Chapter 365: Seven People

April 6, 7:50 a.m. The iron gate at the Intermediate People's Court had opened only halfway; the plastic bins beside the security scanner were already stacked high.

Cai Qingru was the first to put her bag on the conveyor belt. Dark gray coat, collar buttoned neat, that black bag stiff enough to stand upright on its own. She placed her ID card and document envelopes into a bin one by one, stepped back half a pace to wait, eyes fixed on the black mouth of the machine as if counting items.

"Take out your water bottle," the guard said. "Run the bag through again."

She pulled a thermos from the side pocket, unscrewed the cap and took a sip, poured the rest into the nearby sink, wiped it dry inside and out, then placed it back in the bin.

Chai Guizhi followed behind her, clutching a gray cloth bundle pinned shut at the opening with a safety pin. She'd come up to the city with Cai Qingru yesterday afternoon, stayed in the room next door, had a rough night—"the bed's too soft, I woke every time I turned over." She held the bundle tight now, and as she passed through security her hand clenched at the corner of her apron, then let go.

"Auntie Chai, put the bag in the bin," Shen Zhixia said.

The old woman studied the archway, set the cloth bundle in a bin, walked through the scanner—it didn't beep. She came back and touched her bundle first, then looked up. "So I'm inside now?"

"You are."

Lu Jibai went through last. He emptied his pockets one item at a time—phone, keys, pen. The scab on his left forearm had lifted at one corner, showing a patch of new skin; his sleeve was rolled to just below the elbow and he didn't pull it down. The guard flipped through his lawyer's certificate, handed it back. He said thanks, tucked each thing back into his pockets—the pen first.

The door to Courtroom No. 1 wouldn't open until 8:40. At the end of the corridor, someone already sat on the bench: baseball cap pulled low, gray work clothes, sleeves rolled high. A bailiff walked over and tapped the wall. "Witnesses wait out here. Don't enter the courtroom. Go in when your name is called."

The man looked up once, then lowered his head again.

At nine sharp, the clerk finished reading court decorum. The side door opened, and seven people entered: three in judicial robes took the center seats, four People's Jurors sat to either side. Someone was still adjusting a chair; only when it was settled did they all sit together.

The Presiding Judge sat at the very center, his chair an inch taller. Judge Luo. Same pace as the pretrial meeting—he said a sentence and stopped, not one extra word.

"The Jiangzhou Intermediate People's Court is now in open session to hear the environmental pollution liability dispute between the plaintiff, Jiangzhou Qinghe Environmental Public Welfare Service Center, and the defendant, Jiangzhou Hengyue New Materials Co., Ltd. The collegial panel consists of Presiding Judge Luo, two associate judges, and four People's Jurors."

When the clerk read the plaintiff's agent's name, a stir went through the gallery. Chai Guizhi half rose from her seat before the Qinghe volunteer beside her pressed her back down.

"Plaintiff's litigation agent, defendant's agent, supporting prosecutor—verify identities."

Names were confirmed in turn. Two people sat with Prosecutor Qi—one reading documents, one taking notes.

"Recusal rights have been notified in writing. Does either party have an application?"

"No."

"No."

The gavel came down once.

[Thud. Seven people. Four of them never studied law.]

At 9:20 she stood and smoothed the first two pages of the complaint flat.

"The plaintiff has six litigation claims," she said. "First: order the defendant to immediately cease discharging lead-contaminated wastewater through its stormwater outlet beyond the plant boundary..."

When she reached the third claim, she changed her wording: interim loss of ecosystem service function, 460,000 yuan—that ditch, from the day the readings exceeded standards to the day it's restored to what it was, the village lost things: water couldn't irrigate fields, vegetables couldn't be eaten, children played in that dirt on the schoolyard.

She paused there, stopped reading numbers, finished the remaining three claims, sat down.

Judge Luo asked, "Facts and grounds—consistent with the complaint?"

"Consistent. One addition: this case does not involve any child's name. The children's circumstances are in the preliminary evidence materials, anonymized."

"Entered into the record."

Han Chongli stood. Gray suit, hair combed smooth. He took off his glasses first and held them in his hand.

"The defendant responds on five points." He spoke slowly. "One: the plaintiff lacks standing to sue. Two: the defendant's production wastewater is fully recycled, zero discharge, and the stormwater outlet carries only rainwater. Three: the children's elevated blood lead levels have other causes, with no causal link to the defendant. Four: the appraisal methodology is flawed—particularly the isotope section—and the defendant has applied for the appraiser to appear in court and has also retained an expert. Five: the restoration cost of 3.12 million yuan is excessive and disproportionate to the scope of contamination."

He put his glasses back on. "The defendant reserves all cross-examination opinions."

Prosecutor Qi read the prosecutorial support opinion, cleanly: this case involves rural ecological environment and minors' health; the procuratorate supports the lawsuit in accordance with law, has obtained materials from the ecology and environment department, and will present them in court.

When she finished, she stopped, sat, squared the materials, and placed them at the corner of the table.

Ten o'clock. Evidence presentation and cross-examination.

The first group: the evidence preservation notarization and the on-site preservation footage. Hu Yongnian wasn't present; the signature on the notarial certificate was his. Judge Luo read one line aloud—"I record only what I saw; I make no judgments"—then asked the defendant if it had any objection.

Han Chongli said, "No objection to form. As to content: the notary wrote what he saw, not the matter itself."

"Entered into the record."

The second group was that night.

The clerk pulled down the projection screen; two rows of lights went dark. On the screen, first black, then a grainy haze of noise, then one corner of the frame brightened—the window ledge outside the room, the security bars, a patch of patched cement on the wall.

The timestamp jumped to 2:38.

A flashlight beam swept in from the left side of the frame, grazed the edge of the sill, reached the bars and stopped, trembled once, pressed lower. The footage didn't show how the two iron bars got bent—only a sliver of shadow moving past the outside of the bars, slow, and then the light withdrew.

The screen went black again. A juror in the front row, gray jacket, leaned forward.

The second segment was the body camera. 3:25 a.m. An officer's flashlight, feet, rear window. The bars bent outward, half a muddy print on the sill. Someone spoke in the recording—"stop filming"—voice muffled through the door frame.

The third segment was the camera on the village road. 2:58 a.m., at a corner of the frame a pair of taillights lit up, getting smaller and smaller, turning off at the intersection and vanishing. Before the lights went out, a patch of road was lit white.

The fourth segment was the temperature logger data, projected as a chart: the box opened at 2:47, closed at 2:56.

Judge Luo said, "Group A handover records—the clerk will read them."

18:40, loading, two signatures. 21:40, entry into the evidence room, two signatures. The Ningchuan handover form, the receiving-signature line with no blank space left.

Han Chongli stood.

"Presiding Judge, the defendant has no objection to the authenticity of these recordings," he said. "But I ask the seven of you to see clearly: in these recordings there is no defendant's person, no defendant's vehicle, nothing belonging to the defendant. Who entered that room in the night—the police are investigating, and the defendant is also waiting for the result."

He paused. "What this group of evidence seeks to prove is that someone switched the samples. And in the switching of samples, the defendant is the victim—the samples from the plant were switched, and the defendant's reputation suffered with them. Please enter that into the record."

In the front row of the gallery, Chai Guizhi's hand twisted at the cloth wrapped around her apron.

[Thud. He took that night and put it on his own ledger too.]

"Entered into the record," Judge Luo said. Not one extra word, not one fewer.

Song Qiming followed up on Group A's three-hour window: from the village committee to the Intermediate Court, how long on the road, where the rest of the time went, who was watching. Lu Jibai answered exactly the points he'd given at the pretrial meeting, not one word added. Song Qiming sat when he finished, no follow-up.

Half a minute later he stood again. "Plaintiff, one question about something in writing. Page two of the complaint says 'long-term.' How long is long-term? Starting what day?"

She stood and opened her copy. "We have the penalty documents from September 2025—lead exceeding standards in water discharged through the stormwater outlet. Anything before that, we have no paperwork. The stuff in the ditch tested over the limit; what day it started exceeding, I can't answer."

"Can't answer? Or won't?"

"Can't answer." She said, "There's no page in the paperwork for it. I won't invent one."

Judge Luo said, "Entered into the record. The plaintiff has no specific start date for that item."

Across from her, Han Chongli capped his pen—quietly.

At 10:40, Appraiser Rui entered.

Around fifty, short hair, dark gray coat, a stack of papers held square in his hand. He walked to the witness seat, fished his glasses from his pocket and put them on first, then sat.

Judge Luo said, "Appraiser, please state your identity, professional qualifications, and whether you have any interest in either party."

He gave his name, institution, and practice certificate number one by one, and the last line: "I have no interest in either party."

"Please state the appraisal process and your opinions."

He didn't speak fast; one sentence at a time. Nine sampling points: ditch sediment, farmland along the ditch, soil from the village primary school playground, ditch water. Lead and cadmium in the soil exceeded the screening values under the national soil pollution risk control standards; lead in the ditch water exceeded surface water standards. The remediation plan was calculated at 180 days, costs of 3.12 million yuan, interim losses of 460,000 yuan. On Group B he said only one thing: that set of samples was not tested; the report says so.

"Please explain the isotope section," Judge Luo said.

"Lead has four stable isotopes. Lead from different sources has different ratios—like fingerprints." He held up a chart; the projection switched to a scatter plot. "The sediment outside the plant's stormwater outlet falls in this region. The sediment from the Huishui Ditch and the farmland soil along the ditch fall in the same region. The control point on the other side of the hill falls in a different region."

"Can you rule out other sources?" Han Chongli stood and asked, very lightly.

"What I can say is: the lead in these three locations shows consistent ratios. The control point on the other side of the hill does not."

"I asked whether you can rule them out."

"I can't rule them out." He said, "Scientifically I can only speak to consistency and inconsistency. How many other plants in the world use the same batch of ore, I don't know—I haven't tested them."

Han Chongli nodded and repeated the sentence verbatim for the clerk: "Please record: the appraiser concedes he cannot rule out other sources."

"Entered into the record."

Song Qiming followed: "The playground point—was that topsoil? How many centimeters?"

"Zero to twenty centimeters."

"Is that the layer children play on?"

"That's the layer people move around in."

"And below?"

"I sampled below too. Different depths, different concentrations—it's in the report's schedule." He turned the page and pointed to a line. "The deeper, the lower."

Judge Luo turned toward the jury seats: "Jurors with questions of fact may ask."

The woman in cloth shoes closed the notebook on her knee and looked up; her voice trembled a little. "One question—the children playing on that playground, dirt on their hands, touching their mouths—does that mean they eat this stuff too?"

Appraiser Rui looked at her and answered slowly: "The soil on that playground exceeds the screening value. That was tested. Hand-to-mouth contact in children is one exposure pathway; that I can state clearly. How much was ingested, how much stayed in the body—I can't calculate that. That requires separate testing."

The woman nodded, wrote in her notebook, then looked up once more at the scatter plot on the screen before setting her pen down.

"Does the plaintiff have questions?" Judge Luo said.

She stood, turned her outline to page three, then closed it and asked only one question: "For the ditch water flowing from upstream to the playground section—is the lead in the playground soil higher or lower than upstream?"

"Higher," Appraiser Rui said. "In the farmland along the ditch, the further downstream, the higher. That matches the flow direction of the ditch water."

When she sat, her palms were soaked. Lu Jibai slid a piece of paper to her hand; it said: Enough.

Han Chongli asked further about the remediation plan: of the 3.12 million, how much for excavation, how much for transport, how much for disposal; was 180 days sufficient; why the defendant should front the costs first. Appraiser Rui answered item by item; where he couldn't answer, he said "that falls within the plan-drafting unit's scope; I'm only responsible for the technical content of the plan."

At 12:20, Judge Luo checked his watch.

"We'll continue at two this afternoon. The expert assistant will appear; the appraiser is still required to return and respond. The defendant's witness Wu Zhiqiang will wait outside the courtroom. Court is in recess for lunch."

The gavel came down once. The seven people rose and exited through the side door.

The corridor emptied slowly. Chai Guizhi made it to the door, supported by a volunteer, took two steps and stopped, looked up at her: "Those flashlight beams, car lights—I didn't understand any of it. I only understood one thing—he said they're victims too."

"It's in the record."

"And what good does that do?"

"When it's decided, all seven of them have to read it."

The old woman clutched the cloth bundle a little tighter and asked nothing more.

Ma Jianjun came out from the last row of the gallery, helmet in hand, the blue strap wrapped twice around his forearm. He took a couple of steps, bounced the helmet against his knee, then remembered he was standing.

"Lawyer Shen." His voice was hoarse; he cleared his throat before finishing. "I've got to make deliveries this afternoon. The midday run's the market crowd coming back—can't get out of it."

He glanced at the time on his phone, raised the helmet to his chest, both hands on it. "I'll be outside, waiting to hear you win."