Chapter 357: The One Named Qin

The police station's holly hedges had been trimmed down to stubs, the freshly turned soil around their bases swept clean.

At eight in the morning on March 22, the roll-up shutter was raised to the top. He Xiufen turned from the stove and tossed back one line: "Take the main road." The two of them walked around from the Zhongshan Road end, twenty minutes to the district police station.

A young officer sat behind the duty room window, glancing up. "What is it."

"The night of March 18, the alley off Zhengping Noodle House. We filed a report." Lu Jibai said. "One question: was driving that car his own idea? Has that been established."

"The handling officer's out. Left on a call at seven-something, was carrying a box when he went."

"When's he back."

"Hard to say."

The long bench in the hallway could seat three; they took the end by the window. A man crouched on the steps outside, beside him an electric scooter seat that had been pried open, foam spilling out. Over at the window, an old woman with a plastic bag was asking, line by line, "What step is my grandson's matter at now," and the answer from inside was the same every time: go home and wait, we'll notify you if anything comes up.

The old woman passed in front of them. There were two tangerines in the plastic bag.

The crouching man was called in. He came out not long after, a slip of paper in his hand, stood in the courtyard holding it up to the light, folded it in two when he'd finished reading, tucked it into his chest pocket, then went back to his original spot and lit a cigarette.

She watched the whole thing. She didn't know what he'd been given, but he'd put it in the place closest to his heart.

"What's her grandson's matter." she said, voice low.

"I don't know." He rested his left hand on his knee, the edge of the gauze hidden under his cuff. "She doesn't know ours either."

She took out her notebook and wrote: March 22, 8 a.m., police station, asking for progress, handling officer out on call. She read it over when she'd finished. The line looked like bookkeeping for herself. She capped the pen.

At eleven, a man in plain clothes came through the courtyard gate, a hard binder under his arm. The young officer behind the window stood and called out. The man set the binder on the windowsill, turned, and looked them over.

"Yours," he said. "Come in with me."

That interview room—she'd sat in it once before, on March 19. This time the two of them went in together and sat on this side of the table. The officer opened the binder, pulled out a sheet of paper and slid it across, then fished a pen from the drawer.

"The appraisal's back. Read it through from the top, sign after 'Notified,' and put today's date."

Lu Jibai turned the paper toward himself.

The header read Notice of Appraisal Opinion. Under the subject column was his name. The appraisal institution: Jiangzhou Municipal Public Security Bureau Physical Evidence Appraisal Institute. The body was short: Upon appraisal, the left forearm injury; degree of injury: minor injury. After the boilerplate below, the last line read—If you object to this appraisal opinion, you may submit a written application for re-appraisal to this agency within three days of receiving this notice.

He read it twice. The second time he read slowly, his finger tracing under the line.

"This 'minor'—who decided that."

"The medical examiner."

"Based on what."

"The images, the medical records, your cut." The officer nudged the pen toward him. "We just deliver it."

"Is there anything below this box that's lighter."

The officer thought about it. "No. Minor injury is the bottom box."

"The bottom box is still an injury," she said.

The officer glanced at her and didn't respond. He tapped the paper with a fingernail. "Whether to request a re-appraisal—you've got three days, submit it in writing."

"No," Lu Jibai said.

"No," she echoed.

The officer handed over the pen. He signed, filled in the date following the officer's gesture, and slid the paper back. The officer checked it over; as he closed the binder he seemed to remember something.

"I'll tell you one thing you're allowed to hear." he said. "He's lawyered up."

"What lawyer." she asked.

"That's not my area."

"Was it his own idea—has that been established." Lu Jibai asked the question again.

"No."

"Is it that he hasn't been asked, or that he won't say."

"That I can't tell you." The officer tucked the binder under his arm and stood. "You're the victims. If there are developments, we'll inform you; the file, you don't get to see. Don't go looking on your own."

There was sun in the courtyard. The paper was in his hand, a corner flicked by the wind; he smoothed it flat.

"No re-appraisal," she said. "Have you thought it through."

"Requesting one means waiting. Every wait pushes the hearing date back."

"This page has only you, and 'minor.'" She took the paper and looked it over. "The driver isn't on it anywhere."

"This page isn't for pointing at people." He took the paper back from her and folded it in three. "It's for measuring this day."

As they left the gate she looked back at the old woman, still sitting in that row of plastic chairs beneath the window, two tangerines resting in her lap.

At five, the call came.

She set the phone in the middle of the table and put it on speaker.

"The March 18 matter." the officer said. "The one who gave the driver money was detained this afternoon."

Lu Jibai set down his pen. "When was he taken."

"Midday today."

"How was the money given."

"That, for now, I can't say."

"What did he admit to."

"That, also, I can't say."

She thought for a moment, then asked a different thing: "What about the MMS lead. The night of March 18, the man who first stood under the light at the alley entrance for eleven minutes."

Paper rustled on the other end. "The number's been extracted. Under investigation."

"Good," she said. "One more thing I want to confirm. He hired a lawyer—was it family who hired the lawyer for him, or someone else."

Two seconds of silence on the line. "That I can't answer."

After hanging up, she pressed off the speaker and opened her notebook to a fresh page. Wrote: March 22, 5 p.m., officer called; the one who gave the driver money has been detained. New line: Officer said he's lawyered up. After it, one more note: No name.

At five thirty, the stove downstairs was lit. She brought the notice down; He Xiufen took it by the stove, squinting at it from half a foot away.

"Minor injury."

"The bottom box."

"The bottom box is still a box." He Xiufen handed the paper back and went back to chopping scallions. "If it's written down, it means someone measured it. If anyone asks again how bad the injury was, you don't have to explain. Just show it."

"He's hired a lawyer."

The knife paused. "A driver like him, affording a lawyer." He Xiufen pushed the scallion pieces to the edge of the cutting board. "Whoever's thinking for him isn't thinking about him alone."

"We've thought this through far enough."

"Far enough means keep your hands off that side." He Xiufen ladled up a spoonful of soup and tasted it. "You want to ask which Qin, don't you."

She didn't answer.

"Even if you get the answer, you'd need somewhere to put it."

She texted Zhi'an: Come home for noodles tonight. The reply: I'll bring ribs.

After dinner, upstairs on the second floor, Lu Jibai took the third paper envelope from the top shelf of the metal cabinet. He smoothed the notice flat, folded it in half, slipped it inside, then pressed the envelope flat on the table and wrote: March 22, 11 a.m., police station interview room, officer handed over in person, Notice of Appraisal Opinion, one copy, injury degree minor injury, personally signed "Notified." He paused after writing, then added another line: Did not apply for re-appraisal.

"Why add that line." she asked.

"If anyone ever asks why we didn't, that line answers for him."

March 23, 5:20 p.m., the rain had just stopped, the windowsill still damp. She was upstairs flipping her old ledger back to the March 17 page when the phone rang.

"The one named Qin came in today. Criminal detention."

She set down her pen. "Which Qin."

A pause on the line.

"The President Qin from your statement."

"I wrote 'President Qin' in my statement." she said. "No name."

"We recorded what you said."

"When did he come in."

"A little after three this afternoon."

"Where."

"He wasn't arrested." the officer said. "He came on his own."

She looked up. Lu Jibai had already put down his pen and was watching the phone on the table.

"On his own." she repeated.

"I can't say more than that. I'm telling you so you know this step exists." The officer paused. "One more thing I'll say in advance: if there's anyone behind him, we go by evidence. Don't go looking on your own."

"Is there anyone behind him—can we ask." The words reached her lips, and then she thought of that person's office on the fourth floor, and swallowed them. This matter wasn't his, and her hand shouldn't reach toward it.

"Hello?"

"Nothing," she said. "Thank you."

After the call, rain dripped from the eaves onto the metal awning below, one drop at a time. She walked to the window. The dried-fruit shop at the alley entrance had its lights on; the owner was dragging a cardboard box through the doorway, two steps, then glancing back at the stretch ahead. She pushed the window open half an inch; she could hear water on the awning below.

She sat without moving.

"What I wrote in that column was 'unnamed.'" she said. "That day the officer asked me who I actually had in mind. I said that column can only hold what I heard."

"Today he came in."

"Was it my saying 'President Qin,' or someone else."

"They said 'the one named Qin.'" Lu Jibai laid his pen across the paper. "The Qin family has more than one person named Qin. They're not naming names—they're pointing at that line in our statement."

"I asked just now and they wouldn't answer. Does that mean I shouldn't ask again."

"Asking again won't get an answer." he said. "'The President Qin from your statement'—that line was left for us, and for the other side."

"What do you mean, for the other side."

"The other side will understand it."

She pressed her hand flat against the table. He got up, went to the metal cabinet, took out the third paper envelope, and spread it on the table; she pulled the fountain pen from the drawer, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to him.

The envelope was already dense with provenance: dates, who gave what, how it came into their hands. He set the nib below the last line and wrote, phrase by phrase: March 23, 5:20 p.m., officer called: the one named Qin came in today, criminal detention. Asked which Qin, officer answered "the President Qin from your statement." Noted separately: not arrested, came on his own.

He capped the pen and pushed the envelope to the middle of the table. The two of them looked at those lines.

"On his own," she said.

"Yeah."

"Someone told him it was time to come in."

He folded the envelope and put it back on the top shelf of the metal cabinet.

She opened her notebook and, below the line for "the driver," started a new line: March 23, 5:20 p.m., the one named Qin came in, criminal detention. She stopped after writing, the nib lifting off the page, leaving a gap after it.

None of the entries in this notebook had names: the one who gave the driver money, the driver, the one named Qin. But in front of these three entries, there were now dates.

[Thud. The "President Qin" on paper now has a date for coming in.]

[Thud. There are still boxes above. The boxes are empty.]

"That thing I said last time—do you remember it." he said.

She looked up.

"The one about putting your life on the line."

He slid the drawer shut; the metal clanked. Downstairs He Xiufen was collecting bowls, stacking them one by one. He didn't speak again.