Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 180 : The Unsealed Envelope

She sat down on the three steps outside the door and rested the noodles on the railing.

The sound-activated light in the hallway came on for a while, then went out. She didnʼt move, and the light died just past her toes, leaving only the sliver of light leaking from under the door.

Before coming up, sheʼd stopped at the front desk. The woman behind the window told her no one had seen the fourth-floor tenant come down since returning that morning.

She pulled out her phone and dialed for the third time. Inside, it rang again, one ring pressing on the next, muffled behind the door. She counted to seven, hung up, and leaned close to the door crack.

”Lin Qi. Iʼm not knocking anymore. The noodles are outside. If they go gummy, I still canʼt carry them away.”

No sound from inside.

She sat back against the wall, hand pressed on her canvas bag. Inside were the two pages Lin Qi had folded in thirds the day before—the originals had been submitted, but the copy remained.

Her phone buzzed.

The name on the screen was Lin Qi.

She answered. ”Hey.”

Only breathing on the other end, very shallow.

”Iʼm outside,” she said. ”Ten feet away.”

A pause.

”Go home.”

”Iʼm staying right here.” Shen Zhixia said. ”Until you crack the door, I hand you the noodles, and then I leave.”

The light under the door wavered. The deadbolt clicked.

The door opened a few inches. Half a face in the gap. Eyes swollen, hair uncombed, sleeves pulled down past her knuckles.

”Come in.”

The room had been tidied. Three things sat on the table: a photocopy of the Health Commissionʼs written reply, an empty cup, and a book lying face-down. The bag at the head of the bed was still tied shut. The only difference from two days ago was the white coat, taken out of the wardrobe and draped over the chair back, its collar not ironed flat.

Shen Zhixia set the noodle bowl on the table, pulled out the chopsticks, and held them out.

Lin Qi picked up two strands, chewed, then set them down. ”6:20 isnʼt my handwriting.”

”I know.”

”Six-twenty is not my writing.”

”I know.”

The third time she said it, Shen Zhixia didnʼt respond. She zipped her bag shut and pushed it behind her, leaving the notebook inside.

”Take notes if you want,” Lin Qi said. ”Even if you donʼt, no one will speak for me.”

”Not today.”

”Then why are you here?”

”To eat noodles.” Shen Zhixia placed the chopsticks back by her hand. ”And to tell you what Iʼve been doing these past two years.”

Lin Qi didnʼt move. Shen Zhixia pulled over the little stool by the door and sat.

”My first case was a delivery rider. Ma Jianjun, forty-eight. The day he came to me, he didnʼt know where to put his helmet, so he just held it on his lap. He was trying to recover three months of delivery pay, and heʼd been beaten up. He had a piece of cardboard taped over his ribs. Back then Iʼd just been kicked out of the firm. Not one firm in this city would take me.”

”That case we won. Twenty people, thirty-six thousand four hundred and six yuan total. The day they got the money, Deng Wei counted it three times, bill by bill, slapped it on the table, and said, ʼIt all adds up.ʼ”

”Last year I took a housing case. A friend of mine got locked out in the middle of the night. I sat with her in the stairwell until dawn; the wind made her hands shake. That case grew to one thousand forty-two households. The court payments came in batch after batch over almost half a year. On the last afternoon, an old woman sat on the steps outside our noodle shop and wouldnʼt leave for anything, saying she had to see the money hit her account.”

”Did it?”

”It did.”

Lin Qi stared at the rim of the bowl.

”The money comes one payment at a time,” Shen Zhixia said. ”Someone has to be there to see it.”

”Youʼre telling me this because youʼre afraid I wonʼt wake up tomorrow.”

”Yes.”

”And if I donʼt?”

”Then Iʼll copy that sentence of yours onto paper and hand it to the court.” Shen Zhixia said. ”But ʼ6:20 isnʼt my handwritingʼ wonʼt be enough. Words on paper need a living person standing there to claim them. If youʼre gone, the paper speaks for you—and in this case of yours, there are already three pieces of paper speaking for you. Not one of them is like you.”

Lin Qiʼs hands, holding the bowl, went still.

”When a person dies, the paper says whatever itʼs been made to say,” Shen Zhixia said. ”To get justice, first you have to stay alive. Itʼs an ugly thing to say, but every case Iʼve handled sits on top of that sentence.”

After a long moment, Lin Qi asked, ”And you? Youʼve handled so many cases. Do you have one of your own?”

”Yeah. My fatherʼs.”

”Your father?”

”He was a lawyer too.” Shen Zhixia finished the last of the broth. ”Something happened nine years ago. He got out after a year, and within a year he was gone. A page is missing from his file. I didnʼt know until last November, and I still havenʼt found it.”

”And you keep waiting?”

”I canʼt afford to wait, but I have to,” she said. ”If I donʼt wait, that page stays missing forever.”

Lin Qi looked at her for a long time, then suddenly smiled, very faintly. ”Then can I afford to wait?”

”You donʼt have to wait.” Shen Zhixia gathered up the empty bowl. ”Just donʼt lose anything.”

”The page about the 24th—if I really do turn it in, will they still revoke my license?”

”Theyʼll have to look at it,” Shen Zhixia said. ”That page has your name on it, and your handwriting. If they still want to pin those four characters—ʼdecided to useʼ—on you, theyʼll first have to explain whose hand wrote them.”

Lin Qi repeated the phrase to herself quietly, then asked nothing more.

”Will you come again tomorrow?”

”Yes.”

It was past one when Lin Qi lay down. Before falling asleep, she murmured half of ”6:20” and swallowed the rest. Shen Zhixia sat on the stool, watched until she was asleep, then pulled the corner of the blanket up over her hand. Where the sleeve had slipped, the purple marks had faded slightly, but two new spots had appeared in between.

She turned off the light, locked the door, and took the empty bowl downstairs to throw away.

At 7:40, He Xiufen called.

”Iʼll draft the page with her basis,” she said without preamble. ”Start by separating her name out cleanly. For the rest, only include what she actually wrote. Submit on the 24th. Donʼt wait until the last day.”

”Sheʼs okay today.”

”ʼOkayʼ means sheʼs not okay.” He Xiufen said. ”A person matters more than paper. You watch her; Iʼll watch the paperwork.”

”Any word from Drug Supervision?”

”Nothing. They say itʼs in process through end of month.” He Xiufen paused. ”That receiving clerk you asked about yesterday—donʼt go back for now. Just remember him.”

A little past eleven, Shen Zhixia took Lin Qi downstairs to eat. The noodle shop at the corner was at its lunch rush. They sat at a plastic table out front. Lin Qi ordered a small bowl, ate two bites, then two more, pushed the bowl an inch forward, then pulled it back.

”Iʼve thought it through,” she said.

Shen Zhixia didnʼt interrupt, waiting.

”The drug is the drug, and the order is the order,” Lin Qi said. ”The drug is a matter between two companies. Whoever supplied it answers for it. The order—I wrote that, so Iʼll answer for it. Those eight characters werenʼt signed by me. I donʼt accept them.”

”And?”

”And,” Lin Qi set down her chopsticks, ”I might carry this for the rest of my life. If I canʼt carry it, I still have to. I canʼt carry it into my grave.”

Shen Zhixia lowered her head and finished the broth. ”Keep that line. When weʼre in court, I want you to say it again.”

”Youʼre asking me to testify. First I have to believe my own words.”

”You do believe them,” Shen Zhixia said. ”You ate half a bowl more than yesterday. Thatʼs belief.”

Lin Qi didnʼt smile, but she picked up the bowl and took another sip.

On the walk back to the dorm, Shen Zhixia asked if she wanted to call home.

”No,” Lin Qi said. ”If I call, sheʼll be on the first bus tomorrow morning, sit by my bed crying all morning, then go back. One trip—bus fare plus a nightʼs lodging—thatʼs half a month of her medication.”

Shen Zhixia didnʼt push. Her pocket buzzed: a voice message from Ma Jianjun in the rider group. She didnʼt open it.

At two in the afternoon, she returned to Zhengping Firm. He Xiufen had drafted the page—the Supplementary Written Explanation—one sheet, six lines. First line: basis cited from pages three through five of the statement and rebuttal materials. The remaining five: The undersigned has never used the phrase ”decided to use,” and that phrase was not written by her; the signature on the line is not hers, and she had never received this document; the procurement, acceptance, delivery, and return of drugs never passed through the hands of the on-duty obstetric physician.

Shen Zhixia copied it once. The copy stayed at the firm; the original went into her folder. At 6:30, she was back on the fourth floor.

Lin Qi sat at the desk. The face-down book was still face-down.

”Itʼs done?”

”Director He drafted it. Take a look.”

Lin Qi took the page and read it from top to bottom, then read it again, folded it in half, and pressed it under the cup.

”Iʼll turn it in myself tomorrow morning,” she said. ”The person at the window last time knows my face.”

”Iʼll go with you.”

”No need.” Lin Qi said. ”I wrote those two pages with my own hand, and this page Iʼve read from top to bottom. I accept it.”

Shen Zhixia didnʼt argue.

”Do you believe I didnʼt sign those eight characters?” Lin Qi asked suddenly.

”I believe the paper,” Shen Zhixia said. ”On that page, the three horizontal strokes in that character slant upward. The ones you write are flat. I donʼt need to believe anything—just send it for comparison.”

Lin Qi nodded, as if setting the matter down.

Then she reached under her pillow and pulled something out.

A kraft paper envelope, corners worn and soft. No name on it at all. The flap was open, the gum dry, never moistened.

”Hold onto this for me,” she said. ”Donʼt open it.”

Shen Zhixia didnʼt take it. ”When do I give it back?”

”Ask me when Iʼve made up my mind.”

[Thud. Donʼt ask. Hold onto it.]

Shen Zhixia took the envelope. The paper was thin; the edge of whatever page lay inside pressed against the envelope, hard against her fingers. She didnʼt squeeze it, didnʼt turn it over.

She opened her folder. On top: the photocopy of the Clues on Abnormal Drug Sources. In the middle: the half page of Items Pending Verification. At the bottom, one empty slot. She slid the envelope into the last slot, pressed it flat, closed the folder, and snapped the clasp once.

”Seven tomorrow morning,” she said. ”Iʼll bring soy milk.”

”Mm.”

The door closed behind her. The deadbolt clicked.

She got home close to nine. After her shower, she texted Lin Qi: Seven tomorrow. Soy milk. Donʼt turn on the stove.

The reply came quickly.

”Okay.”

9:11 p.m. That was the last message of the night.

She woke once, a little past three.

The room was dark. Her phone lay by the pillow, screen up, silent.

She pulled the canvas bag to the edge of the bed and felt for the corner of the envelope. The paper was thin, the edge even. The page inside had not been disturbed.

She didnʼt open it.

She glanced at her phone again. Below ”Okay,” nothing.

She set the phone back, screen up, and didnʼt turn it off.