Chapter 462: One Page of Handover Form

During that ten-minute break, He Xiufen didn't leave the room. She laid the half-sheet of paper flat across her lap, holding one edge down with her finger, read it through once, then folded it back up and slipped it into the side pocket of her black bag.

Voices drifted through the door from the corridor, rising and falling. Prosecutor Ke was briefing his assistant just outside, and the assistant was jotting notes with the pen cap between her teeth. Judge Liang hadn't moved; she put her watch back on, rested both hands on the table, and watched the clock on the wall.

At 10:40, the door closed.

"Let's continue," Judge Liang said. "Evidence presentation. Today we're not judging authenticity—only whether the items are present and what's written on them. Prosecutor first."

Prosecutor Ke opened the case file and read through it page by page. Evidence from the original trial: the indictment, the original defendant's statement and defense, witness testimony, the Qingyuan re-test report that "didn't match the initial test," and the original trial transcript. After those, he flipped to the next stack: materials the Intermediate Court had collected during the petition review—a file index, an archive inspection form, and the borrowing register glued to the inside back cover.

He didn't look up as he read the titles, his voice flat, only pausing after every item had been fully cited. The assistant pushed a sheet of paper beside his hand, and when he reached "the Qingyuan re-test report," he set that paper down and pressed one fingertip to its corner. Shen Zhixia sat listening as the things from her father's case were read out one by one. At "the original defendant's statement and defense," she pressed her knees together. She'd copied those titles before—copied them once, checked them once, against the file index. Today they came out of the man across the table, and nothing was missing, nothing added.

"Another item, delivered this morning."

He drew two pages from the file, laid down one, then the other, pushing both to the center of the table with the edges aligned.

"One explanatory statement from the Chengnan District People's Procuratorate," he said. "And the page attached behind it."

She looked at the first sheet first. Typed, brief: their archives had located this photocopy in the procuratorate file for that case; it was a copy of material that had accompanied the case when the public security organ transferred it for prosecution review. The original had been transferred along with the case to the court.

The second page, she looked at for a long time.

It was a photocopy, with a light gray vertical strip down the left side. The form was divided into boxes by horizontal lines, some split down the middle.

Sample submission time: March 21, 10:10.

Sample quantity: twelve portions.

Packaging: two cardboard boxes.

Below that, seal condition. Three small checkboxes, and the tick landed in "intact." The checkmark wasn't heavy—it started inside the box and drifted past the edge, trailing a little to the right.

The submitter column bore a signature. Thin strokes, the horizontal lines level, the finishing strokes pulled back inward; inside the character for "Bai," the middle horizontal didn't touch the edges.

The receiver column began with a "Shi." The character after it was scrawled in a single stroke, the final stroke flicking upward.

She knew that ending stroke. On Qingyuan's sampling records from those years, the receiver column always carried that same "Shi"—one horizontal, one vertical hook, the final stroke flicking up. Whether she knew the person was a separate matter; she'd seen the way that character ended more than ten times.

That checkmark—she looked at it a second time.

The samples from the night of March 20 had sat overnight in the village committee office. On the evening of April 18, on the three-step stoop outside the noodle shop, he'd said the tape on one box opening wasn't the same strip from that first night. In the three pages she'd read on the night of July 7, it was written that the second box's opening had faced him directly—the old staple holes still there, new staples driven in beside them, the tape seam on the right. That was what he'd seen. And on this page, the box was ticked "intact." Both things now lay on the same table in this room, and nobody could read them together today—no cross-examination, no questions from her. The seat she occupied was labeled "Petitioner."

She drew her hands back from the table edge, rested them on her lap, and pressed all ten fingers into the folds of her skirt.

"The prosecution has no further comment on this page," Prosecutor Ke said. "What's being shown is only the photocopy. We don't know where the original is."

He Xiufen nudged the page half an inch toward herself and scanned it from the top of the form to the bottom—the checkmark, the receiver column. Her thumb paused over the tick, she glanced up at Shen Zhixia for a beat, then lowered her eyes again. The two of them traded a look, neither speaking. He Xiufen slid the page back and placed both hands on the table.

"Does the defense have anything to say?"

"No," He Xiufen said. "This page, the defense will address at trial."

"Enter that into the record."

Under the table, she dug her left thumbnail into her palm.

[Thud. Old Case Retrial, three items, one more arrives: Sample Delivery Record.]

[Thud. Three items, complete.]

Her face didn't move. He Xiufen had said it at that table in the noodle shop: when she sat there on the twenty-fourth, she couldn't let anything show on her face; if someone could read off her face what he ought to say, those words wouldn't be his own. She opened her hand and laid her fingers one by one on her lap. Every sound in the meeting room stayed in its place; the water in the paper cup on the table wobbled once, then stilled.

"Defense presentation," Judge Liang said.

She unwound the string fastener on the document envelope, loosening two loops. Three pages came out, edges aligned, the top-right corner of the first page slightly curled. She stood and placed the three pages and the optical disc on the center of the table, pushing them toward the prosecutor's side. The disc landed with a small clack.

"The defense presents: the original interview record of July 1, three pages; the second optical disc, one disc," He Xiufen said. "One written, one recorded, same origin. We ask the court to accept both."

The clerk stood, flipped through the three pages, checked the signatures and fingerprint on the last page, then held the disc to the window light to examine the back. She opened her notebook and wrote, tore out a slip, and handed it across the long table.

"Receipt. Please check that it's correct."

She took it and read. Date, the two items received, page and disc counts, and at the bottom the court's receipt stamp, pressed squarely—not half an inch of it overlapping the text. She looked up. "Correct."

"I'll add it to the file shortly," the clerk said.

She didn't let go, folding the receipt in half once and holding it in her palm.

"One more thing." He Xiufen took Volume Eight from her black bag. The volume wasn't thick—hard cover, the corners worn soft, and the slip of paper tucked inside still showed its edge. She flipped to that page, laid the book open on the table, the page facing the prosecutor.

"The original defendant's case notebook. It wasn't in the original trial file. Today we show it only; we don't submit it," she said. "This page—the header reads March 22, morning."

Prosecutor Ke leaned over to read, and he read for a long while. He pointed a finger at a word before the third line, not touching the paper.

"The prosecution has viewed it."

"The defense retains a photocopy; the original leaves with defense counsel," He Xiufen said.

"Enter that into the record," Judge Liang said. "That volume does not enter the file."

"The one-page written declaration he submitted to the Intermediate Court on July 8 is already in the case file; the defense won't submit it separately." He Xiufen closed the volume, the slip of paper still in its place, and set it beside her hand without putting it away.

"Anything else?"

"Nothing."

Judge Liang squared the stack of papers in front of her and looked at the watch lying flat on the table.

"Everything scheduled for today is done. The collegial panel has identified two points of dispute in this case."

"First: was the test material used in the re-test—the one the original conviction relied on—the same original samples taken in Baixi Village on March 20 and sent for testing on March 21? Second: was the test report the original defendant submitted in the civil litigation fabricated?"

She read both slowly, pausing after each. At the first, Prosecutor Ke snapped the cap onto his pen with a click; at the second, he pushed his notebook an inch forward.

"Do the parties have any objection to these two points?"

"No," He Xiufen said.

"No," Prosecutor Ke said.

"The trial date will be set after the appraisal opinion comes in," Judge Liang said, pushing her glasses up and turning toward the petitioner's side. "Petitioner, as a close relative, do you have anything to say today?"

She slid her chair back half an inch and stood.

"No," she said. "I'll say it on the day of trial."

Prosecutor Ke glanced up, then down again.

Judge Liang looked at her for a moment, didn't press further. "Enter that into the record."

At 11:50, the clerk printed out the pretrial meeting record—several pages—and laid a copy in front of each person, then pushed a pen across the middle of the table. Judge Liang had the clerk read back her notes. At the two lines about evidence exclusion, He Xiufen nodded; at the section on witnesses, Prosecutor Ke gave a small nod; at "No. I'll say it on the day of trial," the room went quiet for a while, and nobody spoke. Judge Liang pressed her palm gently against the table. "Recorded verbatim."

"Read it through, then sign. Fingerprint where indicated."

Her section was near the bottom, with a few blank lines still after it. She read line by line, reached "Petitioner," reached those two sentences, and wrote her name. It was her own, but she wrote it a little slower than usual; the ink hadn't quite dried and caught the sheen of the paper.

The ink pad box came around from the prosecutor's side, deep dark red. She pressed her thumb in, placed it below her name, and held it for two counts before lifting. A clear print remained, the ridges sharp, blotted faintly at the edges.

He Xiufen pressed hers firmly and clicked the lid back on before pushing it over. Prosecutor Ke pressed lightly; his mark on the paper was pale.

Judge Liang flipped through the record from front to back, turned the last page, and closed it.

"That's all for today," she said. "Everyone, wait for notice."

Outside the third meeting room, the corridor was brighter than the room had been. The windows stood wide open, sunlight falling in blocks on the terrazzo floor, the shadows of window frames between them. The door at the far end had blown ajar, papers tacked to the notice board lifting and settling. Someone came up the stairs carrying an armful of case files; she stepped aside to let him pass, and he murmured, "Excuse me."

He Xiufen walked ahead, switching her black bag to the other hand, and stopped at the top of the stairs.

"That checkmark."

She didn't answer. Her palm still held the folded receipt, its edge stiff, pressing into the web of her thumb.

"It's ticked 'intact,'" He Xiufen said. "March 21, 10:10. The submitter signed that column—Hengzheng's intern that year. The receiver column has a 'Shi.'" She looked down at the bright landing below. "He sealed those boxes. The words were his. Who drew that tick—someone in court is going to have to answer."

A draft came up the stairwell and lifted her sleeve. Below, a cleaning auntie dragged a bucket of water across the floor, the mop cloth slapping against the steps.

She counted the stairs as she went. On the second one, she remembered the face of the petition bag: six lines of writing, the bottom line dated August 5—the Retrial Decision, Chengdong District Court. Today's receipt didn't get added as a line on that bag.

She unfolded the receipt, gave it a look, then folded it into a neat little square and tucked it into the innermost compartment of her bag.

"When I get home, it goes in the petition bag," she said. "The original slot."

He Xiufen didn't ask her why it belonged in that slot. She picked up her bag and headed down the stairs.