Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 121 : Three Ledgers

Three ledgers lay spread on the long table. None of them were hers.

Friday, November 27th, morning. The window above the noodle shop was half open, and the smell of scallion oil from downstairs drifted up, stirring the corners of the paper. She laid the three out flat, weighting both ends with paperweights. The first was what she had traced out last night from Xiao Tanʼs third-floor ledger—that one line: November 26th, 4:40 p.m., third-floor archive room, east wall metal cabinet, bottom drawer, beneath the base panel, one corner of loose paper, unnumbered. The handwriting was hers; the spot where her hand had trembled during tracing was reproduced exactly where it had trembled. The second was a line from the blue-covered register in Master Cuiʼs compound: one corner of loose paper, one entry and exit, two witnesses. The third was her own notebook, written twice over—date, location, handlers, persons present, all complete.

She pressed a ruler against the paper and checked line by line. The date matched: November 26th. The time matched: 4:40. The location matched: third floor, east wall, bottom drawer, beneath the base panel. Check. Check. Check. Her pen stopped at the fourth item: Xiao Tanʼs column listed persons present as ”2.” Master Cui had written ”two witnesses.” Her column listed a string of names—Xiao Tan, Master Cui, herself. Three.

The counts all matched. Only she had written down the names.

With the three pages lined up, she stared for a while before she saw the harder truth: there was only one handwriting on this table.

Yesterday on the third floor, Xiao Tan had closed the register as soon as he finished writing, his hand staying flat on the cover. He said not a single piece of unit archive could leave the building; copying was allowed, but no photos, no photocopies, no stamps. When she asked if he could stamp the copied page with the archive seal, he said heʼd ask the section chief tomorrow. Master Cui was even more direct—that blue-covered register, heʼd kept it for twelve years; if she wanted to look, heʼd flip it open for her. But the book didnʼt leave the compound. Once it left, it stopped being a register. This morning Xiao Tan had gotten back to her, two words: no stamp.

[Thud. Three copies all in your hand, equals not a single one.]

Footsteps on the stairs. He Xiufen came in carrying a bowl of noodles, set it at the corner of the table, leaned over for a look at the three ledgers, and tapped the first one with her chopsticks. ”You copied it three times yourself. You didnʼt get a single real copy.”

”The originals canʼt be taken out.”

”Then not taking them out is correct.” She nudged the noodle bowl an inch sideways, clearing table space. ”What you wrote yourself, you say itʼs a copy—whoʼs going to confirm that for you? The numbers are easy to verify. The names, nobody will verify for you. Later, when someone stands in front of you and asks how many people were on that third floor that day and who they were, youʼll be the only one who can speak. Those two ledgers are still where they were. The paper hasnʼt grown legs. For someone else to confirm it, you need a person unconnected to this matter to stand in front of those two ledgers, turn page by page, and sign when done. The one turning pages canʼt be you.”

She bent over her notebook and added a line: Notary office—on-site verification of original entries in both ledgers.

The kraft paper envelope sat at the other end of the table. Xiao Tan had sealed it yesterday on the third floor; his name on the seal flap pressed over a line of date, and she had copied the same date beside it. She picked up the envelope and pressed her fingertip along the sealed edge.

”Iʼll sign here myself too,” she said. ”As proof that Iʼve been holding one untouched item since yesterday.”

He Xiufen pressed her hand down. ”You sealed it yourself, you sign it yourself—when someone asks later, how will you answer? Your signature says ʼI handled it,ʼ not ʼI sealed it.ʼ” She pulled a blank sheet from the drawer and wrote four lines: one corner of blue-grid paper; edge with partial arc of a round hole; one tear; one handwritten stroke remnant on the edge, ink tinted blue.

”These four lines,” He Xiufen said. ”Did you write down that half character?”

”No.”

”Why not?”

She let the pen tip hover over that line. ”If I write it down, I have to tell them what I found. If I donʼt write it, I havenʼt fixed anything in place.”

”Then read me those four lines you did write.”

She read them aloud. He Xiufen nodded. ”Write down what you can see. Leave the guesses for others to ask about. As for that remaining half character—wait until someone stands in front of you and asks about the three words ʼBaixi Village.ʼ Then you say it.”

[Thud. Write what you see. Leave the guesses for others to ask.]

She took a fresh sheet and copied the four lines into a list, numbered it one, and drew three boxes side by side below—one for Xiao Tan, one for Master Cui, one for herself. All three empty. She folded the list once, put it in a large document envelope with the letter, and wrote ”No. 1” on the outside again. When done, she flipped to the ”Separate File: Under Review” book and added a line under ”Same Origin”: November 26th, one corner of loose paper, Envelope No. 1, awaiting family authorization.

She called Master Cui. Tomorrow, she said, someone from the notary office might come to the old building; would he leave yesterdayʼs page unturned? Master Cui paused twice on the other end, then said he wouldnʼt touch the book—whoever came, heʼd flip it for them. Then he added: that young man came again yesterday afternoon. Stood outside the compound gate for ten-odd minutes without coming in, asked through the gate when the building would be cleared. She asked what he looked like. Master Cui said he couldnʼt see clearly—wind was strong, the man had his back turned; all he caught was a strip of white shirt collar showing below the scarf.

She gripped the phone without speaking. Through the earpiece, Master Cui added one more line: whoeverʼs coming, come early—next week theyʼre coming into the compound to measure doors and windows.

He Xiufen lifted the noodle bowl and ate two mouthfuls before steering the conversation to serious matters. ”The envelope is one thing. That drive is another. To open the drive, there are three gates.”

”Family authorization, forensic appraisal, notarized preservation.” She answered fast.

”Say it through once for me.”

”The family gate: the hard drive and this paper corner are both personal effects. Auntie Wang canʼt read, Cen Hong understands procedure, and the older brother in Shenzhen mailed a written statement last time—this time it needs to be a proper power of attorney, in duplicate, signed, fingerprinted, dated, with a copy of his ID attached, each side keeping one copy. The purpose field is the most critical part—it canʼt say ʼopen it and take a look.ʼ It has to state clearly that this is for investigating old Baixi Village materials that may later be submitted in a retrial or a report. If the purpose is written vaguely, one ʼulterior motiveʼ from the other side and the whole matter gets cut off.”

”The wording in the purpose field—whose idea?”

She paused. ”I drafted it.”

”Draftingʼs fine. But those sentences need to come from their own thoughts and their own mouths. You read it to them, they nod, and you write down their words. What youʼre writing is ʼCen Shouyeʼs family consents,ʼ not ʼShen Zhixia asserts.ʼ”

”Understood. On authorization day, bring a voice recorder. Or have a notary come along.”

”Right. A paper signed in person is worth more than a paper mailed back.”

”The appraisal gate: someone has to commission it. I canʼt. Iʼm not an heir, and this drive isnʼt mine.” She paused. ”I thought about having Zhou Yuʼs side issue a document. But his is a money case; the drive has nothing to do with money. If I force it in, and later someone asks him why heʼs reaching into a drive thatʼs none of his business—I canʼt take that risk.”

”Good that you thought it through yourself.” He Xiufen set her chopsticks down. ”His thread is clean. Donʼt use it to pad something else.”

”Notarization: on unsealing day, the notary present, family present, the appraiser present, signatures going onto the unsealing record. I can watch. But I canʼt be the first to touch it.”

”Thereʼs one more line you didnʼt say.” He Xiufen pulled the desk calendar over and flipped two pages. ”August 24th, there was one notarization. That time it sealed ʼthe contents havenʼt been touched.ʼ Todayʼs seal covers from today until opening day—who touched it, when it was touched, who stood by. The two arenʼt the same thing—donʼt let anyone use that August preservation slip to cut off this stretch.”

She copied that line into her notebook too. When her pen reached the word ”signature,” it stopped.

”Also,” He Xiufen said, ”that person comes on Tuesday.”

”Chairman Han. The Bar Association is organizing donations to several legal aid offices. Our nameʼs on the list, and theyʼll ask how many legal aid cases weʼve taken this year.”

”What heʼs really asking is what weʼre working on and what weʼre holding.” He Xiufen tapped the table edge with her chopsticks. ”If that day thereʼs a sealed envelope sitting on your desk—he has a very good memory.”

She put the document envelope away in the cabinet, pulled the drawer all the way out and pushed it back in, listening for the lock to click.

”What if itʼs empty when itʼs opened?” He Xiufen suddenly asked.

”If itʼs empty, Iʼll record that itʼs empty—what day it was opened, who opened it, what came out. An empty drive is still a result. The appraisal opinion will state it.”

”Even for ʼempty,ʼ someone has to sign their name saying itʼs empty. Remember that line—itʼs just as important as those three gates.”

[Thud. Custody is an obligation. Unsealing is a right. You are not the person with that right.]

Tang Guoʼs call came in the afternoon. Downstairs was in the middle of the lunch rush; she listened while closing the window. Theyʼd found the person from Building 3 on Minsheng Road—in Chengbei Hospital. The phone had been disconnected because sheʼd changed her number; her cousin had posted the new one in the group. Tang Guo said the money could wait, but the grid couldnʼt stay empty forever; she wanted to go see the person Monday, bringing that uncanceled schedule. She said fine; they set it for Monday afternoon, and she told Tang Guo not to charge into the ward with her phone held up.

After hanging up, she listed her tasks in six lines, one task per line: Saturday, Auntie Wangʼs place. Monday morning, court window, consolidate the Qingyuan Testing matter onto one sheet. Monday afternoon, hospital visit with Tang Guo. Tuesday, Bar Association donation, stay at the office. Wednesday, notary office, schedule the on-site visit. One line left; she wrote—appraisal institution directory; either the courtʼs technical office or the Justice Bureau keeps a copy; asking for the directory is fine, naming a specific institution is not. Finally she added Auntie Wangʼs house number, plus four more characters: read it to her.

The desk calendar lay open. She filled the lines into the squares one by one. When she reached Wednesdayʼs square, she stopped, looked at it for a while, and wrote three characters at the very bottom of the square, very small. No task beside them.

Then she picked up her phone and typed half a line: Iʼll open the hard drive after Wednesday. Looked at it for two seconds, deleted it. The screen stayed on. She sent nothing.

In the evening, He Xiufen passed by while checking accounts, glanced at the calendar, and pushed her reading glasses up. She pressed a fingertip into Wednesdayʼs square, then moved it down to the blank space beneath.

”Youʼre missing a line on this.”

”Which line?”

”The person who signs on unsealing day.” He Xiufen said. ”The notary will be there regardless. Iʼm asking about the one standing beside—the one who hands over the knife, who cuts the seal, who first takes the drive out of the envelope.”

”Anyoneʼs fine, as long as it isnʼt me.”

”Nor me.” He Xiufen withdrew her hand from the calendar, her voice lowered. ”These two months on this case, our hands have touched too many things. Anyone can sign—just not us. At the moment of opening, the signer cannot be one of us.”