Chapter 352: The Original

The Judicial Appraisal Opinion was thinner than she'd expected.

Even counting the cover, there were only a few pages. The last page had barely half a page of text; the rest was blank. In the opinion field, two lines had been written: one encrypted compressed file recovered from the hard drive's unallocated space, decrypted using one of the clues provided by the commissioning party, containing five image files. The final line stated that the institution offered no opinion on the authenticity of the contents. Three signatures at the bottom, the last one written smallest — Master Qiu's.

The invoice was handwritten. The payer line matched what they'd agreed on at the courier hub on March 4th — all three of their names. The previous one had been made out to "Family of Cen Shouye." She counted the money twice before pushing it across.

Master Qiu pulled two discs from his drawer. The labels were in his own handwriting, one facing inward, one outward. He wound the string on the file envelope around twice and pressed it flat with his palm.

"One disc goes with the opinion, one is yours to keep," he said. "In the opinion, I only wrote 'containing five image files.' Nothing else."

Nothing else — she had been about to ask. He answered before she could: "Authenticity, whose signature, why only five pages. That's not my line of work. If I get involved in that, this piece of paper stops counting."

"The three names on the last page are all in this building today." He pushed the file envelope toward her. "If anyone asks, they can be found."

She slid the opinion out and flipped through from the beginning, pausing on page two — where the material came from, which evidence seal number, what time the seal was broken. Line after line in someone else's hand. Not one line written by her.

[Thud. It only records what it saw. The page it didn't see is in someone else's hands.]

Ten minutes to ten, Chengnan Notary Office. Ning Ping's blue sleeve covers were still on. She pushed the notarial certificate across — two pages. Ning Ping had written only what she'd seen: the date and time, which room in the appraisal institute, five files on the screen, page numbers one through five, with the previous page stating "six pages total." That last part she'd said back then too — why one was missing, I won't write.

"Where's this one going?" Ning Ping asked.

"Not decided yet."

Ning Ping pressed the pen cap on. "When you know, come tell me. I left the 'purpose' field blank. I'll only fill it in after you tell me."

Ten thirty, the noodle shop's back kitchen.

The exhaust fan whirred. He Xiufen laid her rag across the stove edge and wiped at the stainless steel, leaving white streaks through the grease. Shen Zhixia set her bag on the high stool and said it: the drive was opened. A few pages came out — scanned pages of a report. Five sheets.

He Xiufen's hands didn't stop. She moved the rag from the stove edge to the cooktop. "The original?"

"There isn't one."

The rag froze mid-wipe. She turned, wiped her hands on her apron. "Then it's still just a name."

"We've got the name. The thing itself isn't in our hands yet."

"A few more pages." He Xiufen said it, then continued for herself, "Better than an empty name."

She took a large bowl from the cupboard, set it by Shen Zhixia's hand, and laid chopsticks across the rim. "Eat before you go. The bowl downstairs is on the house."

Shen Zhixia sat and took a few bites. He Xiufen didn't sit; she stood by the stove watching her eat.

"The cases I've handled — half of them had paper with the words but not the paper itself. Of the other half that won, they all won because someone was willing to pull the original out of a cabinet. The day the original comes out, that's when the paper truly becomes paper."

"This time the original doesn't exist."

"Then put this one in the right place." He Xiufen set the kettle down with a thump. "Where are you putting it?"

"At the firm."

"Don't put it in a drawer. Drawers are for yourself. Leave something in a drawer, and in two years even you won't remember what day you put it there. Put it in a cabinet where you know what day it opens and who opens it."

Shen Zhixia nodded. The water in the pot began to sound. He Xiufen skimmed the foam with the back of a ladle and asked, "How many people know about this now?"

She counted them: herself, Lu Jibai, the Cen household, the appraisal institute, the notary office, and the one downstairs.

"Not many." He Xiufen said, "Too many people, and talk leaks. This business with a few sheets of paper — not one word can reach the other side's ears."

"It won't."

"Then don't be the one who leaks it." He Xiufen hung the rag back on the hook. "Paper's one thing; you also need someone watching it for you. I'm not here on the morning of the twentieth — I'll be at the cemetery. Don't let that old lady call to rush. Her own day, she counts it better than anyone."

Three in the afternoon, Zhengping Firm, second floor.

She spread the opinion and the notarial certificate on the table, smoothing each flat. Under the window, an old wooden chair held one of He Xiufen's worn shawls; the chair's paint was polished glossy from years of sitting.

"March second, it was said this drive doesn't go into the Qingshi Village file." She said, "Now the paper's out. Do we submit it?"

Lu Jibai didn't answer right away. He turned the opinion to the first page, read the line "containing five image files," then flipped back to the last page to study the signatures. He read slowly.

"If we submit it, what's the first thing that happens?"

"Explaining the source."

"The source can be explained," he said. "Personal effects, three heirs, notarization, commissioning, appraisal. A piece of paper for every step."

"There's paper for all of it." She pressed her pen tip against her notebook without writing. "Except the thing itself."

"Except the thing itself." He picked up the first of the five printouts and held it to the window. "It's a scanned page of a report. The original isn't here, and neither is the original seal. One sentence from the other side — 'Plaintiff is requested to produce the original' — and it's just a piece of paper."

"There's a second thing."

"Han Chongli will know it exists."

"And if he knows?"

"He'll go looking for the original first." He set the paper down. "If he finds it, he takes it. If he can't find it, he'll go looking for the people who know about the five pages."

Someone honked a car downstairs — one short blast, two long. She sat for a while, then set her pen down.

"Then that's settled. It doesn't go into the file this moment. The day it has its original to stand with, they go in together."

"Not this moment." He repeated, "And there's one more thing you said yourself."

"This case is about the ditch, the soil, the playground at the village school. That thing is about the well in Baixi Village. Water coming down the same ridge, but two separate matters, two separate files."

He made a sound of agreement. She stacked the five printouts by page number, squaring the corners three times before they lined up.

The cabinet stood in the corner — sheet metal, a patch of paint chipped off to bare iron. The top shelf held the kraft paper envelope from the sample-switching matter. The bottom shelf was half empty.

The key ring was in her pocket. She crouched to unlock it; the bolt snapped back with a click.

One by one, she laid the items on the table: one copy of the opinion, one notarial certificate, two discs, the hard drive — Evidence Seal No. 3, the seal strip split between her name and Ning Ping's, each signed across the seam.

She took a new kraft paper envelope from the drawer, laid it flat with the opening up, and recorded the provenance as required.

First line: March 15, 9:30 a.m., Jiangzhou Electronic Data Forensic Appraisal Institute — one Judicial Appraisal Opinion, two discs.

Second line: Same day, 10:00 a.m., Jiangzhou Chengnan Notary Office — one evidence preservation notarial certificate, Notary Ning Ping.

Third line: Handler — Shen Zhixia.

She looked up when she finished writing. Lu Jibai took the pen from her hand and added a line below "Handler": "Attached are printed copies of the scanned pages and the discs. Neither the original report nor the original seal is present."

"This one needs to be written too?"

"It does." He handed the pen back. "If anyone asks in the future, we won't have to think about what to say."

In the "Persons Present" box, he signed his own name, with the full date and the exact time.

She slid the printouts, the discs, and the two documents into the envelope, wound the flap twice, and placed it on the bottom shelf. The hard drive went in last, standing upright against the side, protected from pressure. She nudged it — it didn't move. Locked.

"Auntie Wang asked me something yesterday." She pushed the drawer shut. "She asked where the missing page is. I told her we haven't found it yet."

His hand still rested on the cabinet door. He didn't answer right away.

"She's right to ask," he said.

That was all. Then he pushed the door firmly closed and crouched down to check the bolt.

"How many keys on this ring?"

"Three." She opened the drawer and hung the key ring back. "One opens the second-floor door, one opens the document room, one opens this. Whoever holds this ring is the person who manages the paper on this floor."

[Thud. Locked-up paper isn't evidence. It's a card held in reserve.]

Five thirty in the afternoon, the desk phone rang.

On the second ring, Lu Jibai answered. "Speaking." He listened. "What time." Listened again. "Then come."

He hung up.

"Chen Maolin."

She set her pen down. "What does he want?"

"He didn't say. Said he has something to discuss in person. The seventeenth, two in the afternoon, he'll come up."

"And you agreed."

"I said, come."

He flipped open his notebook and wrote: March 15, 5:30 p.m., caller Chen Maolin, exact words — "There's something I'd like to discuss in person. The seventeenth, two in the afternoon, I'll come up." He turned the notebook around for her to read.

She looked at the line. "Last time he sat at that table downstairs, he was there to speak for Hengyue's price."

"This time he's also speaking for Hengyue." He pressed the pen cap on. "The only difference is the price."

"I'll be here at two on the seventeenth."

"I moved the two o'clock meeting to three thirty." He closed the notebook. "When he comes, don't speak."

"Why?"

"The moment his mouth opens, he wants someone to answer yes or no. If you don't answer, he has to keep talking."

Eight in the evening. The table by the noodle shop door had been cleared. She carried her notebook upstairs to return a file.

The stairs were concrete, narrow, with a small landing at the turn. The bulb hung from the landing ceiling — old-fashioned, needing a sound to trigger it. Halfway up, the light was still dark.

He stood on the landing, holding the copy of the complaint, flipping back through it.

"Light broken again?"

"Not broken. You have to cough."

She stopped on the step below him and switched her notebook to her left hand.

"That day at the appraisal institute, you said, 'He tested it anyway.'" She said, "How did you know he would test that one?"

He didn't answer immediately. The bulb overhead lit half his face pale; the other half stayed in shadow.

When he spoke, he only got out the first half: "The second one —"

Then nothing followed.

"The second what?"

"The matter of the second one — if I speak of it, I have to speak of all of it." He looked up. "The day the original takes the stand, I'll read it all aloud."

"What day?"

"I don't know."

Wind pushed through the stairwell, rustling the paper in his hand.

She tucked her notebook under her arm. "What you owe just got another sentence added."

He didn't argue.

"Chen Maolin's saving his words for the seventeenth too." She went down two steps, then turned back. "What do you think he'll lead with?"

"He'll start with the child," he said. "Money comes last."

[Thud. Some people save their words for later. The longer they hold them, the more they read like an IOU.]

The light went out. He coughed, and it came back on, pressing both their shadows into the concrete wall.