Chapter 382: Day 15

She wrote the caption of the complaint three times.

The first time she wrote "Ge Xiaoyu" as "Ge Xiaoyu" with the wrong character, crossed it out. The second time she left the cause-of-action line blank and only noticed when she reached the third line. The third time she got as far as "residing at Qingshi Village, Chengxi, Jiangzhou City," and the pen tip stopped dead on the paper, leaving a blot of ink.

She lifted the pen and let the spot dry on its own.

Outside the window, the plane trees along Old Town District still hadn't fully leafed out. Two quilts hung drying downstairs; when the wind passed, they puffed up, then sagged again.

At ten-twenty, Li Huilan came through from between the two desks carrying a thermos. Coming back, she stopped beside her.

"What are you putting down for the cause of action."

"Right to Health." She pushed the paper over a little. "In more specific terms, personal injury. I'm going by what's written on that form at the window."

"Either one works." Li Huilan set the thermos on the floor and bent over to look. "That clerk who returned your materials last time—what did he say?"

"One character off and it gets rejected."

"Then don't be off by a single character." Li Huilan turned the paper back around, her fingertip landing on the facts paragraph. "In this paragraph you can't just write that the plant had discharges. What the public-interest case already found doesn't need to be re-proven in the private suit—that line is true in a legal brief, but at the filing window they don't accept it. Bring the judgment with you. Know which page says what, yourself, before you go."

"I'm bringing it."

"What about the certificate of effectiveness."

"Haven't gotten it yet."

"Then don't file yet." Li Huilan straightened up. "Filing and getting it bounced back hurts worse than waiting three more days."

She wrote these two sentences down underneath the Qingshi Village page: Submit the judgment together with the complaint; do not file without the certificate of effectiveness.

She filled in the claims one by one. Examination and treatment costs already paid, calculated from the receipts; round-trip bus fare to the hospital, per the tickets; for the nursing column, the days Grandma had accompanied her to the hospital, she wrote it as it was; for nutrition costs she put down one figure first, looked at last time's receipts, then changed it. For future treatment she didn't fix a number, adding a separate sentence: "To be claimed separately after actually incurred"—the child was eight; the doctor said to re-test in six months, and there was still a long way to go. The last item: litigation costs to be borne by the defendant.

When she reached the defendant column, the pen stopped again.

The defendant was Jiangzhou Hengyue New Materials Co., Ltd. Below the company name came the line for registered address, and below that she had to write the production and business premises—Baixi Village East Hill. She sat over those lines for a long moment, and finally wrote in "Baixi Village," the characters slightly smaller than the ones beside them.

The legal representative line she left blank for now, to fill in once she'd pulled together the complete public filings for the company. If she got it wrong, the window would bounce it back, and then there'd be no telling whether it was her mistake or the paper's.

At eleven, someone downstairs called out about a delivery. She went down to sign, signing on the line after Li Huilan's, writing her full name, dating it April 23. The envelope was mailed from Guangdong, one corner crushed flat.

Inside was one Power of Attorney, two pages. On the last page Ge Changlin's signature was written very slowly, the horizontal stroke on top of the "Ge" character pressed over twice; after the name he'd pressed a fingerprint, inside the box, not over any line. The envelope also held half a sheet of paper that had form lines printed on one side. On the back, two lines in pencil:

"The kid's matters, listen to the lawyer. The plant hasn't come looking for me these last two months."

She tucked this half page behind the Qingshi Village page. The follow-up test report was already there: 147, to be re-checked in six months; the 206 from last time was copied above it. She carried the power of attorney back upstairs, pressed it into the bag opening, then pulled it out again to look at the signature once before putting it back.

[Thud. Ge Xiaoyu's case: follow-up report received, power of attorney signed and back. Still short one certificate of effectiveness.]

At noon, He Xiufen came upstairs with a bowl of noodles, set it on the corner of her desk, said nothing, and went back down. She picked the cilantro off the top onto the bowl lid and ate most of it.

At two-forty, Qinghe.

The old air conditioner in that office thrummed without cooling. Cai Qingru was sitting with two price quotes spread out on the desk. When she saw her come in, she pushed the papers aside first.

"Just you?"

"Lawyer Lu's at the firm." She handed over the page. "This is the one page on the contractor we can't use."

Cai Qingru read slowly. Three lines: what date the tender notice was published, who the tendering party was, who signed the acceptance-inspection column. When she reached the "acceptance inspection" line, she slid the paper closer and leaned in.

"This company did supervision for the Baixi plant last year."

"That's right."

"Who put out the tender."

"Hengyue themselves. The notice was posted on their procurement platform, last September."

"Who signed the acceptance column."

"Someone from the plant. Full name, position listed as technician."

Cai Qingru set the paper down and tapped the desk with one finger.

"This one's out," she said. "It's not that I don't trust their people. It's that I won't let anyone say: the repair work was done by us, the inspection was done by them, and the one doing the looking is the same as the one being looked at."

"That line is written on this page."

"Whose name does it carry."

"The firm's. The opinion is ours."

Cai Qingru gave her a look. "You signing it?"

"I'm signing it."

"And if something goes wrong."

"Then I own it." She said it flatly. "This page goes in front of the remediation plan, filed with the Intermediate Court. The defendant gets a copy too."

"What if they pick it apart."

"Let them pick it apart." She said, "Which year the tender went out, who ran it, who signed acceptance—it's all up on the public registry. Can't be pulled down."

Cai Qingru drew a pen from the holder, turned the paper back over, and added a date beside the top line, the pen tip lingering on the paper a beat before she set it down.

"What about the other one."

"The firm in the provincial capital—their quote hasn't arrived. The center has to issue the commission first, and we need to confirm whether they're taking work this year and when they can send someone."

"Confirm before you sign." Cai Qingru stacked the two quotes. "I can't have someone come all the way here and then turn around and tell people we don't have the money."

She pushed the papers to the middle of the desk, then remembered something else.

"After the repair's done, who writes the report."

"The contractor writes it, the third party inspects, we check whether those technical lines are written correctly."

"And if you can't verify them."

"Then I don't sign," she said. "If we don't sign, that section doesn't count as written."

Cai Qingru nodded, then suddenly said, "This page, I'm not signing it. The moment I sign, the center becomes the one endorsing that opinion. That's not mine to sign."

"I know." She slipped the page into the document envelope. "Next time it goes to the Intermediate Court, I'll bring you the receipt."

"I don't want the receipt." Cai Qingru said. "What I want is that line: how many were replanted in this spot, and are they alive."

When she came out, the repair stall downstairs was pumping air into an electric scooter, the compressor thumping in uneven bursts.

At six she was back at the firm. The hallway light was off; the second-floor door stood half open. Li Huilan's desk lamp was on, and several pages of Old Kan's matter were spread across her desk.

"You're back," Li Huilan said. "He made a phone call at five."

"To who."

"The Intermediate Court. The clerk's number." Li Huilan folded the pages together. "Asking whether anyone had filed a notice of appeal before close of business today. They said no. He asked one more thing about the postmark. They said for mailed filings, the postmark governs. He said he'd check again next week."

"Where is he."

"He went downstairs after the call." Li Huilan said. "The paper on your desk—he left it."

A sticky note sat on her desk, torn from a notepad, pinned under her pen holder. Two lines:

Appeal period expires today. No notice of appeal filed. Mailed filings governed by postmark; re-check next week. Lu

She paused when she read that "Lu" character. The horizontal strokes were written evenly, the finishing stroke pulling back a little, the final sweeping stroke rising from underneath. She'd recognized his hand once before, on the borrowing register in the court's case-file reading room.

She sat down, folded the note in half, and tucked it into the mouth of the Qingshi Village envelope. The paper envelope had long since swollen past closing; the papers inside pushed out against the opening, and when she shoved them back in, they sprang out again a little.

She pressed the opening down. Pressed twice. It wouldn't stay flat.

She added a line to that page in her notebook: April 23. No notice of appeal. Wait for next week.

[Thud. Appeal period, Day 15, expires today.]

At six-twenty she went downstairs. The roll-up shutter was still up, the exhaust fan running. At the table by the door sat Lu Jibai, his bowl already empty, the papers he'd brought back that afternoon resting by his hand.

She switched the document envelope to her left hand.

"Lawyer Shen." He gathered the papers to one side. "The paper's on your desk."

"Seen it."

"Check again next week." He said. "Check through the end of the month. A postmark dated before the twenty-third could still arrive a few days late."

"And if it arrives before month's end."

"Then we report it to the court. This trial isn't over then, and the appeal fee gets calculated separately." He nudged his bowl farther in. "If the paper hasn't arrived, it hasn't arrived. Nothing anyone says changes that."

"When you confirm, tell me."

"Written on paper."

She nodded and headed for the door. He Xiufen, at the stove, didn't turn around. "Still half a pot of noodles."

"I'll eat at home."

"Then I'll save it and cook it for you tomorrow morning."

The wind outside was cooler than it had been by day. Fresh dust lay on the steps.

At seven-twenty she was home. Zhi'an was in the kitchen, the pot lid rattling.

"Sis, sit down first." He came out carrying two bowls, pushed one toward her, sat down. "The appeal period's up today, right?"

"Today."

"So it takes effect tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." She picked up a mouthful of noodles with her chopsticks. "Before the notice comes, don't say a word to anyone."

"Who would I tell?" He ate a few bites with his head down, then suddenly stopped. "So the Qingshi Village case—that's a win?"

"Half a win."

"And the other half?"

"The other half is in their hands. The ditch has to be fixed, money has to be paid, and the people doing the inspection have to go out with the forms and check." She pushed a short piece of scallion to the rim of her bowl. "On the twenty-fourth I'll apply for the certificate of effectiveness."

Zhi'an didn't ask more. When they finished, he took both bowls and went into the kitchen to wash, the sound of water running for a while. When he was done, he stuck his head out. "Sis, what time do you leave tomorrow morning?"

"I'll make a call first and ask."

"Then I'll start the congee."

"You don't need to get up that early."

"I can get up." He wiped his hands on his pants, went back to his room, and didn't latch the door all the way.

At nine, the stack of volumes was still on the table. She dragged her chair half a foot closer, moved the top few aside, and found Volume Eight—the spine read March to June 2017, the characters in her father's hand, crammed tighter than the ones on the volumes beside it.

She drew the volume out of the stack and held it. The blue cloth cover was newer than Volume Seven's; the corners were still crisp.

She'd told herself she would read in order. And tonight it wasn't that she didn't want to read; it was that she didn't want to learn one more thing from paper. What was written down was what other people had seen; the things paper never recorded, she wouldn't find on any page.

She put it back, not on top of Volume Seven, but beside it. A narrow gap between the two volumes.

The lamp went off. The stack sat on the table, Volume Seven at the bottom, showing only a thin line of blue cloth.