Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 191 : The Name on the Shift Schedule

At the bottom of the steps she first counted the papers in her bag: one copy of the judgment, the receipt for the Written Reply dated April 9th, the drug-line pages, and the single sheet the hospital had supplemented—the one reading ”verified: no written records found.” Four items.

May 16th, third floor of the Chengbei District Health Commission. The young clerk at the window recognized her face, pulled the file out and flipped through it, then pointed toward the inner room.

Section Chief Zou sat behind his desk. To his left, an interview notebook. To his right, two pens laid out—one black, one red.

”Four items.” She pushed the papers across.

He read them one by one. The judgment he held open at the ”The Court Holds” passage, lingering there a little longer before flipping back to the operative part, then forward to the reply. The receipt he checked only the receiving stamp in the corner. The drug-line pages he counted, marking a small red line at the bottom edge of each. The last sheet—a line and a half, two fields, one character, ”Xu”—he read three times.

”April 12th we told them to supplement.” Section Chief Zou squared the papers. ”This arrived on the 15th. To this day, the person who wrote these words has no name.”

”The handler column has one.”

”That column records who delivered the paper.” He tucked the red pen into the pages. ”Iʼm asking about the person who wrote these four characters.”

He pulled a pre-printed form from the drawer, stamped the bottom, and drew a red line under the third paragraph.

”Read it aloud. If anythingʼs unclear, ask now.”

Shen Zhixia picked up the paper. The title was Notice on the Handling Result of Lin Qiʼs Statement of Defense.

The substance had four layers. First: based on the Commissionʼs verification and the facts found in the Peopleʼs Courtʼs first-instance judgment, the materials on hand were insufficient to establish that the medical record alterations were the personal act of Lin Qi, and they did not contradict the circumstances described in her own written explanation. Second: regarding the purchasing, acceptance, and use of the drug in question, no materials showed that Lin Qi bore personal fault in the performance of her duties. Third: pursuant to the relevant regulations on the management of medical practitioners, the Commission would impose no administrative penalty on Lin Qi; her physician practice registration and lawful practice would not be affected. Fourth: the determination of Lin Qiʼs personal responsibility in the Disposition Decision previously submitted by Chengbei Hospital was not accepted by the Commission, which had written to the hospital instructing it to correct the matter through internal procedures.

When she reached the fourth layer, she paused.

”The judgment hasnʼt taken effect yet.”

”I wasnʼt waiting for it.” Section Chief Zou closed the interview notebook. ”We verified our own items: the receiving register from the drug warehouse, the Drug Regulatory Bureauʼs on-site inspection record, that line-and-a-half the hospital supplemented, and the two pages she submitted herself. The judgment is one of those items. Whether it says itʼs taken effect doesnʼt matter—I donʼt cite that in my paper.”

”What about the hospitalʼs Disposition Decision?”

”Thatʼs the hospitalʼs paper, so the hospital has to withdraw it.” He said, ”Ours states clearly that it isnʼt accepted. If they refuse to withdraw it, have them write me a paper saying they wonʼt, and Iʼll put it in the file.”

Shen Zhixia closed the notice and reached for the proof of service on the desk.

”You canʼt sign it.” Section Chief Zou slid the proof form half an inch toward himself.

”She has a power of attorney. General authorization, original signed copy in my bag.”

”The POA says itʼs for handling the statement and defense.” He flipped the form over, pressing his thumb on the ”Service Recipient” column. ”This paper entitle him to her name, not her opinion. An opinion can be delegated. A name cannot. Bringing the original wonʼt help. This column requires her own hand—or you produce a new, explicitly worded authorization. In which case sheʼll have waited for nothing.”

Shen Zhixia looked at that hand for two seconds, then shouldered her bag.

”Iʼll call.”

* * *

It took Lin Qi forty minutes to get there. Shen Zhixia waited on a bench downstairs, listening to the elevator open and close, until she finally heard unhurried footsteps from the far end of the corridor.

Lin Qi wore the grayed white coat. The left chest was bare, a small square of lighter cloth where something had once been pinned. Her knee was a little stiff; climbing the stairs she led with her right foot, the left following slowly.

”Such a long way.”

”It doesnʼt hurt anymore.” Lin Qi sat down beside her. ”You said on the phone the paper needed my own signature.”

”It does.”

”Thatʼs good.”

She didnʼt ask what the paper said. They went up to the third floor and into the inner office. Section Chief Zou handed her the notice and had her read it from beginning to end. She read slowly, her finger pressing once on the words ”not accepted.”

”Understood?” he asked.

”Understood.”

”Then Iʼll ask, and youʼll answer yourself.” He held his pen. ”Do you accept this result?”

Lin Qi looked up at him.

”I accept it,” she said. ”The orders I wrote that night—I wrote them. The drug wasnʼt my call, and the name wasnʼt in my hand.”

Section Chief Zou recorded a line in his notebook, then pushed the proof of service toward her, pen pointing her way.

”Here. Your own name.”

Lin Qi drew the form close and set her right hand to it. She wrote slowly, strokes horizontal and vertical, the final downstroke carried to the end, her fingertip pressing into the paper before lifting away.

[Thud. This one, no one signs for her.]

Section Chief Zou wrote her a receipt slip, noting how many pages, on what date, and who received it.

* * *

When they left the building the sun was slanting low, the shadows of the row of trees below the steps stretched across half the sidewalk.

”Your thing.” Shen Zhixia drew it from the inner pocket of her coat.

The name badge. White plastic shell, three lines: Chengbei Hospital, Obstetrics, Lin Qi. The lanyard had snapped at one end; sheʼd picked it up from the water on the rooftop that day, tied a knot in it, and wiped the shell dry with a tissue.

Lin Qi took it and turned it over. There was nothing on the back, but she looked at it a while anyway, then looped the cord around her neck. The badge settled on her left chest, exactly over the square of lighter cloth, edges matching.

”Lawyer Shen.”

”Yeah.”

”Iʼm back.”

”You walked back yourself,” Shen Zhixia said. ”All I did was keep this badge in my pocket for a month.”

Lin Qi smiled—not a big smile. Her eyes reddened first, and she lowered her head to smooth the hem of her white coat.

”I need to stop by the department.”

”Take it slow.”

* * *

The nursesʼ station counter gleamed. On top sat an old telephone and a shift schedule book. Yan Mei straightened up from behind the treatment cart, her nurseʼs cap tucked at her collar, sleeves rolled to the forearm.

”The Commissionʼs paper—the Medical Affairs Office called this morning.” She pulled the shift schedule out from under the counter and spread it flat. ”I do the scheduling. Youʼre on day shift tomorrow. Youʼll shadow me for two weeks, and keep away from the resuscitation station for now. You write the handover log, and in the signature column you write your own name.”

”Okay.”

”Donʼt tell me about the case.” Yan Mei wrote in next weekʼs grid, her strokes straight. After writing the two characters of ”Lin Qi,” she capped the pen. ”I donʼt understand those pages from the department. The shift schedule—that I understand.”

Shen Zhixia stood half a step outside the counter, watching those two characters settle into the box. The box wasnʼt large. But they fit.

When Yan Mei closed the book, she glanced up at Lin Qi.

”The marks on the back of your hand. Where did those come from?”

”Accidental bump.”

”A bump that comes in rows?” Yan Mei folded the schedule and didnʼt ask further, turning to push the treatment cart away.

[Thud. The crossed-out name, written back in.]

On the way downstairs, a man came from the far end of the corridor, white coat open, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Director Xu stopped three paces from them and glanced at Lin Qiʼs left chest.

”Dr. Lin.”

”Director Xu.”

”The Commissionʼs paper—Medical Affairs has received it,” he said. ”Hospital matters follow hospital procedure.”

He walked on, his leather soles clicking twice against the tile, and entered a room labeled ”Doctor-Patient Communication Room.”

* * *

The noodle shop started filling up at 5:40. The stovetop fire never paused; the smell of scallion oil drifted from the kitchen out to the row of plastic stools by the door, and everyone inhaled on their way in.

Peng Weidong arrived earlier than usual. Today heʼd changed into a clean jacket, and he carried a plastic bag, two white lines pressed into the bottom from the weight. He set the bag on the long table and didnʼt look at Shen Zhixia first—he looked at Lin Qi, whoʼd just come through the door.

”Dr. Lin.” He nudged the bag forward. ”That bag of oranges last time—I bought them. I told Lawyer Shen to say the hospital sent them.”

Lin Qi stopped.

”That was wrong of me,” he said. ”The oranges are oranges. The sentiment is sentiment.”

Lin Qi walked over and sat down, pulled the bag to her, untied the top, took one orange out, weighed it in her hand, and put it back.

”Iʼll take them,” she said. ”And this time Iʼll thank you myself.”

He Xiufen came out with the noodles, setting the bowls down one by one. Today her hand was lighter; less scallion oil floated on the surface.

”Yesterday you went to the grave,” He Xiufen said.

”I did.” Peng Weidong rolled his sleeves up. ”I read the judgment to her. Read it slow. A coworker stood by counting the pages for me.”

”She heard you.”

”I canʼt read, but I can finish reading.” He lifted the bowl. ”No word from Lawyer Song. These last two days, Nianman can laugh out loud.”

”The appeal period is fifteen days. Service was yesterday, so it runs to the end of the month,” Shen Zhixia said. ”If he doesnʼt appeal, the judgment stands.”

”Standing or not, Iʼll wait,” Peng Weidong said. ”I wonʼt rush it.”

Halfway through the meal, Lin Qi set down her chopsticks, rose, and walked to the small slanted window beside the stairwell, her back to the table.

The shop was loud with conversation, but her voice, kept low, carried along the narrow stairwell wall, sentence by sentence.

”Mom, itʼs me.”

”No, I havenʼt moved. Iʼve been here the whole time.”

”My name is on the department shift schedule now. Day shift tomorrow, with the head nurse.”

There was a long pause. She switched the phone to her other hand.

”I fell last month. Bumped my knee. It healed ages ago. Donʼt listen to peopleʼs nonsense.”

”I didnʼt go back for the May Day holiday.”

”Iʼm fine. I just want your pickled radish.”

”Iʼll come home this month. Donʼt come to pick me up. I know the way.”

After hanging up, she stood by the window a while longer, then came back and sat down.

He Xiufen didnʼt ask how many minutes sheʼd talked. She just pushed the last dish of pickles toward her.

”You got your name back,” she said.

”Yeah.”

”The person has to come back too.” He Xiufen shifted her tea mug. ”Coming back to work doesnʼt count. Coming back to eat, coming back to sleep, going home to see your mother—those three, no one can sign for you.”

Lin Qi lowered her head and took two bites of noodles, her shoulders twitching once.

Peng Weidong finished, stood, stacked his bowl by the stove, said he had night shift next week, and left.

Lin Qi got up to help clear, hugged the bag of oranges to her chest, said ”See you tomorrow” at the door, and went downstairs.

Only two bowls and a dish of pickles remained on the long table. Downstairs someone called for extra noodles. He Xiufen pushed the bowls aside, and her phone buzzed in her apron pocket.

”Hello.”

The other side spoke only briefly. She stood, walked to the stairwell, and came back with her face dark, turning the phone face-down on the table—harder than usual.

”Who?”

”The Bar Association Discipline Department,” He Xiufen said. ”Two people coming tomorrow morning. To look into something.”

”Into what?”

”Into a trainee lawyer at our firm—and whose signature is on her case-handling paperwork.” She paused. ”Then, at the end, they asked one thing: when that practice certificate of yours is coming through.”

Shen Zhixia reached into the inner pocket of her coat. The object with the worn-smooth corners—returned this very afternoon. The pocket was empty.

[Thud. Someoneʼs not suing over the case anymore. Theyʼre suing over the person.]

Downstairs, a spatula struck an iron wok. Once. Then again.