Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 130 : Last Modified: 6:20

”Did they return them?”

Qi Xiuyunʼs hand stayed pressed on the register. ”No. The return column is blank.”

Shen Zhixia leaned half an inch forward. The line read: the 30th, 21:40, Obstetrics. After it were two characters—a signature, thin strokes, the last one hooking inward. She copied it into her notebook and asked the date again.

”Last night, nine forty,” Qi Xiuyun said. ”I handed off at ten. I wrote five characters in the handover log: ʼMedical records checked out.ʼ”

”How many were taken, which ones—did you write that?”

”No. Just those five characters.”

”Did you get a clear look at the person who handled it?”

”The nursesʼ station sent down a slip. I logged it from the slip.” She pulled the register back half an inch. ”The register doesnʼt leave this window. If you want to see it, Iʼll flip to it.”

Shen Zhixia passed a sheet of paper through the window. Before leaving, sheʼd written two: one requesting photocopies, one requesting sealing. The applicant was Peng Weidong; the authorized agent, Shen Zhixia of Jiangzhou Zhengping Law Firm. She remembered what He Xiufen had told her downstairs: write both sheets before you go; donʼt stand there figuring it out on the spot.

Qi Xiuyun checked each document, one by one. When she got to the marriage certificate, she looked up. Peng Weidong pulled the red booklet out of the blue canvas bag—corners worn pale, the national emblem on the cover faded to a washed-out yellow. Qi Xiuyun opened it, compared the name against the ID card twice, then typed something into the keyboard.

The printer whirred behind the window.

”The objective portions, per procedure, you can have copies.” Qi Xiuyun gathered the pages into stacks. ”Admission record, temperature sheet, physicianʼs orders, monitoring charts, informed consent forms, nursing records, death record. If a page is missing, tell me and Iʼll print it again.”

Shen Zhixia stood outside the window and counted page by page. Thirty-four pages. She counted twice before stopping, wrote the number in her notebook, then checked the numbering on each page: consecutive, no gaps. In the lower right corner of the first page of each stack was an oval stamp, two characters: Medical Records.

”What about the progress notes, rescue record, and consultation opinions?”

”Those canʼt be photocopied.” Qi Xiuyun said it flatly. ”They can only be sealed.”

”Sealing works.” Shen Zhixia passed in the second sheet. ”Weʼre requesting that all original medical records be sealed, along with todayʼs printout of the electronic records. Counted in our presence, sealed in our presence, signed by both sides, photographed, and one copy of the sealing inventory for us.”

Qi Xiuyun picked up the paper and read it over twice, then set it back in the middle of the counter. She didnʼt put it in the drawer.

”The seal strips arenʼt kept here,” she said. ”Sealing requires someone from Medical Affairs. The keys, the strips, the archival envelopes—they hold all of that. I only do registration and photocopying.”

”Then this paper counts as received by your office.” Shen Zhixia pointed at the application. ”On the duplicate, write the time it was received and sign it. Iʼll take it with me.”

Qi Xiuyun didnʼt move. After two seconds, she pulled a pen from the drawer and wrote in the lower right corner of the duplicate: December 31, 10:55 received, Qi. Then she opened the blue-covered register and added a line at the bottom, turning it around when she finished: the 31st, 10:55, Zhengping Firm, Shen, submitted sealing application, one copy.

Shen Zhixia copied that line down too.

”One more thing.” She spoke again. ”The electronic records—are they in the system?”

”They are.”

”How many documents, how many pages, who wrote each one—I need all of it for the sealing inventory. Please pull it up so I can copy it down.”

Qi Xiuyunʼs fingers moved across the keyboard for a while, then she turned the screen halfway around. The document index ran down in a column. Qi Xiuyun read it aloud; Shen Zhixia copied: admission record, two pages; initial progress note, two pages; chief physician rounds, one page; pre-labor record, one page; partograph, one page; fetal heart monitoring, six sheets; rescue record, three pages; nursing records, eleven pages; physicianʼs orders, four pages; informed consent forms, two; death record, one page. When she reached the rescue record line, she paused half a beat.

”Whoʼs listed as the author on that line?” Shen Zhixia asked.

”Author: Lin Qi.” Qi Xiuyunʼs finger moved down. ”Night shift—she was the only one who signed.”

”That Dr. Lin from Obstetrics,” Peng Weidong said from the side. These past two days, he had only one thing to say about her: she disappeared the very next day.

Shen Zhixia copied that column down. When she finished, her pen tip stopped on the last column of each row. That column was narrow and faint—all numbers.

”What time does this column show?”

”Last modified.” Qi Xiuyun said it without emphasis. ”The system tracks it automatically. Whoever touched it, whoever didnʼt—it records everything.”

”Please read it line by line.”

Qi Xiuyun started from the first line: admission record, the 26th, 22:07. Pre-labor record, the 27th, 1:30. Partograph, the 27th, 2:50. Rescue record—

She hesitated, pulled the screen back toward herself a little, looked again, then read: ”The 27th, 6:20.”

”Look again.”

”The 27th, 6:20.”

Outside the window, it was very quiet. On the third floor, someone was calling out a bed number; the voice dropped down the stairwell, muffled through two doors.

6:20. The handwritten time in the upper right corner of that page—also 6:20.

[Thud. A column on someone elseʼs screen, copied down, is still evidence.]

”Keep going,” she said.

Nursing records, the 27th, 7:15. Physicianʼs orders, the 27th, 7:32. Death record, the 27th, 9:40.

When Qi Xiuyun finished, she turned the screen back. That column of numbers probably meant nothing to her; she hadnʼt added a single word beyond reading them aloud.

”Can this column be printed?”

”A printout only includes the content.” She said it plainly. ”This column exists in the system. It doesnʼt go onto paper.”

Shen Zhixia closed her notebook. The dozen-plus lines of numbers sheʼd copied proved nothing right now; the one column that could prove something stayed on someone elseʼs screen. She gripped the notebook a little tighter and said nothing.

It was just past eleven when they came out of the medical records office. She called He Xiufen from the steps and reported two things: medical records had been checked out at 9:40 last night, and the return column was blank; thirty-four pages photocopied, but the rescue record and progress notes couldnʼt be copied—only sealed.

On the other end, a spatula clanged against the rim of a wok. ”Donʼt rush it yet.” He Xiufen said. ”You need two things. One is the receipt time on that application; the other is whoʼs holding the records right now. Everything else waits until the afternoon.”

”And if I canʼt get them?”

”Then write down the process of not getting them.”

At noon, Tang Guo bought two pancakes from the stall by the entrance—one each. They crouched by the flower bed to eat, then spread the notebook open on a knee and began logging from 13:57.

Medical Affairs was on the second floor of the administrative building. The door plate was frosted glass; the door stood ajar, someone inside flipping papers. Behind the desk sat a man in his early forties, white coat open, sleeves pushed to his forearms. Beside him, a young woman with her pen poised over a notebook. Three forms lay on the desk: a billing statement, a release procedure, and a photocopy cover sheet.

”Master Peng, sit down.” The man motioned toward a chair.

Peng Weidong didnʼt sit. He pressed the blue canvas bag against his knees, both hands holding the opening shut.

”Three forms. Letʼs start with one.” The man slid the billing statement forward half a sheet. ”The babyʼs fees are charged by the day. If we donʼt settle today, theyʼll have to reprint the form tomorrow.”

Shen Zhixia reached out and pinned a corner of the form, pulling all three together. ”Weʼre not signing any of them today.”

”Signing or not is your choice.” The man leaned back. ”So what do you want?”

”To seal the medical records.” She set the original application on the desk, her finger pressed on the date line. ”Last night at 9:40, the medical records were checked out of the records office. The return column is still empty. Per procedure, once a dispute arises, sealing medical records requires both sides present—counted face to face, sealed, signed. This morning at 10:55, we submitted the application. When can the sealing happen?”

”Sealing has to go through the process.” The man spoke slowly. ”The deputy director in charge is on a business trip; the seal isnʼt in the office; seal strips need to be requisitioned. Once itʼs arranged, weʼll notify you. Tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

”That works.” Shen Zhixia pushed the duplicate toward him. ”Write the time of receipt, who handled it, and sign.”

The man glanced at the line, pulled a pen from the holder, wrote, and set the pen down. ”Sealing is one matter; procedure is another. Two different things.”

”That one I wonʼt sign.” She pulled the duplicate back, folded it, then pushed it forward again. ”Now I need you to write one more sentence on it: from eleven oʼclock today until the time you arrange the sealing, who is holding the medical records.”

The man frowned slightly. ”The records are in the department and the records office. Theyʼre not going anywhere.”

”Then write it. ʼThe medical records are currently held in this hospitalʼs records office and Obstetrics Department, unsealed.ʼ Sign underneath with todayʼs date.”

The young woman beside him glanced up at him. The man didnʼt take the pen. He reached out, flipped two pages on the photocopy cover sheet, then pushed it back. The tea on his desk had stopped steaming.

”Fine,” he said at last. ”You write it. Iʼll sign.”

Shen Zhixia wrote the line and slid it over. He signed, then capped the pen.

”One more question.” She folded the paper and put it in her bag. ”Going forward, which lawyer should we coordinate with on the records?”

”We have a permanent legal counsel.” The man said. ”The contract is with the hospital administration office. Thatʼs not under me.”

”Which firm?”

”I really donʼt know.” He didnʼt sound evasive. ”As for todayʼs forms—you can choose not to sign any of them. For the baby, go ask the nursesʼ station yourself.”

As they left, Tang Guo added a line at the end of the notebook: 14:41 exit. The window at the end of the corridor was open a crack; the wind lifted an old notice on the sill and let it fall. Peng Weidong stopped by that window. There was ink from the printing plant on the backs of his hands—scrubbed, but the gray stayed in the creases.

”Let me ask something,” he said. ”That... if itʼs done a day later, will it be less clean?”

”The cleanest window is within forty-eight hours.” Shen Zhixia didnʼt soften it for him. ”From the 27th to today, the first three days are already gone. Every day that passes, thereʼs less that shows. Those words need to come out of your own mouth.”

He didnʼt answer. He pulled the bar phone from the blue canvas bag and glanced at it. The screen showed two missed calls from the nursesʼ station.

The sun below had bleached the steps white. Shen Zhixia was on the second step down when she stopped.

[Thud. The medical records: there were two versions.]

She looked back at the administrative building. The window on the second floor was still open a crack. She flipped her notebook back to the page with the copied columns. In the last-modified column, ”6:20” sat squeezed between two other numbers, the characters so small they were barely legible.

When the person left, it was 3:40. The last time anyone touched it on the screen was 6:20. In between: two hours and forty minutes of empty space.