Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 153 : The Empty Column

February 13, 2:10 p.m. Chengbei District Health Commission, first floor, the window at the far west end.

The copier sat on the windowsill, the paper coming out still hot to the touch. Clerk Yu pulled a page from a drawer, flipped it over first to check nothing was printed on the back, then slid it out.

”Fifty cents.”

Shen Zhixia pressed the coin into the glass tray at the window. One A4 page, three lines of text, stamped at the bottom with the red seal of the Chengbei Hospital Medical Affairs Office.

The first line was split in two. The top half read: ”Writer of the two signatures in the submitted materials.” The box after it: empty. The bottom half, same line: ”Handling Officer.” Three characters in the box. The first one was the surname Xu.

She paused at that surname. Sheʼd never seen the two characters after it—the Medical Affairs Officeʼs Director Xu, whom sheʼd met countless times over the past days, had his full name appear before her eyes for the first time.

Second line: Night shift handover from December 28 through 31, executed per department shift schedule. No anomalies.

Third line: The two discrepancies in wording resulted from the departmentʼs consolidated submission after organization, subject to the hospitalʼs ”Disposition Decision” as authoritative.

”The writer column is blank,” she said.

”I copied it exactly from the original.” Clerk Yu pushed the copy toward her. ”Section Chief Zouʼs upstairs. Go on up.”

Third floor, Medical Administration Division. The desk looked the same as always: an interview notebook spread open, two pens laid side by side. Section Chief Zou pulled the original page out from beneath the notebook and slid it across the desk.

”Submitted this morning, at the window,” she said. ”Iʼve looked it over.”

Shen Zhixia laid the copy and the original side by side, checking them column by column. Font size, line spacing, margins—identical to page eleven of the submission file, the ”Self-Review Statement.” Even the position of the phrase ”Hereby explained” on the paper was identical. Not a single handwritten stroke anywhere on the page.

”The second line asks for shift handover details,” she said. ”He wrote one sentence.”

”What he submitted was a statement, not a form,” Section Chief Zou said. ”If you want the form, ask the court.”

”The writer column.”

”The space for a name left blank—that was his choice,” Section Chief Zou said. ”This page goes into the case file. If you need it in court, use the copy. The original doesnʼt leave the district.”

”Then Iʼll have the court issue a request for it.”

”When the letter comes, Iʼll receive it. The paper stays with me. Iʼll send it along as required.”

Shen Zhixia pointed at the red seal on the bottom edge. ”The other day you said—the signature line should bear a personʼs name, not just a stamp to be done with it.”

”I did say that.” Section Chief Zou opened the interview notebook, found the two lines from February 10, and pressed a finger on them. ”He stamped it.”

[Thud. In the handler column he wrote a personʼs name. In the writer column he left it blank.]

Shen Zhixia wrote an on-site record in her notebook, then read it back aloud: February 13, 2:20 p.m., Chengbei District Health Commission, Medical Administration Division. Hospital submitted ”Reply on Time-Limited Explanation,” one page, three lines—writer column for the two signatures in the submitted materials left blank; handling officer column bears the surname Xu of the Medical Affairs Office; December 28–31 night shift handover reads only ”executed per department shift schedule, no anomalies,” no schedule attached; entire page printed, no handwritten marks, bottom stamped with Medical Affairs Office seal.

”Any corrections to my reading?”

”Check the date yourself,” Section Chief Zou said. ”The handwriting—Iʼve looked it over.”

Outside the main entrance, wind cut sideways through the alley mouth. She stood on the steps and folded the copy in half. The crease landed exactly on the ”writer” column. A name, an empty column, a stamp—not one stroke of a human hand anywhere on this page.

4:00 p.m., Zhengping Firm. The noodle shop downstairs had closed its stoves early. He Xiufen sat on a small stool at the top of the stairs, picking chives, trimming the stems against the basinʼs edge, lining them up one by one.

She took the page, pulled her reading glasses down from her forehead and put them on, read it through, then flipped it over to check the back.

”He submitted this page, but he only answered half your question.” She set the paper down. ”The first column blank means he canʼt say who made those two strokes. The second column with a name means he couldnʼt dodge it—he had to hand over someone as the handler.”

”An all-printed page counts as a name too,” Shen Zhixia said.

”What if he says those two characters were typed by whoever did the printing?”

”Then find the person who typed them,” He Xiufen said. ”The typist is still a person. A person has a name and a surname.”

She reached over and turned the page toward herself. ”Change the order in court.”

”How?”

”First read the dates, then the blank column.” He Xiufenʼs finger pressed on the paper. ”January 27, the district received the submission file. The paper in that file bears a date of the 28th. Read that sentence, then read this page—writer: blank. Handler: surname Xu. Signature: a stamp. Then ask one question: The hospitalʼs submitted materials state that these two signatures were made by the person himself—which person, exactly?”

”Heʼll say he canʼt verify it.”

”Then the phrase ʼmade by the person himselfʼ—he just retracted it himself.” He Xiufen pushed the chive basin aside. ”If he fills in a name on the spot, that person has to stand up and explain: when did I write it, who told me to write it. Once a name goes on the paper, the person has to follow it into court.”

”What if they refuse to acknowledge this page in court?”

”The original is in the file they submitted themselves.” He Xiufen said. ”If they wonʼt acknowledge it, theyʼre saying the paper the court obtained is a forgery.”

”The lawyer on the other side,” Shen Zhixia said, ”heʼll say this is an administrative document, irrelevant to the dispute in this case.”

”He will say that.” He Xiufen nodded. ”If he stands up and says it, ask the court to note it in the record: this page was demanded by the district on a deadline, and the three days were their own doing. Put it in the record, and it leaves a line in the judgment.”

Shen Zhixia opened the hard-shell folder. Left slot: todayʼs page, placed atop the three interview records from the district. Right slot: three folded pages, with three handwritten characters beneath the signature line.

”The right slot—read it exactly as written, then ask the court to record the name.” He Xiufen said. ”Second item: the device. The original phone. Charge it full tonight. Bring a cable.”

”What about printing out the screenshots?”

”Printed paper—they can dismiss it with one sentence, say you pieced it together. A device held in the ownerʼs own hand is something they canʼt touch.” He Xiufen said. ”Tomorrow, let her open it herself, show it to the judge.”

”Third item: the shift handover record. The original is sealed in the court. Iʼll bring a copy, my on-site record from January 21, and Qi Xiuyunʼs page.”

”In this entire case, sheʼs still the only one who wrote her own name down by hand, from beginning to end.” He Xiufen picked up the basin. ”Sheʼs a witness—she canʼt enter the courtroom before her turn. Tomorrow morning she waits in the hallway for the call.”

Her phone buzzed on the table. A voice message popped up in the ridersʼ group chat, Ma Jianjunʼs voice tangled with the wind: ”Shen Lawyer, the 17th in the morning, right. Iʼll take half a day off.”

”Keep working your shift,” Shen Zhixia said, pressing the button to reply.

Another message came: ”Iʼll come after the morning rush. Sit in the very back. That okay?”

”Fine.”

She called Peng Weidong and repeated the date and time. There was water running on his end, like dishes being washed.

”Nine oʼclock, Third Courtroom. Bring your original ID card.”

”Eight twenty at the gate, Iʼll be there.” Peng Weidong said. ”My brotherʼs coming too. Iʼll have him sit in the back.”

”Donʼt let him hand out cigarettes to the hospital people.”

A short laugh, then it faded. ”The incubator people say early March we can bring her home.”

”Tell me the day you bring her home.”

After hanging up, she wrote a new line on a fresh page: March. Peng Nianman out of the incubator.

He Xiufen carried the basin downstairs. At the stairs she turned back and glanced at the page on the desk.

”Before court, read that page one more time,” she said. ”Read it for yourself.”

February 16, 8:30 p.m. The noodle shop tables were stacked, metal legs scraping the floor.

Lin Qi came upstairs and placed a phone on the table, sliding it over. ”Fully charged.”

Shen Zhixia didnʼt take it. She pushed it back.

”You open it yourself. Tomorrow in front of the judge, youʼll be the one opening it.”

Lin Qi picked up the phone, unlocked it, opened the department group chat, and scrolled up. At 10:04 a.m. on December 27, a message with an image attached. She tapped the image, pinched out with two fingers, and the shift schedule enlarged on the screen. The 30th box—a name crossed out in red ink—clear as day.

”Donʼt leave the group. Donʼt clear the cache. Donʼt let anyone else use this phone.” Shen Zhixia said. ”From the lock screen to that image—how many steps?”

Lin Qi counted: unlock, enter the group, scroll up three screens, tap the image. Four steps.

”Tomorrow, when the judge asks you to show it, walk through those four steps. Then hand the phone up.”

Lin Qi nodded and set the phone face down on the table, very gently.

”My mom called again yesterday,” she said. ”Asked if Iʼm still working in the city.”

”What did you tell her?”

”I said Iʼm testifying for a patient.”

An electric scooter passed outside the window. Headlight swept across the wall, then gone.

”She believed me,” Lin Qi said.

At the door she stopped, hands in her down jacket pockets. ”Who did the hospitalʼs page say wrote it?”

”They named a handler,” Shen Zhixia said. ”The writer column—blank.”

Lin Qi stood in the doorway for a moment. The sound-activated light in the stairwell went out. She didnʼt move. The light stayed off.

”On the morning of January 5, that paper was put in front of me and they told me to write my name.” She said. ”Now itʼs their turn to put down their own names—not one of them will do it.”

At 9:40 she went downstairs. Shen Zhixia laid out the page, the three opinion letters, the phone—one by one—and packed them into the hard-shell folder and the cloth bag. The clasp snapped shut with a click.

10:17 p.m. Her phone rang. No caller ID. A string of numbers.

She answered. There was no voice at first, only the faint rustle of paper.

”Will Lin Qi appear in court?”

She walked to the window. Only two shops still had lights on. Roll-up shutters were being pulled down one by one along the street.

”Yes.”

More silence. The paper rustled again.

”Why are you asking?”

”The Medical Affairs Office asked me the same question this afternoon.”

”What did you answer?”

”I said I didnʼt know.”

”Then this call—youʼre asking on their behalf.”

”No.”

”On whose behalf, then?”

Two seconds of silence.

”Tomorrow, nine oʼclock.”

The line went dead.

[Thud. The one asking and the one answering both knew exactly why that column was blank.]

She set the phone face-down on the desk and stood still. The Medical Affairs Office had asked their lawyer, ”Is that doctor coming?”—what they really wanted to know was whether anyone would open their mouth in court. He had answered, ”I donʼt know.” And when he said it, heʼd probably already seen the blank writer column on that page. Heʼd taken the hospitalʼs question and passed it to her through the receiver of a phone.

She opened her notebook and wrote: February 16, 10:17 p.m. Lu Jibai called. Asked: Will Lin Qi appear in court? Answered: Yes.

After writing that line, she stopped. Sheʼd answered. Why he asked—that box she couldnʼt fill. The pen hovered over the paper, then came down and wrote nothing.

Downstairs the last table was put away. The shutter rolled down to the bottom, the sound of metal riding up the alley, dissolving by the time it reached the third floor.

She turned off the light. The notebook on the desk stayed open to the page with tonightʼs entry.