Chapter 434: The Provenance, Page by Page

"Sit. You first. Why didn't you file this with the Chengnan District Court?"

She lifted the paper bag from beside the chair leg and set it on her knees, unopened.

"Because the missing page went missing in the Chengnan District Court's cabinet."

Judge Zhuo's hand rested on the desk, not holding a pen. The court clerk's keyboard clacked twice, then stopped.

"Which page?"

"The attachment," she said. "In the file index, the box for 'Attachment' has no page number, just a pencil-marked 'missing' next to it. The archive inspection form notes the missing item, dated one month after the judgment came down. That volume is housed at the Chengnan District Court. They filled out the form themselves."

Judge Zhuo pushed his glasses up, looked at her, and didn't press further.

"You're saying: have the original trial court investigate a page missing from its own file."

"Yes."

"What are you requesting?"

"That the original judgment be revoked and an acquittal be entered according to law." She paused. "The grounds are on the third page of the petition, one line each."

He didn't ask her to read it. He flipped to it himself and stopped at that page. The air conditioner's outdoor unit hummed beyond the window; the draft lifted one corner of the paper by his hand.

"You write here that the report the original judgment relied on for conviction—its attachment was never in the file." He looked up. "What makes you say so?"

She folded open the paper bag, drew out the top several pages, squared the edges, and slid them across.

"Two things. The file index shows the page number blank for that item, with a penciled 'missing.' And the archive inspection form lists the missing item—noted at the time of archiving by their own hand. Archiving was done one month after the judgment; they noted it missing then, and no one ever supplemented it after."

"Both of those are in the file."

"Both in the file. When I pulled the volume in 2025, I copied it page by page, each page stamped with a verification seal."

"What you have is a photocopy."

"A photocopy. The original is at the Chengnan District Court."

"The original of the retest report—you've seen it."

"Only on June 17th," she said. "In the volume at the Chengbei District Court. Five pages, stapled at the end of the plaintiff's evidence section. The first page says six pages total, including one attachment; the last line of page five states the attachment is a photocopy; page six is not there."

Judge Zhuo nodded once and set the petition back at the center of his desk.

"Those two reports. What do they say?"

"The one in the file says within limits," she said. "The retest one: sample name—Baixi Village well water, second sample; conclusion—cadmium exceeds the standard; issuer—Cen Shouye; dated April 1st. Same sample, more than a month apart."

"Neither was done by you."

"I didn't do either."

"Then what makes you say your father didn't falsify anything?"

"I don't rely on that," she said. "I rely on the page not being in the file, on the file's own missing-item note, on the same sample having two results and only one making it into the file. The rest is for the court to ask."

Judge Zhuo didn't answer. He pushed the paper half an inch toward her. "One thing at a time."

She upended the paper bag; the papers didn't scatter. The clerk stood, nudged a white porcelain cup toward her. Thin steam still rose from the water. She said thanks, didn't drink.

"Petition for review," she said. "Five pages, signed on the last page, May 19th."

He turned to the last page and looked. "When was the first signing?"

"May 9th. I revised it on the 19th, re-signed, dated it that day. The old page was torn out."

"What did you change?"

"Added the section requesting direct review by the Intermediate Court. Shortened two paragraphs. Nothing else."

"Household register. Turn to the page with the name."

She flipped it open. On her father's page, above the name, a square seal had been stamped at an angle. The red had darkened, the edges slightly fuzzy. He pressed one finger over the seal.

"Who stamped this?"

"I don't know," she said. "It was on there when I took it out of the box. What I can't answer, I say I don't know. I don't guess."

Pen moved one line across paper. The clerk typed.

[Thud. "I don't know" is also an answer.]

"Certificate of release from prison. Death certificate." He held both to the window light. "Who gave you these?"

"No one. I took them out myself on May 5th, from the cardboard box under the bed at home. The box from when we moved out of the old house nine years ago. My dad's papers were all in it."

"What else was at the bottom?"

"Two old newspapers, wrapped around the first volume."

"Did you bring them?"

"No," she said. "What I brought today is all on this table."

He set the two sheets down and pressed a finger to the lower right corner of the bottommost stack, where a small square seal had blurred under pressure. "These seven pages—who stamped them?"

"Chengbei District Court archives. Comrade Chu. June 17th." She paused. "On June 14th, Lawyer Lu put the seal on the firm letter. I took it to the archives to request approval. Approval takes three working days. I arrived at nine-thirty the morning of the 17th."

"You went alone?"

"Alone."

"How did the original retest report end up in someone else's case file?"

"After Cen Shouye was removed as director, he sued his employer. The report he himself signed—he submitted it to the court to prove he was still performing the director's duties through that date. The original was checked in court and attached to the file. He told his family he handed it in and never got it back. 'Safest place to keep it.'"

"Who retained you?"

"Cen Shouye's three heirs. The old lady can't read; her copy was read to her and she pressed her thumbprint. The one living out of town mailed back a signed signature page. The purpose line on the power of attorney states: investigate the Baixi Village matter. It may later be submitted in a retrial."

"How did you obtain it?"

"The volume was brought out of the stacks by Comrade Chu, both hands under the bottom of it, set on the table. No untying the file, no removing it, not a single page pulled. What I wanted was photocopies—seven pages. On each page's lower right corner, she stamped 'Verified against original.' If the seal didn't fall cleanly in place, she'd flip to that spot, show me, then stamp beside it. The loan register for that volume had been empty for nine years. No one had ever borrowed it. I didn't borrow it either. I only read it in the room and signed the access register—time in, time out, how many pages, for what purpose. One item per line."

"Where is the original now?"

"In the volume at the Chengbei District Court. The bag on the table—the lower signature is Comrade Chu's."

Judge Zhuo didn't turn to look at the kraft-paper archive envelope. A white slip ran across its mouth; two signatures straddled the seam, one above, one below. The lower one was pressed hard, the last stroke dragging downward. He didn't glance at it a second time.

"These three pages—you did the interview."

"July 1st, at his home. What he said, I wrote. After each page I read it back to him. He listened, nodded, signed, pressed his thumbprint."

"Who else was present?"

"Me. And Director He from our firm. She's listed as present on the record. His son was on the day shift, not there."

"Who made the recording?"

"I did," she said. "Phone on his table. I said I'm recording what you say. He didn't object."

"He knew it was coming here?"

"He knew. Before recording, I told him the recording and this paper would be submitted together. He said, 'Record it. Once it's recorded, I won't change it.'"

"How many segments?"

"The one I brought is one segment." Her hand rested on the paper bag. "The other segment I excised. It's not evidence. I'm not submitting it."

Judge Zhuo watched her for a moment, then straightened the stack's order without asking further.

"Judgment. Ruling."

"Photocopied when I pulled the file in 2025. The original volume is at the Chengnan District Court. Every page of the copies bears a verification seal. Submitted with the materials here on May 25th. Not in my bag."

"The petition also mentions a hard drive."

"I have it. Bottom shelf of the steel cabinet at the firm."

"Who has custody?"

"Me."

"What's on it?"

"What was left over after that appraisal. Printed copies of five scans, and an empty folder. I submitted one set of the printouts in May, stapled behind that one item."

"Appraisal opinion. Notarial certificate."

"Originals in the bottom shelf of the firm's steel cabinet, sealed. What's in the file is a copy."

"Copies suffice for those two," Judge Zhuo said. "The drive doesn't need to come in. When it's needed, the court will issue a letter."

[Thud. This one—the drive stays with you for now.]

"In your petition you say there are three new items." He closed his notebook. "All on this table?"

"Two on the table," she said. "The original retest report—stapled into the main file of that volume at the Chengbei District Court; the bag is on your desk. The man who saw things that night—his words are in the three-page record; he himself is in Baixi Village."

"The third?"

"Submitted here on July 8th," she said. "The statement from the sampling end, and his declaration of willingness to testify. Not in my bag."

"And one more," Judge Zhuo said. "The page missing from the file."

"That's the sampling record," she said. "I don't have it. Nine years. I've never seen it."

At 11:35, the clerk pulled up the record and read it aloud from the top. She read evenly, sentence by sentence. When she reached the passage, "Who stamped this seal—I don't know. What I can't answer, I say I don't know. I don't guess," she stopped and looked up, asking if she wanted to revise.

She listened to her own words read back, shorter than when she'd answered. "No change."

At "the other segment I excised. It's not evidence," the clerk paused and looked at her.

Judge Zhuo said, "I'm not asking about the excised segment. If you submit it, it goes on the record. If not, it doesn't exist in this one."

"Not submitting."

The clerk recorded that line and continued.

"Anything to add?"

She looked at the cup of water she hadn't touched and thought for a moment. "Add one line: The petitioner has never seen that page."

Judge Zhuo said, "Enter it."

At 11:40, she took the record, signing page by page at the lower right corner, date written in full. The pen was the clerk's—thin barrel, fast ink. On the last page she paused, pressed the final stroke flat, capped the pen, and set it back where it had been.

Judge Zhuo slipped the record into a folder, stood, and pushed his chair back.

"The one this afternoon—you don't need to wait."

"I won't."

"Take the originals with you today. Don't fold them on the way."

"I won't."

In the corridor, the gray vinyl floor split into two shades in the window light. The row of three seats by the window was empty; the one she'd sat in at 10:25 held a faint impression. The inquiry room door closed behind her; the latch clicked, not loud.

At the first-floor registration desk, she crossed a line on the visitor slip. The security guard looked up and asked if she was finished. She said she was. The glass door swung open; heat surged in.

The steps outside the Intermediate Court were sun-bleached white. A woman carrying two archive bags passed her, heading inside; a young man in uniform came out, a stack of papers in hand, counting as he walked. She stepped half a pace aside, stopped on the second step, and pulled her phone from her bag.

"The Qinghe form—I revised it and put it on your desk."

Sent. The message sat in the thread, the previous one still about other business. Neither had said more than needed.

She put the phone back, zipped the bag halfway, worked the zipper back, hitched the strap higher on her shoulder, and walked down.

A court car stood at the foot of the steps, the lettering on its door faded by sun, no driver inside, one window cracked open. She walked around it and headed for the bus stop.