Chapter 452: The One at the Very Bottom

At 10:20 on August 26, the footsteps on the stairs stopped at the landing, and the door was pushed open. Lu Jibai came in, no manuscript paper in his hand—only a narrow slip of paper pinched between his fingers. He went into the inner room, set the slip on the corner of his desk, came back out, and stood by the door.

The stack of green-grid manuscript paper on the inner room desk was gone.

"Turned it in," he said. "The hearing one, I didn't submit."

He Xiufen looked up from the old wooden chair under the window. A legal aid case file lay open in front of her, a red pen resting at the margin. "The date on the last line—did you write it at the window?"

"At the window. The clerk counted the pages and asked if there was anything else."

"What did you say?"

"I said no."

He Xiufen picked up the red pen and drew a line along the margin. "Nothing else, then there shouldn't have been anything else. Once it's submitted, it belongs to someone else."

Li Huilan looked up from her desk. "Did they give you a receipt?"

"They did." Lu Jibai went back into the inner room, took the slip from the corner of his desk, came out and walked to the window.

He Xiufen didn't reach for it, just let her eyes rest on it for a moment. "Keep it yourself. Press it under the corner of your desk, don't clip it into the file. Later, when we check the dates, this is the one we'll look at."

The inner room door was half open. He went in, pressed the slip back under the corner of his desk, smoothed it flat, pressed a finger along its edge. A chair creaked. The outer room went quiet for a few seconds before the sound of flipping pages resumed.

Shen Zhixia sat at her desk, not moving. The deadline Guan Min had mentioned fell on this day. The paper went in through the window; her part was done. She hadn't read the text—they'd agreed on the night of August 25 that she'd only review the format. Still, she turned the pages of the document in her hands one by one, not a single word registering.

He Xiufen closed her case file and leaned back against the window frame. "He didn't apply for a hearing."

"I know."

"A hearing is face-to-face. Sit across from people, question by question. He submitted paper. Paper doesn't have to look at people, and people don't have to look at paper." She picked up her cup. "He chose the easiest way."

Li Huilan cut in: "And the least favorable one."

"Not necessarily," He Xiufen said. "On paper, the words are his own."

"And after the window accepts it?" Shen Zhixia asked.

"From here it's investigation, then review. One step at a time. You can't rush it, and neither can I." She set the cup down. "The 26th ends here. What's left belongs to someone else."

At eleven, Li Huilan asked what to bring for the next day's file review. He Xiufen listed it off: her original practice certificate, the August 24 receipt. No need for the firm letter. If copying, fill out a form on the spot, pay up front, get reimbursed by the firm. Li Huilan said, "I went to Chengdong once in '13 to review files. Brought my own paper and pen. The room didn't even have an outlet." He Xiufen said, "They give you a disc now."

At noon she went downstairs for noodles. He Xiufen carried her bowl over and sat across from her. "I'll go tomorrow morning. When I'm done, I'll go through it with you."

"Fine."

"Don't come along."

"I won't." She said, "I'll be at the noodle shop eating."

In the afternoon she scrolled the rider group from top to bottom. Message after message: accepting orders, chasing orders, asking for directions, someone's tire got punctured. No one mentioned seeing anyone. Deng Wei posted a photo of the evening rush. Luo Cheng stayed quiet. She set her phone face down on the desk.

At five, the landline in the outer room rang. She went to answer, listened for a moment, tucked the receiver between her shoulder and ear, pulled open the outer door, and stepped onto the landing, the door swinging shut behind her. Wind squeezed through the window gaps in the hallway.

"Attorney Shen, the town police station replied," the court clerk said. "The letter states: the family says the person is at a relative's home in another city for medical treatment, and they refuse to provide the address. An adult is not handled as a missing person case. The situation has been recorded in the register. There's an additional line: if relatives provide a new address, please notify the court separately."

"That's all it says?"

"That's all. I copied it and reported to the presiding judge. It's in the file."

"Does it mention the car from that night?"

"No," the clerk said. "They only responded to the missing-person angle. As for the family's number, should we try another time of day?"

"It won't go through," she said. "You call. I won't."

"Noted," the clerk said. "As for the hearing date, we can't set it until the witness situation is resolved. If there's anything new, we'll call this number."

"All right. If anything's new, I'll call this number."

She slid the phone into her pocket, hand resting on the railing, not moving toward the room. Down in the alley, someone pushed a cart of cardboard boxes past; the wheels thumped over the stone slabs, one slot at a time, turning at the corner. The noodle shop's exhaust fan ran loudest at this hour, scallion-oil smell drifting up the stairwell. She went back in, sat down, flipped open the desk calendar. On the 26th, the dot of ink she'd made on the night of the 22nd was still there. She filled it in with her pen, pressing the tip a little harder into the paper.

At eight in the evening, the noodle shop hadn't closed yet. The table by the door was empty. Ma Jianjun came in with his helmet tucked under his arm, work uniform sleeves rolled to the elbows. He pulled out the chair under the fan and sat. "Attorney Shen, any word on the old man?"

"The police station responded to the court," she said. "The family says he's at a relative's place out of town for treatment. They won't give the address."

"Won't give the address." He turned the words over in his mouth. "Then how did he leave?"

"After eleven on the night of August 10, a car stopped at his front gate and headed toward the road into town."

"Then it wasn't a scheduled bus," he said.

"How do you know?"

"I've delivered freight on that town line." He spread his hands on the table. "The scheduled bus leaves Chengxi Station once in the morning at 6:50, and the last return from town departs at 4:30 p.m., arriving at 7. After dark, it's done. The only cars running that road at night are two kinds: personal vehicles and the charter cars at the station."

He Xiufen came from the kitchen and set a bowl of noodles in front of him, wiping her hands on her apron. "Charter cars?"

"I know a few of the charter drivers who run the town line from Chengxi Station. Hauling freight and passengers for over ten years. Before the morning bus pulls in, those cars park in a row on the east side, drivers squatting by the front wheels eating breakfast." He split his chopsticks, then set them down. "I'll go ask the day after tomorrow, early morning."

"Ask what?" He Xiufen said.

"Just about that one trip. Around eleven that night, who at the station took a booking and where they drove." He said, "I won't mention the old man, and I won't mention the court. I'll say I'm hauling freight, ask if he ran the road above Baixi Village that night."

Shen Zhixia looked at him. "Only ask about that run. Nothing else."

"I know," he said. "Not asking after anyone, not asking for door numbers, not standing at anyone's gate."

"I'll go with you."

He looked up. "If you go, they'll clam up. Lawyer at the door, anyone would think twice."

"You talk first. I'll add a word after," she said. "I'll stand back."

He Xiufen sat down on the bench with her own bowl, not looking up. "Asking people can't turn into investigating people."

"I know, Director He," Ma Jianjun said. "I'll just say I had freight and the car looked familiar, asking him a question."

"What time?"

"6:30. The buses won't be in yet. Everyone'll be out front." He said, "I'll wait for you at the station entrance."

"6:30," she said.

He finished his noodles, wiped his mouth, put on his helmet—fumbling with the buckle twice before it caught. At the door he stepped back half a pace. "If I do find something?"

"If you do, I'll report it to the clerk," she said. "Don't mention it in the group yet."

"I won't."

The plastic curtain rattled, and he was gone.

At nine she went upstairs, flipped the calendar to the 27th, drew a line in pencil along the edge of that box, then lightened it with an eraser. The inner room light was on, door half open. Paper rustled. No one looked up.

On August 27, she was already sitting at the back table of the noodle shop by eleven, an empty bowl at her elbow, eyes on the curtain at the door. At 11:30, He Xiufen walked in, a canvas bag over her shoulder, paper edges peeking from the top. Her apron wasn't on; she stopped at the kitchen to say a few words first, then brought the bag to the back table and sat down.

"You eaten?" He Xiufen poured a glass of water and drank it down in one go.

"Sit first."

The canvas bag opened. First came a disc in a paper sleeve, set on the corner of the table; then a stack of paper came out, clipped with a binder clip, the top sheet a file index.

"I've copied the electronic file. The disc goes in the locker. The window only checked two things: practice certificate and the August 24 receipt." He Xiufen turned past the index page. "On this copy, the 'attachment' row is blank for page numbers too. The pencil notation came through in the print."

She went through page by page. The judgment she flipped through quickly, line by line. "I've read this one twice before. Word for word identical to the copy you pulled from Chengnan District." At the last page of the hearing transcript, she moved it under the light. "This line too—same. The signature on the report is mine. I won't say more."

Reaching the re-test report pages, she tapped the bottom corner of the page. "All five pages. The red seal prints as a red block. The original volume is still sealed at the court. This stack is the verified copy." After that came the July evidence-collection materials and seven pages of verified duplicates. She counted one by one, and when she finished, she flipped back to the index at the top for another look.

"The procuratorate file isn't in here," she said, and didn't continue.

The remaining documents went quickly. When she reached the second-to-last item in the stack, her hand stopped. It was an interview record—many pages, binding in the upper left, signatures at the bottom right of each page, a red stamp pressed at the end. She read from the beginning. At a certain line on the third page, her eyes stopped moving. Her finger traced along those lines, then she lifted the previous page back over, laying the two pages side by side to compare. She read them twice before turning the earlier page back and continuing.

Shen Zhixia didn't ask. She pushed her bowl forward, chopsticks resting on the rim. Someone at the door called for another bowl of noodles; the exhaust fan hummed. He Xiufen's finger still pressed against the paper's edge.

She read to the final page, closed that document, pressed it flat in her hands, then placed it at the very bottom of the stack. She squared the papers, tapped them twice against the tabletop to align all four edges, clipped them together, and slid them into the canvas bag.

"I paid for the copying," He Xiufen said.

"I'll put it in the books."

"This stack goes in the locker first. If you want to read it, ask me."

"You finished?" she asked.

He Xiufen picked up her cup and took a sip before speaking. "I finished. The words on paper—wait until the person stands in court and says them himself."