Chapter 451: That One Line in the Group Chat

The first line of the page was an address.

On August 13, the day the witness was reported, she had copied one line from the transcript: name, phone number, the third house along the row behind the village committee. That page had been folded in the file envelope ever since, the crease pressed white, the edges starting to fray. She straightened the crease against the edge of the desk and copied it out stroke by stroke.

When she reached "the third house," the pen stopped.

There were twenty-some people in the group. Send this line out, and twenty-some people would follow it. If one step went wrong, that family's door would close.

She crossed out "the third house," pressing hard, two strokes heavy. She held it up to the window light and looked. The characters still showed through on the back of the paper. She flipped the page over and rewrote on the back.

"Find an old person from Baixi Village."

The next line she had started as "old man," stopped halfway through, crossed it out, changed it to "old person." The word was familiar in the group, nobody thought twice about it, but saying it at someone's doorstep didn't sound right.

"Seventy or older, reading glasses, coughs, mountain accent."

Below that she wrote, "Anyone who's seen him, tell Lawyer Shen." She looked at it, crossed it out. "Seen him" sounded like an interrogation, like tracking someone down. "Spotted him" was running into someone by chance.

The line beneath that she wrote: "Don't."

"Spotted him—don't ask where he lives, don't follow, don't photograph, don't spread it around; just ask him one thing—whether he's willing to give Lawyer Shen a call. Give him the number."

She set the pen down here, read the half page through from the top, and stopped at "don't spread it around."

She'd thought about adding one more line at the end: If he's not willing, no need to ask again. The pen tip hovered over the paper twice. She didn't add it. Adding it would turn it into an instruction to persuade. That line was for her to say to Ma Jianjun herself; it couldn't go into the group and let twenty people each add their own words.

That time in Qingshi Village, she'd set rules for Ma Jianjun, and she'd kept them since: don't say, don't add. Only if people asked on their own whether there was somewhere in the city to inquire, then give them her number. This time, follow the same approach.

At the top she wrote the date: August 25.

At nine fifty, a voice came from the stairs: "If you're going to read it, come downstairs and read it. Don't read it to yourself upstairs."

She folded the paper in half, tucked it into the inner pocket of her jacket, and straightened the desk calendar. That ink dot on the square for the twenty-sixth still sat over the number.

Downstairs the stove was going, the range hood humming steady, oil crackling in the pan. He Xiufen held a ladle in one hand and wiped her other hand on her apron.

"Sent it out?"

"Not yet."

"Read it over?"

"Read it over."

"Any names in it?"

"No."

"Any house numbers?"

"No either."

He Xiufen lifted a ladleful of noodles into a bowl, broth sheeting off the spoon's edge: "Putting the 'don't' at the front works better than putting it at the back."

At ten fifteen, the electric scooter propped up outside, helmet hanging from the handlebar. Ma Jianjun came in, glanced at the stove first, then at her: "I didn't take any orders. You said morning."

"It's just one line." She pulled out the paper. "Let's read it outside."

The patch of sunlight at the doorway reached the second step. There was a small table by the door. She spread the paper on it, weighing down one corner.

"I'll read. You type it exactly. Not one word changed."

"Read."

"Find an old person from Baixi Village."

He turned his phone sideways, found the group, thumb tapping at the screen. He looked up: "The 'Bai'—the one from Baixi Village?"

"The 'Bai' from Baixi Village."

He typed it in, looked at her. She continued: "Seventy or older, reading glasses—"

"How do you write 'glasses.'"

She fished a pen from her pocket, grabbed his hand, and wrote the character in his palm. There was sweat on his palm; the character blurred slightly as she wrote. He typed it in, glanced at his palm when he finished, and wiped his hand on his pants.

"Coughs, mountain accent."

"Okay."

"Spotted him—don't ask where he lives, don't follow, don't photograph—"

"Slow down." He pressed a hand downward. "That string of 'don'ts' is long. Let me do it one line at a time."

She didn't rush him, just stood at the other side of the table and waited. He typed one line, looked up, and she gave him the next. Cars passed on the street, sound rolling over them in waves. He Xiufen stayed at the stove, the ladle moving through the pan.

"Just ask him one thing—whether he's willing to give Lawyer Shen a call. Give him the number." She read the last line slowly, "give him the number" landing hard.

He turned the phone over to show her. The words were packed together on the screen, line breaks messier than her writing, but the meaning hadn't shifted.

She took it and read from top to bottom.

"Do we put a name in?"

"No."

"Do we say which village?"

"It already says 'from Baixi Village.' We don't write where he lives, no village committee, no Chengbei."

"If he asks—why is she looking for him."

"You say, Lawyer Shen's working a case and needs someone who saw that thing happen. Nothing else."

"If he keeps asking."

"Don't answer for her if you don't know. Just say Lawyer Shen will tell him herself on the phone."

Ma Jianjun read the message through once more, his finger hovering over the screen, not landing.

"Send?"

"Send."

He pressed. The line jumped to the bottom, a little circle spun once, and was gone.

At ten thirty, the first notification.

"Deng Wei." He tilted the phone toward her. "Received."

The second notification came faster than the first. "Xiao Duan. Received. Won't ask, won't follow, won't photograph." He read it and laughed. "This kid copied out all the 'don't' lines again."

She stood on the top step. Didn't sit.

The third notification came slower. "Luo Cheng. Received. I came back to run orders again last year, running Chengbei." He read it, then added: "Luo Cheng from the cold storage. Year before last he was doing day-labor at the cold storage, last year came back to deliver, working the Chengbei area."

"Mm."

The phone lit up, one message after another. She took it and read through them one by one: mostly "Received," some with a thumbs-up emoji after, some with an "Understood." In the middle, one message wasn't "Received."

Someone asked: Should I forward it to my wife? She works the supermarket area.

Ma Jianjun looked at her. She shook her head.

"Don't forward. Once it's forwarded, you can't pull it back."

He typed it out: Don't forward. Keep watch on your own area. The reply came: "Received."

Immediately after, someone else asked: Is there a photo? Easier to recognize.

She put her hand over the phone without touching it: "No photo. Attach a face to it, and you've pushed the person out there."

Ma Jianjun typed: No photo. Go by the description.

She handed the phone back and picked up the paper from the table, comparing it against the version on the screen. After a while she folded it back up, creases aligned.

"Not one word off," she said.

"I typed it word for word." He pocketed the phone and felt for his scooter key. "Twenty-some people. One morning can sweep this whole area. Faster than you running it alone."

"They're running their own orders," she said. "If they spot him, say something. If they don't, no detours to go asking."

"So what about after? What do I do today?"

"There is no after today. If someone's willing, he'll call on his own."

Ma Jianjun pulled down his helmet, snapped the strap into the buckle. "Then I'm heading out. If there's news, I'll say something in the group."

"If there's news, don't say it in the group," she said. "Call me."

He repeated the line once before nodding, then got on the scooter. It whirred once and was gone.

At noon, He Xiufen brought two bowls of noodles from the stove, setting one in front of her.

"Everyone replied?"

"Everyone replied."

"All the same?"

"Mostly 'Received.' Two of them said a bit more."

He Xiufen sat down, separated her chopsticks: "More people, more words. Once the words are in their hands, you can't control what comes after. All you can control is that first line."

"That first line took me half the morning to fix."

"Half a morning's not much." He Xiufen lowered her head and ate. "Tomorrow's the twenty-sixth."

"Tomorrow's the twenty-sixth."

At three in the afternoon, the noodle shop was empty. He Xiufen wiped down the inner table, squared the vinegar bottle, and sat down to snap beans.

Ma Jianjun came in without his helmet, a sheet of paper in his hand, folded in quarters, edges worn soft.

"The roster from the year before last." He spread it on the table, weighing down one corner with the vinegar bottle.

The paper was printed, twenty lines, one name per line, the last column reading "Where working now." That column was all pencil, scrawled, two lines water-stained beyond reading.

He pulled a ballpoint from his pocket, the cap clamped in his teeth, and went down line by line.

"Deng Wei. Foreman at a construction site." He crossed it out and wrote after it: "Delivering again, Cheng'nan."

"Xiao Duan." The pencil column said "Apprentice at an auto repair shop." He didn't cross it out; after "Apprentice" he added: "Runs two hours of deliveries at night."

"Luo Cheng. Cold storage day labor." He crossed it out, wrote "Runs Chengbei," looked at it, and added half a line: "Came back last year."

Further down, two lines went unchanged. After one line it said "Not running anymore." He read the name aloud and said: "This kid went home to build a house. Went back last winter."

"Changed his number, not in this group." He pointed the line out to her. "This one really quit. His mother's paralyzed. From last December till now, he's been looking after her."

He Xiufen snapped a bean and tossed it in the basin: "Don't write other people's business on there."

"I was just saying."

"Don't write even a line of it on this paper." He Xiufen didn't look up. "This paper records deliveries, not other families' affairs."

Ma Jianjun glanced at her, then traced over the added words on that line, leaving only "Changed number."

The last line was his own name. Pencil, "Has scooter."

His pen tip rested on "Has scooter," stayed there a while, didn't write, didn't cross out.

"This line?" she asked.

"This line's unchanged." He capped the pen. "Still that secondhand scooter. Still running."

She pulled the roster over and read it line by line from top to bottom. The day he'd pushed this paper to her the year before last, he'd said: Runners, route-knowers, people who'll stand up and speak for you—the people on this list, take your pick. This time she hadn't picked a single one.

He Xiufen finished the beans and stood to carry them to the stove.

"Who's running the Chengbei area?" she asked.

"Luo Cheng. Just him."

"Let him run his orders."

"Not have him do a loop?"

"No loops. He delivers every day, every street's on his route. If he spots him, he'll do what the group message says."

Ma Jianjun folded the paper back up, in quarters, creases matched neat, and pushed it to her: "Done. It's yours."

She took it. "I'll clip it in my notebook."

"This is filed up here." He tapped his temple. "After fixing those lines, who's in which area—I've got it clear."

At eight in the evening, He Xiufen came upstairs before closing up.

"I'm heading down. You two turn off the lights."

"We will."

She reached the top of the stairs, glanced back at the half-open door of the inner room, said nothing, and went down.

The inner room light had been on since six. The sound of a pen moving came in bursts, audible through the door panel.

She sat at her own desk in the outer room, opened the notebook, and wrote under August 25: That line in the group—Ma Shifu sent it. "Received" came back one after another. When she finished, she thought a moment, then added: One roster revised—Luo Cheng running Chengbei.

Pen cap on, desk calendar squared. The ink dot on the twenty-sixth pressed over the number. A dot had been made on the twenty-seventh too, two dots separated by one square.

At eight thirty, the pen in the inner room stopped, the door opened wider, and he came out with six pages in hand.

He set the six pages at the edge of her desk.

"Format."

She set her pen down and pulled out the top page.

The header was "Written Defense Statement," flush left. Below it, two names, one above the other: Complainant, Respondent. The two complaints were answered separately; after the first answer, a blank line, then the second. Her eyes moved over these spots. The lines of text in between, she didn't read.

She flipped through all six pages, checking the bottom-right corner of each.

"Two things missing."

"Which two?"

"Page numbers. And the date at the signature."

"What date goes in?"

"The day you submit. Fill it in at the window."

He stood by the desk, watching her straighten the six pages into order, align the corners, push them back.

"Everything else is there," she said. "Header, both names, both complaints answered one by one, signature at the end."

"The body?"

"The format we agreed on."

He picked up the six pages, squeezed them once, didn't leave right away.

"The twenty-sixth," he said.

"The twenty-sixth," she said.

"The receipt slip after I submit it—I'll keep it myself."

"Good."

He turned and walked two steps toward the inner room, then turned back: "I'll write the page numbers."

"On the right, at the very bottom." She pushed the calendar toward the back of the desk. "Six pages. Don't miss one."

"Won't."

He went in and sat down, spread the first page flat, twisted the pen open. She watched him set the tip to the bottom-right corner of the page, writing slowly, stroke by stroke.

Page two. Page three.

She lowered her head and tidied her desk: notebook stacked, pen in the holder, phone screen pressed dark.

In the inner room he reached page six, and the pen stopped.

It stopped longer than on the other pages. She looked up. Through the half-open door she could see only a small patch of desktop and a length of lampshade. He sat there motionless, the pen tip still pressed to the paper.

Then it moved once and lifted.

She picked up her jacket and stood.

"Turn the light off before you go."

"Okay."