Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 135 : Shift Handover Record

One of the fluorescent tubes in the autopsy room flickered, strobing every few seconds and throwing the stainless steel table into alternating bands of white and sickly blue.

Six-thirty, the custodian came to unlock the door. He said the room got lent out to the police often enough, the door bolted from the inside, water down the hall to the right, rinse the table when they finished. Then he hung the key back on his belt and left.

Ten to seven, Zhong arrived. He came alone, carrying two cases, with an assistant in his early twenties behind him. The cases opened to reveal neatly folded cloth, gloves, glass vials, and a stack of numbered labels.

”Family waits outside,” he said. ”Whoever goes in signs.”

Two people from the hospital came—a man and a woman, white coats under their overcoats, saying the hospital had assigned them to be present. Shen Zhixia pushed the registration form toward them. ”Everyone present writes their name.”

The two exchanged a look. The man wrote first, quickly; the woman set the pen down when she finished and looked up. ”Does this go back to the hospital?”

”What you signed is attendance, not consent,” she said.

Zhong carried the cases inside, calling out sample materials as he went while the assistant logged them in a book by the door. Shen Zhixia stood at the threshold, listening. Heart blood, peripheral blood, myocardium, liver, bilateral kidneys, uterus and adnexa, gastric contents, urine, plus one backup blood sample. One by one, labeled one by one.

”What testing?” the assistant asked.

”Routine toxicology screening.” Zhong glanced toward the door. ”Family, anything to add?”

”Screen for medications.” Shen Zhixia said.

”Which ones?”

”By major class.”

Zhong jotted two lines in the book. ”Class-based med screening—lots of items, billed separately, and it takes longer.”

”Do it,” she said.

The hospital man stepped forward half a pace. ”Teacher Zhong, how long will samples be kept? Can we get a copy of the numbering—the hospital needs it for filing.”

”The numbers are on the report.” Zhong didnʼt look up. ”Not now.”

The man withdrew his hand and wiped it twice along his trouser seam.

[Thud. What she left on her body is more than what was written on paper.]

Past ten, Zhong came out to wash his hands. The water ran thin; he scrubbed for a long time, then said sampling was done, it would go to the lab this afternoon, results maybe ten-plus days, a month at worst. The appraisal opinion would address only how she died, nothing else.

”As for her,” he shook his hands dry, ”you can take her back anytime, or leave her a while longer. Weʼll issue a certificate of completed autopsy; take it to the funeral home and ask. How they charge by the day is their business.”

Peng Weidong had been sitting the whole time on the plastic chair in the hallway, back against the wall. Hearing this, he pulled his hands out of his sleeves.

”She still has to lie there,” he said.

”Thatʼs up to her,” Zhong said. ”And up to you.”

”Iʼm back at the factory tomorrow.” Peng Weidong stood, lifting the padded jacket off the chair back. ”Leaveʼs until the fifth. I read the workshop supervisorʼs signature three times.”

”The money?” Shen Zhixia asked.

”Itemized billing, pay before processing.” Zhong handed over the slip. ”This stack is whatʼs owed today.”

Peng Weidong reached for it; she took it first.

”The money in your card is for the baby,” she said. ”Iʼll go back and talk to the director about this one.”

He didnʼt argue, didnʼt thank her either. He put on the jacket and zipped it all the way to his chin. At the doorway he stopped, turned, and stared at the closed door for a while.

Coming down the stairs he crouched on the steps for a moment and said, ”Yesterday afternoon I came to see her. Through the glass, the nurse held the baby up so I could get a look. Today the doctor has a knife, and Iʼm sitting outside.”

Shen Zhixia added a line in her notebook: January 5th, entered 6:30, exited past 10:00, family in the hallway.

Eleven forty, the Medical Affairs Office at Chengbei Hospital.

Director Xu had a newspaper spread on his desk, his teacup lid propped to one side. She handed him two pages: an application, three lines. First, seal the original shift handover records from Obstetrics for December 26th through 28th—the entire logbook, not one page to be torn out. Second, copy the nursing records. Third, verify whether nursing records were included in the January 1st sealing inventory.

”The nursing records are in the sealed items,” he said.

”Perfect.” She set her pen on the application. ”Take them out and compare. If they match, I wonʼt ask again.”

”Unsealing requires procedure.”

”Then follow it,” she said. ”When itʼs done, give me one line. If not today, then tomorrow—and if not tomorrow, Iʼll record it as refused.”

Xu folded the newspaper once, tucked it under the corner of the desk, and rose to pull a sheaf of papers from the cabinet. He came back and laid them in front of her.

”The handover logʼs handwriting was too sloppy, so the department tidied it up,” he said. ”Look at this first.”

Two pages, hand-copied, with line spacing even as ruled paper. Shen Zhixia set the two pages side by side and tilted them toward the window light.

Same hand. Same pen. Two pages written in one sitting—the pressure of every stroke identical from start to finish, down to the identical slant of the two characters in ”twenty.” She flipped back: the 25th page was another personʼs hand, ink dark, characters crammed into the grid; the 28th, still another hand, the page edge curling with wear.

These two pages had clean, even edges and unmarked binding holes.

”The originals?”

”With the department.”

”These two pages were inserted afterward.”

”Attorney Shen.” Xu sat back down. ”I canʼt see any difference in the handwriting. If you want the originals, Iʼll report it up and ask.”

”Donʼt touch the whole logbook,” she said. ”The pages before and after—no one touches any of them.”

She took out her phone and photographed the two pages side by side, then separate shots of the 25th and 28th.

Xu didnʼt stop her, and didnʼt say she could either.

[Thud. A secondhand copy canʼt reproduce the first writingʼs hour.]

The corridor led in to Obstetrics. The nursesʼ station window was half-curtained; Yan Mei sat inside writing, her nurseʼs cap pinned to her collar.

”Head Nurse Yan.”

”Attorney Shen.”

”That blue-grid logbook.”

Yan Meiʼs pen paused. ”Yesterday afternoon before I got off, I turned it in to the doctorsʼ office.”

”Who asked for it?”

”The department,” she said. ”They said the original handwriting was too sloppy, so it needed recopying.”

”How many pages did you copy?”

”One.”

”While you were copying, was the original page still in your hands?”

Yan Mei capped her pen and looked up at her. Caution in her eyes, but no anger. ”Yesterday when you asked me for it, today it was already gone.”

”Iʼm not asking you for it,” Shen Zhixia said. ”Iʼm just asking one thing: the page you copied, is it the same as the original?”

A cart passed outside the window, its wheels knocking over the threshold. Yan Mei looked at her for a few seconds.

”I entered this department at seventeen,” she said. ”All these years, whatever the logbook said, thatʼs what it said.”

”And now?”

”Now itʼs not mine to manage.” She pushed the drawer shut and stood. ”I have to go change dressings.”

Halfway down to the second-floor landing, her phone rang. An unsaved number. She leaned against the handrail and answered; there was an echo on the line, like a stairwell.

”Around nine this morning, in the doctorsʼ office.” Lin Qiʼs voice was kept low. ”Three people. Someone from Medical Affairs, and another one I didnʼt know—middle-aged, they called him Director.”

”What did they want you to sign?”

”The two transcribed pages. Thereʼs a slip pasted on the last page saying ʼThe above is consistent with the original records.ʼ” She paused. ”They wanted my signature underneath.”

”Did you sign?”

”I said I only copied two pages, and anything beyond that I didnʼt know.” She said, ”They told me I copied two pages, sign and be done.”

”When do they want an answer?”

”Before I get off work.”

Shen Zhixia switched the phone to her other hand. ”Doctor Lin, three things,” she said. ”One: donʼt sign. Two: if they insist, put your pen after your own writing—write ʼI personally transcribed only two pages,ʼ and date it today. Three: for any document they ask you to sign, you have the right to a copy. Once youʼre out the door, photograph it and keep it.”

The line went quiet for a while. Upstairs, someone closed a door.

”When I was copying,” Lin Qi suddenly said, ”the original shift note had three lines. The ʼnewʼ one they gave me has five.”

”What do the two extra lines say?”

”One says postpartum hemorrhage risk, monitor closely.” She paused. ”The other says family has been informed of autopsy-related matters.”

On that Autopsy Notice, the informantʼs signature line was blank. Shen Zhixia set that sentence down level in her mind.

”Donʼt mention those two lines to anyone for now,” she said. ”Mention them, and tomorrow thereʼll be one more name on that paper—yours.”

”I know,” Lin Qi said. ”Thatʼs why I called you. These last two days I keep thinking—the characters are my name, the shift is my shift. They lay those two pages on the table, and anyone who looks thinks I wrote them.”

”Iʼm putting you on the witness list today.”

Silence on the line.

”Written in my notebook, on its own page: Witness, Lin Qi,” she said. ”That page is only with me right now. The day you nod, I bring it out; if you never nod, it rots in my notebook. Iʼm saying this to you, and it stands.”

”And if I do nod?”

”Then you stand in court and say it in front of them.”

”I know.” Lin Qi asked, ”On that paper—is my name on it?”

”Which paper.”

”The medical record,” she said. ”The signature on the last page.”

”Itʼs your name,” Shen Zhixia said. ”You didnʼt write it, but itʼs under your name.”

A bell rang on the other end, the kind mounted on a wall. Lin Qi hung up.

She called the firm and added todayʼs two entries. He Xiufen listened, then asked only two things.

”The witness page—written?”

”Written.”

”List her, and your name ties to hers on the same rope,” He Xiufen said. ”If she denies it later, the ropeʼs still in your hand; if she confirms it, you have to stand in front of her.”

”I accept.”

”The two medication lines—keep them in the notebook, not on paper.”

”Understood.”

”How much total for Zhong?”

”Paid a stack today.”

”If you canʼt cover it, tell me.” He Xiufen paused. ”Two thousand is what Iʼm lending the case, not lending you.”

Five twenty. The Medical Affairs Office had changed its tea.

”The hospital has settled several points.” Xu kept his tone even. ”The handover records are departmental materials; the originals donʼt leave the department, but you may have photocopies of the shifts before and after. The nursing records are in the sealed items; unsealing requires both parties present. Weʼll schedule a time.”

”Which day?”

”In the next couple of days.”

”Then those two steps it is.” She pushed the morningʼs application toward him again. ”Today you said three sentences, and I wrote down three.”

Xu didnʼt reach for it. A knock at the door, and in came a man in his fifties, hair neatly combed, overcoat draped over his forearm.

”Director Huang.” Xu stood.

The man extended his hand first. ”Huang Weizhong, in charge of medical affairs. Attorney Shen, please sit.”

She didnʼt sit.

”Xiao Xu showed me all your materials from these past few days.” Huang Weizhong laid his coat over the chair back. ”The autopsy—the hospital will cooperate. Cremation—thatʼs not the hospitalʼs concern. Those three spots youʼve got—the signature line, the date, the informantʼs line—Iʼve reviewed them all.”

”And how do you see them?”

”The writing in the medical record is the on-duty physicianʼs.” He spoke deliberately, as if choosing his words. ”Lin Qi was on duty that night; the record is in her name, and the correction was also in her hands.”

”Correction.” Shen Zhixia bit down on the word.

”Iʼm talking about the medical record,” Huang Weizhong said, looking at her. ”You have your case; we have our rules. What the department submitted—who wrote it, who signed it—is in black and white.”

”Would you say that sentence to Doctor Lin to her face?”

”It was already said this morning.” He picked up his coat, walked to the door, paused a half-step, and added over his shoulder, ”A doctor only has a few sheets of paper pressing on her hands.”

The door closed. The hallway speaker was reading a bed number, very slowly.

Shen Zhixia stood at the window looking down. A car below took two tries to back into its space. She pulled out her phone and called the unsaved number.

The first call rang to the eighth ring, then cut off.

The second rang twice and was declined.