Chapter 431: Post-Rain Re-inspection

July 12, 10:30 a.m. Lu Jibai's phone vibrated three times against the wood of his desk.

He set down his pen, stood, and walked to the window at the top of the stairs. He put the phone to his ear, voice low. Two desks away, only a few words leaked through.

"It's me."

"The twentieth. I'm free."

"Two-thirty in the afternoon. I'll be there."

"Which room?"

"The Trial Supervision Division's room."

"What should I bring?"

The other side spoke for a while. He said "okay," hung up, flipped the phone over, and set it screen-down on the desk.

She didn't look up. The twelve forms under her hands were stacked in piles, four per section. The third section's pages weren't aligned—she nudged them with her thumb, then tapped the stack square.

At 10:45, her phone rang. An unfamiliar landline number.

"Hello?"

"Lawyer Shen? This is the clerk for Judge Zhuo, Jiangzhou Intermediate Court Trial Supervision Division."

She set the stack of forms down.

"Hello."

"On July 20, ten-thirty in the morning, you're requested to come to the Trial Supervision Division's interview room at the Intermediate Court to hear the petitioner's views. Bring the original petition materials."

"I'll bring everything I can."

"The originals all need to be seen." The voice paused, papers rustling. "When you arrive, check in on the first floor and say you're here for the Trial Supervision Division. We'll come down to meet you."

"How long will it take?"

"Depends on the materials. Hard to say. Ten-thirty. Don't be late."

"Alright."

She placed the phone on the desk, flipped to the last page of her notebook, and wrote below the July 7 entries: July 20, 10:30 a.m., Intermediate Court Trial Supervision Division, hear petitioner's views, bring originals.

When she finished, the pen tip pressed down once on the word "originals" before lifting away.

Just the two of them in the office. The inner door stood open, and the fan turned their way, lifting the corner of her notebook.

"The twentieth, two-thirty in the afternoon. They'll be asking me," he said.

"Ten-thirty in the morning. They'll be asking me."

"Originals, complete set."

"Yeah."

He pulled a pen from the holder, uncapped it, wrote one line in his own notebook, closed it, and slid the notebook under the stack of papers at the corner of his desk. He didn't ask what she was bringing. She didn't ask what his side would be questioned about. The window by the stairs was open. Downstairs, someone dragged a suitcase past the noodle shop door, wheels rattling across the concrete, fading with distance.

[Thud. The date's set. Morning for you, afternoon for him.]

The thirteenth was quiet. In the morning she copied the twelve Qinghe forms exactly as they were, one sheet per section, each of the four header columns checked box by box. The "Replanting Quantity Confirmer" box remained blank—the rule set on the third floor of Qinghe on July 7: blank meant no replanting. Li Huilan came back from the Enforcement Bureau in the afternoon, hung her cloth bag on the back of a chair, and said they'd been told to wait for a notice. She wasn't in a hurry. She sat down and went through the Lao Kan materials from beginning to end, and when she finished, she left the last page blank, pen un-inked.

July 14, 8:00 p.m. She got home. Zhi'an was crouched by the balcony wiping down her old bike—the chain had been oiled, and the rag was already black. The kitchen had left her half a bowl of porridge. Reheated, it had thickened some. She ate half of it. Wind picked up outside the window.

The wind came down the alley first, rattling the corrugated tin awning below, and then the rain came. At first she could hear each drop hitting the awning individually; within seconds they merged into one sound, like someone overhead shoveling beans down onto a tin roof.

She went to close the balcony window. The latch had long been loose—it needed to be lifted half an inch before it would catch. She folded a piece of cardboard and wedged it underneath, pressing her palm against the glass until the latch slid into its groove, then let go.

In the living room, Zhi'an turned the TV up a little and said something, but the rain swallowed it. She didn't ask.

After ten, the rain fell harder. She sat by the bed, listening.

April 6, in court, Wu Zhiqiang had said, "Heavy rain, the pond filled up, it went that way." That single overflow pipe at Sedimentation Tank No. 3—when the pond filled, it went that way. Into the ditch, into the fields, to the edge of the elementary school playground. On May 18, that pipe was capped. On May 22, the rain-sewage separation section was completed. The first heavy rain after the work was finished came tonight.

Rain fell into the pond. The pond filled. Where would the water go? Tonight's rain asked the question for her. Tomorrow, Cai Qingru would go look for the answer.

She didn't call Cai Qingru. The form had "Post-Rain Re-inspection" written on it—Cai Qingru knew better than anyone which day to go up to the village.

The rain didn't let up until nearly dawn. She got up twice in between. The second time she made sure the kitchen window was fully shut too.

July 15, 11:00 a.m. At the firm, she was separating the Qinghe forms by section when her phone rang.

"Zhixia, I'm down by the ditch."

Wind on the line, and water—the rush of it, not far away.

"How's the road?"

"Mud. Parked at the village entrance and walked up. Water's poured into my shoes twice." Cai Qingru spoke fast. "First, Tank No. 3. The pipe's capped. I picked at the cement—no cracks, and that mark we left on the edge is still there."

"The ditch?"

"I walked up from the section at the foot of the hill. Three points, all photographed. Not a trace of grey water—that whitish-grey foam, not a fleck. What's coming down from upstream is just mud, brown, settling in the slow stretches. The dredged section is rock-bottomed—the water runs fast over it, so it's actually clearer."

"The bags on the bank?"

"The tarp corner had come loose. I re-covered it, weighed it down with three stones. The bags held, except one had its mouth torn open by a rock—some spilled out. Luo Gong says he'll bring people up this afternoon to collect it."

Cai Qingru caught her breath. "Auntie Chai is by the ditch. She got here before me. I arrived at the village entrance at eight-thirty, and she was already there, trouser legs soaked halfway."

"She went alone?"

"Didn't feel right not to. She said the rain last night was too heavy—she lay there listening all night." A rustling on the line, then another voice. "Talk to her yourself."

"Little Shen."

"Auntie Chai, don't stand by the ditch too long. The water's cold."

"I'm wearing cloth shoes. If they get wet, I'll dry them when I get back." Her words came slow, the ends of them falling away. "I'll tell you one thing. The section they repaired—the water there is clear."

"You saw it yourself?"

"I scooped it up with my hand. Clear." Chai Guizhi said, "What comes down from upstream is mud. Mud's nothing—there's mud in the fields every year. What I fear is that grey layer. There's no grey today."

"No grey is good."

"And one more thing. That fourteen thousand—I haven't touched a cent. It's still in the passbook. I'll deal with it when the child starts school." She paused. "Don't you worry about us."

The phone came back to Cai Qingru. She said the forms were filled out and signed. She'd come into the city tomorrow morning—one copy to the firm, one staying at the Center. The photos were on the Center's computer, filed in folders by date.

"Has the playground been disturbed?"

"Luo Gong was here early. He says this rain soaked the soil through—good for digging. He's started on the half by the perimeter wall. The half by the classroom windows, he says wait two days to dry. He's worried the ground will go soft after digging and loosen the wall's foundation."

"Did you measure the distance from the classroom windows?"

"Measured it. It's written on the form. Six point two meters. I watched him do it—tape pulled tight at both ends."

"Keep the replanting box blank."

"It's blank."

After hanging up, the room went quiet. The fan turned her way, lifting the top sheet of the stack on her desk, then letting it fall.

"How's the ditch?" he asked from his own desk.

"No grey water. The dredged section hasn't collapsed."

"The playground's been dug?"

"Half of it. The window-side half waits two days to dry. Six point two meters from the windows."

He made a low sound of acknowledgment, uncapped his pen, wrote another line in that notebook of his, and set the pen down when he finished.

[Thud. The rain's been checked. That path is a dead end.]

At 3:00 p.m., Li Huilan came upstairs, set her cloth bag on the desk, and pulled out a sheet of paper.

"Lao Kan's case—the first payment arrived this morning." She slid the paper across. "Enforcement settlement, two installments. The second is due before the middle of next month."

It was a page of deposit vouchers with a photocopy of the settlement agreement attached. Amounts, dates, two signatures. Where the Respondent had signed, there was a private seal, the impression slightly smeared at the edges.

"He's downstairs," Li Huilan said. "Insists on treating me to noodles. I said no need; he said he already ordered. You come down too—he's mentioned you twice."

"Mentioned what?"

"Said this case had another lawyer, a Lawyer Shen, that he never got to meet."

The noodle house was empty at three in the afternoon. The pot on the stove still simmered over low heat. He Xiufen took two bowls from the sterilizer, the rims clinking twice against the counter. At the table by the door sat a man in his fifties, shirt washed so many times it had gone pale, one collar button open, holding a pair of chopsticks, not moving.

When he saw them come down, he stood.

"This is Lawyer Shen," Li Huilan said.

"Lawyer Shen." He nodded once, wiped his hand on his trousers before extending it. She shook it—palm hard, knuckles thick, the edges of his fingernails ringed with black that wouldn't wash out.

"My name is Kan," he said. "This matter of mine has troubled Lawyer Li for a year."

"Sit and eat," He Xiufen said.

He pulled an envelope from his pocket and pushed it toward the counter. "For the noodles."

He Xiufen picked up the envelope, drew out one note, stuffed the rest back into his hand, and fished a poached egg from the pot, settling it on top of his bowl.

"I've taken payment. First installment's in—that earns you an egg."

Lao Kan looked at the egg in his bowl and sat still for a moment.

"Eleven months, and half's arrived," he said. "The other half, he says next month."

"He's been saying that for over ten years," Li Huilan said. "This time it's written on paper."

"Written on paper." He repeated it and lowered his head to eat. After a few mouthfuls, he set the chopsticks down.

"Lawyer Shen, one question. Once the money's here, is it over?"

"This case is over," she said. "When the other half arrives, that's truly over."

"And if he won't pay?"

"Then enforcement continues." Li Huilan picked it up. "Don't be afraid of him stalling. If he stalls, we'll come back and do it again."

Lao Kan nodded once, then again. He ate slowly, noodle by noodle, and at the end lifted the bowl and drank the broth, setting it back on the table with barely a sound.

"Work, then get paid. Why's it so hard," he said.

He Xiufen turned the flame down at the stove. "Hard or not, money's here. That's what matters."

"My wife says she wants to bring Lawyer Li a basket of eggs."

"Keep the eggs," Li Huilan said. "When that other half arrives, that'll be better than eggs."

"The eggs will come too," he said.

He Xiufen let out a short laugh.

He stood, pushed his chair back under the table, and at the door looked back. "Lawyer Li, when that other half comes next month, I'll treat you to another bowl."

"Two bowls," Li Huilan said.

He pushed through the door. An electric scooter buzzed once in the alley, then faded.

She carried the bowl back to the counter and went upstairs. The upstairs window had been shut all day; the room smelled stuffy. She pushed open the half facing the alley.

Her notebook lay open on the desk, flipped to the Qingshi Village page at the back. On it were the rules set on the third floor of Qinghe on July 7; below them, a line she'd added herself—"Post-Rain Re-inspection"—with no date.

Beside the July 15 entry she wrote: After the rain, clear.

When she finished, she capped the pen.

Outside the window, in the alley below, the rain had long stopped, but the ground was still wet. Against the opposite wall, a puddle had collected, holding a small patch of sky, bright. A child ran past the puddle's edge and stomped into it, splashing water up the wall. The little patch of sky shattered.