Chapter 407: Leaving One Chair Between

May 31, nine in the morning. The second-floor window of the Zhengping Firm was propped half open. The fryer downstairs had just heated up, and the smell of scallions drifted up in waves.

The notebook lay open on the desk. The "Still Unknown" column had reached its fourth line. The first item was "Where is page six?"; the second, "Did he ask that third question at the cold storage?"—checked off, with a note: "Volume Eight, March 22, he did"; the third, in pencil: "Who is the old man at the pump house?" Beneath the fourth line lay a small strip of blank white.

The pencil was sharpened too fine. She pressed lightly as she wrote: Which volume did Director Cen put it in?

She finished and read it over. She'd meant to add "Ask who?" at the end, but the pencil tip paused and lifted. There was no one to ask yet. She left that line blank, wider than the others.

In the inner office, Li Huilan was on the phone. She hung up after a few words, walked out, and slipped a page into a case file. "Old Kan came by today. Stood at the door, didn't dare come in. Asked whether those eleven months of wages have any sign of coming through."

"What did you tell him?"

"I said there's a sign. The sign is practically stuck to the wall." Li Huilan tucked her pen into her breast pocket. "He ate a bowl of noodles downstairs. I tried to give him his money back; he pressed it under the bowl and left."

At the desk by the window, Lu Jibai had Qinghe's remediation supervision form spread open in front of him. The "Replanting Quantity Confirmer" box was still blank. Under the 180-day period, it read: October 21. He turned a page, his pen moving slowly across the paper.

She went downstairs to get noodles. He Xiufen was lifting noodles from the pot and didn't look up. "Not going out today?"

"Not today."

"Then drink this." A soup bowl slid toward her, the spoon clinking. "Your face has been gray these past couple days."

Halfway through her meal, someone came down from upstairs to pick up a takeout order and said, "Lawyer Lu isn't coming down today." He Xiufen made a sound of acknowledgment, covered another bowl, and set it beside the pot. She didn't say who it was for.

By 10:10, she was back upstairs.

June 1, 10:20 a.m. The desk phone rang.

"Jiangzhou Zhengping Law Firm."

"This is the Chengxi District Court." A man's voice on the other end, each sentence neat and even. "The Ge Xiaoyu matter — the defendant is willing to mediate. The date is set: June 22, 9:30 a.m., Chengxi District Court mediation room."

She pulled out her pen and wrote it in the notebook.

"As for the plaintiff's side, the legal guardian should attend if possible." Paper rustled on the other end. "If he can't make it, we'll need written consent—authorizing the authorized agent to participate in mediation, with the mediation plan requiring the principal's written confirmation. That document has to arrive before the mediation."

"The child's father is in Guangdong," she said. "He's at a factory."

"Then we'll need that paper."

"I'll get it written up and mailed today or tomorrow. He'll sign and mail it back." She said, "I'll attach a separate page explaining exactly where to sign and where to press."

"Fine." The voice on the other end said, "The defendant's authorized agent will be present that day: Lawyer Song Qiming of Hengzheng Law Firm."

"Understood." She wrote: Defendant: Song Qiming.

"Any other questions?"

"One thing first." She paused. "Is the defendant bringing a proposal that day, or coming empty-handed?"

The man laughed—not dismissively. "I can't give you that, Lawyer Shen. I'm only here to set the date."

"Then we'll go by the date," she said. "Please note this too: I'll be bringing the original consent form."

"Noted," he said. "If anything changes, I'll call this number."

She hung up and aligned the June 22 line with the text above, then added one more line beneath: 9:30 a.m., mediation room.

[Thud. The date has landed on the paper. The signature is still in the mail.]

At eleven, she pulled up Chai Guizhi's number.

There was a clatter on the other end first, like someone moving a stool, then a "Hello?"

"Auntie Chai, it's Shen Zhixia."

"Ah, Little Shen." Chai Guizhi turned the TV down. "News?"

"Yes. June 22, morning."

"What time?"

"9:30. Take the bus from town—the 6:40 one. You'll get into the city around nine. Plenty of time."

"6:40." Chai Guizhi repeated it on the other end, paper rustling. "I'll write it on the wall."

"The child's father can't make it, right?"

"No." Chai Guizhi said. "The factory won't give him leave. Two days round trip, one day's pay docked for each."

"Then we need a signed document." She slowed her words. "I'll send it to Guangdong in the next couple days. He signs it and mails it back. The paper will say: I authorize her to negotiate on my behalf; whatever is negotiated, he'll still need to sign a second confirmation. If he doesn't sign that second one, whatever's discussed that day doesn't count."

The other end was quiet for a moment. "He told me on the phone—on Xiaoyu's matter, listen to the lawyer."

"Listen to the paper," she said. "His signature makes it real."

"I understand." Chai Guizhi said. "We farm folk trust a thumbprint."

"A thumbprint works too. Press it next to his name."

Chai Guizhi made a sound of agreement, then suddenly asked, "What should I wear that day? Last time I went into the city was before the wheat harvest."

"Just dress warm."

"I'll wear the gray one." Chai Guizhi said. "Doesn't show dirt."

She smiled. "That works."

"Is Xiaoyu coming?"

"No. He has school that day." She said, "When the money comes through, bring him to the firm."

"I'll bring him when the money comes." Chai Guizhi said. "If I'm early, I'll stand by the door and wait. Won't say much."

"There are steps at the door. Don't stand in the sun."

After hanging up, she added next to "Consent form": Mail on the 3rd.

June 2, 9:40 a.m. She arrived at the District Procuratorate. Three people sat in the lobby. One, holding papers, paced back and forth by the door.

She first walked the length of the first-floor corridor. At the far east end, the last room had a small placard on the door: Listening Room.

At 9:55, he came in through the main entrance, carrying an old kraft paper envelope, the flap folded over. When he saw her, he gave a nod.

At ten, a young clerk came out to guide them. "Are the two of you together?"

"No," she said.

"No," he said, too.

The clerk looked at them, then pushed the door open. "Go on in and sit. The handling officer will be right there."

Inside, one long table, five chairs in a row.

She took the second chair. He set the envelope on the table and took the fourth. The chair between them stayed empty.

In the two minutes before the prosecutor arrived, he didn't speak. He drew one page from the envelope, glanced at it, folded it back, aligning the edge perfectly with the envelope's opening.

The handling prosecutor was in his early forties. On the table: a case file, a pen, a cup of tea. He set the ground rules first: the case had been transferred for review-for-prosecution on May 24. Today he was hearing the two victims' input. They could attend personally or through a litigation agent. Today's words would go into the record. The record would be printed for review, then signed.

"All three have been transferred," he said, opening the file. "The driver, the one who paid, and one surnamed Qin."

"Names?" she asked.

"I don't give names at this stage." The prosecutor said. "What's in the file stays in the file. It'll reach where it needs to reach."

She copied that line down: Names—not given.

"The MMS photo from the night of March 18." She flipped back a page in her notebook. "Two people standing outside the noodle shop. I received it at 10:05 p.m. on March 18."

As she said it, the image surfaced again: the phone buzzing in her pocket that night, her pulling it out to look. The two figures' shadows were still visible in the photo, the streetlight stretching them long, all the way to the photo's edge.

The prosecutor set his pen down. "That MMS photo—it was taken and sent by the one who paid." He paused. "He waited under the streetlight at the alley's mouth for eleven minutes. He admitted it himself."

Her pen froze on the paper. The ink at the tip slowly bled outward.

Waited eleven minutes. Admitted it himself.

"Eleven minutes." She said the words out loud. "What was he waiting for?"

"He said he was waiting for you to come out." The prosecutor turned a page. "He said other things too. We'll get to those at the right time."

"What's the exact wording in the file?" Lu Jibai spoke. It was his first sentence since entering.

The prosecutor read the line aloud: "'I waited there to see when they would come out.'" He closed the paper. "His own words. Signed and fingerprinted."

"Who he sent it to—is that recorded?" she asked.

"It is." The prosecutor said. "Sent to two people. I won't read the names today."

"I want this in the record," she said. "His eleven minutes of waiting, and the line he admitted to."

"Noted." The prosecutor wrote a line on his paper.

"Compensation and forgiveness—do either of you have input?"

"No forgiveness," she said. "Compensation per the law. Not a cent less. Whatever the law says, that's the amount. I'm not asking for more."

"Same." Lu Jibai said. "No forgiveness. Compensation per the law."

The prosecutor wrote both statements down, then looked up. "If either of you appoints a litigation agent, submit the authorization paperwork. The agent may review the case file."

"Understood," she said.

"Anything else?"

"On the night of March 18, after 9 p.m., who called whom among those three—if that's in the file, I'd like it recorded," she said. "Who to whom, at what time, for how long."

The prosecutor looked at her. "I'll note that. Noted doesn't mean it exists."

"Noting it is enough."

The clerk printed the record—one copy each. She paged through it. In the middle, she found the line: Waited under the streetlight at the alley's mouth for eleven minutes. Admitted by the accused himself.

She copied that line into her notebook. Only then did she sign at the end, dating it June 2. She passed the pen to him. He signed too, dating it June 2.

At 11:10, the two of them came out. At the door, she glanced back. The middle chair was still empty.

11:20, outside the Procuratorate. Below the steps: two rows of low boxwood hedges, the sun on them, a layer of dust on the leaves.

He stopped. "I stayed downstairs a while longer. Didn't come up with you."

"I know."

"Didn't want anyone thinking we'd compared notes."

"Yeah."

He switched the envelope to his other hand. "Eleven minutes. He admitted it himself."

"What he admitted to was waiting," she said. "Not the kick."

"Right," he said. "The waiting—that line's usable."

She hitched her bag strap up on her shoulder. "June 22—"

"Song Qiming will be there."

"I'll meet him myself," she said.

He nodded, said nothing more, and headed east.

She went west, to the bus stop. Wind came through beneath the sign, flipping at her notebook.

She pressed the notebook against her knee and turned to the car-case page. It already held: March 18, 9:25 p.m., MMS, eleven minutes under the streetlight.

Beneath it she wrote: The photographer—the one who paid.

She finished and stopped. The name box she left empty, drawing a single horizontal line, the line not reaching the end.

The bus came. She got on, notebook tucked under her arm. One stop later, she looked down at that box again. The line was still just a line.

The System didn't make a sound.