Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 138 : Statement of Defense

January 13th, Wednesday. Nine in the morning, Litigation Service Center, Chengbei District Court.

The clerk behind the window pushed three sheets of paper out. The Notice of Case Acceptance sat on top; underneath it was the Notice of Approval for Deferred Litigation Fees.

”Accepted,” the clerk said. ”The deferred paymentʼs approved too. After judgment, the losing side bears it.”

Shen Zhixia picked up the three sheets. The plaintiff column held two lines: Peng Weidong; Peng Nianman, Legal Guardian Peng Weidong. She read the second line twice—a child still in an incubator, already given a plaintiffʼs name. The defendant column held one line: Jiangzhou Chengbei Hospital.

”Has the complaint copy gone out?”

”Theyʼll be notified to come pick it up today.” The clerk flipped through the register on the desk. ”Fifteen days for the defense, counted from the date of signing.”

”Evidence submission deadline?”

”Itʼs on the notice. Thirty days.” The clerk looked up at her. ”You want to apply for an appraisal—wait for the defendantʼs defense statement to come in, then raise it together.”

”The deferred amount—it has to be paid back later?”

”Depends who loses.” The clerk capped the pen. ”The loser pays.”

She thanked him and spread the two notices on the windowsill to photograph them. The line reading ”Peng Nianman, Legal Guardian Peng Weidong”—she took a separate shot, straight on, leaving wide margins. Then she walked back down the hall steps, past the row of stone balls at the entrance, bleached pale by the sun.

At nine forty, her phone rang. A number she didnʼt have saved.

”Lawyer Shen.” Lin Qiʼs voice was flat. ”I didnʼt go up today.”

”The medical office?”

”Didnʼt go up. Wonʼt go up again.” There was a pause on the other end. ”Last night until today, they called me twice more. I didnʼt answer.”

A bus pulled in below the steps, its air brakes hissing.

”The case was accepted today,” she said. ”The complaint copy will reach the hospital in the next day or two.”

”Then what does that make me?”

”A witness who hasnʼt testified yet.” She said, ”Nothing else.”

[Thud. The seventh day has come. Someone took the paper.]

On the morning of the fourteenth, just past eight, Peng Weidong sent a photo: the receipt for the freezer renewal pressed against his palm, red ink still staining the base of his fingers. On the phone he asked only one thing: ”Is the hospital going to talk now?”

”Soon, if all goes well. A few days.”

He said ”Mm,” and hung up.

Past ten, the clerk sent a text: the complaint copy had been signed for by the Chengbei Hospital Medical Affairs Office.

* * *

January 18th, Monday. In the morning the court called, asking her to come to the Litigation Service Center to pick up the defendantʼs defense statement and evidence materials. She signed the receipt form and took the stack of photocopies: a three-page Statement of Defense, a one-page Evidence List, followed by the evidence materials.

She was back at Zhengping by eleven. Downstairs, scallions were just hitting the wok, the smell climbing up the stairs. He Xiufen called up from below, ”Come down and weʼll talk.” She didnʼt answer right away. She spread the stack of paper across the desk.

The Statement of Defense was cleanly structured.

First point: the hospitalʼs diagnosis and treatment conformed to medical standards. Chen Xiaoman died of postpartum hemorrhage despite full emergency rescue, and her death had no causal connection to the hospitalʼs treatment.

Second point: the obstetrics nursing records contain no forgery or tampering. The department reorganized and transcribed the shift handover records in accordance with internal management requirements, and the transcribed content is identical to the original records; the alterations appearing in the two-shift records were made solely by the on-duty physician Lin Qi, and the hospital has suspended her from work and will handle the matter separately.

Third point: plaintiff Peng Weidong has signed the Notice of Voluntary Waiver of Autopsy, confirming the autopsy matter. His current claim of undetermined cause of death and request for appraisal lacks factual and legal basis.

Three pages, three points, each one bearing down on a different spot: one on cause of death, one on the records, one on procedure. She read the third point twice, then went downstairs and stood in the kitchen doorway.

”Director He, the signature line on that notification form is in Chen Xiaomanʼs name.”

He Xiufenʼs strainer never stopped moving. ”They know that.”

”Then why write ʼPeng Weidong has signedʼ?”

”Itʼs written for you to see.” Noodles and soup poured into the bowl together. ”Put the familyʼs heart down on paper first. Bet that you wonʼt dare turn that page over.”

[Thud. Answering fast—they probably wrote this days ago.]

She went back upstairs and reread the second point. Half a sentence in it was a gift—”the department reorganized and transcribed the shift handover records in accordance with internal management requirements.” One ”department,” one ”reorganized”—the hospital had put down on paper, in their own words, who changed what and how. She drew a red line beneath those words.

He Xiufen came up from the stairway, stood by the desk reading that line, and nodded once. ”Keep that sentence. Itʼll be useful in court.” Then she went back down. The pot was still on the burner.

Below was the Evidence List. Six items, one per line:

1. Inpatient medical records, one photocopied set, 34 pages;

2. Obstetrics nursing record transcribed copy, two pages (verified by the on-duty physician);

3. Explanation on Matters Concerning Obstetric Medical Records, one page;

4. Notice of Voluntary Waiver of Autopsy, one copy;

5. On-duty physicianʼs practice credential materials, one set;

6. January 1 medical record sealing inventory, one copy.

In the entire list, only the second item carried a parenthetical note. Thirty-four pages—matching the set sheʼd counted herself in the medical records room on January 1. But nowhere on the list did a single word mention the originals—the originals were still in the hospitalʼs records room, and they hadnʼt listed them.

She counted the evidence materials against the list: the two-page transcribed copy, the one-page Explanation, the waiver notice, two pages of practice credentials, one page of sealing inventory. All photocopies, the paper glossy and new, the cut edges perfectly aligned. On the first, when they sealed the files, she had touched the originals—the paper was soft, the page edges frayed. This set had been freshly printed in the last few days.

She turned to the last page of the transcribed copy.

On the morning of the sixth, when Director Xu had passed those three photocopied pages out from the Medical Affairs Office, the section at the bottom reading ”The above is consistent with the original records” had been blank. Sheʼd held it to the light three times that day; the space was spotless. Now, on this copy, two characters were signed there: Lin Qi.

The date line was blank.

She took the three pages sheʼd kept from the binder and laid the two versions side by side. Same page, same section—one blank, one signed.

She scrolled back through her phoneʼs photo album, back to the shots of the medical records taken on January 1 before the sealing. At the end of the record dated the 27th, the on-duty physicianʼs signature line bore Lin Qiʼs own signature. She enlarged both and held them up on the screen together.

The real ”Qi”—the wood radical jumped off the pen quickly, the right side pressed flat, the last stroke flicking slightly upward. The two characters on the evidence list were even, stroke by stroke, pressed heavy, horizontal lines level and verticals straight—as if traced from a model.

Above it, the line ”verified by the on-duty physician”—the ink was the same depth as the signature, the character spacing just as loose. The words in that section and the two-character signature had been written with one pen, one hand, one breath. The body of the transcribed copy was not this hand: those two pages had crisp edges and clean binding holes, just as new as theyʼd been on the afternoon of the fourth.

[Thud. A name can be signed for someone. A hand canʼt.]

She photographed the last page of the transcribed copy, sent it to Lin Qi along with her own three pages and the real signature from the 27th.

Half a minute later, a voice message came back. Three words: ”Itʼs not me.”

A second message followed, the voice trembling slightly: ”I didnʼt sign on the fourth, didnʼt sign on the fifth. They called me again today and I still didnʼt sign. I never signed a single character.”

She called. The breathing on the other end was soft, like someone standing in a stairwell.

”I canʼt pull that page back,” she said. ”Once itʼs submitted, itʼs submitted.”

”Then what do I do.”

”You donʼt need to do anything yet.” She said, ”I just need you to see clearly what happened today: your name is already in their hands on this piece of paper. The thing youʼre afraid of—it wasnʼt me pushing you out to be traded. They did it first.”

There was a long silence.

”I didnʼt go out today,” Lin Qi said. ”My mom doesnʼt know I stopped my phone line yet. I havenʼt told her.”

”Donʼt tell her yet.”

”If they ask me whether I signed that day, how do I answer.”

”Answer truthfully.” She said, ”You say one line, I record one line.”

”And if they donʼt ask me?”

”Then Iʼll ask them.”

There was quiet on the other end. Lin Qi said, ”What do I say in court.”

”Donʼt think about that yet.” She said, ”First, look at this page clearly. Looking clearly doesnʼt mean youʼve agreed to anything.”

”All right.” Lin Qi said, ”Iʼll look.”

He Xiufen came up carrying two bowls of noodles, saw the two photocopies laid side by side on the desk, set the bowls down, and took off her reading glasses.

”Where did you get this page?”

”Director Xu gave it to me on the morning of the sixth. He signed ʼreceivedʼ at the bottom.”

”Then three things need to be done.” She held up three fingers, pressing them down on the desk one by one. ”First, put the two copies on one sheet, photograph them, then write one page of Verification Statement—which copy was received on what date, who signed for it, and which copy is the one the hospital itself submitted as evidence. Finish it today.”

”Second, go to the court tomorrow morning and hand this page to the presiding judge. Ask the hospital to explain in writing: who signed this name, when it was signed, and the name and title of the person who verified it. This is evidence they submitted themselves. If they canʼt account for its source, thatʼs their problem.”

”Third—” She paused. ”Authenticity can be checked with a handwriting examination, or she can stand in court and acknowledge it herself. Whether she acknowledges it—thatʼs up to Doctor Lin. Donʼt make that decision for her.”

”She just told me she never signed a single character.”

”Then does she know that someone signed for her?”

”I only sent the photo. I didnʼt mention thereʼs a name on this page.”

He Xiufen put her reading glasses back on. ”Go tell her. She wonʼt go to court because sheʼs afraid of losing that license. Right now, whether the license survives doesnʼt hang on that page anymore—it hangs on the name on this page.”

”One more thing.” She nudged the bowl toward the edge of the desk. ”Donʼt put this paper out there yet. If it goes out, wait until the court has seen it first.”

”Got it.”

She did as instructed. The two photocopies went onto one A4 sheet—one blank, one signed ”Lin Qi.” She photographed it, then wrote a line on the cover of her binder: January 18. Evidence List item two, ”verified by the on-duty physician,” signature Lin Qi, date line blank.

The signature was not Lin Qiʼs handwriting.

In the kraft paper envelope from the evening of the sixth, there had also been a one-page Legal Opinion heʼd written to Chengbei Hospital: before the dispute is resolved, no department or personnel may reorganize or replace pages of sealed or copied records; all transcribed copies and original documents must be kept intact and complete. In the registered reply letter sheʼd mailed off on the morning of the thirteenth, she had copied that sentence word for word. The man who wrote those words—in the evidence he submitted today, both pages of the transcribed copy were present, and so was a name signed for someone else.

The originals were not.

On the last page of the Statement of Defense, the three lines of the signature block—sheʼd turned it over to look: Defendant, Jiangzhou Chengbei Hospital; Authorized Litigation Agent, Jiangzhou Hengzheng Law Firm, Lawyer Lu Jibai.

The hospital hadnʼt waited for Lin Qi to nod. Theyʼd already written her name into the evidence.