Chapter 468: First Courtroom

The line outside the courthouse had formed before eight.

The iron gate stood half open. Behind it, a long table with a card reader glowing on top, one bailiff, and a young man holding a sheaf of papers at the front. The line curled along the base of the wall, one person per brick. Wind swept down from the street, rattling the corners of the papers in his hand.

At eight twenty, she pulled her scarf down a little and walked up along the side of the line.

The first thing she saw was a row of helmets, chin straps dangling, tucked under arms. Ma Jianjun stood mid-line, the reflective stripe on his work jacket faded white. He stepped half out of the line when he saw her.

"Lawyer Shen. Everyone's here." He kept his voice low. "Eleven showed. The two who said they'd just watch came too—they're in the back."

"Once inside, no talking."

"Understood. They search bags at the door, so we drank our water already." He shook an empty bottle in his hand. "Helmets can't go in. I'll leave them on the bikes after check-in."

Peng Weidong stood in line, a white plastic bag at his feet with two steamed buns inside. He bit into one, looked up, counted how many people were ahead of him. He was still in his night-shift uniform, the collar buttoned to the top. Lin Qi stood behind him, ID card pinched between his fingers, a sheet of paper folded twice in his other hand. Kang Wenying clutched her bag horizontally against her chest, one hand pressing the opening. He Lan's hair was pulled back tight, a red line from her scarf marked into her neck. Shi Lei stood outside the line, leaning against the street, spinning his car key around one finger.

Cen Hong supported Auntie Wang at the very back. Auntie Wang wore the padded jacket, freshly washed, and had asked three or four times along the way "how much further"—this time she asked, "Which room is this one?"

"First Courtroom," Cen Hong said into her ear.

"Which one?"

"First."

Auntie Wang nodded, then asked again, "Once I'm inside, where do I sit?"

"Near the door. I'll sit next to you."

Tang Guo squeezed up from behind, her bag open. She shoved her phone in, zipped it halfway, stopped, lit up the screen for a look, turned it off, stuffed it into the innermost pocket, zipped it shut, and patted the bag.

"Powered off," she said.

"You can't film in there."

"I know. I won't." She slung the bag onto her shoulder. "I'll sit inside and not say a word."

"The ones who said they'd just watch—I'll call them one by one after court."

"Lawyer Li posted it in the group: ID in hand, no digging through bags at the door." Tang Guo said. "I sent that before I turned my phone off."

At eight ten, she'd first walked Zhi'an to the small west door. He Xiufen opened it from inside and led him through; only then did she circle back to the main entrance. She entered through the gate marked for litigation participants. A bailiff checked her notice, ran her bag through the machine—pen, notebook, tissues, taken out one by one, then placed back.

"Water can't go in."

"I don't have any."

Through the second door, a long corridor. The door at the end stood open, a placard hanging beside it. When she stepped in, voices were already murmuring inside, low.

The First Courtroom wasn't large. A wooden railing divided off the trial area. The bench rose three steps up, three chairs. On the left, the prosecution table; Prosecutor Ke stacked case files into three neat piles while his assistant chewed on a pen cap and flipped through her notebook. On the right, the defense table. He Xiufen stood, lifted the tin box from her black bag, and set it at the corner of the table, unopened. Her own table sat beside the defense table—placed there by the court—with a paper cup, a pen, and a stack of blank paper on it.

She sat, set her bag by her feet, laid the notebook and pen on the paper.

The defendant's seat stood in the center, facing the bench. A placard on the table, lettering facing inward. The chair was set straight, a crossbar along its back, worn faintly shiny. No one there.

The gallery had three rows. Those who came in sat; those who didn't, registered at the door and left. Zhi'an sat in the first row near the inner side, both hands on his knees, eyes forward. Tang Guo sat one row behind him, bag hugged in her arms. Auntie Wang by the aisle; Cen Hong tucked the hem of her jacket under her. Shi Lei sat in the far corner of the last row. At the door end of the last row sat a man in a gray suit who hadn't moved once. Ma Jianjun and the others sat in the row next to Auntie Wang, no helmets, hands empty.

At nine sharp, the court clerk stood and read from a paper in hand: presiding judge, associate judge, people's juror; court clerk; Prosecutor Ke of the Chengdong District People's Procuratorate and assistant prosecutor; defense counsel He Xiufen; the petitioner, daughter of the original defendant, Shen Zhixia.

When she reached "the original defendant, Shen Qian, deceased, on trial today in absentia," she raised her eyes and looked at the empty chair.

"The witness is waiting in the witness room," the clerk said. "The one from up the mountain arrived at eight forty."

Judge Liang tapped the gavel, not loudly.

"The Chengdong District People's Court of Jiangzhou City now convenes this public session to hear the case of the original defendant Shen Qian, charged with obstructing witness testimony. This case is being retried under trial supervision procedure; the original trial was of first instance, so it is heard under first-instance procedure; the original defendant has died, so the trial proceeds in absentia." She paused. "The defendant's seat is empty."

No one answered that. A light fixture overhead buzzed twice.

Recusal was announced. Neither side applied.

At nine twenty, Judge Liang read the Retrial Decision from the Jiangzhou Intermediate Court. She read it slowly, sentence by sentence. When she reached "directing the Chengdong District People's Court of Jiangzhou City to retry this case under first-instance procedure," she turned the page, then closed it.

"Defense counsel, state the grounds for the petition."

He Xiufen opened the tin box, took out the papers, a paperclip at the edge. She stood, the first two lines read from the page, eyes on the paper. By the third line, she set the paper down and looked at the bench.

"The re-test on which the original conviction was based—the test material left sealed storage the night before it was sent for testing. Someone saw it that night. The record is in the file."

"The real re-test report is bound into another case's file. It has been retrieved and examined: the seal matches the archived specimen seal, and the signature is in his own hand."

"The original defendant confessed. The thing he confessed to has no other evidence to corroborate it. Nine years ago, in a courtroom of another court, he said one sentence: The words on the report are my signature. I won't say anything else."

"The 'anything else' he wouldn't say—today someone will say it for him."

"We ask the collegial panel to declare the original defendant not guilty, in accordance with law."

When He Xiufen reached the end of the second page, she set the paper down, folded it back along its original crease, and pressed it onto the tin box. The third page still lay under the paperclip. She didn't turn to it.

The courtroom went quiet for a moment. Prosecutor Ke clicked his pen cap shut.

At nine forty, the prosecutor read the evidence from the original trial.

The indictment; the original defendant's statement and defense; witness testimony; Qingyuan's re-test report marked "inconsistent with the initial test"; the original trial transcript. He read the names one by one, his voice flat, pausing after each. His assistant pushed a sheet of paper over to his hand; he pressed the corner with his index finger.

At "witness testimony," she lifted her head, then lowered it again.

At the final page of the trial transcript, he neither sped up nor slowed: "The defendant stated: The words on the report are my signature. I won't say anything else."

Her fingers pressed against the edge of the table.

She'd read that line before. In that copy room at the Chengnan District Court, the machine spitting out page after page, she'd checked those pages over and over. Those photocopies were now in the bag under her bed, beside that empty slot.

She drew her fingers back from the table's edge, rested them on her knees, hands together.

At ten o'clock, Judge Liang said, "Produce the original."

A bailiff in white gloves carried forward the main file, bound in one volume. The corners were worn pale, the cord tied in back. He placed the file on the display stand and turned to the end of the plaintiff's evidence section, his fingers pressing the back of each page as he went. The clerk lowered the projector screen; the screen unrolled to the bottom and shivered once.

Five pages lay spread on the stand. Light hit them; the characters were blown up to half a wall.

At the bottom of the first page, a line of small print, one size smaller than the body: This report contains six pages in total (including one attachment page).

The last line of the fifth page: Attachment: Sample Handover Form (photocopy).

Beside the "Issuer" column on the fifth page, a red seal showed on the screen as a dark red mass, edges sharp, characters squeezed inside a circle. The strokes of the signature line were magnified thick—horizontal strokes level, the final stroke pulling back inward. The date was April 1st.

She counted page by page, then counted again from the beginning. Five pages. The sixth wasn't there.

She remembered that sentence from the stairwell landing: The day the original stands up there, I'll read it all. The original had stood up today, spread across the screen, for anyone to see, for anyone to count. The person who'd said he'd read it hadn't come in yet.

"Appraisal opinion," Judge Liang said. "The clerk will read the conclusions."

The clerk read two conclusions: the seal impression on the material matches the specimen seal impression from the same seal; the signature handwriting is that of Cen Shouye himself. When she finished, she asked if there were objections.

"The defense has reviewed it. No objection," He Xiufen said.

"The prosecution has no objection," Prosecutor Ke said.

"This appraisal was commissioned by the court; the appraiser is not present today. The appraisal opinion is shown in court, neither side objects, and the court admits it." Judge Liang said. "Continue."

Prosecutor Ke pushed two pages to the center of the table. One was the Chengnan District People's Procuratorate's statement; the other, a photocopy of the Sample Handover Form.

"These two pages were shown at the pretrial meeting," he said. "They are shown again today, filed with the record. The statement says this page is a photocopy of material that was transferred to the court with the case that year; the original went with the case file."

The clerk put the page under the projector. Gridlines, one by one; several lines broke off in the middle. Sample submission time, March 21st, 10:10. Twelve samples. Two cardboard boxes. The "seal condition" box was ticked at "intact"—the tick ran outside the box. One signature in the sample submitter column. In the sample receiver column, a "Shi," the second character scrawled into a single stroke, the final stroke flicking upward.

She looked at that tick longer than she looked at anything else.

"The Hengzheng internship file," Judge Liang said.

The clerk read: Internship Agreement, Internship Log, Assessment Form, stamped and released by the law firm. She turned to the log and read the entry for March 21st: "Went out with the firm."

One line. The days before and after each had several lines. That day had only that one line.

"The Intermediate Court's three interview records, the Chengnan District Procuratorate's nine-page record, filed with the case." Judge Liang said. "They were provided to the defense before trial. Any objections?"

"None," He Xiufen said.

"The defense's two items," Judge Liang said. "Submitted at the pretrial meeting."

"The original three-page interview record from July 1st, and the second disc." He Xiufen said. "In the file; please exhibit them in court."

The clerk pulled the three pages from the file and laid them under the projector one by one. At the bottom of each page, a crooked signature; beneath each signature, a red thumbprint. The disc, in its sleeve, was held up for both sides to see.

Judge Liang glanced at the prosecution table.

"No objection," Prosecutor Ke said.

"Enter it into the record."

"One more item; not filed with the case." He Xiufen drew a sheet of paper from under the tin box and handed it to the bailiff. "A photocopy of the March 22nd page from Volume Eight. The original is the petitioner's father's notebook. That volume isn't entered into this case file; it's shown in court today."

The clerk put the page under the projector. The writing was fast, line spacing wide. In the margin, a line of pencil, fainter than the body text.

"This page records that night—the night before the material was sent for testing." He Xiufen did not return to her seat; she faced the bench. "The man who wrote it has been gone for nine years. The man who saw that night will arrive this afternoon."

"Does the prosecution have any objection."

"No," Prosecutor Ke said.

"Enter it into the record. The defense keeps one copy of the photocopy; the original is not filed with the case and will be taken away after court."

Prosecutor Ke turned to the last page.

"The reply from the Chengnan District Court's archive room." He said. "First question: the writing in the 'borrower' column of the first row of the loan form on the inside back cover of the original trial file."

He read slower than before: "The characters are written squat, strokes connected. The 'purpose' column is blank. Upon comparison, it cannot be deciphered."

"Second question: the lending register from that year. Answer: retention period has expired; destroyed."

"Third question: where did the 'attachment' page listed in the file index go. Answer: cannot be determined."

He set the paper down and rested both hands on the table.

She bowed her head and wrote in her notebook: Cannot be determined. The pen tip paused on the paper; that horizontal stroke cut through the sheen of the page. She capped the pen when she finished, and the cap made a click.

At ten forty, Judge Liang glanced at the watch laid flat on her table.

"Call witness Lu Jibai to the stand."

The bailiff walked to the door and placed his hand on the handle.

The door opened. Light from the corridor slanted in, laying a strip across the floor.

She did not turn around.