Chapter 402: Seven People Ahead

The porridge was bubbling in the pot, the rice having soaked overnight until it had gone pale and soft. Zhi'an gave it two stirs, pressing the back of the ladle against the bottom so it wouldn't scorch.

She had already moved the kraft paper envelope from beside the stack of folders and set it on the corner of the table. The flap was folded over twice, the same two folds from last night. No one had touched it.

"Two eggs," Zhi'an said over her shoulder.

"One."

"Two." He cracked one open, the sound soft. "Today's a thing."

She didn't ask what thing. He slid the eggs into the pot, using the ladle to push them under the porridge and cover them.

The table sat by the window, and on the sill was the pot of scallions Zhi'an had planted back in March, trimmed once and grown back. She ate quickly, the porridge hot, with pickles, pausing every two or three bites. Zhi'an sat across from her, barely touching his own bowl, his eyes drifting to the clock on the wall.

"What time will you be back?"

"Midday."

"Leaving there around eleven-thirty?"

"About that."

He nodded, nudging the pickle dish a little toward her. The day before he had said he'd take half a day off to go with her, and she'd told him to focus on his classes, she could go alone. He didn't bring it up this morning. He simply straightened her shoes first, toes facing out.

She put her bowl in the sink, picked up the envelope and set it on the stool by the door, then crouched down and opened the flap just enough to slip her hand in. Her fingers found the stiffest few sheets at the bottom. Household register, release certificate, death certificate—originals pressed underneath, photocopies and printouts on top. She refolded the flap and gave it a squeeze.

Seven items. She'd counted twice last night.

Zhi'an came over and reached for it. "I'll carry it to the lane entrance."

"I'll carry it myself."

He pulled his hand back.

At 8:20, she changed into her shoes and stood at the door while he leaned against the doorframe of the inner room. She pulled the door open and turned back. "Lock up. Don't open the door for strangers."

"Mm."

"Come home for lunch."

"Jie."

"Mm."

"It'll be fine."

The dead bulb in the stairwell still hadn't been replaced; the fourth and third floors were dark. She reached the ground floor, pushed open the iron door, and the damp of the alley rose up to meet her. The breakfast stall had closed, leaving behind the smell of oil and flour. Four people already stood at the bus stop at the lane's entrance, one holding a woven bag, another with a backpack, head down, looking at his phone.

The bus was crowded when it came. She was the last one on, standing behind the middle door, one hand on the overhead ring, the other hugging the envelope to her chest.

A man in front of her held a stack of papers in a plastic bag pressed to his chest, the bag printed with the name of a hospital, the paper edges softened by sweat and curling. She glanced at it, then shifted her own bag in front of her, wrapping both arms around it.

After the first intersection, she opened the flap and pulled out the top five pages.

The petition, five pages. The bottom half of the last page had been added after a blank space, the heading line reading "Reasons for Requesting Direct Review by This Court." She had read that passage more than ten times: the original judgment came from the Chengnan District People's Court at first instance and had taken effect; in the file index, the page number for the "Attachment" row was left blank; the archive inspection form noted a missing item, recorded one month after the judgment was issued, missing at the step where the original trial court archived and stored the files. The re-test report in her possession was a duplicate copy, and it couldn't make up for that missing page. To find that page, there was no way around the original court's own files and cabinets. The final line read: The petitioner is the daughter of the original defendant.

The bus lurched, and a corner of the paper scraped against her arm. She pulled the papers in closer.

"He picked the morning. Don't go at night." That was what He Xiufen had said that day by the stove, just that one line, then she'd turned and gone to boil noodles.

She looked out the window. She had picked the morning too.

The bus traveled from the old town eastward. After two intersections the road widened and the buildings on either side grew taller. At the third stop, two children with backpacks got on; one sat down, the other gripped a handrail and dozed off. She stepped back half a pace to make room for a woman carrying a basket of vegetables.

She slipped the five pages back into the envelope, pressed the flap flat again, smoothing it with her palm.

At 8:50, she got off.

About two hundred meters ahead, on the left side of the road, was the Intermediate Court. Beyond an iron railing lay an open space in front of the building, a dozen-odd steps leading up, a sign hanging by the door. The door was open from inside, and cold air leaked through the gap, spilling down the steps in waves.

Five or six people stood in the security line. A man in front emptied his keys, phone, and cigarette box one by one into a plastic bin. The machine beeped, and a guard in dark blue uniform swept a handheld wand around his waist, then had him run his belt buckle through again.

When her turn came, she placed the envelope into the bin, flap up. It lay there motionless. Her water bottle she held in her hand, and a guard pointed to the metal rack against the wall. "Water bottles go here. Pick it up on your way out."

She said okay. The bottle made a soft clink against the rack. She walked through the gate—it didn't beep. The bin came out the other end, and she gathered the envelope to her chest. It was still warm.

The lobby floor gleamed, and the full row of lights overhead was on. Along the right wall ran a bank of windows with signs above: First-Instance Filing, Second-Instance Appeals, Petitions and Retrial Applications, Enforcement, Litigation Fees, Materials Receipt and Transfer. The last window read "Document Review and Copying." Against the left wall stood a ticket machine, and a woman with sleeve guards stood beside it, pointing people to the buttons.

She had been on this floor before. On January 26, she'd filed the Qinghe Village environmental public interest lawsuit at the far-left window, standing for half the morning, Cai Qingru beside her half a step to the right, holding two case files, while the clerk inside said, "Materials are complete. Go home and wait for notification." The case was filed the next day.

Today she walked to the ticket machine. Six options on the screen. She pressed "Petitions and Retrial Applications."

The machine beeped and spit out a narrow slip of paper. She held the number slip in her hand; the paper was warm, and on it was printed a line: Seven people ahead.

Beside the service counter stood a sign reading Litigation Service Center, with a smaller line underneath saying paper, pens, reading glasses, and copying were available. The water dispenser sat at the end of the corridor, a plastic bucket underneath catching the drips—one drop, then a pause, then another.

Along the wall was a row of stainless steel benches. She sat in the second row, near the aisle, the envelope standing upright on her lap with one hand pressing the flap. The screen above Window No. 3 flickered, red numbers moving downward. Behind the glass sat a woman, head down, reading papers, occasionally raising a hand to call the next person.

She looked down at the face of the envelope. First line: Shen Qian. Second line: Petition. Third line: her name. The bottom line was new: Submit to Jiangzhou Intermediate Court. She pressed the bottom line with her fingernail, and the envelope crinkled.

At the other end of the aisle, a young woman had brought a child along. The child had folded his number slip into a little boat and was pushing it along his knee. A middle-aged man leaned against a pillar on the phone, his voice kept low. "Mom, I'm here. Don't cry. I'll tell you everything when I get back."

Window No. 3 took a long time with each set of materials, flipping through them, then looking up to ask questions, then flipping again, sometimes pressing a finger to a particular page.

One seat to her left, separated by an empty spot, sat an elderly woman holding a cloth bag, a rolled-up paper sticking out of the top, a blue stamp pressing against its edge. The old woman glanced at her twice, and the third time she spoke.

"Miss, what number are you?"

Shen Zhixia lifted her slip a little. "Seven people ahead of me."

"I'm three behind you." The old woman pulled the cloth bag closer to her chest. "This window is slow. I sat here a whole morning last time, and they only called twelve numbers."

"Are these morning numbers?"

"Morning." The old woman said, "The afternoon doesn't start until one-thirty."

Shen Zhixia folded the number slip in half and tucked it into the envelope flap. The old woman looked at her again. "What's your matter?"

"Filing a petition."

"Do petitions cost money?"

"No filing fee for criminal petitions."

The old woman made an "oh" sound, turning this over in her mind before speaking. "Mine's enforcement. I got the judgment. I won."

Shen Zhixia waited.

"Haven't seen a cent." The old woman's fingers picked at the cloth bag. "I came seven times the first year. They said they checked—no car, no house, can't find the man. I went back and asked around. Everyone says he's still around, just doesn't sleep in his own home."

"How long since the judgment?"

"Three years."

Shen Zhixia looked at the cloth bag, its corners worn fuzzy. "Next time you come, don't just say you can't find him."

The old woman looked up.

"Write it down on a piece of paper: what's in his house, where he works, where his mother lives, who's seen him come back. Leave blank what you can't fill in. When it's written, give it to the window and have them accept it. If you only say it out loud, there's nothing written in their book."

The old woman mulled this over, then nodded. "My grandson can write."

"Are you here to submit materials today, or to ask?" the old woman asked.

"To submit."

"Good to submit." The old woman said, "Submitting means there's a record. My first year I didn't even know where to submit. I went to three wrong windows and got pointed back each time."

"Are you also here collecting money for someone?" the old woman asked.

"I'm here about my father's case."

The old woman didn't press further. She wiped her hand on the cloth bag and sat up a little straighter.

The screen jumped another number. Five people left ahead. At the other end of the aisle, a man suddenly stood and headed for the window. The clerk said something, and his voice rose. "I was standing right by the door. I didn't hear it." A guard went over and said a few words. The man glanced back at the screen, then went to the ticket machine and pressed the button again. The machine beeped. He took the new slip and sat in the last row, spreading his papers over his lap, and stayed like that for a long while.

Neither of them spoke. The old woman watched the screen, her lips moving with the numbers.

When there were three people ahead, the old woman stood, clutching her cloth bag. "I'm moving up front, I'm afraid I won't hear. Miss, I hope it goes well for you."

"Same to you."

The old woman moved to the first row, standing at the edge of the aisle, both hands around her bag. The numbers for her window were called on a different screen, the voice drifting over from the other end, one phrase short, one phrase long.

Shen Zhixia opened the envelope flap and pulled out the materials list clipped to the top of the petition, turning it over.

Seven lines, one sentence per line. Last night she had stopped at the final line, and that line was not crossed out. She rested her fingertip beneath "Where is the original?" and scraped the paper lightly with her nail.

That was the one question she couldn't answer today.

She had set an order in her mind: submit first, deal with questions if they came. She turned the list back over, clipped it in place, and folded the flap flat again.

She pulled out her phone and glanced at it. The screen was dark. No new messages. She turned it off and put it away.

At 9:30, her number appeared on the screen, and a woman's voice over the speaker read it out, slowly, syllable by syllable.

She stood, holding the envelope upright against her chest.

The lobby had emptied by a third, footsteps scattered across the floor tiles. She walked down the aisle to Window No. 3. The slot beneath the glass was open, and on the counter inside sat a stack of forms and a round stamp resting in its ink pad.

The woman behind the window looked up.

"Petition or retrial application?"

"Criminal petition." Shen Zhixia said. "The original defendant was my father. He's gone."