Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 174 : Same Door Plate

The shipment accompanying document was a vertical single-sheet form, printed on a dot-matrix printer, with a few ghosted double-prints where the pins had been broken.

The three sheets the hospital had belatedly submitted yesterday afternoon lay spread at one end of the long table in the file reading room: the shipment document, and two photocopies of Drug Operation Licenses. Director Xu sat across from her, white coat open, sleeves rolled to his forearms; Song Qiming sat beside him, notebook open, pen still capped.

Shen Zhixia didnʼt start with the drug name. She read down from the first column, checking the addresses.

Shipping unit: Jiangzhou Hengyue Pharmaceutical Co., Ltd. Followed by a string of text—Jiangzhou High-tech Zone, Hengyue Road No. 17, Plant No. 3, Second Floor.

She moved her finger down a line.

Receiving unit: Jiangzhou Hengkang Pharmaceutical Co., Ltd. Followed by a string of text—Jiangzhou High-tech Zone, Hengyue Road No. 17, Plant No. 3, Second Floor.

On the same form, the same string of characters, printed twice.

”Director Xu, have you checked this column?” She turned the form around. ”The shipping location and the receiving location—not a single character is different.”

Director Xuʼs eyes traveled over the paper, then settled on the tableʼs edge. ”The form came up from the pharmacy. The Medical Affairs Office handles sending things out, not receiving them.”

”The goods leave this building, then come back to this same building.”

”I canʼt write the pharmacyʼs accounts for them.” He withdrew his hands. ”I donʼt understand address matters.”

She didnʼt press. Instead, she pulled out the two supply slips sheʼd photocopied the day before yesterday and laid them side by side. The upstream one bore an oval seal at the signature block, thin characters, with a tax number pressed beneath; the downstream one had a round seal, thick characters, with a different tax number beneath. She placed the outbound seal from the shipment document next to them—three seals now in a row.

Three seals, three different types of character engraving. Hengyue Pharmaceuticalʼs seal and Hengkang Pharmaceuticalʼs seal—the tax numbers beneath didnʼt match by a single digit.

”Two storefronts, two sets of licenses, two tax numbers.” She uncapped her pen. ”I originally thought it was one company hanging two signs. Apparently not.”

She rearranged the two license photocopies and pushed them to the middle of the table. On both certificates, the ”Registered Address (Business Premises)” column held the same string of text. The issuance dates were less than a month apart. Two different names for enterprise representative, two different names for quality officer—not one overlapped.

Then she flipped the shipment document to its bottom column. Receiverʼs signature: blank.

”Who signed for this column?”

”The form is with the pharmacy.” Director Xu said. ”Whether itʼs signed or not, youʼll have to ask the pharmacy.”

”A shipment document travels with the goods. Whoever receives the goods signs it.” She pressed the form back onto the desk. ”On this one, the receiving column is empty.”

She pulled out her phone; the public information page sheʼd checked that morning was still open. Jiangzhou Hengyue Pharmaceutical Co., Ltd.—the Legal Representative column held one name. Jiangzhou Hengkang Pharmaceutical Co., Ltd.—the Legal Representative column held a different name. Scrolling down, in the ”Enterprise Contact Phone” column, both companies had filled in the same string of digits.

”Same address, same phone number, different responsible persons.” She turned the screen toward them. ”These two were set up as a pair. One receives the goods, the other moves the money and issues invoices. The same drug leaves this building, then comes back to this building—two transfers in between.”

Director Xu didnʼt look at the screen. ”Business registration matters donʼt reach the Medical Affairs Office.”

”Iʼd like the court to note this.” She turned and recited slowly, word by word, for the clerk: the plaintiff requests that the defendant explain—why the shipment document for the drug in question was only submitted now, why the receiving address on the form is completely identical to the shipping address, whether the defendant verified the shipment document when purchasing this drug, and why the receiving signature column is blank.

The clerk finished writing and read it back.

Song Qiming uncapped his pen and wrote two lines in his notebook. ”This item you asked for—the letter arrived yesterday afternoon, so I submitted it.” ”Whateverʼs in the records, I report it as is. Whatʼs not there, I wonʼt make up.”

”Why was the upstream supply slip submitted together back then?”

”It was on the list, so I submitted it.” He closed the notebook. ”Who received the drug isnʼt on my page.”

She then asked about the second item from the March 22 letter: the temporary transfer-in slip. Director Xu said the inventory count had been completed, and the pharmacy reported that this slip had not been found. The clerk added a line: The defendant states the temporary transfer-in slip was not seen during the inventory count.

She noted the three seals, the two matching addresses, the two phone numbers, and that one blank column in her notebook, and closed it. She walked to the end of the corridor; outside the window it was all gray-white.

[Thud. One door plate with two signs, seals can be carved twice, but the road only runs one way.]

At 12:40 p.m., Lin Qi stood downstairs, not coming up.

”Come up and have some noodles.” He Xiufen called out from the stove, loud enough for the whole hallway to hear.

Lin Qi came upstairs, holding a kraft paper envelope with the Chengbei Hospital name printed in the upper right corner. She placed the envelope on the table but didnʼt sit.

”The Medical Affairs Office called me over this morning.” She said. ”This document—sign it and it wonʼt be reported upward. Donʼt sign, and it goes through the process.”

”Did the seals match?” He Xiufen asked.

”They matched.” Shen Zhixia pulled the envelope open. ”One door plate, two seals, two legal representatives, one phone number. When I asked her which one was real, she couldnʼt answer.”

The envelope contained two items. One was a printed main page with a two-line heading: ”Statement on the Clinical Use of the Drug in Question.” One: Patient Chen Xiaoman suffered postoperative hemorrhage; the on-duty physician Lin Qi arrived to handle the situation. Two: The carbetocin injection 100μg used was decided by the attending physician based on resuscitation needs. Three: Nursing staff carried out the medical orders, and the pharmacy dispensed according to the requisition form. At the bottom, the signature block was printed with a line: Attending Physician—Lin Qi. A horizontal line below the characters, empty. Below that, a date field, also empty. The other item was several handwritten pages in blue-black ink, densely packed characters—Lin Qiʼs own draft defense statement.

”Item two. Read it aloud.”

Lin Qi read. When she reached the four words ”decided to use,” she paused briefly.

”That sentence packs two things together.” Shen Zhixia turned the paper around, her fingertip resting on that line. ”ʼDecided to useʼ is what you did; it goes in the column where you wrote the medical order, with your signature. You canʼt push that away. That this drug was the qualified batch with a clean source—thatʼs written in the procurement and acceptance records, signed by someone else. They want to collapse those two things into one sentence.”

”The Medical Affairs Office said that the ʼThree Checks and Seven Verificationsʼ includes checking the drug batch number.” Lin Qiʼs hand wiped against her pant seam. ”The medical order is written by the physician. When I wrote it, I should have looked at the box.”

”The Three Checks and Seven Verifications happen at the time of administration; the person who verifies is the dispensing nurse and the administering nurse. Jian Ning checked the label that night but stopped at the batch number column.” Shen Zhixia looked at her. ”What you wrote on paper after midnight was one line in the medical order sheet.”

[Thud. The medical order column belongs to the physicianʼs hand; the drug procurement column belongs to the hand of the person holding the license.]

He Xiufen came over from the stove carrying a bowl of noodles, set it in front of Lin Qi, chopsticks laid across the rim. ”Three sentences.” ”Medical orders are medical orders; drugs are drugs.” ”Whose writing is in which column, that person is responsible for that column.” ”Donʼt put your name on this paper.”

Lin Qi didnʼt touch the chopsticks. She pulled out her own draft pages and spread them on the table. ”Written like this—is it okay?”

Shen Zhixia read through from the beginning: the times, what sheʼd done, who wrote what in which column. No mention of the drug, no mention of ”unfairness.”

”Okay.” She pushed the papers back. ”And from now on, if the Medical Affairs Office asks you to sign anything, get a photocopy first. Once itʼs in your hands, call me. Donʼt sign on the spot.”

Lin Qi gathered up her draft, pinched the envelope flap and folded it back and forth, then suddenly asked, ”Director He, if that drug really does turn out to have a problem—does it count as me having used it?”

He Xiufen didnʼt answer; she looked over.

Shen Zhixia thought for a moment. ”You used it. You wrote that line. I wonʼt tell anyone otherwise.”

Lin Qiʼs shoulders dropped a little.

”But how that drug got into this building, who took it from whose hands, which company is listed as the supplier on the invoice—none of that is in your column.” She paused. ”They want you to admit to two things on one sheet of paper.”

Lin Qi looked down at the bowl of noodles and said she still had to go back to the community clinic that afternoon. She didnʼt say sheʼd sign, and she didnʼt say she wouldnʼt. At the stairwell entrance she stopped, turned back. ”The defense statement is due next Monday.” Another pause. ”My mom called yesterday asking if my license was going to be revoked.”

”Tell her this,” He Xiufen said from behind. ”Whether the word ʼrevokedʼ ever gets written down on paper—thatʼs not certain yet.”

Footsteps descended the stairs. He Xiufen put away the chopsticks and said quietly, ”Sheʼs lost weight, and her hands are shaking.” ”If the Medical Affairs Office calls her in again, donʼt let her go alone.”

At 4:30 p.m., after more than an hour on the bus, she arrived at the High-tech Zone. The newly planted street trees along Hengyue Road hadnʼt yet formed a continuous canopy; the sun beat the entire road white.

No. 17 was an open factory gate, with a row of gray-white industrial buildings inside. Plant No. 3 was the one toward the back, and a few windows on the second floor were lit.

On the wall to the left of the gate hung a metal sign, screwed down at all four corners: Jiangzhou Hengyue Pharmaceutical Co., Ltd.—Receiving Desk. Beneath it, a half-covered plastic sign with curled edges—Jiangzhou Hengkang Pharmaceutical Co., Ltd.

Behind the receiving counter sat a middle-aged man, an electronic scale and a stack of forms at hand. She walked over and asked which floor Hengkang Pharmaceuticalʼs office was on.

The man glanced up, jerked his chin toward the upper floor of the building. ”Right here.”

”And Hengyue Pharmaceutical?”

The man waved toward the same building. ”Here too.”

”Both floors are yours?”

”All of it.” He lowered his head back to flipping through the forms on the scale.

A minibus backed up to the receiving counter. The rear door swung open; the cardboard boxes were printed with the words ”Hengyue.” Workers stacked boxes onto the platform while the man checked off forms one by one, no longer looking at her. At the corner of the platform sat a stack of blank single-sheet forms—the same format as the one sheʼd seen in the reading room. She didnʼt reach for them.

She stepped back under a roadside tree and recorded in her notebook: the time, the wording on the two signs at the gate, every exact sentence the man had said. When she finished, she looked at that building once more. A few lights on the second floor were on, no different from any other factory in the area.

By the time she returned to the firm, it was past seven. The smell of scallion oil from downstairs still drifted through the hallway.

She stacked todayʼs materials by date—the two supply slips, the shipment document, the public information printout, the afternoonʼs on-site notes—and placed them under the desk lamp base.

Her phone buzzed at the corner of the desk. Lin Qi had sent a photo: the last page of this morningʼs ”Statement on the Clinical Use of the Drug in Question.” Beside the signature block in the lower right, the date line had been filled in.

March 30.

She zoomed in, then zoomed back out.

Lin Qi had typed a line below: They submitted the materials this afternoon. They didnʼt wait for the signature.

Beneath the desk lamp, the top of the stack was the two supply slips. Hengyue Pharmaceuticalʼs seal was stamped on the upstream one—oval, thin characters. She stared at that seal for a while, then turned the paper over.

Nothing on the back.

The name field was printed; the date was yesterdayʼs; the person was only called in to sign it today.