth Floor, Room 409 and Fourth Floor, Room 411; and two photographs—one of payment demand notices blackened where theyʼd been shoved under a door crack, one of a glue-stamp mark that hadnʼt been wiped clean.

”Preliminary,” the judge said. ”Accepted. Complete it before the hearing.”

”Understood.”

The judge flipped back to the first page of the defendant column and stopped at the final entry, set off on its own line.

”Yin Jianping. Youʼve listed him as a third party.”

”Yes.”

”Why not a defendant.”

”Heʼs not on any contract,” He Xiufen said. ”But the money passed through his hands. The bank says heʼs their man; he himself never missed a day of work. He has an interest in the outcome of this case—if the court doesnʼt notify him, heʼll just keep sitting in his cubicle.”

The judge copied that onto the service column. When she finished, she looked up.

”The court will notify him to appear.”

”Thank you.”

The judge pulled out the bottom volume and flipped to the end. The last line was empty.

”This one isnʼt full.”

”Left open on purpose.” Shen Zhixia spoke up. ”For whoever comes today.”

The judge looked at her, asked nothing more, and printed two copies of the filing receipt, sliding them out from under the window. The date on them: July 22nd.

[Thud. The people chosen by a thousand others must still have every name written out on paper, one by one.]

The hall ticked through three more numbers. Beside her stood a man holding a cardboard box, the tape on his box the same color as hers.

Out on the steps, wind came across the parking lot, carrying the smell of gasoline. He Xiufen folded the receipt into quarters and slipped it into her bag.

”Seven working days,” she said. ”Write down what you want to ask the bank at the hearing—one sentence per line. Iʼll review when youʼre done.”

”Which three.”

”You said them yourself.”

On the way down, she looked back once at that window. The eleven volumes still sat stacked on the counter, white covers, like old files someone had pressed to the bottom of a trunk.

* * *

On the afternoon of July 25th, two things arrived together.

One was an express delivery from the court. Inside was the Notice of Case Acceptance, the case number line printed, which she didnʼt read aloud. Underneath, a separate line: the case filed on June 22nd—the eleven plaintiff households were all in this caseʼs roster; the two cases would be consolidated for trial; the original August 10th evidence submission deadline remained unchanged.

The other was a call from the courtʼs service division, saying the summons for Chengdong Branch had been received—and that the person who signed said Yin Jianping had been transferred out of the relationship manager position this month.

”Transferred where.”

”They wouldnʼt write it down.” The voice on the phone said. ”We served the summons to the column you filled in on the application. Heʼs been notified to appear personally.”

After hanging up, she went downstairs and spread the notice across the long table. He Xiufen came down with her enamel mug, didnʼt sit, just looked first at the defendant column.

”Six names, not one missing,” she said. ”Three companies—not one can be left out.”

She set the mug down and tapped the paper with her finger.

”Youzhu: the moment the contractʼs signed, the money goes into its account. Youjia: the merchant name on that contract page is registered under it. Xinhe: the money paid to landlords has flowed through it since March 19th—on your payment transfer voucher, the payee differs from it by exactly six characters. These three are three segments of the same pipe.”

”The bank is the fourth segment.”

”The bank is the mouth of the pipe,” He Xiufen said. ”Entrusted payment—the money never reached the counterparty. It wrote in its own self-inspection that there were a hundred twenty-eight transactions, but it handed over only twenty-three. Iʼll read that line at the hearing.”

”And Yin Jianping.”

”Yin Jianping is the hand twisting at the mouth of that pipe,” He Xiufen said. ”If he doesnʼt appear, the bank can say it has no idea whose hands the money ended up in. If he sits in that courtroom, it canʼt say that.”

”Whereʼs he been transferred to.”

”A transferred employee still has to come,” He Xiufen said. ”The summons has been served, appearance has been notified. Whether he comes—weʼll see on the day of the hearing.”

She pulled over the memo pad, tore off a sheet, and pushed it in front of Shen Zhixia.

”Three lines. Write.”

Shen Zhixia wrote and pushed it back. Three lines:

On that purpose verification page—who verified it, and to what step did they verify.

You self-inspected a hundred twenty-eight transactions. Why did you only produce twenty-three.

Why did this payment go to Xinhe and not to the tenant directly.

He Xiufen read it, added nothing, crossed nothing out, and pressed the note back onto the table.

”Just these three. Not one more. Ask too much and theyʼll steer it somewhere else.”

Tang Guo came downstairs with two bags of wontons, stood by the table and looked at the note for a while.

”The row with my name in the roster—can it be struck off when the judgment comes down.”

”Yes.”

”What if the judgment doesnʼt come down.”

”Then we think again.” Shen Zhixia tucked the note into the case file.

”One more thing,” He Xiufen said. ”The handwriting comparison application went in three days ago. What did the court say.”

”To do it, they need samples from both sides,” Shen Zhixia said. ”The hand that forged Kong Xiulanʼs signature on her contract—we have to find that hand, or have the person write a few lines in court. Without the person, the appraisal canʼt be done.”

”Then find the person first.” He Xiufen picked up her mug. ”Whether the one who came to the door on April 16th and the one who signed for the sixth-floor delivery are the same person—you still have nothing that proves it. What youʼve heard doesnʼt count.”

”Understood.”

[Thud. The hands on the pipe—thereʼs more than one pair.]

* * *

On the night of July 21st, the night before filing, the long table was set out at the mouth of the alley, a light strung over from the power pole, a layer of tiny insects settled on the bulb. The registration forms sat at the corner of the table, the eleven roster volumes weighing them down. Ma Jianjun carried out a stack of disposable bowls from the noodle shop and set a kettle of boiled water by the table leg—whoever was thirsty poured their own.

The line never stopped. Ma Jianjun stood at the head of the table, clutching a stack of number slips, calling ”next” every few people. Jiang Bo squatted on the steps making phone calls, reading off names one by one to the Chengxi batch. Shi Lei leaned against a car door doing math, pen bitten between his teeth.

Tang Guo propped her phone against the table corner. The camera was off; she was using it as a desk lamp.

”My nameʼs on the election form—does that mean I have to sit in the front at the hearing.”

”Yes,” Shen Zhixia said.

”Iʼm not much of a talker.”

”You are.”

”What if someday I donʼt want to go.”

”Say so today. Thereʼs still time to switch.”

Tang Guo thought for a moment, nudged the phone half an inch further in: ”Not switching.”

A man registering pushed his form back and asked when the money would arrive.

”I donʼt know.” Shen Zhixia filled in the last line. ”After the judgment, it depends on whether they have any money.”

”And if they donʼt.”

”Then we follow it.”

At 9:40 that night, the last to arrive were an elderly couple. The man drove a three-wheeler with two rolls of old cotton quilts bound in the back. The woman pulled a sheet of paper from a cloth pouch—bank texts sheʼd copied down line by line herself, the characters crammed together, the date added at the end in ballpoint pen. She gave her name, then repeated which building and unit she lived in.

Shen Zhixia filled those two lines into the roster.

One thousand forty-two lines.

She ran her finger back through them, past the cover of volume two. The first line was Jiang Bo. The thirty-seventh was a woman she couldnʼt name, her thumbprint pressed crooked, leaving half a smudged circle. When she reached volume three, Tang Guo leaned over and pointed at a line.

”Iʼm here.”

Pinned behind that line were three sheets: the loan contract, two screenshots of deductions, and a photo of the door from the day they changed the lock.

Tang Guo pulled her finger back.

”Itʼs not just a few dozen households anymore,” she said.

”No.” Shen Zhixia closed the volume.

”On the hearing day—where do a thousand people sit.”

”One courtroom wonʼt hold them.” She stacked the eleven volumes and hugged them to her chest, the corners digging into her arm. ”Three representatives speak for everyone.”

”And the rest.”

”The rest come to listen,” she said. ”If thereʼs no room to sit, they stand in the corridor. The courthouse has plenty of empty rooms—Iʼll ask when the time comes.”

Ma Jianjun put the remaining number slips in his pocket, came over to take the stack of rosters, and hefted it upward.

”Iʼll carry this up,” he said. ”Feels heavier than my fridge.”

She went up with him. The second-floor light was on, and the eleven volumes went against the wall, as neat as theyʼd been in daylight. She sat at the desk and turned through the last page, until she reached the line sheʼd filled in today—thin strokes, the final one dragged long.

The phone on the desk lit up.

A number with no saved name. One line of text:

”At the hearing, Iʼll hand you that bank agreement in person.”

She stared at that line, counted to three, then kept counting down. The curtains were open, and the alley lamp laid its light on the windowsill.

[Thud. The thing meant to be handed over on the day of the hearing is already in his hands today.]

She flipped the phone face down, resting it on the cover of the eleventh volume.

Beneath the last line, there was still one empty row. She didnʼt cross it out.