Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 149 : The Shift Schedule

February 2nd, 8:40 a.m., third floor of the inpatient building at Chengbei Hospital. Shift change had just ended. The hallway still carried the night shiftʼs scent—disinfectant, boxed meals, cold air seeping through a window that hadnʼt shut properly.

The obstetrics nursesʼ station window was open halfway. Yan Mei stood inside, short-haired, her nurseʼs cap clipped to her collar, tapping a stack of lab slips against the counter until they were aligned.

”Head Nurse Yan.”

Yan Mei glanced up at her without stopping. ”You again.”

”Here for a form.” Shen Zhixia laid the firm letter and a photocopy of Lin Qiʼs power of attorney on the counter. ”Last December. The obstetrics physician shift schedule. The departmentʼs retained copy, or the one they filed.”

”Last monthʼs got torn up when the new one went up at the start of the month.”

”The one on the wall got torn up.” Shen Zhixia said. ”What about the one that got filed?”

Yan Meiʼs hands paused. ”Go ask Medical Affairs about that.”

”Iʼm asking you first. Youʼve been in this department for years. Who was on duty when—you read a schedule better than you read faces.”

Yan Mei straightened the lab slips and placed them under a glass cup. ”A scheduleʼs a schedule; showing up is showing up. Our department fills out the form and sends it upstairs for night shift pay. You donʼt have an order in hand today, so Iʼve got nothing to say to you.”

”No order today.” Shen Zhixia spread three sheets of paper across the counter. ”I just need you to look at two sets of handwriting.”

The three sheets sat in the draft from the window, corners lifting. One was Lin Qiʼs name, written by her own hand at the Zhengping Firm the day before. The other two each bore the name ”Lin Qi.”

Yan Meiʼs gaze landed on them. She didnʼt reach out, and she didnʼt step back. The draft nudged the three sheets together, and she reached out and pressed down the corner of the top one.

”Whose handwriting it is, I canʼt tell.” She said. ”After all these years, whateverʼs written in the books is whatʼs written.”

”Then can you tell whose this is?”

”I dispense medication in the morning.” Yan Mei pushed the three sheets back. ”Iʼm not taking that conversation.”

Shen Zhixia gathered the papers, pulled her loose-leaf notebook from her pocket, and flipped to a fresh page: February 2, 8:52 a.m., third floor of Chengbei Hospital, obstetrics nursesʼ station. Head Nurse Yan Mei viewed three signature samples, stated she could not identify them, offered no opinion, did not sign. She read the entry back from the top.

”Tell me which line is wrong.”

Yan Mei didnʼt answer. She turned and went into the back room. When she came out, she had a laminated sheet in her hand, densely marked in red and blue ink.

”This monthʼs. Take a look.”

Shen Zhixia read it left to right. January 1st to the 31st, the obstetrics grid was completely filled, and no square bore the name Lin Qi.

”The December one—”

”Torn up at the start of the month.” Yan Mei snatched the sheet back and slid it under the glass. ”If youʼre that good, go find all twelve months.”

[Thud. The one they tore down was the wall copy. The person who made the schedule is still here.]

Down to the first floor, east end. The medical records room window came up to chest height. Qi Xiuyun was punching holes in a report, bracing it with a book.

”That notebook from last time—any follow-up?”

”No follow-up.” Qi Xiuyun looked up. ”You do come around often.”

”Then a smaller matter.” Shen Zhixia took the stack of papers from her pocket and drew out a page. ”Youʼve got a good hole punch here.”

”Two. Oneʼs broken.”

”On the afternoon of January 4th, obstetrics handed a notebook over to the Medical Affairs Office.” Shen Zhixia said. ”On the morning of January 5th, someone from Medical Affairs came to borrow the hole punch. They also brought a stack of medical record paper.”

Qi Xiuyunʼs hand stopped on the handle of the hole punch. A cart rolled past in the hallway, its wheels dragging long.

”It was January 5th.” She said. ”Around ten in the morning. I said let me log it, and he said department materials, donʼt put it in your book.”

”The person.”

”White coat open, sleeves pushed up to the forearms.” Qi Xiuyun thought for a moment. ”We donʼt get many outsiders around here. How far someoneʼs sleeves are rolled up—I remember that.”

”Anything else?”

”On the afternoon of the 7th he came again. Put the stack of punched paper on the window and asked me to check if the holes lined up.” She moved the report aside. ”Said something when he set it down.”

”What did he say.”

”ʼThe signature lineʼs all set.ʼ”

Shen Zhixiaʼs pen paused on the page. ”Which page did he mean by the signature line?”

”That I didnʼt ask.” Qi Xiuyun put the hole punch back in the drawer. ”All I know is the sun was good those days—it reached the second row of the window.”

[Thud. Working backwards, that name was signed in daylight.]

Descending the stairs, the lobbyʼs heat wrapped around her. Lin Qi sat at the far end of the bench by the window, the collar of her worn-down puffer coat standing up, phone in her hand.

”The schedule?”

”The wall copyʼs torn up, and they wonʼt show me the filed one.” Shen Zhixia sat down beside her. ”The one on your phone—that was posted in the group chat?”

Lin Qi turned her screen over. ”The schedule comes out on the 25th of each month for the following month. The picture goes in the group. At the end of January they removed me from the group, but the records are still there.”

On the screen was a white form with black lines, the header reading: Obstetrics Physician Schedule, followed by (December). Across the top: Day Shift, Evening Shift, Night Shift.

Shen Zhixia looked first at the 26th. In the box after the night shift column, two characters were written.

Lin Qi.

”You were on duty that night.”

”I was.” Lin Qiʼs voice dropped. ”3:40. Thatʼs when she died.”

[Thud. The 26th has her name written in it.]

Shen Zhixiaʼs finger moved right, stopping on the 30th. That box had writing too, crossed out with a red pen, with a new name added beside it—two characters, short both vertically and horizontally.

”The 30th was mine, originally.” Lin Qi said. ”On the morning of the 27th I turned in my annual leave form. By the morning, the revised chart was in the group.”

She scrolled down to a message: the same form with several boxes circled in red, and beneath it a line of text—Dr. Lin is on leave; night shifts from the 28th to the 31st are covered.

Shen Zhixia enlarged the two images side by side. The first was posted on November 25th; the secondʼs timestamp was December 27th, 10:04 a.m. On the 30th, the first image showed Lin Qi; the second had her crossed out, replaced with someone elseʼs name.

”On the night of the 30th, the records were pulled from the medical records room.” She said. ”The person who handled them was on shift that night.”

”It wasnʼt me who altered them.”

”I know.” Shen Zhixia took screenshots of both images and sent them one by one to her own phone. ”Keep these saved first. Donʼt leave the group. Donʼt clear your phone. The screenshots only prove weʼve seen them—in court, the judge needs to look through your phone with their own eyes.”

[Thud. The 30th has someone elseʼs name in it.]

Lin Qi stared at the red slash on her screen. Her fingers around the phone went slack for a moment.

”Whatever they have can only stick to you because of the 26th.” Shen Zhixia said. ”You were on duty, you were on that floor, and every piece of paper that left that ward that night carried your name.”

”I didnʼt sign.”

”Right.” Shen Zhixia said. ”On the 26th, whatever you signed didnʼt have those strokes. On the 30th, you werenʼt there at all. Put the two together, and the person whose hand moved isnʼt you.”

At ten oʼclock sharp, Lin Qi stood from the bench and pulled her pufferʼs zipper up a little higher.

”Iʼm going up.”

”Iʼm not going in that room.” Shen Zhixia said. ”Listen to how he puts it. Donʼt write a single word. If they ask you to sign anything, show it to me first.”

”Iʼm not signing anything.”

”Donʼt say that absolutely.” Shen Zhixia said. ”If they ask you to look at something, look at it.”

The elevator was at the end of the hall. Shen Zhixia stood against a pillar in the first-floor lobby, watching the numbers above the elevator doors rise, pause, then fall.

At 10:40, Lin Qi came back down.

”Same room as last time.” She said. ”There was a printed sheet on the desk. Four lines. The bottom was left blank.”

”What did they ask you?”

”Asked how I was doing at home. Asked about my momʼs health.” Lin Qiʼs mouth quirked. ”Then said if I admitted it, weʼd handle it internally. Theyʼd report it to the district as minor circumstances with a self-criticism already made. The licensing issue—the hospital would talk to them.”

”Did you write anything?”

”I said my pen was out of ink.” She shoved her hands back in her pockets. ”He offered me his pen. I said I needed to look it over again.”

Shen Zhixia looked at her, not smiling. ”What else did they say?”

”Director Xu said that since things had come this far, if I had any sense, I should think about myself.”

The Medical Affairs Office on the second floor was open. Director Xu sat behind his desk on a phone call, white coat open, sleeves pushed to his forearms. A stack of photocopies pressed down the corner of his desk; the top page bore a heading in five printed characters: Legal Opinion Letter. Shen Zhixia glanced at it, then looked away.

”Director Xu.”

He wrapped up the call and hung up. ”You again.”

Shen Zhixia placed two pages on the edge of his desk. One was an application, asking for three items only: the final page of the transcribed nursing record copy, the first page of the self-review statement on medical record changes, and the originals of the two signatures, along with written statements from the writers and handlers. The other page read: the original obstetric physician shift schedule from last December, and the night shift handover records from the 28th through the 31st of December.

”The other copy.” She said. ”Iʼm submitting it to the district Health Commissionʼs Medical Administration Division this afternoon. This oneʼs for you.”

Director Xu read both pages. He pulled the schedule request out and set it beside the keyboard.

”The shift schedule isnʼt in Medical Affairs.”

”Then which copy were you looking at when you wrote the Statement?”

He capped his pen, then uncapped it again.

”Go through the proper channels. We wonʼt block you.”

Shen Zhixia took out her notebook and pen and wrote with her head down: February 2, 10:46 a.m., second floor of Chengbei Hospital, Medical Affairs Office. Director Xu did not sign for or accept the submitted application, issued no written response, and stated: ”Go through the proper channels; we wonʼt block you.” She read the entry back.

”Iʼve written that down.” She took her phone from her pocket, screen already lit, the recording timer still running. ”Recording here too.”

Director Xuʼs hand stopped on his pen. He stared at the screen for two seconds.

”Go through the proper channels. We wonʼt block you.” He repeated it word for word, then added a half-sentence: ”Proper channels are for reasonable people.”

[Thud. The doorʼs open. The words go on paper.]

”Who had night shift on December 30th?” Shen Zhixia asked.

”Thatʼs an internal matter.”

”Then once youʼve verified it, copy me the result.”

”Hold on.” He stood and walked to the door, voice dropping. ”Lawyer Shen, go back and tell the family something—the money the hospital gives them doesnʼt necessarily have to wait for a judgment.”

And with that, he stepped back inside and pulled the door shut.

Lin Qi was waiting for her on the lobby bench. Shen Zhixia had just sat down when her phone rang. The screen showed two characters: Peng Weidong.

”Lawyer Shen.” The voice on the other end was tight. ”My brother called from home. The hospitalʼs asking again.”

”Asking what?”

”Asking whose card the money should go to.”

Shen Zhixia held the phone, standing inside the glass doors. The fog outside hadnʼt lifted. The heat inside the lobby was stifling.

”Donʼt give it.” She said. ”Donʼt take a single yuan. Donʼt give them so much as one digit of a card number.”

After hanging up, she sent He Xiufen a line: The hospital asked the Pengs for their card number.

The reply came quickly, six characters: Money in hand, paperʼs gone.

Shen Zhixia read those six characters twice, opened her notebook, and added a line: February 2, 10:52 a.m., call from Peng Weidong. The hospital asked his family for a bank card number.

After writing, she looked up at the elevator. The number was stopped at 2, and hadnʼt moved since.