Chapter 404: The Third Line Is Blank

At 10:30, she came out the side door and stood on the top step. The glass door swung and settled behind her, air conditioning washing against her calves in waves. Someone was crouched at the bottom of the steps making a phone call, one hand clamped over an ear; farther out, past the sidewalk, a person was handing out flyers, pink ones, offering them to everyone, few people taking them.

She set the paper bag at her feet and pulled out the notice slip, held it to the light.

Three boxes, three checkmarks. The checks were drawn with the pen from the window, short strokes, pressed hard, with small added characters squeezed into the boxes. The words after the third check were the smallest.

She read through the three lines again on the steps: the first said the original trial court hadn't reviewed the case, that it could be forwarded down or submitted upward; the second said two years; the third was only one sentence, with an added note after it: evidence attached.

She read it aloud under her breath: Where is the original? Who can confirm it?

When she finished, she folded the slip in half, then in half again, and tucked it into page five of the petition. That page was the one where she'd written her reasons requesting this court to review the case directly. She lined up the edges and pressed the outside of the bag.

On the back of the materials list, under "Where's the original?" was the line she'd added in the lobby: Write clearly which court, which volume, and apply to this court to retrieve it. After "which court," there was a small blank space. She pressed her fingernail there, but didn't fill it in.

Two people came up the steps—an old woman supporting a middle-aged man carrying a cardboard box. He asked her where to submit materials; she said Window No. 5, go in and turn right. He thanked her, hoisted the box higher; the imprint from the bottom of the box had left a red line across his forearm.

She hugged the paper bag and went down the steps. Walking those two hundred meters, she went through her items one by one: a list stamped with a receipt seal, a notice slip; the signed petition, her own materials list; the household register, release certificate, and death certificate—the originals the window had returned; the transparent evidence bag and the set of judgment documents had stayed at the window.

Those five pages had been printed from the disc. The notarial certificate recorded clearly which disc, what date and time, whose hands. But where the report itself was—the one those five pages were pressed over—she couldn't answer. After the third row of cabinets in the old building was emptied out, no one could say. Her father's notebook said nothing. The Cen family's authorization letter said nothing either.

She only had those five pages.

The bus stop was two hundred meters away. The 11:00 bus, not many people; she sat by the window, the paper bag on her knees, one hand holding it down. Two people in the back row were talking about enforcement matters. One said, "A judgment's a judgment." The other said, "What good's a judgment?" The bus crossed an intersection, red light, a water vendor's cart cut across the front of the bus, and the people on board shifted with the motion.

She pulled out her phone and glanced at it. The screen was dark, no new messages. She put it back.

At 11:20, the bus reached Old Town District. Under the locust tree at the mouth of the alley sat a three-wheeler, two baskets of scallions in the bed, soil still clinging to the roots. Outside the noodle shop, the ground had just been splashed with water, the cracks between bricks pale. He Xiufen was squatting by the door peeling garlic, the skins spread on newspaper; a gust of wind lifted one onto the steps.

"Back," He Xiufen said, without looking up.

"Yeah."

"Soup's still hot. Noodles are in the pot. Serve yourself."

"I'll go upstairs first."

"You still have to eat." He Xiufen knocked a garlic clove against the newspaper. "I saved your bowl. Cold noodles are no good."

She answered, went inside. The light on the second-floor landing was still broken; it didn't matter in daylight. The wood creaked under her feet.

At 11:30, she set her paper bag on the corner of the desk, didn't open it. In the inner room, Li Huilan was writing; the pen nib scratched softly. On the desk by the window lay Qinghe's case file, a photocopy of a supervision form on top, and Lu Jibai sat beside it, a pen in hand.

"Lawyer Shen." He looked up. "The 'Replanting Quantity Confirmer' column on the form—I'm leaving it blank."

"Leave it."

"Whoever counts, whoever signs. On acceptance day, together." He pushed the photocopy back into the file. "The 180-day period ends October 21st."

"Got it."

Nothing more. She pulled out the chair, took Ge Xiaoyu's file from the shelf, turned to the inside cover, and wrote a line in the blank space: May 25th, answer period expires, no defense statement received.

She finished writing and paused. By rule, a defendant's failure to file a defense statement doesn't affect trial. But the half she needed was in the defendant's hands.

The receipt folder was open too: a few outpatient slips, one follow-up slip, several bus tickets from town to the city, which she'd written in by hand. Total litigation claims: 15,700 yuan. She'd calculated that number three times. For the defendant to dispute the amount, they'd have to wait for the defense statement to know which item it was.

Li Huilan came out of the inner room with two sheets of paper. "Saw her this morning. The two pages from the meeting are sorted. Tomorrow I'll copy a set to leave at the firm; I'm keeping the originals." She placed the papers on the desk corner. "The old lady asked one thing: when can I go home?"

"What'd you say?"

"I said 'soon' doesn't count. I said what's on the paper." Li Huilan took the papers back. "You have paperwork today?"

"I do." She laid her hand on Ge Xiaoyu's file.

Li Huilan asked nothing else and went back to the inner room.

Downstairs, a pot lid clattered. He Xiufen shouted from the stairwell: "Noodles are by the stove. Come down and get them yourself. I'm not bringing them up."

She answered "coming," went down for the noodles. He Xiufen stood at the stove lowering the flame, glancing at her: "The list—count check out?"

"Checked."

"Missing anything?"

"Missing the original."

"Where's the original?"

"Don't know." She picked up the bowl; the bottom burned her hand, switched hands. "Scanned copies are reproductions. The window said until this one thing is filled in, it's a reproduction no matter where it goes."

He Xiufen draped the rag over the edge of the stove and wrung it out. "Then find it. Things don't just grow legs and run off." She turned the flame back up a little. "If you can't find it, write clearly which court, which volume, and have them retrieve it for you. Don't just copy that sentence onto the form—put it in the papers."

"Already did."

"Then eat your noodles."

She brought the noodles upstairs, finished them at the corner of the desk, carried the bowl back down.

She didn't go out in the afternoon. She went through Ge Xiaoyu's stack of papers from beginning to end. At three-something, He Xiufen came up again and set down an enamel mug of hot water, no words.

May 26, 10:00 a.m. The desk phone rang. She slid her pen into her notebook and picked up.

"District People's Procuratorate, Criminal Prosecution Department." The man's voice was low, unhurried. "May I confirm this is Shen Zhixia herself?"

"It is."

"The picking-quarrels case filed on March 19th—you're one of the victims. The case was transferred for review and prosecution on the 24th. This call is to inform you: you have the right to retain a litigation agent, or to participate in the proceedings yourself."

"Mm."

"Also, on June 2nd at 10 a.m., please come to the listening room at the far east end of our first floor. We'll hear your opinions in person. Both victims have been notified. Please be on time."

"Both?"

"Both. You and the other one."

She wedged the phone between shoulder and ear, pulled out her notebook, flipped to a fresh page, wrote: June 2, 10 a.m., first-floor listening room. The writing came out crooked; she traced over it.

"Nothing to submit beforehand. Just bring your ID that day."

"Three people—all transferred over?"

"Three people, all transferred." He said, "The rest, we'll talk that day."

"What will you ask?"

"Your opinions on the case. You come in, we put it in the record."

"Alright."

"The two of you can come separately or together. Whether you have an agent—we'll ask that day."

She thanked him and hung up. After "listening room," she added: two victims.

[Thud. Your opinion—they have to come ask for it.]

When she looked up, the chair by the window was empty. A cup sat on the windowsill, full, cold, untouched.

He didn't come back at noon. Downstairs a customer called out "One bowl of scallion-oil noodles, add an egg," and He Xiufen's voice rang louder than the wok.

May 26, 4:00 p.m. The phone rang again. This time, Chengxi District Court.

"Chengxi District People's Court. The Ge Xiaoyu matter—the plaintiff's agent, Lawyer Shen?"

"That's me."

"The defendant's defense statement has arrived." The court clerk said, "Agent column reads Hengzheng Law Firm, Song Qiming."

She said "mm," her pen going still on the paper. The name wasn't unfamiliar. Two recent occasions: at the Qingshi Village case hearing, he'd sat on the Hengyue side, flipping through his own notebook, one question, one answer. Afterward, coming out of the court, on the steps he'd said: whatever the record says, that's what he reports.

"The defense statement has three points." The clerk read on. "First, the facts are to be based on the effective judgment in the Qinghe public-interest lawsuit. Second, objection to the amount of the plaintiff's claims. Third, willing to mediate under the court's auspices. The answer period expired yesterday. We're forwarding you a copy."

"The amount objection—which item?"

"The statement doesn't specify. Just one line."

"Did the defendant propose mediation on their own, or did the court ask?"

"It's written in the statement. 'Willing to mediate under the court's auspices.'"

She pulled the notebook closer. "How do I get the copy?"

"Mailed to the firm address you gave. Two days. If you're also willing to mediate, write up a statement and submit it."

"The defendant proposed it, in writing. That's enough." She said, "There's one thing I need to flag: the child's guardian is her father, and he's in Guangdong. Mediation requires his written consent. I'll bring the consent form that day."

"Then tell the presiding judge first. Don't raise it on the day."

"Raising it now."

"Noted." A pen scratched twice on paper. "Date's not set—we'll call when it is."

"Good."

[Thud. He's willing to mediate. Willing is not the same as agreeing.]

She set the phone down, flipped back to Ge Xiaoyu's page, and copied the three points stroke by stroke: facts based on the public-interest judgment; objection to the amount; willing to mediate under the court's auspices. When she got to "willing," she underlined it, decided it looked wrong, pressed at it with an eraser, didn't clean it up, smudged a small patch instead.

At 4:20, she took a ruler out of the drawer and laid it over that page. When she looked up, she saw the man by the window lowering his phone from his ear.

He stood, one hand braced on the windowsill. The screen was still lit; he pressed it off and turned the phone once in his hand.

Three desks apart on one floor.

His eyes lifted and met hers. She had a sentence in her mouth—"You got one too"—but didn't say it. His mouth moved, and didn't.

He looked away first, set the phone on the desk, sat down, opened Qinghe's file, pulled a pen from the holder, and put the first stroke on paper.

She pressed the ruler flat, blew away the smudged eraser shavings, and closed the notebook.

The exhaust fan hummed downstairs. The soup came to a boil with a burble, and He Xiufen lowered the flame at the stove.