Chapter 460: The Originals in the Appeal Bag

When she dragged the appeal bag out from under the bed, the bottom of the bag scraped a white mark across the floor.

She unwound the drawstring loop by loop, reached in, gripped the stack at the very bottom, and lifted things out one at a time. The items went onto the table in order of date: the petition for review signed May nineteenth, the household register, the prison release certificate, the death certificate; next to those, the retrial decision from August fifth, edges crisp, still not softened from handling; behind that, the seven photocopied verification pages from the Chengbei District Court on June seventeenth, each with a verification seal in the lower right corner; at the far right, the original of the July first interview record, three pages, with the second disc resting on top.

When she finished, she counted through from the beginning. Everything was there. She squared the edges of each stack.

Someone came up the stairs in the hall. The footsteps stopped at the third floor, keys jingled twice. The neighbor's television was on, sentences marching forward one after another, muffled through the wall so she couldn't make out a word.

Zhi'an's door was open a crack. He came out carrying a cup and stood by the table, watching for a while.

"Taking all of it?"

"Two things."

"Which two?"

She slid the interview record forward and pointed at the disc.

Zhi'an bent down, flipped the cover of the household register, studied the square seal on the release certificate, reached toward the corner of the death certificate, touched it, and pulled his hand back.

"Not taking this one?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"The court wants the things he signed."

He stood by the table with his hands in his pockets. "Everything he signed is on this one table?"

"Part of it."

"What if it gets lost after you hand it over?"

Her hand went still on the stack of paper. The room fell quiet. Through the wall, someone laughed on the neighbor's TV.

"That's why there's a receipt."

"What does a receipt prove?"

"That I turned it in. Whether it gets lost after that is a different matter."

Zhi'an looked at her for a moment, said nothing more, and carried his cup back to his room, pulling the door shut as he went. A sliver of light came through the gap and fell on the stack of volumes at the corner of the desk. Nine volumes, stacked the same way since the day she'd carried them home on the last day of last year. The top one had a thin layer of dust on it. She hadn't wiped it.

She pulled that page half an inch closer and opened it.

Turned to the place where it had been altered. One character was crossed out, the strokes underneath still visible. The new character sat beside it, its strokes drawn tight. The thumbprint dent was just below the alteration. She scraped a fingernail across the paper, hit the dent, and stopped.

That day, this was the first character they'd changed. She'd changed it the way he'd told her to. Later, when he wanted to record, he said: once it's recorded, no more changes. When he reached out to press his fingerprint, his fingertip felt the page first, found the spot, then pressed down.

There was only one original. The set she'd sent to the Intermediate Court on July second was photocopied. The dent in the paper existed only in this copy.

She closed the interview record, walked around to the other side of the table, sat down, picked up the notebook, and wrote at the top of the page the way her father had taught her: September nineteenth, eight in the evening. Below that: Hand in on the twenty-fourth — original July 1 interview record, three pages; second disc, one.

When she finished, she read it over and added a line: everything else stays in the bag.

Her father had burned the disc on his old machine. Two copies. One went in on July second; this one had stayed in the bag all along, its paper sleeve still bearing a date she'd penciled in at the time. The handwriting had faded, the edges going soft. She held it to the light for a look, then slipped it back into the bag.

She put everything back one by one, in reverse order. Finally she wound the drawstring tight and tied a knot.

The bag lay with the written side facing up, six lines running top to bottom, the bottom line dated August fifth. She didn't read them aloud — she'd read those six lines many times.

She pushed the bag back under the bed, next to the cardboard box. The white mark was still on the floor.

At eleven on September twentieth, she was at her own desk on the second floor revising a list when her phone buzzed. A Chengbei number. She picked up and walked to the window.

"Lawyer Shen? It's Cen Hong."

"Cen-jie."

"One question: does it mean comparing handwriting?"

"It means sending it for a forensic examination. What they're comparing is the Qingyuan seal and your father's signature."

Someone at the other end shouted "pickup." She answered, then her footsteps went away and came back. A barcode scanner beeped.

"My father's handwriting, we have it at home," she said. "The receipt books he signed for his wages all those years, book after book, they're all in the cabinet. Every stroke he signed himself. I know his hand."

"The court will collect samples on its own. The handwriting on the reports Qingyuan submitted, the handwriting on the complaint in the Chengbei District Court file — the court will request those."

"What about my books?"

"Wait for the court to ask. Then you provide them. If the court doesn't ask, don't send them."

The line went quiet for a second. The barcode scanner beeped again.

"My mother keeps asking me these two days whether those five pages count for anything."

"Whether they count is for the court to say. Don't take them out yourself."

"I know."

"Busy at the courier hub?"

"Busy. An afternoon truckload came in, piled up to the door." She paused. "When the hearing's set, let me know."

"Not set yet."

"Tell me when it is."

"All right."

She hung up and stood by the window for a while, corrected two numbers on the list, her pen tip tapping the paper twice before she wrote.

At four on September twenty-second, the lunch rush at the noodle shop had ended. The tables were wiped down, the vinegar cruets and chili jars still in their places, the floor half dry. Manuscript paper was spread out on the back table where He Xiufen sat writing, one corner pinned under a vinegar cruet. The exposed half page showed rows of short phrases: recusal, open hearing, witness, evidence exclusion, forensic examination, originals, handover form.

She pulled out a chair and sat down. He Xiufen didn't look up.

"On the evidence exclusion line — after it you wrote 'not filing.'"

"Not filing."

"Then that sentence he admitted to, on the twenty-fourth they just read it out in front of everyone?"

"Let them read it." He Xiufen capped her pen. "Not filing for exclusion doesn't mean we don't mention that sentence. It means we don't claim he was coerced. Whether anyone coerced him — I don't have a single piece of paper to prove it. Your father left nothing either."

She turned the half page around and pointed at the line of small characters under "not filing." That line was written lighter than everything above it, as if jotted down casually.

He confessed. He confessed it himself.

She read it twice.

"We're not arguing about how he confessed. We're arguing that the thing he confessed to wasn't true." He Xiufen uncapped the pen with her teeth. "That thing he confessed to — aside from his own mouth, is there anything else backing it up? No. And if there's nothing, it has to be overturned."

"What about the originals line?"

"Leave from home on the twenty-fourth. Pack everything the night of the twenty-third, leave the house the morning of the twenty-fourth. Don't bring them to the office overnight."

"Already packed."

"Once handed in, they go into the file." He Xiufen said, "If you want them back later, you write an application and wait for approval. Don't expect them back the same day."

"I don't."

"One more thing to remember." He Xiufen smoothed the manuscript paper flat. "Paper that goes into the file has people looking after it. The paper under the bed — only you look after that."

She didn't answer. She nudged the empty bowl on the table to the side.

"And Volume Eight?"

"That one gets presented but not submitted."

"Right. I'll photocopy it. The original you bring home the same day, into your bag, hand never leaves it." He Xiufen tapped the manuscript paper. "The two things you hand in — get a receipt."

"What kind of receipt?"

"When the court takes something in, they issue a receipt. Once issued, you keep it on your person. Don't tuck it into papers, don't stuff it in the bottom of your bag. When you get home, put it back in that bag of yours — in the same slot where the originals were."

She repeated the sentence once in her head. "Do I still need to test the disc?"

"Already tested?"

"Burned it in July. Put it in the machine again a few days ago and ran it. It reads."

"Good enough." He Xiufen said, "The handover form line — you saw me write it. July twenty-second, a judge from the Intermediate Court asked a question at the Chengnan District Procuratorate: if you find the document, say so; if you can't find it, say so. To this day: nothing. If there's still nothing on the twenty-fourth, I'll ask why."

Footsteps on the stairs. He Xiufen flipped the manuscript paper over and tucked it back under the vinegar cruet.

He came downstairs to get noodles. The water in the pot was boiling. He Xiufen got up and dropped the noodles in, served him a bowl, and he sat at the table by the door to eat. The bowl emptied, he carried it back to the serving window, passed the table without stopping, and didn't glance at the vinegar cruet.

"Lawyer Shen."

"Lawyer Lu."

He went upstairs. The door on the second floor clicked shut, very softly.

He Xiufen pulled the manuscript paper out, smoothed it flat, and pressed one corner down with the vinegar cruet. "On the twenty-fourth, when you're sitting there, your face can't show anything."

"Show what?"

"He can tell what you're thinking." He Xiufen said, "If he reads what he's supposed to say off your face, then what he says up there won't be his own anymore."

She nodded. Outside the door, a delivery tricycle passed through the alley, the metal cargo bed rattling.

At nine in the evening on September twenty-third, she dragged the appeal bag out again.

This time there was no arranging. Hand in, straight to that slot: three pages of interview record, one disc. After taking them out, she felt around the slot. The cardboard was empty. Her fingertips found the crease at the bottom of the bag.

The new document envelope lay on the table — stiff cardboard, two round fasteners at the opening. She placed the three pages face up inside, edges aligned, laid the disc and its sleeve on top of the paper, and fastened the buttons one by one.

On the front of the envelope she wrote in black pen: Original July 1 interview record, three pages; disc, one; September 24, submit to Chengdong District Court.

Then she traced over the date a second time so it wouldn't be hard to read if it ended up buried under other things.

From the stack of volumes at the desk corner she pulled out Volume Eight, turned to the page dated March twenty-second, slipped in a paper marker, closed it, and put it in her bag. This volume gets presented but not submitted.

She went through the bag once more: the document envelope, Volume Eight, the notice the court had delivered on September seventeenth, her ID. The clothes she'd wear tomorrow hung on the chair back — dark, clean cuffs.

She added nothing to the remaining contents of the appeal bag. She drew the opening shut. The written side faced up, six lines, the bottom line dated August fifth. She pressed her palm flat on the bag and wiped outward once, brushing the dust from beside that white mark.

She pushed the bag back under the bed, next to the cardboard box.

Back at the desk, she pulled the pen from the holder.

The twenty-fourth — that line belonged under August fifth. That was the day two things left the bag.

The pen tip hovered above the bag, a finger's width from the August fifth line. She stopped there.

On the bag, every one of those six lines was followed by something: the one submitted to the Intermediate Court, the time the evidence-retrieval application was accepted, the retrial decision of August fifth. What would follow today's line — that piece of paper was still in the court. Not yet in her hands.

She lifted the pen, then set it down.

This time, she wasn't putting anything in. She was taking something out.

She laid the pen on the bag, pushed the bag back under the bed, and tied the drawstring with two loops.