Chapter 164: A Different Place to Queue

At ten in the morning on March 3rd, the court's kraft paper envelope arrived downstairs.

The delivery man stood in front of the noodle shop talking to He Xiufen, his voice climbing up through the gaps in the stairwell. Someone downstairs yelled something about lunch in Jiangzhou dialect. Shen Zhixia tore open the flap and pulled out the first page. The heading was a size larger than usual: Application for Re-determining the Appraisal Institution.

Respondent: Chengbei Hospital. Three grounds. Two and a half pages.

Ground one: Ningchuan Qiushi Judicial Appraisal Office had, on February 18th and 19th, twice accepted materials submitted directly by the respondent, neither time accompanied by transfer documentation. The office had already had substantive contact with this case. The procedure was tainted. Ground two: this case's filing number had been backfilled late, and the materials had yet to be sorted out. Ground three: appraiser Lu Zhicheng had, at the February 27th hearing, accepted the plaintiff's Written Opinion and stated in open session that he would rely on the materials present at the hearing. This constituted prejudgment and compromised his neutrality.

Two requests: replace the appraiser in this case; if no replacement is granted, conduct a new random draw to determine the appraisal institution.

The final paragraph read "to avoid any reasonable doubt on the part of the parties regarding the appraisal conclusions." The signature block was the hospital's, and in the attorney signature column was Song Qiming's handwriting.

She slid the two and a half pages back into the envelope. Downstairs, the soup pot clattered as its lid lifted and dropped back down.

He Xiufen came up carrying an enamel mug, two flecks of scallion floating on the surface. She put on her reading glasses and read the two pages three times.

"Last week in this room, I told you something."

"You said he isn't fighting me over paper. He's fighting me over time."

"It's come true." He Xiufen set the mug down on the glass desk top. "Change the office, change the person, redo the draw, reschedule. The page numbers you hammered into the record in court, the paper stock, the hole spacing—not one page carries over. The new appraiser has never even seen what page eight looks like."

"They're not after a new person," Shen Zhixia said. "They want to redo those few lines from scratch."

"Then you pin those lines down." He Xiufen said, "He picks people. You pick paper. He can move people; he can't move paper—the paper has dates on it, and two Xu characters."

"He filed for recusal, claiming the appraiser accepted our Written Opinion."

"The appraiser accepted both sides' submissions. His eyes landed on the set of papers in the record. That's what neutrality looks like. Put that sentence in your document."

Shen Zhixia opened her laptop, thought for two minutes, and typed the heading: Written Opinion on the Defendant's Application to Re-determine the Appraisal Institution and Replace the Appraiser.

Three points.

One: the "receipt without transfer documentation" that the defendant alleges was caused by the defendant's own direct delivery. What you yourself did cannot serve as grounds for changing tables.

Two: the office never accepted those two sets of materials—the February 27th hearing record states "not accepted." The "substantive contact" the defendant describes has not a single character of support on paper.

Three: the appraiser's remark that "I will proceed based on the set before me today, the one in my hands" means he recognizes only the papers in the record. Recognizing only paper does not mean speaking for anyone. Replacing a man who recognizes only paper is what would create the prejudgment you now claim to fear.

Request: deny the application, and address it together with the evidence hearing on March 5th.

At 10:40, the call came in from Chengbei Hospital's Medical Affairs Office.

"Our application has been filed," Director Xu said.

"I've seen it."

"On the materials—once the new institution is confirmed, we'll go through them again."

"Who confirms it?"

"The court."

"And who wrote those three pages?" she asked. "Is that also to be dealt with once the new institution is confirmed?"

There was a pause on the other end. "I'll check."

"Last time you said the same thing." She said, "March 5th. I'm writing it down."

She recorded the time of the call and what was said on both sides on the back of the left-grid page, with a final line: Due March 5th. No answer.

At 2 p.m., the two-page Written Opinion was filed on the third floor of the court. The receipt copy was folded and tucked into the hard-shell folder. On her way out, she remembered Huang Weizhong's remark: "Change the venue, and you'll still have to queue." At the time it had sounded like a brush-off. Now it had become two and a half pages of paper, with a title, grounds, and requests.

That evening He Xiufen peeled garlic downstairs. She asked what to bring tomorrow. He Xiufen didn't look up. "Two pens."

"Last time you said the same thing."

"Last time you brought one."

The night before the hearing she slept lightly and dreamed of a row of incubators. In the morning, she put one black pen and one blue pen in her bag.

March 5th, 8:40 a.m., third floor of the court.

The door to Courtroom No. 3 stood half open. Inside, the electric fan was turning, and the air was thick with the smell of paper. The presiding judge sat at the center, the clerk's screen glowing. He Xiufen entered with her and sat to her left in the plaintiff's bench, setting her reading glasses on the corner of the table. Behind the plaintiff's bench in the second row sat Peng Weidong, a piece of paper folded into quarters clutched in his hand. The plastic bag was no longer at his feet.

In the first row of the gallery sat two young men in jackets. Huang Weizhong sat near the door, his coat draped over one arm and a notebook on his knee; Director Xu sat beside him, a thin booklet in his hand.

At exactly nine, the presiding judge struck once.

"Today we do one thing only: the scope of materials to be submitted for appraisal. The defendant's two applications will be handled together."

Song Qiming stood first. His collar was buttoned to the very top.

"The two applications are my client's. I will cite only what is in the record: the receipt register at Ningchuan Qiushi's first-floor window, and the handler column of the Reply Letter in this court's file. What is not in the record, I will not supply."

"The handler column of the Reply Letter bears a Xu," the presiding judge said. "The Ningchuan register's process server column also bears a Xu. The defendant has placed these two entries before us. What do they wish to say?"

"The defendant believes the office has already accepted materials from the defendant and that the procedure is no longer clean."

"Did the office accept them or not?" The presiding judge turned to the appraiser's seat. "Ask him directly."

Lu Zhicheng stood, then sat again. Still the same few lines: he had attended the February 27th hearing. The index had four items; he had counted them. What was on the table today was still that same set. As for the two submissions of the 18th and 19th: "They are not in the index. They are not in my hands."

"The first floor logged those two submissions," the presiding judge asked. "Why are they not in the file?"

"No transfer letter, no acceptance." Lu Zhicheng said, "The case filing number was only entered on February 27th, once the dispute had been laid out. On March 3rd, the court's letter arrived. I cleared out the cabinet and moved a few things to different places."

That one word rose out of all the sounds in the courtroom. He had let it slip without emphasis, yet it was the heaviest thing on his mind.

The hum of the fan, the tapping of the keyboard, the rustle of paper in the gallery—all of it receded into the distance. Only that one word remained, standing in place.

[Thud. Gallery Seat, one use today.]

She looked up at Lu Zhicheng. He had finished speaking. His face showed nothing extra.

"Appraiser." She spoke. "The day you cleared the cabinet—did you move only positions, or also the papers inside?"

"I added no paper and removed none." Lu Zhicheng said, "Whatever the transfer letter lists, that's what I count."

"And the two submissions without transfer letters?"

"They never reached my hands."

"On March 3rd, who told you to clear the cabinet?"

"The letter arrived, so I cleared it." He said, "It's standard practice."

She switched pens and asked the court to record one sentence: The appraiser stated today that on March 3rd, when the court's letter arrived, he cleared the cabinet once, and the positions of materials within the cabinet were changed.

Song Qiming lifted his eyes. "This has nothing to do with the scope of appraisal materials."

"It does." She said, "Scope means which set of papers is on the table. Something else in that cabinet was moved. I need to know it wasn't the set on the table."

The presiding judge looked for two seconds, then nodded. "Recorded."

"On the date of March 5th," the presiding judge flipped through the file, "has the defendant provided any written explanation as to how the three pages of the Explanatory Note on Versions of Appraisal Materials came into being?"

Director Xu half-rose from the gallery. "Still being checked."

"Checked until when?"

"It will be reported once the check is complete."

The presiding judge made a mark in his notebook and raised his voice: "Record one line: as of today, the defendant has provided no written explanation."

"Does the defendant have anything further to say?"

"On the two applications, the grounds are those two items." Song Qiming said, "What is in the record, I recite."

The presiding judge listened, then closed the file.

"The defendant's request to re-determine the appraisal institution is denied. The application for recusal of the appraiser is denied. The reasons are entered into the record: the receipt situation claimed by the defendant arose from the defendant's own direct submission; the office did not accept the materials, and the February 27th record is in the file; the appraiser explained in open session that he relied on the materials in the record, and no impropriety is found. The materials for appraisal in this case shall remain the sealed set in the record, and the appraisal shall continue to be handled by this office."

"Please record one more line." She said, "No new appraisal materials were added by this court today."

"Recorded." The presiding judge said, "Both parties will review the record and sign."

Huang Weizhong turned a page in his notebook. He did not write.

Court adjourned at half past ten. He Xiufen needed to return to the shop and went downstairs first.

In the hallway, Song Qiming rolled the mouth of his kraft envelope shut.

"The parts that are in the record, I recite." He said, "What is not in the record, I do not supply on its behalf."

That one word jumped out again.

She replayed what he had just said in her mind. In the replay, that word was absent.

[Thud. Heard. One word.]

[Thud. That word will stay with you for three days.]

[Thud. For the next three days, when others speak, it will surface on its own.]

She stood at the top of the stairs and pressed her left ear with her hand. It felt as if cotton had been stuffed inside. After the courtroom sounds receded, the dull pressure remained.

The clerk brought over the hearing record. She read it line by line.

In the middle of page three was Lu Zhicheng's passage: Asked on what basis he accepted cases, he answered that he did not accept anything without a transfer letter, and that the case filing number had only been entered on February 27th; on March 3rd, when the court's letter arrived, he cleared out the cabinet, and several items were moved to different places.

That line was on the paper, in black ink, page three, line three. But it broke off at the words "moved to different places." Who had told him to clear it, which items, where they went—not a single character.

She wrote her name in the signature column.

At the courthouse entrance, Peng Weidong fell in half a step behind her.

"What does today count as?"

"Today counts as holding the table down." She said, "Which set of papers is on it—that's not finished yet."

He unfolded the visitation registration card and folded it again. The creases had gone white. "The day I carried her home, I said I wasn't sure. You said you weren't sure either. That's fine. I won't ask anymore."

"The day he carried her home, I'll look at the first sheet of paper."

Peng Weidong nodded and folded the paper back into its quarters.

It was evening by the time she reached the Zhengping Firm. Downstairs, He Xiufen was pushing the last table against the wall. She carried a bowl of noodles upstairs and spread out the left-grid page and the hearing record copy together.

He Xiufen read them and slid her reading glasses down. "The denial's in the record. The rest is just trimming."

"I heard a word."

"Is it on paper?"

"Half a sentence." She pointed at the line. "Moved to different places. What was moved, who told him, where it went—not one character."

"Then tomorrow, he's not the one you should be asking." He Xiufen said, "The person who can make that cabinet move—he sits on the third floor. The register downstairs only shows who came through the door."

Her phone lit up on the table. Tang Guo had sent four characters: The fifth is over.

She replied: Hold two more days. Wait until this set of papers is settled.

She scrolled further down. The top message was still that line from the other night: I'll write that half-sentence myself. Nothing new below it. She looked at it for two seconds and turned the phone face down on the table.

After nine, she dialed the first-floor intake window at the Ningchuan Qiushi Judicial Appraisal Office.

"Ding Yuan, this is Shen Zhixia, plaintiff's counsel in that medical damage case from Chengbei Hospital. You were kind enough to let me see the register a few days ago."

"I remember."

"The person who delivered those three pages on the morning of February 19th—after he put the materials down, did he ask anything else?"

Ding Yuan thought for a moment. "He asked where the elevator was."

"Which floor did the elevator take him to?"

"Our third floor is the appraisal office, the fourth is the archives." She said, "Which floor he went to—I couldn't see from the window."

The call ended. Downstairs, the last table bumped against the wall with a thud.

Beside the circle she had drawn around "Page-Number Correspondence," she wrote a single word: Moved.

Below it she drew a horizontal line.

Below the line, three words: Who went upstairs.