Chapter 355: The Victim Column

March 19, 9:20 a.m. On the steps outside the police station, Shen Zhixia counted through everything one more time: one page of outpatient medical records, the MMS on her phone, and Lu Jibai's left forearm wrapped in gauze.

"Sleep at all?"

"Three hours." He tugged his sleeve down; the edge of the gauze stuck out. "Today, answer what they ask. Don't fill in for me."

"That line was supposed to be mine."

At 9:30, the older officer from the night before led them down the corridor. The younger one was there too, two notebooks tucked under his arm, the red light on his chest-mounted law enforcement recorder glowing.

"You two are being interviewed separately," the older one said. "One in here, one upstairs."

"Why separate?"

"Same story, two people in one room—by the third sentence you start looking at each other." He poured water into two paper cups. "You don't need to coordinate. You both said what needed saying last night."

She glanced at Lu Jibai.

"I'll stay next to her," he said.

"No," the officer said. "One person per room."

"I've sat on that side before," she said.

The officer looked up at her. "Then you should know the rules even better."

"I do."

On the bench against the corridor wall sat an old woman, a plastic bag clutched to her chest, both hands pressed flat over the opening. As Shen Zhixia walked past, the woman glanced up, then lowered her head and squeezed the bag tighter. She'd been in places like this countless times over the years—just never through this half of the door.

The interview room was at the end of the corridor, a blue sign on the door. Inside: a table, two chairs, a computer, and a camera in the corner with a red dot. The table rose a notch above the chairs. On the desk surface near her side was a ring-shaped tea stain—scrubbed at, but not gone.

The officer turned the screen toward her. A printed first page of the statement was pushed in front of her: name, sex, date of birth, address, phone—all filled in, box by box. Below that was a line for status.

That box was already typed in: Victim.

She stared at it for a moment.

"That's how this box reads," the officer said. "You're not here today as a lawyer."

"I know."

"Sign below it."

The pen was one of those chained to the desk, its barrel wrapped twice in tape. She wrote her name in the box.

[Thud. That box says "Victim."]

"March 17, 2 p.m. Did someone come to your office?"

"Yes. Chen. Chen Maolin."

"What for?"

"He said Hengyue Group had authorized him to discuss a settlement in the Qingshi Village case. He brought a one-page Settlement Intent—no signature, no seal. It said fifty thousand per household for the six families, the company would arrange medical exams, the plaintiffs would withdraw the suit, and no party would make public statements."

"Where's that page now?"

"He took it back. He said an unsigned piece of paper was useless to leave behind."

"You kept no copy."

"Not of that page. We kept a one-page interview record, written that day, signed by all three of us—his exact words."

"Can you turn that in today?"

"I'll bring a copy this afternoon. We keep the original ourselves."

"Why keep it?"

"Something with three signatures on it—you keep a copy in your own hands. You need one, I'll bring you an identical copy, and the receipt sheet will note it clearly."

The officer wrote that down, looked up, and said, "Fine. Bring it this afternoon. I'll write you a receipt."

"He left with a message."

"Left with one?"

"Left with one."

"Go on."

"He got to the stairwell, turned back, and said, 'One more thing—from President Qin.'"

"Then?"

"'President Qin says: don't walk the night roads too often.'"

The officer finished writing and held the pen still on the page: "That's all."

"That's all. The voice he used for that sentence—same as when he said fifty thousand, same as when he said 'I'm saving everyone the trouble.'"

"Who is President Qin?"

"He said 'President Qin.'"

"You didn't ask."

"I didn't ask. He didn't say."

"Who do you think it was?"

She pressed a finger against the edge of the desk. "What I think doesn't go in that box. That box only holds what I heard."

The officer watched her for a moment, then wrote a few more characters and read them back to her: "The subject relayed the message 'President Qin says: don't walk the night roads too often'—unnamed."

"Correct."

"Anything else that might establish who this 'President Qin' is?"

"There's a case. The company behind the defendant—Hengyue. Among the people in charge, there's a Qin."

"What case?"

"Jiangzhou Hengyue New Materials Co., Ltd., Baixi plant. Environmental civil public interest litigation. We represent the plaintiffs."

The officer checked the company name character by character, wrote it down, and tapped the pen twice on the page. "That case—do you think it's connected to the vehicle last night?"

"What I think doesn't go in that box," she said. "Everything I heard and saw, I'll say. What I suspect—don't write it down."

"Then tell me what you saw."

"The car was dark gray, looked black under that streetlight at the alley mouth. Only one person visible—the driver. Mask pulled up over the bridge of his nose. He didn't get out. One sentence: 'File another lawsuit, and next time I won't hit the brake.' Male, voice low but shouted, didn't sound drunk. He came into the alley with the accelerator down, didn't let off even when he reached us—only braked hard after passing ten meters or so. Exited the alley turning right, headed east on Zhongshan Road."

"From the alley mouth to where you stood—how long?"

"Under a second. I heard it before I looked up."

"The MMS on your phone."

"Received at 10:05 p.m. Unknown number, no text, just a photo. I didn't delete it and didn't forward it."

The officer took her phone, connected it, and screenshotted. He read the number back to her and had her verify it start to finish before writing it into the notebook. "Don't delete this."

"The original is on my phone. I won't touch it."

"May I ask a few things?" She pushed her water cup aside slightly.

"Ask."

"Once it's filed—will we be updated on progress?"

"You can ask. We'll answer. You're the victim."

"The security footage from the dried-fruit shop at the alley mouth."

"Recorded it last night with the body camera, went back this morning to verify the timestamp. The original's in their machine. We'll keep a backup."

"One more thing. The car."

"We're working on it."

"His arm. When does the injury assessment happen?"

"The public security bureau will schedule it and notify him." The officer set the pen down. "Don't go have a private one done on your own. Two reports that don't match—nothing but trouble down the line."

"Understood."

"Anything to add?"

"One thing." She pulled the duplicate page from her bag. "March 17, that interview record. I'll bring the copy this afternoon. It has three names on it. Mine's one of them."

At 11:00, the printed statement came out, spread page by page across the desk. She read every page from top to bottom.

On page two, she stopped. "This says the report time was 9:40 p.m."

"What you said earlier was—"

"9:38. I have the call log on my phone. 110. Dialed at 9:38 p.m."

The officer took her phone and checked, flipped through his notebook, then went back and corrected the entry in the computer and reprinted that page. "Press your fingerprint next to the correction, and write beside it: 'verified and corrected upon review.'"

She did as instructed. The fingerprint landed next to the corrected line, red and slightly askew.

At the bottom of the last page were two blank lines. She copied the line character by character—"I have read the above statement and it matches what I said"—wrote it out, and signed her name.

As the pen moved across the paper, she thought of another interview room, the night of September 19 last year. Zhi'an sat across the table, three scratch marks on the back of his hand, gripping the pen so hard his name came out bigger than usual. She'd sat beside him all night—present, not asking questions. The first rule He Xiufen had set over the phone: tonight, just be his sister. That whole night, one sentence had churned in her chest—there's nothing I can do for him. The stroke she set down on paper for herself today was the same thing as that night: your name, only you can write it. Everyone else can only watch.

She put the pen back on the table. The chain cord bounced once against the desk.

11:40, the corridor. Lu Jibai sat on the bench under the window, his bandaged left hand resting on his knee, a bottle of water—cap already off—in his right hand. When he saw her come out, he passed her the water.

"Done."

"Done. An hour and a half in your room."

"They started with how the arm happened." He pressed a hand to the gauze. "The outpatient record copy's been submitted. They asked for the original. I said I'm keeping it."

"How did they write down what you said?"

"Exactly the narrow version you said—'the individual stated President Qin said: don't walk the night roads too often—unnamed.'"

"Not a word added."

"Not a word." He looked at the red fingerprint on her hand. "What did you correct?"

"The report time. Their paper said 9:40."

"Your phone says 9:38."

"Right."

Someone came down from upstairs clutching a file folder. Just then, a WeChat message from Li Huilan came in: Finished? She replied: Finished. Half a minute later came the response: Eat something warm at noon.

4 p.m., the duty room. The officer pulled two identical documents from a drawer and slid one to her, one to Lu Jibai.

Notice of Case Filing. She read top to bottom: reporting time, report contents, and below, a line stating that upon review the matter met the conditions for filing and an investigation had been opened. The cause of action box read: suspected picking quarrels and provoking trouble. Date: March 19. In the lower right, the branch bureau's seal.

"Case filed," the officer said. "The case you reported—it has a case number now."

"The cause of action is worded that way."

"That's how it's worded."

She didn't ask further. She was a lawyer. She knew how far this page could be questioned—and where to stop.

"Injury assessment."

"Wait for the notice. We'll call him when it's scheduled."

"The car."

"Still working on it."

She folded her copy in half and put it in her bag. Lu Jibai held his, unfolded.

[Thud. The case has a name now. The car still doesn't.]

Out the station gate, the sun sat low in the west. Wind came down the street and lifted a scrap of paper against the base of the wall, then pressed it flat again.

"I'm a party to a case now," she said.

"Victim," he corrected.

"Victim." She rolled the word around in her mouth. "Saying it, you have to open your mouth a little first."

"There's one upside." He held his page up to the light. "You don't have to think about the other side's next move."

7 p.m., the noodle shop. The stool at the door had been moved inside; the roll-up shutter was open to the top; the stove still burned—no more cooking after 8:30.

Two bowls of noodles arrived. She reached for the vinegar bottle; He Xiufen pressed her hand down. "Sip the broth first."

"Director He, starting today you don't cook past 8:30."

"What I said, I remember." He Xiufen straightened the chopsticks. "What time did they question you?"

"9:30 to 11:40."

"They asked about that sentence."

"They did. I only said what I heard. I didn't fill in the name for him. He asked 'Who is President Qin?' I said he said 'President Qin.'"

"Good." He Xiufen said, "Words stand firm only when kept narrow. Some characters weigh more written than spoken." A pause. "This afternoon?"

"Notice of Case Filing, one copy each. Suspected picking quarrels and provoking trouble." She patted her bag. "Injury assessment—awaiting notice. The car—still under investigation."

He Xiufen dusted flour off her apron but didn't follow up.

"Starting tonight, neither of you walks that alley alone."

"Director He—"

"Three options. Pick one." He Xiufen wiped her hands on her apron. "Either walk together; or take the main road, come around from Zhongshan Road; or call me—I'll be upstairs with the light on, waiting."

"You shut the shutter at nine."

"The shutter closes for anyone outside." He Xiufen said. "I'm upstairs."

Lu Jibai pushed his bowl aside slightly. "Fine."

"Long as you say so." He Xiufen glanced at his arm. "Dressing change every three days. Tomorrow's the day."

"Tomorrow."

After the noodles, the two of them went up to the second floor. The light came on; the stack of paper envelopes by the metal cabinet was still there. Lu Jibai took out the third one from another compartment and set it on the long table.

The cover of the envelope had originally noted the source of the March 17 page. He opened the Notice of Case Filing, smoothed it flat, folded it twice, and slid it in. Uncapped his pen.

"March 19, 4 p.m. Precinct police station. Handed over in person. One copy each." He wrote a line, read a line. "Cause of action: suspected picking quarrels and provoking trouble. Attached: one copy of the March 17 interview record, delivered that afternoon, one signed receipt; one page of March 18 outpatient records, copy submitted to police."

She stood across the table watching him write. The characters pressed deep; his right hand moved steadily, his left rested on the table edge the whole time, never touching the paper.

When he finished, he capped the pen. "This envelope doesn't go in the Qingshi Village stack."

"Why not?"

"The Qingshi Village stack goes to the court." He stood the envelope upright against the metal cabinet. "This one can't be submitted. Put it in with the rest, and the other side has a line waiting in court: the plaintiff's lawyer is trading the hit she took for that ditch."

She read the writing on the envelope from start to finish, down to the last date line.

"Then where does it go?"

"With us." He pulled the cabinet door open and pushed the envelope to the back. "Whoever remembers, carries it."

She reached over and turned off the light. In the hallway, the sound-activated light came on by itself.