Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 144 : The Disposition Decision

She wrote until eleven that night—over eleven hundred characters, covering two points.

The first demanded that before the random draw, the external appraisal roster be re-verified: every institution that had already been deregistered, had publicly announced closure, or had stated in writing that it would not accept medical damage appraisal work in the near future was to be annotated one by one. The second demanded that the pool of eligible institutions be expanded beyond Jiangzhou City.

January 27th, Wednesday, 8:40 a.m. Chengnan District Court Litigation Service Center, Window No. 3.

The same assistant took her papers. He read page by page, and when he reached the line about ”a party having prior contact with one side of this case,” the tip of his pen tapped the paper.

”This sentence. Do you have proof?”

”No proof.” She said, ”There was a phone call. Yesterday afternoon, around three-ten, I called Linjiang Hengxin. The person who answered first said their caseload was too full, then before hanging up added—someone had already called that morning asking if theyʼd take it.”

”Who asked?”

”She didnʼt say.”

The assistant didnʼt press further. He accepted the page, tore off a receipt for her, and stamped it twice with the receipt stamp. ”Iʼll send this to the presiding judge,” he said. ”Youʼll get an answer about the roster. The draw is still the morning of the 30th. That wonʼt change.”

[Thud. The names missing from that roster tell you more than the ones still on it.]

* * *

At 9:20, the stove at the Old Town Noodle House downstairs had just fired up, and the smell of scallion oil climbed the stairs. She came up the back way and tucked the receipt into her binder.

He Xiufen had set out a new hard-shell folder on the table—dark blue, the mouth still carrying the crinkle of its plastic wrapper. She tore off a strip of white paper, pressed it onto the spine, and slid it over to Shen Zhixia.

”That binder of yours is for your own eyes. Youʼd recognize your own writing no matter how messy it is.” She said, ”This one goes on the table when court opens. Whoever flips through it has to understand what theyʼre looking at.”

Shen Zhixia loaded it page by page. First came the timeline page: December 27th, 6:20 a.m.; December 30th, 9:40 p.m.; the afternoon of January 4th; January 6th. Then in order: the sealing inventory from New Yearʼs Day and the duplicate-copy index; the comparison page of the original shift handover record against the transcribed copy, the two extra lines circled in red; the photograph of page eight of the nursing records, with a thin line marked beside the erasure marks; the photograph of the 6:20 row in the retention log, the two shallow indentations beneath it; the photograph of the torn page from the archive loan register, the paper root showing ”a stroke, a stroke, a vertical”; the attachment from that January 6th letter; the defendantʼs response about the signatureʼs source; and finally, a one-page index sheʼd written herself—which page had been copied, which had been altered, and where the originals now sat in the courtʼs custody.

”Has she gotten back to you today?” He Xiufen asked.

”No. That text from yesterday—still no reply.”

He Xiufen nudged the glue toward the inside edge of the table. ”If sheʼs not answering, she hasnʼt made up her mind yet. You try to make it up for her, and youʼll end up putting her name on words that should be your own.” She said, ”The words she has to say in court have to come out of her own mouth. If you say them first, they stop being hers.”

”I havenʼt said them for her.”

”I know you havenʼt. Iʼm just saying it now.”

[Thud. You can run for her on your own two legs. But her mouth has to do its own talking.]

* * *

2:40 p.m. Second floor of the Chengbei Hospital administration building.

The Medical Affairs Office door stood ajar. Director Xu was on the phone inside, his white coat hanging open as usual, sleeves rolled to his forearms. When he saw her, he pressed the phone down and pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer, sliding it across the desk.

”Opinion on the Hospitalʼs Cooperation with the Medical Damage Appraisal.” Three paragraphs: the hospital would not request recusal of any appraiser; the appraisal fee would be advanced by the hospital; the medical records and related materials required for the appraisal would be lawfully obtained and transferred by the Peopleʼs Court, and the hospital would cooperate. The hospitalʼs seal was stamped at the bottom.

She read it through, then turned the paper around and pointed to the second paragraph. ”This says ʼadvanced.ʼ”

”Thatʼs what it says. Advancing the fee.”

”The objection you filed with the court on the 26th—its first point requested no appraisal at all.” She said, ”Todayʼs page says youʼll cooperate.”

”That was counselʼs opinion.” Director Xu said, ”The hospital cooperating is the hospitalʼs business.”

”Would you like me to note in the transfer materials that the defendant holds two contradictory positions on the same matter?”

Director Xu lifted his mug and took a sip of water. ”Note it if you want.” He said, ”What Iʼm giving you today is the part the hospitalʼs word still stands behind.”

She tucked the page into the binder and signed the receipt with her name and the time. ”Iʼll file it at court this afternoon. Iʼll copy the receipt for you tomorrow.”

As she collected the paper, Director Xu remembered something. ”If you see Dr. Lin today, tell her not to leave out that thing from this morning. The hospitalʼs handling it today.”

”What thing?”

”The one that got sent out.” He pushed the drawer shut. ”A materials list. Legal Affairs ran it through first.”

”Which legal affairs?”

”That firm you people are familiar with.”

* * *

In the corridor, only the two middle fluorescent lights were on. She reached the stairwell just as a door ahead opened—Lin Qi came out.

Gray sweater, the same canvas bag over her shoulder, two folded pages in her hand, the crease pinched white.

The two went down the stairs, one after the other, and out the back door. Outside lay a narrow alley between the administration building and the boiler house. One end opened onto the street, a row of sheds along the wall; the other end was heaped with yellow medical waste bins. No sun reached it in the afternoon; the ground was still damp.

Lin Qi held out the two pages.

The first was ”Decision on Disposition of Issues Concerning Comrade Lin Qi.” Three items.

1. Following internal hospital verification, the alterations present in the December 26th and 27th shift handover records and nursing records were made solely by the on-duty physician, Lin Qi;

2. Effective from the date this decision is served, Lin Qi is suspended from all clinical activities at this hospital and its affiliated community clinics, with her prescribing privileges and hospital information system access revoked;

3. This decision, together with the ”Explanation on Changes to Obstetric Medical Records,” the organized transcribed copies, and the legal opinion, will be submitted to the Chengbei District Health Commission, with a recommendation for handling under the relevant provisions of the Physicians Law.

The issuing body was Chengbei Hospital, dated with the current day.

[Thud. Her name is on this page. The hospitalʼs seal is at the bottom.]

The second page was the attachment list for the submitted materials. Three lines. Line one: one copy of the ”Explanation.” Line two: two pages of transcribed copies. Line three: ”Legal Opinion” — one copy, Jiangzhou Hengzheng Law Firm.

She read the third line twice. The last time sheʼd seen those words was on a kraft paper envelope.

”Have you seen this legal opinion?”

”The list only says that one line.” Lin Qi said, ”Which page is which of those three—I still canʼt match them up.”

[Thud. Whoever wrote that page probably doesnʼt know which shift she worked that day.]

”The Medical Affairs Office made me draft something this morning.” Lin Qi said, ”To write: ʼI accept corresponding responsibility for failing to verify during the transcription process.ʼ”

”Did you write it?”

”No. They said by this afternoon.”

”What happens if you do?”

”They said it stops there.” Lin Qi looked at the utility pole at the mouth of the alley. ”If I sign off on this page, the Health Commission wonʼt come looking for me again.”

”What youʼd be admitting is failure to verify.” Shen Zhixia flipped the disposition decision back to the first item. ”What theyʼre using is: the alterations were made by you personally. Those two statements differ by two people—the difference is those two lines.”

”Those two lines. Who wrote them?” Lin Qiʼs voice was very low. ”That afternoon, there were three sheets on the table. Three of us copied them. When we finished, we handed them in. No one let us look again.”

”Iʼll ask about that.” Shen Zhixia said, ”You only describe what you saw, what you copied.”

”If the Health Commission opens a case, theyʼll have to notify you first—youʼd have the right to explain and defend. If itʼs revocation, you can demand a hearing.” She said, ”I know this area well. Give me your name and Iʼll write it for you.”

”I canʼt give it to you.” Lin Qi said.

Wind came up the alley and flipped the edges of the two pages.

”The year I passed the physician licensing exam, my mother set six tables back home.” Lin Qi said, ”I told her I deliver babies here, seven or eight a day. She still asks, even now, when she can come to the city and see where I work.”

”Attorney Shen.” Her fingers pressed on the two pages. ”Those things I have to say in court—can this page be pushed back?”

”Half of it can.” Shen Zhixia said, ”The other half is on those two transcribed pages and that retention logbook. Those are in the courtʼs custody now. If youʼre willing to stand up there, you wonʼt be standing alone.”

”Iʼll hold onto these two pages for now.” Shen Zhixia said.

Lin Qi didnʼt respond, and she didnʼt ask for them back.

”Iʼll give you an answer tomorrow.”

She wheeled an old electric scooter out from the shed, rode to the mouth of the alley, and merged into the stream of traffic on the road.

* * *

6:50 p.m. The sky had gone fully dark. She spread the two-page disposition decision out on the table upstairs at the noodle house and copied it into her notebook under the desk lamp. When she reached the third item, her phone rang.

”Attorney Shen, itʼs me.”

”Where are you?”

”Out.” A pause. ”I packed some things.”

”Where are you going?”

”Not sure yet.”

She held the pen still. ”Tomorrow morning, the Medical Affairs Office—are you going?”

”I donʼt know.”

”Then Iʼll wait downstairs for you.” She said, ”Call me before you get on the elevator.”

The other end said nothing. After a few seconds, Lin Qi said: ”Those two pages. I put them in the drawer.”

The call ended.

She called back. It rang out. She dialed again. Rang out again.

When she came downstairs, He Xiufen was lifting noodles from the pot.

”Where are you going?”

”Chengbei. Youfang Lane. She lives in that old building behind the hospital. I copied the address—itʼs at the bottom of the witness-testimony application line.”

”Whatʼs wrong with her?”

”She said she packed her things.”

He Xiufen knocked the strainer against the rim of the pot. ”Keep your phone on.” She said, ”Send me a message when you get there.”

* * *

8:40 p.m. Chengbei, Youfang Lane.

The lane was narrow, lined with six-story old buildings, no lights in the stairwells. She held the railing and climbed to the fourth floor. She knocked.

No answer. Knocked again.

The apartment across the hall leaked television light through the door crack, and a voice from inside asked who was there. Someone came up the stairs—an old woman in a quilted vest, a ring of keys in her hand, holding them up to her eyes to see.

”Looking for Dr. Lin on the fourth floor?” The old woman said, ”Iʼm the landlady. She took her key, but Iʼve got a spare here.”

”Is she inside?”

”She came back this afternoon, packed up two cardboard boxes.” The old woman opened the door. ”Lights havenʼt been on.”

The apartment was dark. A sliver of hallway light fell in, landing on the corner of the table. The bed was made tight. The wardrobe stood half open, its top shelf empty. Three things sat on the table: an envelope, a cup of cold tea with only one sip taken, and a keychain.

She switched on her phone light and aimed it at the keychain. A white plastic badge with blue lettering, its corner worn fuzzy. One side printed: ”Chengbei Hospital · Obstetrics · Lin Qi.”

The drawer sat half open. The two pages of the witness-testimony application lay inside, the first pageʼs corner curled, the signature line empty.

On the back of the second page, a line had been written and crossed out twice. She held the paper to the faint light by the window. Beneath the scratches, five characters were still legible:

My mother is back home.

Nothing after that.

[Thud. The two pages in that drawer were never signed. Her name is still there.]

Going down, the old woman pulled the cord in the stairwell. A light came on one landing lower.

”She asked me this afternoon if the long-distance buses still run at night.”

”Did she say where she was going?”

”No.” The old woman weighed the keys in her hand. ”She said she wasnʼt giving up the room yet. Sheʼd be back in a couple of days.”

A taxi turned into the lane, idled for a moment beneath the building opposite, then drove off.

She stood in the lane and looked up at the fourth floor. The window was dark, half a sheet of old newspaper stuck to the glass.

She texted He Xiufen three characters: Sheʼs gone.

The reply came in one line: I didnʼt erase her name.

* * *

Back upstairs at the noodle house, it was past ten. The stove was closed up, the scallion-oil smell still hanging in the air. On the last page of the binder, she added a line: January 27th, Lin Qi packed her things and left. Didnʼt say where.

Below it she left one line blank, unfilled.