Chapter 437: Full Copy

July 22, 9:30 a.m., Zhengping Firm, first floor.

The receptionist was cutting open a cardboard box with a box cutter. Printer paper. The blade's scrape against the tape echoed through the lobby. The glass door opened and a woman walked in, dark jacket, a kraft document envelope in her hand, the flap folded over twice. She set her credentials on the counter before she spoke.

"Jiangzhou Intermediate People's Court, Trial Supervision Division. I have a Notice of Evidence Collection. Please sign for it on behalf of your firm."

The receptionist set down the box cutter and took the sheet. She flipped it over, studied the back, flipped it back. The header read "Jiangzhou Zhengping Law Firm." Below it, a paragraph: in reviewing petitioner Shen Zhixia's petition regarding the case of original defendant Shen Qian, this court requires the production of Lu Jibai's internship agreement, internship log, and assessment form from his time at this firm. Materials to be provided within three days of receipt, stamped by the providing entity.

She looked up at the wall. Row after row of brass name plaques, polished bright. Third row from the bottom, second from the right: Shen Qian. The plate beneath that name showed brighter than its neighbors, unevenly worn.

"The stamp isn't with me," the receptionist said. "Let me call."

"I'll wait," the woman from the Intermediate Court said.

Six or seven minutes after the call went up, a woman came down the stairs. Early forties, short hair, glasses hanging from a cord around her neck. She stepped to the counter, picked up the sheet, read the front, read the back, and stopped at the signature line.

"Three items," she said. "Agreement, log, assessment form."

"Correct." The clerk pulled another sheet from her envelope. "This is the Proof of Service, in duplicate. Sign and stamp, and keep one copy for your records."

"The person in charge needs to know about any file release," the administrative woman said.

"The notice is addressed to your firm. You can sign for it," the clerk said. "Copies within three days. We won't touch the originals; you'll verify the page counts yourselves."

The administrative woman picked up a pen, signed the return receipt, and went upstairs for the stamp. The stamp came down, a red circle, pressed beside the signature line. The clerk handed over her copy, turned to leave, then looked back at the door. "I'll come up for it at eleven."

The receptionist kept her head down until the glass door closed, then glanced up and asked quietly, "He's a witness?"

The administrative woman folded the notice and slid it into a plastic clipboard. "Don't ask."

10:05 a.m., fourth-floor archives. Against the wall, a row of steel cabinets. Bottom shelf, second compartment. She pulled out a kraft box labeled "Internship Materials." Below it, a line of small print; the year had faded, the first half unreadable. Inside: two pages of internship agreement, one thin internship log, one assessment form, double-sided, corners curled.

The administrative woman spread the three items on the desk and started with the agreement. The Party A column bore the firm's seal from nine years ago. The Party B column held a signature, thin strokes, tightly drawn. The supervising lawyer column also held a signature. She looked at it for two seconds, then flipped the page over.

Song Qiming came out of the elevator, thermos in one hand, a document pouch in the other. He reached the archive room door, saw the materials spread on her desk, and stopped.

"From the Intermediate Court?"

"Delivered this morning." She pushed the notice toward him. "Three items from his year."

Song Qiming set his thermos on the corner of the desk. He read the notice top to bottom, then again, then back to the signature line.

"You planning to copy only the relevant pages?" he asked.

"The log has other people's cases in it."

"Copy the whole thing. Don't pull a single page." He tapped the notice. "You pull one page, they compare it back at the court, and all three items are worthless."

"The log's a notebook, not loose sheets."

"Copy a notebook page by page, too," he said. "Stamp the perforation seam when it's done. List every item and page count on the inventory so nobody has to come back and fill in gaps."

He picked up the internship log and flipped it open. Yellowed paper, one line per day: arrival time, departure time, who he went out with, what they handled. The handwriting was orderly, the same from start to finish. He paused at the March pages.

The entry for March 21 was one line. No destination, no return time.

Song Qiming closed the book, set it back on the desk, squared the edges.

"Which division?"

"Trial Supervision."

"Hm." He picked up his thermos, took two steps, turned back. "If they ask, don't say whether we're cooperating or not. They came with a notice. We handed it over. That's the line."

From 10:40 on, the copier in the corner kept running. The administrative woman laid the agreement on the glass, one page at a time. The log she turned page by page, carefully, afraid to wrinkle the paper. The assessment form she copied front and back, checked both sides against the light, paired them up. The copies went into a new document envelope. She took a blank sheet and wrote an inventory: three items, page counts, line by line. The perforation seal went on the outside of the envelope, crossing the seal at two points.

At exactly 11:00, the clerk came back upstairs. She counted each page at the desk, checked it against the inventory, signed the return receipt with today's date, and gathered everything up.

"All three items inside?"

"They are," the administrative woman said. "Agreement, log, assessment form. The originals stay in our cabinet. If you need originals, send another notice."

The clerk hugged the envelope to her chest. "Received."

At the elevator, she turned back. "We won't discuss today's copies outside. What your people say among yourselves, that's not something we can control."

The elevator doors closed.

11:20 a.m. The desk phone at Zhengping Firm rang.

Li Huilan was on a call by the window, voice low. He Xiufen sat beneath the window in the old wooden chair, shelling soybeans, a bowl of green pods on her lap. Shen Zhixia's chair was empty; she'd left for Chengxi at 9:20 that morning. On her desk lay a half-rolled document, a pen marking her place.

Lu Jibai came out from the inner office to answer.

"Lawyer Lu? This is the administrative office at Hengzheng."

"Go ahead."

"The Jiangzhou Intermediate Court sent a Notice of Evidence Collection this morning, requesting three items from your internship here: the internship agreement, the internship log, and the assessment form. We handed them over. Picked up at eleven. Full copies, stamped, inventory signed."

The line went quiet for a moment.

"When was it delivered?"

"9:30. The receptionist wouldn't sign, so I went down."

"All three items handed over?"

"All of them. Originals untouched."

"Thank you."

"No need to thank me," the administrative woman said. "I'll let the person in charge know as well."

The call ended. He set down the receiver and stood at the desk, not moving away. Outside, a construction site was driving piles. Thud. Thud. Through the glass, muffled.

He remembered that log. The March 21 entry was in his own hand. He'd written it and closed the book. That morning he'd loaded two cardboard boxes into the car, signed the sample submission form, delivered it to Qingyuan, come back to the office at midday. In the afternoon he'd caught up on the log. When he wrote, he wrote that one line.

He Xiufen looked up at him, dropped a soybean shell into the bowl, said nothing.

He pulled a sticky note from the drawer, uncapped a pen, and wrote:

July 22. The Intermediate Court collected my internship file from Hengzheng, from my year there. Hengzheng called to tell me.

He signed it "Lu," walked to her desk, set it beside the pen holder, and weighted one corner with the pen holder. Lightly. A hand could lift it right off.

He Xiufen picked up the bowl of soybeans and headed downstairs. Passing the desk, she saw the note lying face-down. She said nothing.

2:00 p.m. Chengnan District People's Procuratorate, first floor, the reception room at the far east end.

Judge Zhuo and the clerk arrived to find Prosecutor Zhuang already waiting at the door, shirtsleeves rolled to her wrists. From the far end of the corridor came a man, around fifty, buttoning his suit jacket as he reached the door. The head of the Complaints and Petitions Prosecution Department.

A pitcher of water on the table, four glass cups.

"Two matters," Judge Zhuo said, sitting down. "One, we need a copy of the nine-page interview record of Lu Jibai, from July of this year. Copied, stamped. Two, we want your opinion as the original prosecuting authority on this petition."

"The record is in the case file," Prosecutor Zhuang said. "The original stays. We'll produce the copy on the spot."

She took a kraft case file from the cabinet, pulled out the nine pages, spread them on the table. Interview record forms, each page signed at the lower right, a red fingerprint pressed over each signature. She carried the file to the copier at the end of the corridor, made a set, and on the first page's upper right wrote "Verified against original." Signed, dated July 22, then stamped the procuratorate's seal across the perforation.

Judge Zhuo sat and read page by page, slowly. On page five he let his finger rest on the lower edge of the paper. On page seven, he flipped back to check something. The only sound in the room was the wall clock.

"Those two names he reported," he said, closing the record. "They're in this."

"The names are in the record," Prosecutor Zhuang said. "We don't discuss them outside."

"Then I'll rely on this copy," Judge Zhuo said.

The clerk made a note, pen pausing on the paper before lifting off.

"And your opinion?" Judge Zhuo asked.

The department head nudged his cup inward. "Three points verbally, in writing to the Intermediate Court within three days. One: the facts and evidence charged back then are what's in the file. We make no amendments and offer no second version. Two: the July information, this year's. We accepted it and recorded it. Three: on how this case should be handled, we offer no substantive opinion. The court will review according to law."

"Fine," Judge Zhuo said. "When the written opinion arrives, I'll go by that."

He slipped the record copy into his plastic clipboard, then remembered something and looked up. "One more question. Back when it was transferred to the court, that test report had attachments. Do you have copies on file here?"

The department head thought it over.

"The report was transferred as evidence," he said. "What was attached to it, I'd have to go back and check."

"If you find it, let me know," Judge Zhuo said. "If you don't find it, let me know too."

"Will do."

At ten minutes to three, a car waited in the courtyard. Prosecutor Zhuang walked them to the door and said half a sentence from the steps: "His case, we're handling separately."

"I won't ask," Judge Zhuo said.

That day, Shen Zhixia was in Chengxi.

She'd left at 9:20, taken two buses, and reached the Chengxi District People's Court Litigation Service Center at 10:30. Ge Xiaoyu's case had settled through mediation. Acceptance fees were halved for mediated cases; the overpaid half needed to be refunded, the refund form required the agent's signature, and the money went to the party's bank card.

She took a number and sat in the row of chairs by the door, watching the numbers tick up. At noon the window closed. She sat under the tree at the bottom of the steps for forty minutes, ate a bun from her bag, drank half her water. The window reopened at 1:30. She handed in the refund application, the mediation order copy, and the bank account copy, one item at a time. The woman at the window verified the card's last digits and said the money would arrive within seven working days, direct deposit, no need for the account holder to appear.

"The card is his own?"

"Yes. He's out of town now."

"Then it's fine."

She checked the last digits three times, tucked away the receipt, and called Ge Changlin from the bottom of the steps.

"The refunded half of the acceptance fee will hit your card within seven working days. Keep an eye out."

"I'll remember," he said. A pause. "Lawyer Shen, does the kid need to sign any more papers?"

"Not for now. I'll let you know ahead of time when the follow-up exam is scheduled."

"I'm heading back to work, then." Wind on the line; he was probably walking.

The road into the city was backed up for a stretch. At 5:10 she got off in Old Town. The scallion-oil smell from the noodle shop below was drifting up the stairwell. He Xiufen came out of the kitchen with a basin, said "Noodles are in the pot," and went back in.

Only two people on the second floor. Li Huilan was tidying files at her desk; the inner office door stood ajar, Lu Jibai on the phone.

She walked to her desk, set down her bag, and saw the sticky note beside the pen holder.

She picked it up and read it once, then again: July 22. The Intermediate Court collected my internship file from Hengzheng, from my year there. Hengzheng called to tell me. Signed at the bottom with a "Lu."

She stood at her desk, the paper in her hand, not moving. It was firm letterhead, a small square, one edge still rough where it had been torn from the pad. His handwriting. Thin strokes, tightly drawn. The same as the three-page statement he'd submitted to the Litigation Service Center two weeks ago.

The call in the inner office was still going.

"The Replanting Quantity Confirmer column: whoever measured it signs it... Don't sign for her... The six-meter-two point, write the day it was measured, not just a rough date... If the form doesn't show the date, who's going to vouch for it later?"

She folded the sticky note once, opened her notebook, slipped it inside. The notebook fell open to the July page, crowded with lines from earlier in the month, the bottom half still blank. She closed it and pressed the corner down so it lay flat between the pages.

The call ended. He came out to get water and saw her already seated.

"Finished in Chengxi?" he asked.

"Done. The money arrives within seven working days." She opened a file. "The revised form is on your desk. The replanting column is still blank, waiting for Cai Qingru to measure before we fill it in."

"I saw it," he said.

He carried his cup back to the inner office, then paused at the door.

"You read the note?"

"Yes."

"The three items—there's a line in the log that I wrote," he said. "March 21, out with the firm."

She didn't respond. He didn't continue either. He went into the inner office.

Outside, the sky was still light. Someone on the street below called out for a delivery order; the sound floated up from the pavement. The aisle between the two desks was empty, the old floorboards worn bright. She nudged the notebook toward the corner of the desk. The corner of the note was still showing.