Chapter 380: A Name Unspoken

April 20, 10 a.m. The exhaust fan on the second floor was off. The fryer downstairs had just gone quiet, and the smell of cooking oil still hung at the stairwell, refusing to disperse.

Shen Zhixia set down her cup and noticed two new things on the desk: a photocopy of the judgment, clipped together with a paper clip, and on top of it, a piece of paper torn from a sticky-note pad, the edge ragged where it hadn't ripped clean.

The note had one line: "Appeal period runs through the 23rd. I'll check with the Intermediate Court before close of business on the 23rd."

She picked it up and flipped it over. The back was blank. No fold in the corner, no signature, no date. The pad at the corner of the desk was missing its top sheet.

Across from her, Lu Jibai was assembling the first-instance case file: the judgment, the proof of service, the trial transcript. The hole punch sat within reach, white cotton thread trailing over the edge of the desk, tapping softly every few moments.

"I saw the note," she said.

"Mm." He didn't look up.

"Before close of business on the 23rd."

"Mm."

She put the note back where it had been, pinning one corner under the judgment photocopy. The window was open; the corner would curl.

"What time does the Intermediate Court close?"

"Five thirty." He threaded the string through the third hole. "The filing window's open until five thirty."

"Who did you ask?"

"The clerk's line."

She wrote it all in her notebook: April 23, before close of business, check with the Intermediate Court, five thirty. The page she'd marked with page numbers yesterday she'd verified twice. His handwriting pressed over the page number—strokes even, with a little flick back at the end of each line.

"Should I ask again tomorrow?"

"No need," he said. "We wait."

"Will they appeal?"

"Whether they do or not, we wait until the 23rd."

"Which way are you betting?"

"I'm not betting either way." He pulled the thread taut. "Whatever the paper says, we wait until the paper says it."

She pushed her notebook back to the corner of the desk and split the judgment photocopy into two sets: one went into the case file for archiving, the other into a clear document sleeve with a note taped to the front bearing Qinghe's address. She also pulled out the chart marked in pencil and laid it open beside her—the two deadlines in the operative part of the judgment, which she'd copied twice: one "thirty days," one "one hundred eighty days," both running from the effective date. She'd already worked out the dates: May 24 and October 21, but she didn't write them down.

"The effective date cell is still blank," she said.

"Leave it blank. Those dates get filled in after the certificate comes through."

At 10:40, Li Huilan came back from the window and set a property inquiry feedback sheet on the corner of her desk.

"Old Kan's case—the feedback came back." Li Huilan draped her jacket over the back of the chair. "Four accounts. Two empty, one with a balance of 196.80, and one payroll card—money in at the end of the month, out at the beginning."

"Any car?"

"Nothing in his name. He rents, and the landlord gave a rent receipt—untouchable."

"Attach the feedback to the file." Shen Zhixia opened the first page and went through the four account numbers one by one. "I'll draft a consumption restriction application. You can file it tomorrow."

"Got it." Li Huilan grabbed her cup for water, then paused at the door. "He called this morning and said he's not pressing."

"What did you tell him?"

"I said the paperwork's in motion." She pushed the door open a crack. "He said then he won't come by."

Li Huilan went downstairs, leaving the door ajar. Lu Jibai stood the finished file upright and tapped it twice on the desk corner—the pages lined up perfectly. He put it in the cabinet, closed the door halfway, then opened it again and moved it to a different spot.

At three in the afternoon, she was drafting the paperwork for Ge Xiaoyu's case. A checklist: power of attorney, father's ID copy, the child's household register, two blood lead reports, the previous Diagnosis Certificate, and the judgment from the Qingshi Village case. The last line she wrote as "certificate of effectiveness," but stopped at the word "certificate" and added "pending."

Her phone buzzed on the notebook.

"Attorney Shen." Chai Guizhi's voice came through, with a TV drama playing in the background. Two beats later, the TV went quiet. "Xiaoyu's follow-up is on the 22nd. You said three months."

"Right." She flipped to the Qingshi Village page in her notebook. The January 19 entry was still there: 206. "That's the date the hospital set last time."

"Morning or afternoon?"

"Morning. Get there by seven thirty—the blood draw window gets long in the morning."

"What do I bring?"

"The report from December, the one printed from the machine; bring the January one too; the Diagnosis Certificate the doctor gave last time; the child's household register and your ID; and the outpatient medical record."

Chai Guizhi repeated the list back slowly, then circled around: "Does he need to fast?"

"No. Make sure he eats a good breakfast, just not too greasy."

"Eat a good breakfast." She took it in. "He's squatting by the door, scratching the ground with a rock. I told him to come in and he won't."

"Let him squat."

"Attorney Shen, will you come that day?"

Someone downstairs shouted "extra egg," and the exhaust fan kicked on, then off. She spun the pen half a turn between her fingers and set it down.

"I won't be there. You take him."

"Can I manage by myself?"

"You can. Put your name on the registration, relationship: grandmother. If they ask about his parents, say they're working in Guangdong."

"What if they ask about other things?"

"Answer what they ask. Don't volunteer what they don't."

"When the report comes out?"

"Take a photo and send it to me. Keep the original—don't fold it."

"I'll keep it in a tin box."

"What if the number doesn't come down this time?" Chai Guizhi asked it very softly, then quickly added, "I'm not being pessimistic. I just don't have any confidence."

"If it doesn't come down, we keep treating. It's been in his body for over a decade. Three months won't settle that." She slowed her words. "Whatever the number is, send it to me first."

"I'll send it." Chai Guizhi agreed, then paused before moving on. "Our case—when do we file?"

"Wait for the certificate of effectiveness. The judgment takes effect on the 24th. Once I have the certificate, I'll file the complaint."

"Four more days."

"Four days."

"Will the court recognize the number on that report?"

"It will. What the court already recognized in the Qingshi Village case doesn't need to be proven again in yours."

The sound of chair legs scraping came through the line.

"Like a stamp in a passbook?"

"Something like that."

"Good." She seemed to let out a long breath. "I was just afraid they'd want to drag out those vials of Xiaoyu's blood again."

"No need to rehash it." Shen Zhixia gripped the pen again. "The blood drawn on the 22nd is to see if he's getting better, not to show anyone."

"There's something else important." Chai Guizhi remembered. "For Xiaoyu's complaint—can I just press a fingerprint?"

"No. The child's legal representative is his father. The power of attorney has to be signed by him, with his fingerprint next to his name, page by page."

"He's in Guangdong."

"Mail it. He signs, mails it back. Don't sign for him, and don't let anyone at the factory do it on his behalf."

"I'll remember that." She repeated it twice. "Sign it and mail it back."

"One more thing." Chai Guizhi thought of something else. "The two families who signed the settlement agreement came by again yesterday. They're asking if the court's ruling means their money gets returned or still counts."

"Tell them to come to the office themselves," she said. "Don't relay messages for them and don't vouch for them."

"I told them to go themselves. They said they're afraid to come upstairs."

"If they're afraid to come upstairs, then they can keep standing where they've been standing."

After hanging up, she recorded it on the Qingshi Village page: April 22, 7:30 a.m., Children's Hospital, follow-up. Below that: bring reports, diagnosis certificate, household register, ID, medical record; power of attorney pending father's signature.

[Thud. Ge Xiaoyu's case still missing three items: certificate of effectiveness, follow-up report, signed power of attorney.]

Across from her, the hole punch clicked once.

At 5:30, the roll-up shutter downstairs rattled shut, the exhaust fan started up, and conversations indoors had to be raised a notch. Li Huilan slung her bag over her shoulder, said "I'm off," and pulled the door closed.

Shen Zhixia still had the draft of Qinghe's supervision form spread out. It needed to be filed separately so it wouldn't get mixed into the judgment file. The bottom drawer of the metal cabinet had a jammed track; she crouched down to work it loose.

The office phone rang while her hands were still wet from rinsing her cup.

Lu Jibai picked it up.

"Zhengping Firm."

"Director Cai."

"How many?"

"Two."

"The one in the provincial capital, I know it." He flipped over a sheet of paper to use as a scratch pad and pulled out a pen. "The one here in the city—when did they do work for them?"

"Last year?"

"For the Baixi plant?"

"Understood. That one can't be settled yet."

She stayed crouched by the cabinet, her hand still on the drawer handle.

"Send the list over here first." He paused. "Who's the point person?"

Then he said, "Attorney Shen will handle it."

The pen stayed in his hand, not writing. She didn't stand up either.

"Which side the proposal goes to first—she'll make that call." He switched the receiver to the other ear. "Alright. Tomorrow morning."

He hung up, smoothed the paper flat, set down the pen, and only then turned to her. "Qinghe needs a remediation plan, done by a third party. Two names on the list: one in the provincial capital, one here in the city."

"What's the issue with the local one?"

"It did a round of environmental supervision for the Baixi plant last year. The bid was awarded by Hengyue itself."

"Then we can't use it."

"You can't just say we can't use it." He reached over and snipped off the loose thread. "You have to write out why. If the reason doesn't fit on one page, it might as well not exist."

She pulled her hand from the drawer handle and stood up, her knees slightly numb.

"I'll check its public tender notices, bid announcements, and acceptance signatures first thing tomorrow. And who signed off on that round of supervision."

"After you've checked, write one page and attach it to the front of the proposal." He stood the finished file upright on the desk corner. "The proposal goes to the Intermediate Court, and the defendant gets a copy too. The Board will be looking at the substance, not just the name."

"What if it pushes back on that page?"

"If it pushes back, it can bring paper of its own to argue."

She sat down and wrote those lines into her notebook: third-party remediation plan, two names on the list; the local firm did environmental supervision for Baixi plant last year—first check public notices and acceptance signatures, write one page to attach to the front of the plan.

At the end of the sentence, the pen tip hesitated on the paper, leaving a small blot of ink.

These past few days she'd heard him call her "Attorney Shen"—at the door, when handing over documents, always speaking directly to her. This time, it was to someone else.

She pressed the cap onto the pen with a click that sounded louder in this room than it should have.

Across from her, the man glanced up, then lowered his head again.