Chapter 439: Court Express Delivery

"Zhengping Firm — Court Express Delivery —"

The shout came up through the alley, past the noodle shop's exhaust fan, and through the half-open window on the second floor.

She was bent over her desk, checking the table for Qinghe — the replanting column was still blank. She set the pen down and went downstairs. The stairs were narrow; each step creaked under her weight.

Water was boiling on the stove downstairs. A motorcycle stood at the mouth of the alley, its sidecar stacked with kraft paper envelopes. A young man in a blue work uniform stood at the noodle shop door, holding a thin slip of paper, a small patch of shadow pooling at his feet.

"Zhengping Law Firm, second floor."

"That's me."

"Sign here." He spread the paper flat on the table by the door, pinning one edge down with his keychain. "One express delivery, one item."

The return receipt was printed with a grid of boxes: case type, document title, recipient, service address, service time, signatory. The case type was handwritten, cramped characters. The document title box was filled in: _Retrial Decision_. The letterhead read: Jiangzhou Intermediate People's Court.

The service address box showed this alley, the house number, Zhengping Law Firm. Not her home.

She took the pen, read through each blank from top to bottom, then set the nib down. Name, date, time — one stroke at a time, the pen never slipping on the paper.

The young man waited until she finished, held the sheet up to the light for a look, then pulled a piece of cardboard from his tool bag and clipped the return receipt into it. "This has to go back to the court for the file. I'll take a photo." He pulled out his phone, flashed it once, then handed her the envelope. "Two pages. You can feel it."

"How many more?"

"Seven in the sidecar." He adjusted the bag strap on his shoulder. "Got to finish the route today."

He Xiufen set down her long chopsticks by the stove, scooped a ladle of noodle broth, and looked up. "From the court?"

"Yeah."

"Go upstairs and read it. I'll save you some noodles." She lifted her chin toward the young man. "Care for some water?"

"Don't dare stop. Thanks." He was already at the mouth of the alley.

The envelope's edge was printed with a red border. When she tore it open, paper fibers curled up. Two pages inside — new paper, stiff, rustling as she turned them.

The letterhead read Jiangzhou Intermediate People's Court, and below it, in large characters: Retrial Decision.

Below that, Petitioner: Shen Zhixia.

She paused there. Her father's case had passed from the police station to the procuratorate to the court. Across nine years, every piece of paper bore the name Shen Qian. Her own name had never appeared once. This time her name sat at the top, printed by a machine, horizontal strokes, vertical strokes.

Below it: Original Trial Defendant: Shen Qian (deceased).

Nine years ago, the judgment had read "Defendant Shen Qian," nothing after it. Now he had become "Original Trial Defendant," followed by a parenthetical note, printed neatly — "deceased" — like the rectangular stamp on the first page of a household register.

Further down: Original Judgment: Criminal verdict of the Jiangzhou Chengnan District People's Court. Below that, a paragraph she read slowly, line by line: _The new evidence submitted by the petitioner may affect the original judgment's conviction of the original trial defendant Shen Qian. Pursuant to the Criminal Procedure Law of the People's Republic of China, regarding the trial supervision procedure, the following is decided._

All those pages they had submitted had been compressed on this paper into two words: "new evidence." The five-page original, the three pages of interview records, one witness's words, those nine pages of his — all contained within those two words, not one extra character written.

The decision was a single line:

_Direct the Jiangzhou Chengdong District People's Court to conduct a retrial of this case._

Dated August 3, 2027, the red seal stamped over the date, its edges slightly blurred. She held the two pages up to the window light — the ink hadn't smeared, and the seal's border could be counted edge to edge.

[Thud. Baixi Village - Shen Qian, retrial.]

[Thud. Old Case Retrial, three items: Original True Sample — obtained; one person willing to tell the truth — obtained; Sample Delivery Record — not obtained.]

She laid the decision flat on the desk, both hands pressing down on the paper's edges.

_Sample Delivery Record — not obtained._ She read those few characters twice. She knew what was missing: in the file at Chengbei District Court, the report's first page stated six pages total, but the volume contained only five. The sixth page was an attachment — the sample handover form. The original had arrived, the witness's words had arrived, but this last item stuck at the narrowest gate. For the retrial to move forward, someone would have to lay out piece by piece where the two cardboard boxes were that night, who replaced the tape the next morning, and whose name was on the sample submission form. In her notebook, under the column "Things I still don't know," the first entry was: where is page six.

A car passed on the street outside; the window rattled for a moment.

At twenty past ten, He Xiufen came upstairs. Her apron was dusted with flour; her hands had been in water, red, and she wiped them twice on the apron before reaching out.

He Xiufen read standing up, flipped back to the first page to check the letterhead, then the date. Finished, she set the two pages back on the desk and pushed them toward her.

"Your dad's file. Opened again."

"Yeah."

He Xiufen walked to the window, pushed it half open. Wind came in, lifting the corner of the form on the desk. "Don't eat noodles for lunch." She said, "I'll stir-fry something for you." She went downstairs.

Li Huilan came back at half past ten, a thermos in one hand, the legal aid file tucked under the other arm. She set the thermos on the low cabinet, poured a cup of water, and brought it over to the corner of the desk.

"It's hot."

She glanced at the two pages on the desk, didn't ask, and retreated to her seat. She opened the day laborer's case and began filling in the hours from that morning's stakeout. Steam from the cup rose slowly, dissipating in the window light.

The inner office door was still half open. She walked over with the two pages and stood in the aisle between the two desks.

"Retrial. Chengdong District Court."

Lu Jibai looked up, first at her, then reached out and took the two pages. He didn't read quickly. He finished the first page, flipped it over, and his eyes lingered on the date line longer than anywhere else.

"Not remanded to the original court?"

"No. Directed to Chengdong District."

"Mm." He handed the pages back. "Then we don't touch this case in Chengnan District anymore."

With that he lowered his head, and the nib of his pen dropped back onto the paper.

She returned to her desk, separated the two pages from today's other business, and tucked them under the iron pen holder at the corner of her desk. The scent of scallion oil drifting up from downstairs was heavier than usual.

There was nothing else scheduled for the afternoon.

She finished the remaining blanks on Qinghe's form one by one, filled in the review date beneath the replanting column, set her pen down, and only then opened her notebook.

The entry for June 24 still read: _Case filed for review at Intermediate Court, handler Zhuo. Notice sent to the firm._ Below it she added a line: _Three months, until September 24._ This paper was dated August 3 — more than fifty days earlier than those three months.

Further down, following her habit, she copied out the decision line: Direct the Jiangzhou Chengdong District People's Court to conduct a retrial of this case. When she copied the words "Chengdong District," she paused to think about where that building was.

On December 23 of last year, Kang Wenying had stood with her in the litigation service center on the first floor of the Chengdong District Court, filing an application for judicial confirmation. The window faced east; on winter mornings the sun reached halfway across the counter, and two rows of holly grew outside the glass. On January 6, the ruling came down — same building, same floor. Kang Wenying had worn a dark coat that day, tucked the ruling into her handbag, and said that this time it was real.

She'd been to the Chengdong District Court more than once. He Lan's protection order had been filed there too. She knew which way the main gate faced, knew the row of chairs on the first floor. The retrial would open there.

When that thought settled in, something in her chest didn't quite land. She couldn't say what it was.

At two o'clock, she called Tang Guo.

It was noisy on the other end, like she was on the street, the wind chopping up her words: "...Zhixia?"

"Retrial's confirmed."

The wind kept blowing. Footsteps pushed forward, then receded, like she'd moved somewhere else.

"When did this happen?"

"This morning. Court express delivery. I signed for it."

"Which court?"

"Chengdong District. The Intermediate Court directed Chengdong District to handle the retrial."

"Chengdong District." Tang Guo repeated it after her. "So what's next?"

"Waiting for them to set a date."

"Can I post this?..." Tang Guo stopped mid-sentence, then changed course. "I'm asking you first whether it's okay."

"Don't post it."

The line went quiet for a beat.

"Don't post it." She said it again, calmly. "Nothing can go out right now."

"Why?"

"Not everyone's in position yet."

"Fine." Tang Guo answered crisply. "I won't post. I'll wait until you say the word." A pause, then she added, "There's soup on the stove. I'll bring you some tonight."

"No need."

"Then I'll save it."

After hanging up, she turned the phone over and laid it face down on the desk. Outside the window, the sky was pale, the clouds moving fast.

She picked the phone up again, pulled up Zhi'an's number, and her thumb hovered over the call button. After a moment, she set the phone back down. This wasn't something for a phone call. She'd go home tonight and lay this paper flat on the table for him to see.

At six, people left one by one. He Xiufen went downstairs to close up the shop, and Li Huilan stuffed the file into her bag. "I'll go file the materials for that company tomorrow," she said on her way out, her footsteps fading down the stairs. In the inner office, he squared up his things, came out, glanced at her desk, said "Heading out first," and pulled the door shut behind him.

She was alone in the firm.

The copier sat on the low cabinet by the inner office door — old, needing a moment to warm up. She laid the two pages on the glass, pressed the lid down. The machine clicked, a green light came on, and paper spit out from below, the first sheet marked with a black line along one edge. She pulled it out to inspect, then placed it again.

Two copies, four pages, counted one by one. One set went into the case cover marked "Shen Qian Petition" on her desk; the other went into her bag to bring home tonight.

The originals she did not put in her bag.

In the deepest drawer lay a stack of unused kraft paper envelopes. She pulled one out, pinched the opening and shook it, then slid the two pages in, letting the paper settle flat against the bottom, no folded corners.

She wrote nothing on the face of the envelope.

She stood and opened the cabinet. The top shelf had always been empty, its front crowded with other people's files and old archive boxes. She placed the envelope inside, leaning it against the partition, half an inch of space on either side.

The cabinet door closed. The brass lock clicked shut. The two keys on her ring tapped lightly together.

She sat back down, flipped the notebook to the August page, and wrote on the first line: _August 5, 10:05 a.m., court express delivery, Retrial Decision._ Finished, she capped the pen and laid it on the paper.

Downstairs, He Xiufen was still washing pots, the sound of water rising in waves.