Chapter 444: The Shut-Off Senior Phone

At ten thirty, the phone on the desk buzzed once before it rang. A landline number on the screen, Chengdong District.

The inner room's door was half open, the light on. She picked up her notebook and pen, stepped out of the outer room, pulled the door shut behind her, and only answered once she was standing on the landing at the top of the stairs.

"Lawyer Shen Zhixia?" A woman's voice, soft, with the rustle of paper in the background. "Criminal Division, Chengdong District People's Court."

"That's me."

"The Intermediate Court assigned this one to us. It was filed on August twelfth. I need to verify a few things with you."

She flipped the notebook to the August page, pen pressed to paper.

The clerk verified the petitioner's name, the cause of action, the original trial court, and the date on the Intermediate Court's decision and the date of service. She answered each in turn. When she answered "served on August fifth," the clerk tapped the paper on her end.

"This one—the original defendant is deceased," the clerk said. "Trial in absentia, as provided by law."

The words "trial in absentia" came out very softly. She pressed the pen tip into the paper until it left a dot. The day her father's case went to trial, a living person had sat in the defendant's seat, confessed, and been sentenced to three years. This time, that seat would hold a chair with no one in it.

"Noted," she said.

"Trial in absentia—procedure runs as usual," the clerk said. "The petitioner appears, the prosecutor appears, witnesses who are required appear, everything read aloud that needs reading, everything asked that needs asking. Close relatives may retain defense counsel. If the two of you siblings want to do that, the materials have to be complete: power of attorney, identification, proof of kinship. Has that been filed?"

"No."

"If you want to file it, file it—it'll be placed in the file with the witness materials. If not, that box stays blank and the hearing proceeds."

"All right." She wrote a line in her notebook: Close relatives may retain defense counsel.

"One more thing." The clerk's pen tapped twice on the paper. "Witnesses' names and contact information. It's the court's job to notify witnesses to appear, but the address, the phone number, whether the person is home—you report all of that accurately. Get it wrong, the notice goes out and nobody signs for it, back and forth eats up half a month."

"Two."

"One at a time."

"Lu Jibai. Practicing lawyer at Zhengping Law Firm. I'll give you the phone number. He testified on July seventh at the Chengnan District Procuratorate, nine pages of record. The Intermediate Court pulled it on July twenty-second, and it went with the case to your court."

"We have that one." The clerk turned a page. "The other."

"Pang Chunlai. The row of houses behind the Baixi Village Committee office wall, third house. He has a senior phone. I'll read the number, you write it down."

She gave the number and the address. The clerk read it back character by character. When she reached "Pang," she said correct.

"How old."

"Over seventy. A little hard of hearing, speaks slowly."

"Can he get to court on his own."

"He'll need someone with him. His son works at a factory." She paused. "On July twenty-first, people from the Intermediate Court went to his home to ask questions. The clerk told me he said his piece, signed the record, pressed his fingerprint."

"I've noted that," the clerk said. "The notice goes to the village first. If it arrives, have him sign for it. If he can't, we'll phone. Travel costs and lost wages for the court date are paid per regulation. If the elderly gentleman has trouble getting around, the court has other arrangements. You'll be notified separately once the date is set."

"Good."

"The petitioner must appear that day."

"I'll be there."

"Keep the phone on. If there's anything, I'll call you."

"All right."

She waited for the other side to hang up first. Afterward, she copied both numbers into her notebook, then traced each one with her fingertip and counted—not a single mistake.

She pushed open the outer door and went back inside. The light in the inner room was still on. She walked to the doorway.

"The court wants the witnesses," she said. "It's filed in Chengdong District, August twelfth. I gave them your name and number."

He set his pen down. "When's the court date?"

"Not set."

"Tell me when it is. I'll clear my schedule at the firm."

"Your words are in those nine pages," she said. "That day, read them over and that's it?"

"Read them or not—I'll be standing there."

Thinking of that blank box, she pulled the notebook toward her. "Close relatives may retain defense counsel."

He paused, not answering right away. "The witness stand and the defense bench aren't on the same side."

"I know."

"That box stays blank," he said.

"Blank," she answered. "Until I've thought it through."

She went back to her desk and sat down, turning to the senior phone's number in her notebook. She wanted to tell him: the court's notice will be mailed to the village in the next few days—when it arrives, don't throw it away thinking it's an advertisement. Find someone who can read and have them go through it.

At ten forty, she dialed.

The receiver gave only that recorded message, a woman's voice, flat: The number you dialed is powered off.

She stared at the notebook for a moment, then took the pen and added on that line: 10:40, powered off.

Senior phone. Most likely the plug wasn't in, or the battery was dead, and he didn't know how to read that little battery icon.

At two in the afternoon, downstairs was cleaning up from the lunch rush. Porcelain against porcelain, clink after clink into the basket, the range hood still running, humming until the ears went hollow. She went down to get water.

He Xiufen stood by the stove, sleeves rolled to the elbow, wiping her hands on her apron.

"The one upstairs came down this morning for noodles before heading up," He Xiufen said. "One bowl. Finished and carried the bowl to the sink himself."

"What's he writing?"

"Didn't ask."

She set her cup by the stove. "Old Pang's phone—it's off."

"How many times did you call?"

"Once."

"An old person's phone, nine times out of ten the plug isn't in." He Xiufen turned on the tap; the water pounded the basin. "First time I left dried noodles for him, by my second visit, the rock was empty. No telling what day he picked them up. Asking him to remember to charge—that's hard."

"In June, second visit, he let you through the door."

"Through the door, and he poured two bowls of water." He Xiufen dried her hands on the apron. "He sat on the bench and said Lawyer Shen's been here three times, skinnier every time. I asked about that night. He said he wasn't going back that day."

"I have his son's number."

"Call the son first." He Xiufen dumped the water. "Factory floor, machines running, phones all sit in the lockers. He'll pick up."

At three ten, she called the number. Ring, ring, ring, until the woman's voice came on: The number you have dialed is temporarily unanswered.

She laid the phone face down on the desk, sat a moment, then turned it back over.

"No answer?" He Xiufen asked from the stairwell.

"No."

"Wait till he's off shift." He Xiufen said. "At this hour, he's at his machine."

At seven thirty, she was home. Dinner eaten, dishes washed. The neighbor downstairs had the television on, a floor slab between them, the sound too muffled to make out.

She dialed the senior phone for the third time.

Same message. The number you dialed is powered off. She didn't hang up; she listened as the recording started over from the beginning, and at the end, one short beep—it cut itself off.

She spread her notebook on the table and checked the number against the page, digit by digit. After checking, she set the phone down, then picked it back up.

Should she call that clerk at the Chengdong District Court right now and let her know both numbers weren't reachable? Her hand stayed on the phone, then she pulled it back. She'd go up tomorrow and take a look first. He was in the village. Maybe the phone was simply lost. Maybe he'd changed numbers and hadn't gotten around to telling anyone.

At seven fifty, she called the son's number. Ringing, ringing, ringing, until it cut. She held the phone to her ear all the way to the last ring. Not even a "hello" on the other end.

She put the phone on the table and the room went quiet.

Zhi'an was on the living room floor washing the electric fan. The cage sat off to the side, the blades laid out one by one on old newspaper, water still on his hands.

"You'll eat at home alone tomorrow," she said.

"Where are you going?"

"Baixi Village." She closed the notebook on the desk. "Pang Chunlai's phone—three calls today, all off. His son's number, twice, ringing to nothing. I'm going up tomorrow to check."

Zhi'an put down the blade in his hand, water dripping from his fingers onto the newspaper.

"I'll go."

"You'll go."

"What time."

"Out the door at six twenty. Chengxi Bus Station, the six fifty bus." She flipped through the notebook. "Arrive in town at nine twenty, then catch a three-wheeler up."

"What about Director He?"

"Haven't told her yet."

"Is he hiding?" Zhi'an asked.

"He's been scared." She said, "On July first he was scared too. He still told them about that night."

Zhi'an didn't answer. He swished the fan blade in the basin twice.

She picked up her phone and called downstairs. It rang twice before connecting; the pot on the stove was still making noise.

"Director He, the six fifty bus tomorrow morning. Up to Baixi Village."

"I'll wait for you at the station," the voice answered. "Be there at six twenty. Don't cut it close—that station gets a long line."

"Mm."

"What to bring."

"Bring dried noodles," she said. "He accepted them once."

"Dried noodles it is. I'll grab a couple handfuls here." He Xiufen turned the flame down half a notch. "Zhi'an going with you?"

"Yes."

"Three of us, then. Dress warm—the mountain's cold in the morning."

She hung up.

Zhi'an asked, "Does he live alone?"

"Alone during the day."

"What about his son?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't. All she had was the number that had called in on the night of July third, one sentence—"Don't come looking for my dad again. Someone at the factory was asking"—and after that, nothing.

She copied down all three attempts into the notebook: 10:40, powered off; 14:00, powered off; 19:30, powered off. Below that: Two calls unanswered.

When she finished, she got up and went to the inner room, crouched down, and dragged out the paper bag next to the cardboard box under the bed. The few lines on the bag's surface had been added line by line since May, each one carefully written; the contents inside were pressed flat.

The original three-page interview record sat on top. She pulled it out and turned to the first page, finding the description of the door he'd given that day: stone stool, door facing east, third house. That was how she'd found him on July first. She read through all three pages again from start to finish. At the bottom of the last page was the line she had written: The above record has been read aloud to me and matches what I said. Below it, his signature, crooked, stroke by stroke, pressed slowly. Next to the signature was the fingerprint. The ink paste had been pressed deep, leaving a small depression in the paper; even the paper grain around it had taken the impression. She touched that spot with the pad of her finger, then returned the original to the bag, folded the opening shut, and pushed it back under the bed.

The photocopy she spread on the desk. Tomorrow it would go into her bag and up the mountain. On the photocopy the fingerprint was flat—a black blob, a gray ring around it, nothing under her fingers when she touched it.