Chapter 428: Signing Page by Page

At 9:40, the assistant pulled the first page from the printer, straightened it, and set both hands back on the keyboard.

"Then let's start from March." Prosecutor Zhuang laid both hands flat on the tabletop. "At Hengzheng, what did you do?"

"Internship. Fifth month."

"Who assigned you to the Baixi Village case?"

"The firm assigned me." He paused. "Who specifically assigned me—I'll answer that later."

"Why later?"

"First thing is the box."

She gave a nod. "Second batch of samples. How many?"

"Twelve. Two cardboard boxes, six per box. Inside were small plastic buckets, one bucket per sample."

"Who packed them?"

"Me and one other person from the firm. Sealed once packed."

"How were they sealed?"

"Packing staples, plus tape. Staples driven on both sides of the box mouth's center seam. Four staples per box. Tape pressed down over the top, folded down over the corners."

"Both boxes—sealed by you?"

"Both sealed by me." He raised a hand and mimed the position of a seal.

She glanced at his left hand on the tabletop. An old scar by the knuckle, pale, half an inch long, a faint diagonal line beside it.

"This scar?"

"Got it on the morning of the 21st. Moving the second box—the staple at the box mouth caught me."

"Put it in the record," she said to the assistant.

10:00 exactly.

"Where did the boxes stay overnight?"

"The Village Committee."

"Why there?"

"By the time the last sample was collected, it was dark. The firm told me to come back and haul them the next morning."

"Who could get into that room?"

"I don't know. I wasn't the one opening or locking the door that day."

She read the line aloud: "'I don't know. I wasn't the one opening or locking the door.' — Recorded this way, do you confirm?"

"I confirm."

"The morning of the 21st. What time did you arrive at the Village Committee?"

"Around 7:50."

"Who went with you?"

"I was the only one from the firm."

"How did you know something was off?"

"I moved the heavier box first—carried it to the door. Came back for the second one. When I lifted it, the box mouth faced me." He shaped a square with both hands and raised it half a foot. "The tape was a new strip. The one I'd sealed the night before—the seam was on the left. When it was torn off, it left a frayed edge still hanging. The new strip's seam was on the right, pressed over it, covering the fray. The old staple holes were still there. New staples went in beside them, a finger's width apart."

"You touched it?"

"I did. Pressed down solid. Sealed flat on all four sides."

"The contents—did you look?"

"No. It was sealed."

"What did you think at that moment?"

"Last night, this box wasn't in my hands?"

She looked up. "I'm recording a statement, not a question."

"Yes. What I thought was: last night, this box wasn't in my hands."

The assistant finished typing, paused, then looked back down.

"What did you do?"

"I loaded it into the car."

"What time did you leave?"

"8:05."

"Arrived at Qingyuan—what time?"

"Around 10 a.m."

"Who received the samples?"

"The receiver. Waiting at the door of the receiving room."

"Who signed the sample submission form?"

"I signed it. He signed for receipt."

"When he signed, did you tell him?"

"No."

"Not a single word?"

"He counted the buckets. I stood beside him and watched. When he got to twelve, he looked up. I said, 'That's all of them.'"

10:40.

"When did the re-test report come out?"

"Sometime in April."

"How did you find out?"

"The afternoon the report came back to the firm. I saw that line: 'Inconsistent with initial test.'"

"Any reason given?"

"No. Just that line."

"Did you ask?"

"I asked one thing." He paused. "I asked: 'Who handled this one?' No one answered."

"Who didn't answer?"

"The person next to me."

"Who did you ask?"

"I don't remember his name." He said, "I remember him not answering."

She held the pen tip motionless over the paper before setting it down: "Record: 'Asked once. No one answered.'"

11:00.

"That year, did anyone ever come to ask you about this?"

"No."

"The firm?"

"No."

"Chengnan District Court? Procuratorate?"

"No."

"Later, when Shen Qian was arrested, put on trial, sentenced to three years—did anyone come to you?"

"No." He said, "In that case, no one ever asked me anything. I never signed a single record, never appeared in court."

"How do you know no record exists?"

"I borrowed that case file and looked."

"When?"

"Two years ago."

"You borrowed it—what were you looking for?"

"To see if my name was in the sample delivery column."

"Was it?"

"No. Just one department seal."

She wrote this line very slowly.

"When you saw him, how old was he?"

"Over forty."

"The day of his trial, where were you?"

"At the firm."

"That crime he confessed to—do you believe it?"

"I believe the strip of tape I saw."

"The morning of the 21st, you saw it. Why didn't you speak up?"

"The box passed a night in my hands. If I said something, the first person questioned would've been me."

"Just for that?"

"That year I was an intern, no certificate yet." He paused. "The first year—that was the reason."

"Afterward?"

"Afterward I stayed at Hengzheng. I wanted to wait until I had something in hand before coming back."

"Nine years."

"Nine years."

She set down the pen and laced her fingers together on the table.

"Today, you're willing to say this in court?"

"I am."

"If the retrial opens, and you stand before the court, you'd say exactly what you just said."

"Exactly this."

"Not one word changed?"

"Not one word."

"Those three pages you brought—the last line." She opened the folder, pulled out the handwritten statement, and laid it on top. "'I am willing to testify in court.'"

"I wrote it."

11:20.

She turned to the third page and tapped it lightly with a fingertip. "This part—you said you'd say it in person."

He pulled both hands back from the table, set them on his knees, then put them back.

"The one who sent me was—"

He said a name.

Not quickly—one character at a time, each set down deliberately. After finishing, he took a breath before the second name.

"The one who received the samples was—"

Another name.

The keyboard clattered—dense, urgent. She listened and wrote nothing more in the notebook. She heard both lines out, waited for the keyboard to stop, then spoke.

"Again. Slower."

He said them a second time. Partway through the second name, the assistant stopped to ask about a radical. He said it was that radical, not that character.

"This receiver—what did he do at Qingyuan?"

"Received samples."

"Have you seen him since?"

"No."

"These two names—have you ever spoken them anywhere else?"

"No."

"Why not write them on the three pages?"

"Written down, it looks like pointing a finger." He said, "Said in person, you can verify."

"Record: 'These two names, I spoke in person, once. Nowhere else on paper.'"

"Nowhere else on paper."

At 11:30, she laid down the pen.

"What you've said—I've recorded it. The next few things I say plainly. How you take them is your own affair."

"Go ahead."

"One: whether your own conduct falls under any provision and whether the statute of limitations has run—we'll review separately, by law. Today we only record what you've said."

"Fine."

"Two: whether anyone else is guilty for that night is another matter. We will handle it by law."

"I understand."

"Three: you said the petition for review was filed with the Intermediate Court. If the court requests transfer, we'll provide it."

"Good."

"Four—" She looked at him. "You are a licensed lawyer. What you've said—we may report it to the judicial administrative authorities as required."

In the corner, the printer sat in standby, its indicator green. A car passed beyond the curtains; the window glass trembled.

"I know."

"Knowing that, you still want to say it?"

"I came because I know."

She lowered her head and wrote this line in that column. When she finished, she capped the pen—took two tries to seat it straight.

"Last question. Does the petitioner know you're here today?"

"She told me not to come." He said, "I came on my own."

"She told you not to—why did you come?"

"I owe someone something." He paused. "It has to be me who pays it back."

"I'm recording that too."

"Record it."

At 11:40, the assistant pulled the transcript back to the first page, swept his eyes over the screen, stood up, and walked to the side of the desk. From there, he read aloud. His voice was even, sentence by sentence, slowing over the numbers. At "twelve samples," he held half a beat; at "a finger's width apart," another pause.

He finished a page, slid it over with a clipboard, and pressed it to the desk edge: "Read it over."

He read faster than the assistant had. When he finished, he pushed the page back. The assistant flipped back to the first page, straightened it, and read the second.

At the fifth page, he raised a hand.

"This line needs to be changed."

She looked up. "Speak."

"It says: 'You noticed signs that the tape at the box mouth had been replaced.'" He pointed to the line. "I never saw anyone replace it. I only saw that it wasn't the strip I'd sealed the night before."

She took the page, read it over twice from top to bottom, smoothed it flat, drew a line beside that sentence, and wrote the correction in the margin. The characters crowded close together.

She pushed it toward him. "Read it. Is that what you meant to say?"

"Yes."

"Put a fingerprint at the amendment. Page number stays the same."

The ink pad box slid over; the lid came off—red inside. He pressed his right thumb down, lifted it. A fingerprint appeared on the paper, a ring of wet red around it.

"Continue."

12:00. Nine pages, read through.

"The last page—there's one blank line at the bottom." The assistant turned the page over and pointed to the empty space. "Write this yourself: 'I have read the above record. It matches what I said.'"

"Where?"

"Below the last line."

The pen was handed to him. He wrote, then read the line aloud—clearly, not missing a character. When he finished, he looked up at her.

"Correct," she said.

"Sign here. Fingerprint here. Date here."

"Today's date?"

"Today's."

He signed the first page. The horizontal stroke of his signature went flat, the finishing stroke hooked back. The ink pad sat by his right hand. Thumb down, lift—he wiped the excess red on the corner of a sheet in the scrap pile.

Second page. Third page.

Writing the date on the third page, his hand slowed: July 7th. Fourth page. Fifth page.

By the sixth page, the pen tip pressed against the paper and held for a beat before he let it move. The seventh page's date came out smaller than the rest.

"Two more pages," the assistant said.

Eighth page. Ninth page.

Nine pages, nine signatures, nine fingerprints, nine dates.

She gathered the nine pages and stacked them by page number, counting one by one: "One, two, three..." At the end, she tapped the stack twice against the desk.

The three-page statement came out from beneath the folder. She checked the signature on the last page and handed it to the assistant. "Make a copy."

The assistant spread the three pages on the printer and fed them through one by one—the machine spat out each page with a soft sound. After three copies, he squared the paper and handed it across the desk; the originals went back into the case file bag.

"Originals stay with us. This is yours."

He smoothed the fold lines of the three pages and slipped them into the inner pocket of his briefcase. Inside that pocket were two torn strips of paper, ripped from the manuscript paper last night, folded twice, the edges raw and frayed. He set the copies on top of them and zipped the bag shut.

The cup of water still sat where it had been, a small ring of condensation seeping into the paper cup's side, untouched.

"You didn't drink the water," she said.

"I forgot."

"Next time, remember to drink." She stood, took her jacket from the back of the chair but didn't put it on. "When we need to verify, we'll find you. Stay reachable at the firm."

"I will be."

"Today's statements—when we verify, there will be more questions."

"I'll wait."

She walked him to the door. No handshake. The corridor floor gleamed from mopping; their footsteps echoed. At the end, by the door, she stopped. "Take it easy on the road."

12:20, outside the procuratorate.

The sun hung directly overhead. The camphor trees' shadows had shrunk to their roots. The breakfast stall was long gone; a patch of grease on the curb glistened in the heat. No one waited at the bottom of the steps.

He stood there for a while.

Nine years ago, this building had never once called his name.

He took his lawyer's license from the outer pocket of his briefcase—dark blue leather, the edges worn white from handling. He slid it into an inner pocket, pulled the zipper all the way, and pressed a palm to his chest.

His left hand gripped the bag strap, the scar facing up.