Chapter 469: That Checkmark Wasn't Mine

At 10:40, the bailiff pulled the door all the way open and stepped aside.

Lu Jibai came in from the hallway. Dark gray suit, shirt collar buttoned to the very top, hands empty. The hallway light followed him half a step in, falling at his feet, and the door closed halfway behind him.

He walked toward the witness stand. Cutting through the middle of the courtroom, he passed beside the defendant's table—the nameplate there still faced inward, and the crossbar on the chair back was worn shiny. He glanced at it but didn't pause.

The witness stand was on the inner side of the courtroom: a small table, one chair, a paper cup on the table, the water untouched. He stopped in front of the table and did not sit.

She rested both hands on the edge of her table and looked up.

The clerk carried the pledge form over and set it in front of him. The printed title was already on the page, with one blank line below.

"Please sign."

He took the pen and signed slowly. Stroke by stroke, pressing down firmly where the pen touched. When he finished, he set the pen back on the corner of the table, pushed the paper back, and withdrew both hands to the table's edge.

Judge Liang looked at him. "Witness, the court advises you: you must testify truthfully. Deliberately giving false testimony or concealing evidence carries legal liability. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"State the facts you know to the court."

"On the afternoon of March 20, the second batch of samples was packed. Twelve samples, two cardboard boxes, each box holding six small buckets."

"I sealed both boxes. Packing staples and tape. After sealing, they sat overnight in the village committee office. I wasn't in the village that night—I went back to the firm. I drove over again the next morning."

"On the morning of the 21st, around 7:50, I arrived at the village committee office. I was the only one from the firm there."

"When I lifted the second box, the opening faced me directly. The tape was new. The seam was on the right side, overlapping the old tear. The old staple holes were still there; the new ones were about a finger's width away."

He paused, raised his left hand, crooked his index finger upward, and turned the scar beside the knuckle toward the bench.

"Cut it here."

"Let the record show," Judge Liang said.

"It bled. I wiped it on my pant leg. Shen Qian pulled a Band-Aid out of his pocket and handed it to me."

No one in the courtroom moved at the sound of that name. The pen in her hand stopped on the page, leaving an ink dot. She lifted the pen and flipped the page back.

Her father had always carried Band-Aids in his pocket. She'd fallen once riding on his bike, scraping her knee, and from that year on he'd kept them there. A whole box, in the inner pocket of his jacket, the box crushed out of shape.

"I loaded the box into the car. I signed the sample submission form. The car left at 8:05. We arrived at Qingyuan around ten."

"I handed over the box, and the sample submission form with it. I signed the 'sample submitter' column. The 'seal' column was blank."

"The intake person counted—counted to twelve. I told him it was all there."

"In April, the report came back to the firm. It said the results didn't match the initial test."

"That year, no one ever came to ask me about it."

He pulled his hands off the table's edge and let them fall to his sides.

The courtroom was quiet. The clerk never looked up; her pen kept moving. Someone in the gallery shifted a foot on the floor—a short sound, then nothing.

She sat at the table beside the defense bench, her head up the whole time.

The moment he started speaking, the whole room followed his sentences: when he mentioned the boxes, every eye went to the five pages on the screen; when he mentioned the scar, every eye went to his left hand. He never once looked toward the gallery.

The tape—she'd heard one sentence about it on the stone steps outside the noodle shop: the tape on the box opening wasn't the same strip from the night before. On the evening of July 7, she'd read it again in his three-page statement. Today was the first time she'd heard these details: a finger's width. All there. What he'd said on the stone steps had been an admission to her; today he was saying it for a courtroom full of people.

In the third row by the aisle, Auntie Wang tugged at Cen Hong's sleeve.

"He's talking about our plant?" Her voice was kept very low, but the front row still caught half of it.

"Yes," Cen Hong whispered back. "Qingyuan. Listen—he's talking about that place."

Auntie Wang nodded, took her hand off the sleeve, and sat straight.

At 11:10, He Xiufen stood.

"Witness, take a look at this page."

She pulled the photocopy of the handover form from her stack of papers and handed it to the bailiff. The bailiff walked over, spread it on the witness stand, and pressed the corners flat with his fingers.

He looked down at it.

He looked at it longer than anyone else in the courtroom. On the paper, the grid lines—several broken in the middle. Sample time; twelve samples; two cardboard boxes. The "seal" box had a checkmark that ran past its border. Below, two columns—one with a signature, one with the name "Shi," the character after it scrawled into a single stroke, the last stroke flicking upward.

"Is the signature in the 'sample submitter' column yours?"

"It's mine."

"Is that checkmark in the 'seal' column yours?"

"It's not mine."

He Xiufen turned the pen in her fingers halfway, then set it down.

"When you handed over the box, was that column blank?"

"It was blank."

"Who drew the checkmark?"

"The intake person. After he finished counting, he took a pen from the desk and drew a check in that box."

"Where?"

"In the 'intact' box. It went crooked—outside the line."

"And the time written on the form?"

"10:10. He wrote that too. I only signed my name."

He Xiufen asked nothing more. She lifted her eyes from the page and looked at him.

"When he handed you the Band-Aid, did he ask about the boxes?"

"No."

"Not a single word?"

"He said, 'You've got a cut on your hand—don't get it wet.'"

He Xiufen nodded and sat down. Her finger pressed against the lid of the metal box, and the lid gave a soft click.

"The procurator may question the witness," Judge Liang said.

Prosecutor Ke pushed the paper in front of her forward an inch.

"On the night of the 20th, when the samples spent the night in the village committee office, did you go back at any point?"

"No. I didn't go over until the morning of the 21st."

"When you lifted the second box, where was the other one?"

"Right beside it, near the door."

"The opening faced you, and you saw it that clearly. Why so clearly?"

"When I lifted it, it was right against my face," he said. "From the village committee office to the car—those few steps—I kept looking at it."

"Who assigned you to deliver the samples?"

He said a name, his voice low but clear.

"Which characters? Say it clearly," Judge Liang said.

He gave the name clearly. The clerk kept her head down, recording line by line.

"Who was the intake person?"

He said a second name, the last character also clear. The clerk recorded it as well.

Prosecutor Ke pressed a finger against the paper.

"After you saw the box opening, did you tell anyone at the firm?"

"No."

"You saw the tape had been replaced—why did you still sign?"

"The firm asked me to deliver the samples," he said. "It never occurred to me not to."

"What you've said today—is it the same as what you told the procuratorate?"

"It's the same. What's missing from before is what I've added today."

"Why didn't you speak up during these nine years?"

"No one asked me that year. And I didn't go to anyone."

Prosecutor Ke closed the paper and folded her hands on the table.

"Presiding Judge, I'm finished."

At 11:30, Judge Liang glanced at her watch.

"Witness, do you have anything to add?"

He looked down at her table for a moment, then raised his eyes again. While he spoke, she did not look down.

"That year, I saw it, I signed it, I delivered it. For nine years I said nothing. Today, I've said it all."

Judge Liang said, "The witness is excused. This case has two more witnesses to testify. You may sit in the gallery—last row. After the hearing record is checked, you'll sign."

"All right."

The bailiff led him around the side of the trial area, through the small gate in the railing, which stood open. He stepped down to the gallery level. In the last row against the wall, one seat was empty. Shi Lei sat at the other end; by the door sat the man in the gray suit.

He walked over and sat down, hands on his knees.

In the front row, Zhi'an turned back, looked at him once, then turned around again.

She didn't look back. Behind her, a chair creaked faintly.

In the gallery, the row where Ma Jianjun sat—several shoulders dropped an inch. Peng Weidong pressed down on the white plastic bag at his feet, as if just remembering there was half a steamed bun inside. Kang Wenying set the bag she'd been holding across her arms on her lap, still keeping one hand over the opening.

At 11:50, Judge Liang said, "The court is in recess. We resume at 2:00 p.m."

The clerk stood. The bailiff opened the door. The gallery erupted in the sound of chairs; people filed into the hallway.

She closed her notebook, capped her pen, and put the papers into her bag. Zhi'an came over from the first row, passing her table. She caught his arm.

"Don't talk in the hallway outside."

"I know."

Tang Guo came over holding her bag, stood behind her, and waited until Zhi'an was gone before whispering, "I'll still be here at two." Then she headed for the door.

At the far end of the defense bench, He Xiufen folded the paper back along its original creases and pressed it under the metal box, both hands on the lid, waiting until most of the people had gone before closing it.

The hallway was a little warmer. Some people headed for the stairs; others stood still by the windows.

Cen Hong helped Auntie Wang out the door. Auntie Wang walked slowly, stopping halfway down the hall to look back at the closed door.

"That young man," she said. "One sentence at a time."

"One sentence at a time—that's how you remember," Cen Hong said.

He Xiufen slowed half a step as she passed them.

"Two more this afternoon."

"I know."

"Go downstairs and eat something. If you don't eat, you'll never hold out until five."

"All right."

At the far end, by the window, he stood with his back to the hallway.

She came up from behind. Her pace didn't change; her eyes were on the door at the far end of the hall. As she passed, his shoulder shifted slightly—but he didn't turn around.

At the end of the hallway was a utility room, door open, with a sink and a single faucet inside.

She went in and filled a cup halfway. The faucet was loose; when the water came on, the whole pipe rattled.

The paper cup was thin—the water burned her hands. She held it with both palms. When she looked down, the cup was already crushed out of shape, one side of the rim caved in, water running along the crease and dripping twice onto the back of her hand.

Those words from the staircase landing came back to her: The day the original stands up, I'll read it all.

Her answer that day had been: I won't listen.

Today he read it. Read it to the court, read it to the empty chair at the defendant's table. She sat at the table beside the defense bench, both hands on the edge, and listened from beginning to end without dodging a single word.

When the water was gone, the cup was a thin flattened scrap in her hand. She tossed it in the bin and looked at her palm: four finger marks, still not faded.

She pushed the door open and stepped out. The window at the far end of the hallway was empty now. A small patch of light lay on the sill, white-hot through the glass.