Chapter 427: The Procuratorial Service Center

At 8:15, the bus came to a stop at the station in front of the Chengnan District People's Procuratorate. Lu Jibai got off and switched his briefcase to his left hand.

The breakfast stall across the street was closing up. A steamer full of buns sent white steam drifting over the curb. A delivery rider cut around the corner, two boxes strapped to his rear rack, brushing past Lu Jibai, the box corners slicing through the wind.

He stood still and looked at the building.

It wasn't tall—six stories, gray-white tiling, three steps at the entrance, a camphor tree on each side, the trunks whitewashed halfway up. The glass door was shut, and a sheet of paper taped inside said: Visitors, please use the west entrance, Procuratorial Service Center.

Someone was already waiting below the steps. An elderly woman, one hand holding a non-woven shopping bag, the other clutching a piece of paper folded in half, the edges worn soft from handling. She glanced at the door, then turned to look at Lu Jibai.

"Comrade, what time do these doors open?"

"8:30."

"I'm asking about my grandson's money." She lifted the paper slightly. "The village said it's handled here. I don't know who handles it."

Lu Jibai nodded without saying much.

At 8:30, someone inside pulled the latch and pushed both glass doors outward. The old woman went in first. He followed, and she stepped aside to let him pass.

His briefcase went onto the security scanner and through the belt; phone and keys into a small basket. A water bottle was rejected—he was told to leave it on the rack outside. He complied. The old woman's shopping bag went through and then was called back for a second pass; as she re-sent it, she kept saying, "It's all medicine, all medicine."

The registration window was at the far end of the row, a slot cut beneath the glass, a registration ledger spread out over it. Four people stood in line ahead. The line went long stretches without moving, and when it moved, it moved fast. By 8:40, two people remained ahead of him. At 8:45, the old woman passed her paper through the window and talked for a long time. At 8:50, it was his turn.

A female officer sat behind the glass, hair pinned back, blue short-sleeve shirt.

"What do you need?"

"To give testimony."

She raised her eyes. "ID. Credentials."

He passed his ID card and lawyer practice certificate through together. She flipped open the certificate, studied it for two seconds, then looked up at him again.

"A lawyer?"

"Yes."

"Which firm?"

"Zhengping."

"Write the reason yourself." She slid out a form. A pen was tethered to the desk edge by a cord.

One box on the form was blank, labeled Reason. He picked up the pen and wrote: Testimony regarding the Shen Qian case.

She took it and read it once. "Who is Shen Qian?"

"A party to the case."

"Which case?"

"The Baixi Village well water case. Decided by the Chengnan District Court nine years ago."

She typed something, then set down a line in the ledger, and looked up again. "Do you have any interest in this case?"

"No."

"Have you represented any party in this case?"

"No."

"Noted. Wait for someone inside to come get you. Don't go far." She tore a number slip from a printer and pushed it through the glass slot.

"How long will I wait?"

"Can't say. A lot of visitors today."

The waiting hall had three rows of blue plastic chairs. He sat in the second row, briefcase on his lap, both hands resting on top of it.

Three signs hung on the wall. On the left, scope of acceptance: accusations, petitions, reports, legal consultation. In the middle, visitor guidelines, small print, line after line. On the right, the duty lawyer schedule—a week's worth of slots, a few names, several empty.

A man in his early forties stood at Window No. 1, voice rising in waves: "My son's case—I've handed in the materials three times already." The person at the window said something too low to hear and passed out a form. The man carried it to the long table, bent over to write, then looked up at the window after every couple of characters.

A woman had spread a stack of photocopies across a chair, counting pages, starting over halfway through.

An old man had laid a judgment on the windowsill, asking which office to submit this to.

In all his years as a lawyer, Lu Jibai had entered many buildings like this one. This particular one—he'd never been inside before. Nine years ago, the indictment had carried the name of this building. No one had called him here then.

The man finished writing, handed his form back to the window, and then was admitted through the glass door on the far side. He passed Lu Jibai's row, shoes worn uneven, one side higher than the other. As he walked by, he glanced at Lu Jibai, as if trying to figure out whether this person was here to submit something too. Lu Jibai shifted his hand on the briefcase and watched him disappear through the inner door.

The old woman returned from the window and sat on the chair next to him, spreading her paper across her knees, then turned her head.

"Comrade, do you mind checking this for me—see if I filled it out right."

The paper was a certificate issued by the village, four lines of text, a red stamp at the bottom, and a line in pencil along the edge. What she was pointing at was the Claim field on the form, where she'd written half a sentence: Get the child's money back.

"Write that field more clearly," Lu Jibai said. "Who should pay, how much, and from when."

"I don't know the amount." She flipped the paper over and back. "His father passed. The child eats with his grandmother. His mother's family says she shouldn't have to pay it."

"Then write who won't pay."

She gripped the pen, the tip hovering over the paper, unable to land.

"I can't write it," she said. "Every time I write, my hand shakes."

Lu Jibai turned the form around, asked her a question at a time, and wrote out her answers in the margin outside the form so she could copy. She copied slowly, pressing each stroke down hard. When she got to the character for "money," she dragged the final stroke long.

The window called her number. She folded the form, stuffed the paper and pen into her shopping bag, stood up, said "Thank you, comrade," and walked to the window.

Air conditioning fell from the ceiling. He unbuttoned one cuff button, then did it up again.

The three pages in his briefcase—he'd checked them last night. One, two, three, in order, the blue-black ink fully dry, the signature on the last page unsmudged. During a call the day before yesterday, he'd asked whether the written statement would be kept. The person on the phone said the original stays, and the copy goes with you.

At 9:20, the inner door opened a crack. A young man came out holding a folder, stood at the door scanning the room, checked his papers against a photo, then looked up.

"Lu Jibai?"

"Yes."

"Come with me."

The corridor floor gleamed, polished. Their footsteps echoed. At the end, a door with a stainless-steel sign: Interview Room.

The room was small. A long table, two chairs on this side, one on the other. On the desk sat a computer, a printer, and a paper cup already filled with water. A camera was mounted high in a corner, red light on, aimed at the far chair. The curtain was half drawn; light fell across one side of the desk.

A woman stood at the far end of the table waiting for him, gesturing for him to sit. Her uniform jacket hung over the back of her chair; her shirtsleeves were rolled to the wrist. His registration form lay on the table in front of her.

The assistant sat by the door, in front of the computer, hands resting on the keyboard.

"My name's Zhuang, with the Complaints and Petitions Prosecution Department." She began verifying his identity: name, ID number, occupation, firm. When she was done, she slid his practice certificate back across the table to him.

"Did you come alone?"

"Yes."

At 9:30, she set down her pen.

"Coming in today—are you filing a report, turning yourself in, or giving testimony?"

As she asked, the pen tip settled on the Reason field of his registration form.

"Giving testimony."

She glanced up at him.

"These three take different paths," she said. "A report is about other people's matters. Turning yourself in is about your own. Whatever you say at this door, I record it, and that's the path you're on."

"Giving testimony."

"Whose testimony are you giving?"

"Shen Qian's."

"What is your relationship with Shen Qian?"

"Nothing to him. Nine years ago, I was a trainee at Hengzheng, and the firm sent me to work on the Baixi Village case."

She wrote that in the column beside the registration form, then said, "So you're a witness."

"Yes." He paused. "In this matter, Shen Qian's daughter is petitioning. It was filed with the Intermediate People's Court in May. The petitioner is Shen Zhixia."

"Shen Zhixia." She repeated the name. "Same firm as you?"

"Yes. She's a lawyer at my firm."

She noted it down without stopping.

"Before you testify, let me be clear about three things." She extended three fingers, pressing them down one by one. "One: you'll say only what you saw with your own eyes and heard with your own ears. None of it starts with 'I think.' Two: we'll talk, and I'll write as we go. When we're done, I'll read it back to you. You check it, sign page by page, fingerprint each one, and write the date. Three: what I write today goes into the case file. Once you leave this building, it doesn't soften."

"I understand."

"One more thing." She withdrew her hand from the desk. "You're a lawyer. You know better than most. What you say today and what you say tomorrow must match. If they don't, I have to ask why. Speaking for someone, saying things according to someone else's wishes—that'll be recorded in the file too."

"I understand."

"Then I won't belabor it." She nudged the paper cup toward him. "Water's here. If you need a break, say so."

"No need."

"What you say today, I'll verify. If I need to find you again for that, or if questions lead elsewhere, you'll answer those too."

"I'll be waiting."

"Is what you want to say in your head, or did you bring a written statement?"

"I brought one."

"Take it out."

He pulled the three pages from the inner compartment of his bag. Squared manuscript paper, crease marks at the corners. He aligned the pages and slid them across.

She took them, checked the first line at the top, then flipped to the last page, examined the signature and the date at the bottom.

"Written on the night of July 6th?"

"Last night."

"Written alone?"

"Alone."

"Why not typed?"

"Typed looks like someone else wrote it."

She didn't respond to that. She turned back to the first page. "I'll read it through."

She read slowly. Halfway down the first page, she lifted the paper toward the window to let the light fall on it. On the second page, she paused, pressed a finger to one line, moved it down half an inch, then went back. On the third page, she raised her head.

She was looking at the man on this side of the desk: dark shirt, cuffs buttoned, both hands resting on the table, the old scar at the edge of his left index finger pale in the window light.

The look didn't last long. She lowered her head, finished the third page, and turned the paper toward herself.

"I'll read these two lines aloud," she said. "'That morning, I saw.'"

She paused.

"'I didn't say.'"

"I wrote that."

"Everything written here is what you saw with your own eyes."

"Yes."

"There's one place you didn't finish." She flipped back to the third page and pointed to the line. "The person who sent you, the person who received the samples—you wrote only one line: 'I'll say it in person.'"

"Those two names, I'll say in person."

"If you can't say clearly, I'll record 'unclear.'"

"I can say clearly."

She nodded but didn't press for names. She placed the three pages to her left, under a folder.

"We'll take these. Original stays; you take the copy." She paused. "That's how we do it for everyone."

"Fine."

She turned to the assistant. "Begin recording."

The assistant snapped the cap off his pen and back on, opened a drawer, took out a stack of lined sheets, tapped them even, lifted the printer's cover, inserted them, and closed it. The printer whirred and spat out a page. He took it out, straightened it, placed his hands back on the keyboard, and looked up.

"Start from which year?"

"Nine years ago, March."