Chapter 343: The Evidence Room Register

February 26, ten in the morning. The office landline rang.

Judge Luo said one thing and stopped: "Attorney Shen. The situation in the early hours of the 25th, the unsealing record, and the decision to void Group B—all written into the work record, entering the file today. Both parties will receive notice."

"Okay."

"The voiding was my call, made here at the court. If you have objections, put them in writing. No need to tell me over the phone."

"We have no objections."

"Whatever the defendant submitted, respond if you want to respond. In writing." A pause. "Your samples—keep track of them yourselves."

The call ended.

She logged the call in three lines: notice received, no objections, respond in writing.

Lu Jibai sat behind the desk by the window and looked up at her. "What did he say."

"Notice, no objections, in writing."

"That's all."

"One more thing—our samples, keep track of them ourselves."

He set his pen down. "That last part isn't procedure."

"I know."

At noon she went downstairs to get noodles. The cooking fumes from below rushed straight up. He Xiufen held two bowls in one hand, sleeves rolled to her forearms, water rolling hard in the pot.

"You two are back." Her eyes stayed on the pot.

"Got in last night."

"You're standing in front of me and your faces are gray." She set the noodles on the cutting board and scattered scallions over them. "Eat first. You can't sort out paperwork on an empty stomach." She pushed one bowl forward, then reached over and flicked the green bits off the other one. "No cilantro on this one. I remember."

She carried two bowls upstairs. Someone downstairs was waiting for takeout, the sound of a plastic bag being shaken open following her all the way to the stairwell.

Lu Jibai's bowl went on his left. He ate fast, didn't talk, halfway through picked up his phone for a glance and set it back down.

Three in the afternoon. The group chat pinged. The court had photographed the defendant's written opinion and posted it to the group; a duplicate was being mailed separately.

One page.

"One: regarding the situation during the night of February 24 into the early hours of February 25, the defendant and his agent were neither present nor informed. We respectfully request the court to investigate in accordance with the law and to pursue responsibility against the relevant persons."

"Two: we respectfully request the court to disclose the transport and custody process for the Group A samples on the evening of February 24, including loading time, personnel in the vehicle, time of entry into the evidence room, storage conditions in the evidence room, and the details of the handover for testing."

"Three: the plaintiff installed surveillance equipment outside the door of a court-sealed premises on their own initiative, and the data obtained is kept and used solely by the plaintiff. The defendant does not accept the authenticity or integrity of this data, and respectfully requests the plaintiff to explain the equipment, how the data was kept, and how it was extracted."

At the bottom of the page, a single signature: Song Qiming. Heavy on the first stroke, quick on the last.

She read it through once and slid the paper to the middle of the desk.

Lu Jibai took it and read slowly, line by line. When he finished he laid the paper flat and squared all four corners.

"The first point shuts the door," she said.

"The door was always in his hands." He pressed his finger on the words "neither present nor informed." "He won't say who did it, and he won't say he knows who did it. He only says he wasn't there."

"Points two and three aren't asking for answers."

"No."

"They don't need to prove our samples are dirty." She turned the paper around and pointed at the words "respectfully request the court to disclose." "They want someone else to ask the question: what makes you say they're clean."

He didn't answer. He got up to pour water, came back and set the cup by her hand, the bottom of the cup knocking against the desktop.

"Do we respond," she asked.

"We respond. One page, with three attachments."

"Three attachments and we only have two. The notarial certificate doesn't come out until March 1."

"Then we respond March 1." He folded the paper and tucked it under the vinegar bottle. "They want us to finish our sentence, so we finish it, not one word more. They ask about transport and custody—give them times and signatures. They ask about the equipment—give them the notary's record. Don't write 'our samples are absolutely clean.'"

"Why not."

"Because you can't actually write that. And a sentence you can't write down is a sentence someone else will pick up and read aloud someday."

She copied that line into her notebook. When she finished she looked up. "Then I'll turn over every minute."

"The only minutes you can turn over are the ones on paper," he said. "Go get the paper."

At five, the court clerk sent over four photographs, followed by a line: all taken today, each one checked one by one.

The first was the Evidence Room Handover Register. On the ruled lines, the date was February 24, the row for 21:40: item description read "Samples (Group A)," quantity "15," the seal number column ran long across the page, two names in the delivering party column, one name in the receiving party column, and the remarks read: "Seals intact, numbers match sampling records, counted twice in person."

The second was from the evening of the 24th, the page from the village committee courtyard: 18:40 loading, 18:50 seal applied to the archive room, 19:00 departure back to the city with the vehicle. The accompanying personnel column had two names—one the court clerk, one a bailiff.

The third was the outgoing entry from the morning of the 26th: 9:00 sharp, withdrawn by the court clerk, signed by the evidence room administrator.

The fourth was the handover form from Ningchuan: arrived 13:20, counting completed by 13:40, signed by both sides, the receipt column reading "15 items, seals intact."

She laid the four photographs out by time and copied each row into her notebook.

18:40, loading, two signatures. 21:40, entry into the evidence room, two signatures, counted twice. The 26th, 9:00, withdrawal, two signatures. 13:40, handover, signed by both sides.

She called the court clerk.

"One question, not for the record. During those three hours on the road, did the vehicle stop at any point."

"No. Left the village straight onto the highway, entered the courtyard at 21:40."

"Who was in the vehicle."

"Me, and the bailiff. The bailiff drove."

"Who watched the evidence room overnight."

"The building has a duty officer, walks the floor once an hour, marks the time in a log. I'll photograph that page for you right now."

At six, the image arrived. Ruled lines, one hour per row, running from 22:00 all the way to 7:00.

She read down row by row. The time in the 3:00 box was added later—darker ink than the others, written below the line, slightly overlapping the grid.

She called back: "The 3:00 row—why was it filled in later."

"Shift change at three. The two of them met in the hallway. The outgoing one called the time, and the incoming one wrote it down for him." The clerk answered fast. "I'll tell you this too: the person who wrote it is not the person who walked it."

"I'm putting that line in our response."

"Write it. I stand by it."

She put the phone down and laid out the four time points across her notebook.

[Thud. Clean isn't something you say. It's something you sign for.]

She stared at that line for two seconds, then flipped back a page to what she'd written in the early hours of the 25th: Someone was here. The machine was awake.

"The middle is empty," she said.

"Where's the emptiness."

"18:40 to 21:40. Three hours, two people in the vehicle, one of them driving." She tapped the blank space with her pen tip. "On this paper, those three hours don't exist."

"Paper can't control three hours on the road." He pushed the four photographs into alignment. "But it can hold both ends. Two people at one end, two people at the other."

"Then there are only ever two people."

"Right," he said. "So don't write 'watched the whole way' on paper. Write 'every handover bears a signature.'"

She revised it as he said. When she finished she read it over and thought this version sounded worse than the other one—and sturdier too.

She made a separate copy of that duty log, and in particular she copied out the 3:00 row and drew a line underneath it: the person who wrote it is not the person who walked it.

March 1, ten in the morning. Chengnan Notary Office.

Hu Yongnian slid the notarial certificate across the desk, and with it a stack of photographs and a video extraction record.

On the certificate, he'd written less than she'd asked for: the date of acceptance, what was written in the purpose field; on the 24th, on site from 8:30 to 18:55, how many photos were taken, which strip of tape each covered, which seal tag, who was standing nearby; before and after 7:20 on the 25th, at the door and at the archive room, which locations were photographed; and that day at 10:20, in whose presence the memory card was removed from the camera outside the door, what the device looked like, where it was mounted, the card numbered on the spot and sealed into an evidence envelope, the original retained by the notary office, one copy delivered to the court and one to the police.

The photographs were attached at the back, each one numbered.

"The defendant's third point." He pressed the cap onto his pen. "What the equipment was, where it was installed, who was present, how the card was extracted—it's all in my document."

"Do you write whether the data is real or fake."

"No. I only certify what it looked like when I took it, and who watched me take it." He pushed the photographs forward half an inch. "Whether anything was edited or swapped—the people who view it will have to judge for themselves."

She flipped to the bottom of the first page. There was a small line of text there too.

"I wrote that as well." He tapped it with his finger. "I wasn't there during the night. What the machine outside the door recorded is not what I saw. Whatever the data is, I only certify the segment I extracted."

"That line doesn't help us."

"That line applies to everyone equally." He placed the certificate into her hands. "If the other side wants to read it aloud someday, I'll own it. Don't delete it on my behalf."

She went through the certificate, the photo list, and the video extraction record one by one and packed them into her bag. When she stepped out, wind cut around the street corner, and the edges of paper rustled inside her bag.

Back at the office by 11:30. The kraft paper envelope sat at the bottom of the cabinet shelf, Lu Jibai's handwriting on its face: who gave it, what day it was given, how it came into hand—line after line, straight and level.

Beside it lay a stack of new envelopes. Tang Guo had said before New Year's, "Buy several more." She'd bought ten and never touched them.

She pulled out the notarial certificate, held it against the envelope opening to gauge the fit, and slid it into the topmost one.

"This envelope—where do I start writing," she asked.

"Write the date. Write who gave it." He came over and took the pen from beside her hand. "I'll write it."

"I'll read it out for you."

"No need. I'll look and write."

He bent over, left hand pressing the envelope flat, right hand writing the first line in the upper left corner: March 1, issued by Hu Yongnian, Chengnan Notary Office.

Second line: accepted February 19, purpose—environmental civil public interest litigation, on-site sampling, sealing, transfer, and next-day unsealing.

Third line: number of attached photographs, numbering range; video extraction conducted in the notary's presence, original retained by the notary office.

Fourth line he wrote: surveillance data recorded in the early hours of February 25, card removed in the notary's presence at 10:20.

When he reached the words "early hours of February 25," the pen tip lifted.

It stopped half an inch above the paper and held there.

Downstairs someone was shouting at the water delivery man, metal buckets clanging against the steps. The window glass reflected his hand, perfectly still.

Then the pen tip came down, finished the line, and went on: Case filing receipt, town police station, February 25, 10:00.

She looked down and flipped her notebook to the last page. Beneath "Someone was here. The machine was awake," she added a line: Notarial certificate, March 1.

He didn't raise his head. The pen kept moving until it reached the bottom right corner of the envelope, and only then did he set it down.