Chapter 459: The Mooncake That Mid-Autumn

Zhi'an came in holding a mooncake, wrapped in oiled paper, the corners already seeping through with grease.

"The place by the school gate. Last one. Even got a discount." He set the oiled paper on the table and wiped his hand on his pants. "Five-kernel. Packed solid."

She moved the stack of case files to one side, clearing a space about the size of her palm. It was already getting dark outside. Downstairs, someone was folding up a collapsible table, the metal legs scraping against the concrete. The braised meat He Xiufen had sent Zhi'an to bring over was still on the second shelf of the cupboard. She took it out and sliced up two kinds, then threw a handful of greens into the pot.

"Eat first," Zhi'an said. "Mooncake after dinner."

"Who made that rule."

"Everyone says so."

Halfway through the meal, he suddenly looked up. "Jie, don't write today."

"Write what."

"That notebook of yours. It's a holiday."

She didn't answer, just finished the last bite in her bowl.

"Has the hearing date been set?" he asked.

"Not yet."

"Tell me when it is."

"You have school."

"I'll take the morning off." Zhi'an set his chopsticks down. "I'll sit in the back. I won't say anything."

She looked at him for a moment, neither agreeing nor stopping him. Last September she'd signed a piece of paper on his behalf, and she remembered every word on that paper more clearly than anyone.

The mooncake came out. Zhi'an cut it with a fruit knife. The knife was dull; on the second cut, the crust split, and he pressed it back together with his fingers, getting a layer of grease on them.

"Why four pieces?" she asked.

"One for Director He."

"Director He's one person. Half's enough."

"She's on her own. She should get a whole piece too."

The four pieces sat on the plate, uneven in size. She took one, broke off half and offered it to him. He shook his head, said he'd already eaten a small one outside the school gate. She took a bite herself—thick crust, old-school sugar, whole melon seeds still inside.

She counted the plate: one piece was hers, one his, one for Director He. The last piece—Zhi'an didn't touch it, and she didn't ask.

Her phone rang on the cupboard. Eight-thirty.

She didn't recognize the number. She wiped her hands and picked up. The first thing she heard was Pang Chunlai's son's voice, wind behind him, and that festive sound of a TV in the background.

"Lawyer Shen, my dad wants to say something to you." Fabric brushed against the receiver, footsteps shifted. "It's the holiday."

Then another voice came on. He coughed twice first, deep coughs, then took a wheezing breath.

"Happy holiday."

"Happy holiday to you too."

"Have you eaten over there?"

"Yes. Braised meat from Director He's."

"Oh." He paused. "I ate too. My son bought a chicken. Too salty."

"Chicken's always salty."

He gave a short laugh, the sound leaking out of his throat.

"The court said they're sending a car."

"They're sending a car."

"Good then."

She switched the receiver to her other ear. Someone downstairs was calling their kid home from the stairwell, the voice squeezing in through the window crack.

"Did you mention the steps?" he asked.

"I did. They took note."

"Long as they took note." He coughed again. "It's getting cold. The mountains are cold at night."

"Wear something thick. On the day of the hearing I'll check if you're dressed warmly enough."

"I will be." He said. "Those two scallion plants by the door—the auntie's been watering them for me."

"Keep them."

"That day..." He stopped. There was a rustling of fabric on his end, and through the receiver she could hear the rasp in his breathing. "That day, what do I say."

She held the phone and slid the window closed a little.

"Answer what they ask you. What you didn't see, say you didn't see." She said, "I won't tell you in advance what questions they're going to ask. If I did, what you'd say sitting there wouldn't be your own words."

There was silence on his end for a moment.

"I don't know a lot of characters. I'm afraid I'll trip over my words."

"Let them trip. What you saw can't get tangled."

"Alright." He said. "Alright."

"Wear something clean that day."

"I have something." He said. "My son bought me new clothes. Stored at the bottom of the trunk. I'll wear them that day."

"Good."

"Anything else on your end?"

"Nothing. Once the date's set, I'll call this number."

"Call this number." He said. "Set or not, it's all the same. I'll be waiting."

Someone said something on his end, the mic brushed, and then it was his son. "Lawyer Shen, I'll go with him on the day of the hearing. I'll be in the car."

"Good."

"Happy Mid-Autumn."

"Happy Mid-Autumn."

After hanging up, she pulled up the number and saved it under a name. The name she saved was long. After saving it, she checked it once. No mistakes.

In the group chat, someone had posted a photo: a mooncake sitting on a delivery box lid, four or five hands reaching in to break off pieces. She looked at it for a moment, didn't reply.

Zhi'an pulled a plastic storage bag from under the cupboard and put Director He's piece inside. He blew air into the bag, tied it tight, and set it on top of the cupboard.

"I'll give it to her on my way down tomorrow."

"What about that one." She tilted her chin toward the plate.

"Leave it."

She didn't ask again.

When she did the dishes, the water was cold—it took two rinses for the soap to lather. Zhi'an was in the back room flipping through a book, the pages turning sporadically. She opened the notebook and wrote "September 15, 19:00" at the top of the page, leaving the rest blank. She set the pen down, closed that page, and pressed her hand flat against the cover.

September 17, ten in the morning. The breakfast stall downstairs had packed up, and the kettle on the stove was still hissing.

Li Huilan had gone to the detention center early for a client meeting. Outside, it was just He Xiufen and her. The office phone rang twice. He Xiufen reached over from by the window to answer.

"Zhengping Firm." —"Yes."—"The twenty-fourth, nine-thirty, Third Conference Room." She listened while tearing a scrap of paper from the edge of the desk calendar and jotting down notes with the stub of a pencil. "The petitioner comes too?"—"She's here with me."—"Alright. I'll send it over this afternoon."—"If you need the originals, call before coming up. Don't just show up at the office."—"Got it."

After hanging up, He Xiufen turned the scrap of paper around and slid it in front of her. The pencil writing was large and pressed deep.

"The twenty-fourth. Nine-thirty." He Xiufen said. "A conference room. Not a courtroom."

"What's the procedure in a conference room."

"One long table. Each side on one end. No three chairs on a judges' bench." He Xiufen rolled her sleeve up a notch. "Here's what we'll be going over, I'll read them off for you: recusal, public access, witnesses, exclusion of illegally obtained evidence, appraisal, the originals to be produced, and the provenance of that one-page handover form."

"Asked one by one?"

"One by one. They ask, you answer." He Xiufen slid the pencil back into the pen holder. "When they ask you, answer. When they don't, keep your mouth shut."

"I know."

"You don't know." He Xiufen said. "Last time you sat in that room, you were speaking for someone else. This time you sit next to me. You're the petitioner, and you're his daughter. When you walk in that day, the clerk will check identities and read the case name: original defendant, Shen Qian. When you hear it, don't move."

"I won't move."

"I'll show you how the evidence-exclusion argument runs before that day." He Xiufen said. "For now, don't do my thinking for me."

"The three witnesses—they won't be at the meeting?"

"No. They only come for the hearing."

"So he won't even hear what's asked at the meeting."

"He won't." He Xiufen said.

"What about the car from the mountains?"

"I'll go down and meet the car. You go upstairs first and take a seat."

After saying all this, He Xiufen pulled open the drawer and took out the three application drafts she'd kept copies of, lined them up on the desk, counting through them one by one.

"Three things to bring that day—you give me a final count today: the interview record originals, the disc, Volume Eight." She said. "Someone needs to watch while the originals are being registered. Don't just carry them up yourself and hand them over. Call me when you're at the door. I'll come down."

"Noted."

At three in the afternoon, a man in a blue-gray uniform came up the stairs, a kraft paper envelope tucked under his arm and a receipt slip in his other hand. He Xiufen signed the slip, dated it, tore off her copy and handed it back. The man turned and went down, his heels striking the third step hard.

The envelope tore open and the smell of printing ink rushed out. He Xiufen pulled out the paper inside, smoothed it flat, and read it aloud: Chengdong District People's Court, September 24, nine-thirty, Third Conference Room. All defense counsel and petitioners are requested to attend on time with identification.

On the case-name line, her father's name was printed in the middle—printed the same size as the other words, the same black.

The "Petitioner" box had her name in it. She took the paper and looked at that line, reading it slower than anyone else had.

He Xiufen finished reading and pushed the paper between the two cups.

At four, the inner office door opened.

He came out for printer paper, walked over to the printer, pulled out a stack, and squared it up. On the way back he passed the desk, his eyes landing on that paper for a moment.

The door closed behind him, and the light under the door gap kept shining as it always did.

"He saw it," He Xiufen said.

"Yeah."

"Seeing it and not asking—that's the way it should be."

She picked up the notice and read it a second time. The date on the paper was hard, black, crammed into the same line as everything else, not standing out at all. She pressed it back onto the desk and opened her notebook. In her father's notation style, she wrote at the top of the page: September 17, 15:00. Below that she wrote: The twenty-fourth, nine-thirty, Third Conference Room.

When she finished, she stared at it for a while, then added one more line: Petitioner.

That mooncake sat in the glass display case on the noodle shop counter for a day and a half.

On the morning of the sixteenth, Zhi'an had left early and placed the plastic bag on the counter. He Xiufen was in the middle of pulling noodles and didn't even look up, just said "Leave it there." She'd been busy these two days and hadn't touched it.

On the evening of the seventeenth, Shen Zhixia was eating noodles at the table by the door on the first floor. He Xiufen cleared the bowls from the last table, wiped her way to the counter, and her hand brushed against the bag. She picked it up, looked at it, tore open the top, and broke the mooncake in half.

She shoved one half into her mouth and pushed the other half back toward Zhi'an, who was standing outside the counter.

"Take it upstairs for him."

Zhi'an pinched the half piece and went up. Shen Zhixia was halfway through her bowl of noodles when she looked up and saw his shoes appear at the top of the stairs, then come back down.

When he came down, his hands were empty.

"He took it?" He Xiufen asked.

"He took it."

"He took it?"

"Took it. Said thanks." Zhi'an hitched his backpack strap up his shoulder. "Also asked where my sister was."

He Xiufen's rag stopped on the counter, and she glanced over at her.

"What did you say." He Xiufen asked.

"I said she's downstairs eating noodles."

"Good." He Xiufen tossed the rag into the basin. The water splashed.

She finished the last bite of noodles and stood up. "Director He, I'm heading up."

"Go on up."

The sound-activated light at the stairwell came on, then dimmed by half. The light under that half-open second-floor door kept shining as it always did. The sound of pages turning came in waves—pause, then another page.