Chapter 338: The Draw

At four in the afternoon on February 15th, the landline on the second floor of Zhengping rang. He Xiufen called up the stairs, "Intermediate Court or Procuratorate?" Shen Zhixia picked up. It was Prosecutor Qi.

"The Prosecutorial Support Opinion was filed today." He paused. "I'll be there on the 18th. I'm only listening. I'll say one thing if I need to."

She asked if the Intermediate Court had accepted it.

"They took it, assigned it a number, it's in the file. This one isn't served on the parties—the court reads it internally." The sound of pages turning came through the line. "Let me repeat what I said before: prosecutorial support doesn't mean we fight the case for you. On the 18th, you speak for yourselves."

After hanging up, she relayed his words to the person sitting under the window. Lu Jibai pressed the cap back onto his pen. "Then on the 18th, we speak for ourselves."

On the afternoon of the 17th, the two of them went through the papers for this trip one final time. She kept the clerk's warning in mind: if it hadn't been submitted at the pretrial conference, don't pull it out when the moment came. The nine items filed on the day of case initiation were laid out on the table in order. She checked page by page—who signed, what day it was filed, which slot held the receipt. Everything matched. Lu Jibai asked only one thing: "During the objection round, who answers?"

"I will."

"Answer once, then stop. Don't explain a second time."

She called Cai Qingru and told her there wouldn't be much to say on the 18th, but what was said would concern her. Cai Qingru said she'd bring the cloth bag.

February 18th, 9:15 a.m., the west gate of the Intermediate Court. The guard read names from a clipboard against a list, checking each lawyer's license. Cai Qingru had arrived before them, sitting on a plastic chair just inside the gate with a cloth bag on her lap, the mouth pinned shut with a safety pin. She said she'd left home at 7:40, afraid of traffic. Shen Zhixia asked if she'd eaten. She said she'd had half a bowl of congee; anything more and she'd feel sick in the car.

Courtroom Four was at the east end of the second floor. Four long tables formed a rectangle, with a table set across one end bearing the presiding judge's placard—the national emblem hung on the wall behind it. No gavel at a pretrial conference; it sat in the corner of the bench, untouched.

At 9:30, Judge Luo entered. Dark jacket, cuffs buttoned to the top, a thermos in one hand and a rolled bundle of papers in the other. He set the papers down and established the procedure first: this was not a trial, but a pretrial conference. Four items—evidence exchange, objection to plaintiff standing, appraisal, and evidence preservation with an on-site inspection. He'd set the order, and he'd start with the objection.

The clerk sat at the side of the rectangle and opened her laptop. Identities were verified one by one: Plaintiff Jiangzhou Qinghe Environmental Public Interest Service Center, legal representative Cai Qingru; authorized agents Shen Zhixia and Lu Jibai; supporting prosecutor, Jiangzhou Municipal People's Procuratorate, Prosecutor Qi; defendant Jiangzhou Hengyue New Materials Co., Ltd., authorized agents Han Chongli and Song Qiming.

Han Chongli's scarf lay folded over the back of his chair. He wore a navy suit, a notebook open in front of him, its first page blank. Song Qiming sat to his left, stacking the power of attorney, statement of defense, and the objection into a neat pile, aligned evenly with the table's edge.

"The defendant goes first," Judge Luo said.

Han Chongli didn't rush to read from his papers. He began with a polite aside: he knew the work the Center had done over the years—going into communities to teach waste sorting, solid work. Then he brought it back to the document: the Center's charter listed environmental education and community services as its scope; the door to environmental public interest litigation had a legal threshold. "We aren't saying the Center is bad," he said. "We're saying the threshold is installed in the doorframe, not in our mouths."

He stated only conclusions, not the full text: the charter provision, the 2023 filing with the Civil Affairs Bureau. He requested dismissal.

Judge Luo asked a follow-up: "Within the past five years, has the Center received any administrative penalties? Does the defendant have anything else to submit?"

"Just these two items today," Han Chongli said.

Cai Qingru unpinned the cloth bag, reached inside, felt around, then pinned it shut again. She said she wouldn't read from paper; she'd say a few words. "The Center registered in 2018. Last year we went into forty-one communities and schools, teaching about how water gets divided up and where garbage goes. The Civil Affairs Bureau asked for our annual report that year—I missed it by one year. The notice arrived, and on the eighth day I carried the materials over myself. I still have the receipt. They never fined us a cent, never found us in violation." She looked up toward the bench. "If you want to say the Center isn't clean, I'll admit we missed a filing once. But we've taken on this ditch."

Han Chongli asked, "From that year to the next, did the Center file again?"

"We did. Every year since, on time."

It was Shen Zhixia's turn. First she identified the location of her three-page written opinion: submitted at 4:00 p.m. on February 3rd through the Litigation Service Platform, receipt in the file; no new papers today. Then she spoke to those three pages: a party whose charter states that its purpose and principal scope of activity is safeguarding public interests qualifies as an organization specifically devoted to environmental protection activities; a party with no administrative or criminal penalty for violating laws or regulations in the course of its activities within the five years before filing qualifies as having no record of violations. "The defendant's paper says 'was subjected to a disposition,'" she said. "The judicial interpretation says 'penalty.' An order to rectify within a deadline is not among the categories of administrative penalties. That document contains no fine, no warning—and the rectification was completed within the period."

Song Qiming asked her to repeat it. She repeated it word for word. He lowered his head and noted it down, then read it back dryly: "An order to rectify within a deadline is not among the categories of administrative penalties." He looked at her, waited for a nod, then put his pen down.

Prosecutor Qi spoke his only sentence of the day from the right corner of the rectangle: "The Prosecutorial Support Opinion is already in the file. On the question of standing, I will not answer for the plaintiff."

Judge Luo closed the round tightly, in very few words: the dispute would be recorded in the transcript; the collegial panel would make a determination in the judgment after deliberation; the case would proceed. "Today we don't decide whether it holds. It's on the record. The judgment will address it." Han Chongli asked if he should submit a supplementary opinion. Judge Luo said: if you have one, file it within five days; if not, don't.

The clerk turned the transcript page over, and the four parties signed the current page. Shen Zhixia signed below Lu Jibai's name, her pen hesitating for a beat before it touched the paper.

At eleven, the group walked to the old single-story building behind the courthouse. A small sign hung by the second door: Judicial Technical Assistance Office. The room was cramped—a long table, a lottery machine standing at the table's corner, rows of small balls visible through the glass cover. Tacked to the wall was the environmental damage category page from the court's roster of externally commissioned professional institutions, its edge curling.

The staffer in the jacket explained the procedure: the parties would first negotiate; failing agreement, the selection would be drawn from the roster.

Lu Jibai spoke first, proposing the Ningchuan Municipal Academy of Environmental Sciences Judicial Appraisal Center—pollutant characterization, damage scope, and restoration costs all fell within its appraisal purview. Song Qiming glanced at Han Chongli and said they weren't familiar with that one; there was another out-of-province institution on the roster that had done many similar cases. Lu Jibai asked which one. Song Qiming named it and flipped to that entry—four lines filled the track-record column.

Shen Zhixia said they didn't object to the out-of-province institution in principle, but that entry had only been added last winter. Song Qiming said, "We aren't singling anyone out. The Ningchuan institution is in this province and has close dealings with several municipal units."

"Then we draw," Lu Jibai said.

Judge Luo nodded: negotiation failed; the court would select by lot from the roster.

The staffer read out the numbers for the environmental damage category and entered them. The balls began to spin in the glass cover, not fast. One dropped into the chute. He pulled it out, read the number, and matched it against the page on the wall: "Ningchuan Municipal Academy of Environmental Sciences Judicial Appraisal Center."

The room went quiet for a moment. Cai Qingru pressed down the safety pin on her cloth bag.

The draw record was a single page—the staffer filled it out, both parties signed. Shen Zhixia signed and handed the pen over. Song Qiming read the entire page top to bottom first, then signed. When he finished, he laid the pen on the table and said, "That's my signature."

Han Chongli stood half a step behind Song Qiming, hands at his sides.

At 11:40 they returned to Courtroom Four. Judge Luo set the dates: February 24th and 25th—the appraisal institution would enter the site and sample; inspection of the plant's stormwater outlet. Notices would be served on both parties on the 19th.

The clerk called the appraisal institution on speakerphone. Appraiser Rui answered—fast-talking, all technicalities: "Our sampling vehicle has an onboard refrigerated box, only enough capacity for half a day's samples. Running the full circuit of points, the afternoon samples will have to go straight in. The cold-chain truck won't reach your end until the next morning—mountain roads, big trucks don't run them at night."

Lu Jibai didn't reach for paper. He spoke one sentence at a time.

"Take parallel samples at every point, in two sets."

"One set returns to the city with the court vehicle that afternoon, into the evidence room."

"The other set stays in the village and departs with the cold-chain truck the next day; stored in the village committee's archive room—it has power, a lock, and the door can be sealed. The clerk takes the key. Court seals on the door."

"Every sample gets a sealed tag, signed by everyone present."

Song Qiming wrote this down, then looked up and asked, "Why leave one set in the village?"

"One vehicle can only carry half the load on a night run," Lu Jibai said. "The refrigerated box lasts half a day; the cold-chain truck doesn't arrive until morning. The samples can't bounce around all night on the road."

Song Qiming wrote that down too. Han Chongli listened, then lifted his scarf off the chair back and laid it across his knees. "Whatever the court decides, the defendant will follow," he said, not loudly. After that he said nothing more.

Song Qiming raised another question on the defendant's behalf: could the defendant send personnel to the site that day? Judge Luo answered: parties are expected to attend; the inspection must include someone from the local grassroots organization—Director Fu from the village committee would be there. Song Qiming said he and Old Wu would come.

Shen Zhixia raised two points, both quietly: the plaintiff wished to install a camera outside the archive room door at its own expense; further, the plaintiff would apply to the notary office for evidence-preservation notarization covering the sampling, sealing, handover, and the next day's unsealing.

Han Chongli glanced toward her—not a long glance.

Judge Luo approved each item: the camera could be installed, with the clerk approving its placement; the plaintiff would handle the notarization application at its own expense; the court's law enforcement recorders would run the whole time; everyone present would sign the sealed tags and strips.

[Thud. One night. No one had ever written it down before.]

At 12:10 the pretrial conference adjourned. The four parties signed the transcript, pressing fingerprints beside their signatures. When she finished, she saw Han Chongli's handwriting—slow, stroke by stroke, his signature written out in full.

At 12:20, on the courthouse steps. February wind swept up the stairs. The old plane trees by the gate were down to bare branches. Song Qiming went first to call the car around. Han Chongli stopped on the steps, wrapped his scarf twice, and walked over to her.

"Attorney Shen," he said. "The mountain roads are rough. Dress warm."

She thanked him. He nodded once, descended the steps. The car door opened and shut; it reversed out and turned onto the main road.

From the courtroom to the steps, Lu Jibai had stood in the space between her and him the whole time, not moving an inch.

"How would he know the mountain roads are rough," she said.

"He knows we're going into the village on the 24th."

"Everyone in that room today knows."

Lu Jibai watched the direction the car had turned, and didn't answer. A gust lifted the corner of the papers in her hand. He reached over and pressed it down, his hand lingering a moment before he pulled it back.

"Make a list of what we need for the 24th when we get back," he said.

"I'll make it twice," she said.