Chapter 413: Three Working Days

The Litigation Service Center of Chengbei District People's Court faced the street, with a narrow path running between the iron fence and the building, ending at a security checkpoint. She placed the paper bag into a plastic bin, the bin went through the conveyor, and when it came out the bag's opening was still facing up, all five items still inside.

A young man in uniform sat behind the information desk. She said she needed to access archived files, and the young man pressed a button on the ticket machine, tore off a slip for her, and pointed with his finger toward the third window on the west side.

The sign above the window read "Archive Access and Reproduction." A slot was cut into the glass, its edge worn pale from use, and an employee ID sticker was pasted in the corner of the glass: Chu. Inside sat a woman in her forties, hair pinned back, with a copy of the Reading Room Rules spread on her desk. A pair of white gloves lay beside it—one on her hand, the other removed, pinning down a corner of the Rules.

"What do you need."

"Access to an archived case file."

"Which one."

She passed the items from the paper bag through the slot one by one: her practice certificate, law firm letter, power of attorney, and the thin envelope. When she handed over the firm letter, she added an extra copy. "I brought two. One's for you to keep."

The woman squared up the two letters and read them one at a time, not hurrying. When she reached the line "this firm has been jointly retained by the three heirs of Cen Shouye," she looked up.

"Three heirs?"

"His wife, daughter, and son."

"The man himself is gone."

"Gone. The death certificate is in the envelope, and the kinship certificate too."

She pulled the two documents from the envelope, held them up to the light to check the paper edges, then set them down. "Photocopies."

"I don't have the originals on me."

"The photocopies will be accepted for now. Bring the originals when you come to view the file." She added a line on a piece of paper with her pen. "The names on these two pages need to match who those three people are to him. You didn't bring the originals, so I'll note that the submission is photocopies only."

"What does noting it do."

"It still gets reported to whoever needs to report. The person approving will see that note and ask an extra question."

"This procedural copy, take it back." She pushed the power of attorney to the edge of the slot. "I don't store originals here for you. When it's approved, bring the originals in for verification. I check them and return them." She got up and went to the back room, came back with a printed form, clipped it into the stack of papers, and pushed the original back out.

She took the power of attorney back, aligned the two pages by the corners, and slipped them into the paper bag.

The Archive Access Application lay on the desk, and she worked down it line by line. When she saw the blank box at the bottom, she touched her pen tip to it. "Date."

"I was saving this box to fill in at the window."

"Then fill it in now."

She wrote June 14. When finished, she set the pen beside the form but didn't immediately push it through.

"There's one more thing I need to make clear first." The woman's tone hadn't changed. "You're not a party in the original case."

"I'm the agent for the heirs."

"The party was Cen Shouye. He's passed, and his heirs carry on his side. If the paperwork is complete, I can submit it." She stacked the retained firm letter and the application together and clipped them. "A case like yours needs approval."

"How many days."

"Three working days."

"Does today count."

"Not when it's submitted today. Starting tomorrow, three."

"What if it doesn't get approved."

"If it doesn't get approved, I'll call you and tell you exactly what's wrong." She pointed at the topmost box on the application. "This number, you wrote it yourself?"

"I wrote it."

"Put the date on it too." She tore off a thin slip with printed boxes, ticked off "Archive Access Application," "Firm Letter," "Authorization Documents," and "Supporting Materials" one by one, stamped the last line, wrote the date, and pushed it through the slot. "Receipt slip. Hard to replace if lost."

She held the receipt slip up to the window's light for a look, folded it in half, and tucked it into the empty pocket in the paper bag.

"When it's approved," the woman said, pulling the removed glove back on, "practice certificate, firm letter, authorization documents—bring all originals. Don't bring anyone else."

"Why not bring anyone else."

"One person comes, I can handle it in an afternoon. Three people come, I have to ask who each of the three are." She lowered her head to the papers on her desk. The conversation was over.

She had wanted to ask if it could go faster.

The words stopped in her throat. The person doing the approving wasn't at this window, so saying "faster" would just be said to a messenger; the woman had already told her exactly how the days were counted—today didn't count, three starting tomorrow. Today was a wash.

She pressed the paper bag's opening flat and said thank you.

[Thud. Three working days.]

Out the side door, a laminated notice of the Archive Access Guidelines hung on the wall, its plastic edges curling. She stood and read it top to bottom, copying two rules into her notebook: no dismantling files, removing pages, or writing during access; any reproductions needed are handled by the archives office and stamped with a verification seal.

After copying, she stood on the steps for a moment. The sun was hard at that hour, and the shadows of the steps fell straight. She switched the paper bag to her left hand and walked toward the bus stop.

June 15, at eleven o'clock, a box arrived from Guangdong.

He Xiufen called her name from downstairs, followed by "package." The box wasn't big—cardboard, wrapped three times with tape. The sender's field was handwritten, each stroke made slowly—the writer knew how to write, just didn't do it often.

She carried it up to the second floor and cut the tape with scissors. Inside the box was a single sheet of paper.

A Consent Form, one page, with the signature at the bottom. The name was written slowly as usual, and the final stroke paused, as if thinking for half a beat before committing. Beside the name was a fingerprint, the ink paste dark, pressed slightly off-center, its edge overlapping half a character.

Nothing else was in the box. Not even a note.

She clipped the page into the folder for Ge Xiaoyu's case and wrote a line on the folder cover: Arrived on the 15th, signed by the client, one fingerprint.

Just before noon she went downstairs for noodles. He Xiufen pushed the bowl over. "The twenty-second?"

"The twenty-second, nine-thirty in the morning."

"Is her father coming in person."

"He's in Guangdong. Video."

"If the person can't come, paper that arrives counts too." He Xiufen laid the chopsticks straight. "The paper is signed by him, the fingerprint is his. The person isn't here, but the paper is."

"Yeah."

"And the Chengbei side?"

"Accepted. Three working days."

"How many days."

"Three."

"Then wait." He Xiufen sprinkled scallions into the bowl. "Waiting is when people start making up stories for themselves. Once you make them up, you end up believing them."

In the afternoon, the printer in the inner room ran twice. Li Huilan came out holding two sheets of paper and stood by her desk. "Tomorrow's meeting. I listed three questions to ask."

She took the papers. The first question was about her health, the second about how many times she'd handled that money and who sent her each time, the third about family matters.

"The third one, you wrote 'her son is willing to take her in,'" she said.

"'Willing to take her in' and 'able to handle it' are two different things." Li Huilan pulled the paper back and drew a line through "willing to take her in." "I'll revise it."

"Should we ask about her passbook."

"A passbook isn't health." Li Huilan thought for a moment. "But if she brings it up herself, I'll note it in the meeting record. That way they can see what she's worried about."

At night, she wrote a line in her notebook: 15, 16, 17. After writing it, she glanced at it and felt like a student waiting for exam results. She crossed the line out and started a new one, writing only: Three working days, up to the 17th.

June 16, eleven o'clock. Li Huilan returned from the detention center.

She draped her coat over the chair back, filled half a cup of water at the dispenser, drank it in one go, and then spoke. "Approved."

"Xing Shuqin?"

"Yeah. Her son was standing at the gate first thing in the morning, holding a coat. When she came out, he rolled up her sleeves for her first thing."

"The vest went through?"

"It went through. She tried it on—sleeves too long, said she'd hem them shorter herself when she got home." Li Huilan sat down and spread out the meeting record. "Before she left, she asked me if her passbook still existed. I said that wasn't in front of me, she'd have to ask her son."

"What did her son say."

"He was outside listening. Didn't say anything." She flipped back to the front of the record. "I'll get a duplicate of the approval document this afternoon. The file needs it."

At four o'clock, her phone rang. The number was a landline she didn't have saved.

"Chengbei District Court, Archives Office."

"Comrade Chu."

"Approved. Tomorrow at nine-thirty, archives office reading room." The voice on the other end spoke at the same pace as before. "Don't go through the Litigation Service Center window. Take the side entrance to the second floor. Someone at the stairs will check your certificate."

"What should I bring."

"Practice certificate, firm letter, original power of attorney. If you have the originals of those two supporting documents, bring those too. Just you coming?"

"Just me."

"When you enter the reading room, I'll be sitting beside you. Come to me for copies. Don't bring your own paper in, and don't take out your phone."

"Can I bring a pen and notebook."

"Yes. Phone goes in the cabinet by the door."

"What time do you close."

"I lock up at eleven-thirty. If you haven't finished, tell me, and I can give you another hour in the afternoon." She paused. "What you've looked at and what you haven't—I have to count it all before putting it away."

[Thud. What's approved is viewing, not taking.]

After hanging up, she copied the landline number into her notebook, slower than usual. Two hours plus an afternoon—three hours total. Three hours wasn't enough to read a full case file, but it was enough to read one short section of one.

At seven she went down for noodles. He Xiufen brought the bowl over. "Approved?"

"Approved. Nine-thirty tomorrow."

"Bring your pen." He Xiufen set the vinegar bottle by her hand. "When you're going through the file, only write down what's on the paper. Don't write your own words."

"I've noted that."

"And the phone."

"Goes in the cabinet."

"If it's in the cabinet, don't think about taking it out." He Xiufen wiped the table corner with a rag. "They let you look, you keep your hands honest, next time they'll let you look again."

After the noodles she went upstairs. The second-floor light was on. He turned over the page on his desk to cover it and looked up at her.

"Chengbei approved. Tomorrow at nine-thirty."

"Approval came fast enough."

"Yeah."

"When you come out, count what they gave back before you leave." His pen tip hovered over the paper. "Every sheet they hand you needs to have a source."

"I will."

He nodded once and put the pen back to the paper.

At ten at night, she laid out the things she needed on the table at home, one by one. Under the desk lamp sat four items: practice certificate, firm letter, the original power of attorney, and the thin envelope—inside it, the originals of the two certificates, which she'd taken from the drawer during the day. The paper was stiffer than the photocopies, with old fold marks on the edges.

She turned to the last page of her notebook and wrote a line:

Practice certificate, firm letter, original power of attorney, pen, notebook.

After writing it, she added a line below: Phone. Her pen tip hovered there for a moment. She crossed it out and started a new line, writing only: Phone stays home, don't bring it in. Even if I bring it, they won't let me photograph; bringing it in, they'll take one look and assume I'm planning to.

Zhi'an came out to get water and stood by the desk, looking at the row of items. "What time are you leaving tomorrow."

"Seven-fifty."

"I'll make breakfast."

"I need to eat by seven-twenty."

"Then seven-twenty." He carried his cup back to his room, pausing at the door. "Sis, tomorrow you're going to look at the thing Dad left?"

"I'm going to look at a piece of paper."

"When you're done, can you bring it home."

"Can't take it. Can make copies."

He took his cup and left.

She folded the firm letter in half, avoiding the red seal, and placed it on top of everything, then put it with the power of attorney and the envelope into the paper bag with "Cen" written on the corner. The receipt slip stayed in the outer pocket, easy to pull out.

The phone went on the charger, left on the desk corner. Tomorrow it wasn't leaving the house.