Chapter 473: Case Receipt

At 8:50, He Xiufen lined up the four pages on the table, edges flush, twice.

"You go," she said, nudging the papers toward the table's edge. "You're family. I'm counsel. This one, I'm not going with you."

Shen Zhixia stood at the table, not sitting. The old wooden chair beneath the window sat empty. Water was boiling in the pot downstairs, and the smell of scallion oil climbed the stairs step by step. The four pages were what she'd written the night before until 10 p.m. The last line, "Please investigate in accordance with the law," capped off with the pen lid, pressed under the desk lamp all night; next to it was a copy made from the original at home.

"Once you hand it in, they'll ask questions," He Xiufen said. "First one: who wrote this."

"I wrote it."

"After you answer that, they'll tell you false accusations carry legal liability. Don't interrupt. Wait until he finishes, then say your line."

"I only wrote what I saw."

He Xiufen looked at her, pulled a thick marker from the back of the drawer, and slid it over. "The envelope. Write clearly on the front—who wrote it, what day, handed to whom."

Shen Zhixia placed the four pages into the new kraft-paper document envelope, the front still blank. Following the format of her father's appeal envelope, she wrote line by line: Complaint. Shen Zhixia. November 1st. Submitted to the District Bureau.

At "District Bureau," the pen tip stopped, leaving a dot on the paper. He Xiufen said, "Don't write the district name. They know who they are."

"There's one spot you crossed out three times," He Xiufen said. "What did you settle on?"

"Someone tampered with it."

"Mm." He Xiufen tapped the envelope against the table's edge, evening it out. "That's the sentence you settled on. The rest you left out—correct."

She capped the marker and put it back in the drawer. He Xiufen said, "The window will give you a Case Receipt. Take it."

"And if they don't?"

"Then you stand there. What goes in has to have something come out."

She went downstairs just after 9:05. He Xiufen followed to the stairwell, apron on, wiping her hands on it. "Once you've handed it in, come back. Noodles are in the pot."

"Okay."

The bus ride over, then right at the stop, five or six minutes on foot. The district bureau's iron gate stood open, two cars in the courtyard, one door not quite closed—wind caught it, the gap widening before shutting again. The lobby wasn't crowded: a man pushed a phone box into a window, saying, "My phone isn't worth anything, but it's got pictures of my kid on it." An old woman clutched a household register and asked where the third floor was; an officer behind the window looked up and said household registration wasn't handled here. On the row of plastic chairs in the corner sat a woman holding a sleeping child, one shoe fallen to the floor.

She walked to the far window and placed the envelope on the counter.

"A complaint," she said.

Behind the window sat an officer in a blue shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked up at her, then at the envelope. "Got your materials ready?"

"Yes."

"ID."

She handed over her ID. The officer pulled a form from under the counter, pressing it against the window as he slid it out. "Name, address, phone, reason for complaint—fill it in line by line. The relationship section—your relationship to him, write it truthfully."

In the box marked "Complainant's Relationship to the Case," she wrote: Daughter of Shen Qian, former defendant.

The officer picked up the four pages and turned them one by one. Slow. He stopped at page two and looked up. "February 24th, you were there?"

"I was. On this side of the ditch."

"These are things you saw yourself?"

"What I saw myself, what I heard myself. Two items I read in the case file—the paper states clearly which two came from the file."

The officer grunted, flipped to the last page, set the papers down. "Your father's case—where is it now?"

"The retrial hearing's done. Waiting for judgment."

"Not judged yet?"

"Not yet."

The officer clicked his mouse twice and said, "I'll say this once—listen carefully. What you've written here, if we find it's fabricated, false, you bear legal liability."

"Understood," she said. "I only wrote what I saw."

"The part from nine years ago," the officer said, flipping back and pointing. "Whether it's pursued, which charge applies—that's not for me to say. We calculate under the law and report up."

"I submit what's on the paper."

The officer took a stack of forms from the drawer, pulled one out, wrote November 1st in the date box, stamped it hard, then pushed it out with the materials clip. "Case Receipt. Keep it safe. Someone will contact you for questioning later—wait for the call."

She took it. The paper was fresh, edges still stiff, printed with "Case Receipt" at the top and a round seal beneath, red. She looked at the seal twice, checked the date, then folded it and placed it in her bag.

"Go upstairs," the officer said. "Second floor, the room at the end of the hall. They're there."

At exactly ten, the room at the end of the second-floor hall had a small plaque nailed to the door. Inside: a long table, three chairs, a computer, printer, a box of ink paste on the table, a beat-up cardboard box in the corner. The wall clock read ten.

A female officer sat at the computer. A male officer sat on the near side of the table, spreading out the four pages and the registration form. "Sit. Water's over there—help yourself."

She sat, taking the notebook from her bag.

"Start from February 24th," the male officer said.

"Let me see the notebook," the female officer spoke first. "The page you mentioned."

She flipped to that page and slid the notebook over. The male officer read aloud, low: "February 24th, 11:52." Below that line, he read slowly: "Han Chongli asked Rui: 'Once the seal strip is torn off, can it be stuck back on?'"

"You wrote this line?"

"I wrote it."

"How do you know the time so precisely?"

"When he asked, I glanced at my phone. I wrote it down later by the car during the meal break, using that time."

The female officer took the notebook out and returned, placing it by her hand. "We'll keep a copy of this page. Take the original back."

"Who did he ask?"

"An appraiser from Ningchuan. Surname Rui."

"Who else was there?"

"Song Qiming, standing half a step behind him. People from Qinghe and the third-party assessor by the ditch. The sampling crew was in the ditch."

"Where were you standing?"

"This side of the ditch, two or three steps away."

"Did you think the question was a problem at the time?"

"I wrote it down. I didn't record anything else."

"Why that line alone?"

"He represents Hengyue," she said. "He was asking if the seal strip could be stuck back."

The male officer glanced at the female officer. "Record verbatim."

Then the samples from that night.

"Where were the items kept?"

"The village committee archive room. The agreement was to leave them there overnight."

"What happened the next morning?"

"Group B was completely swapped. The seal strips were counterfeit. You filed that case on March 3rd—this same bureau."

"You know we filed it on March 3rd?"

"Yes."

"When was the witness found?"

"September 2nd. A delivery rider from our group who runs the Chengbei route was delivering food to the back row of the old machinery plant dormitory area. He knocked, asked one question, and the man himself said, 'The hearing—I'll go.' September 6th, the court served him in person and he signed himself. September 11th, his son took him back to the village."

The male officer wrote down each date carefully. "The car that night, August 10th—what do you know?"

"The car was booked by a manager at the factory. Eight hundred yuan, cash upfront. One old man, one young, one bag, driven to the back row of the old machinery plant dormitory area. The driver was Master Jiao—still runs the Chengxi line."

"Where'd you hear this?"

"Master Jiao told me. I reported this to the court."

"What about August 14th?"

"1:50 p.m. His son called, using his phone. His exact words: 'I'm taking my dad out for medical treatment. We're at relatives' out of town. Stop looking.'"

"Have the number?"

"Yes." She recited a string of digits. The female officer typed it in, read it back, and she confirmed.

"The call on the night of September 6th—what the son said. Give it to me word for word."

"He said on August 10th, a deputy manager from the factory administration told him to take his father away, gave him twenty thousand yuan for 'medical expenses,' and told him not to return to the village before the hearing. The car and the room were arranged by the same man."

"He said that?"

"He said it himself. I heard it on the phone. I told him—you go tell the police station this yourself."

"Did he?"

"September 29th, township police station. He went himself. He got a receipt."

The male officer's pen paused on the paper without looking up. "The two statements in court on October 26th—verbatim."

"Director He asked: 'On the morning of March 21st, did you have a phone call with Qingyuan's sample receiver?' He answered: 'No. I don't know the sample receiver.' Later, Director He placed the handover form copy by his hand and asked who drew the checkmark in the seal column. He said: 'I've never seen this page.' Then the question: 'The attachment page—that handover form—have you seen it before?' He answered: 'No.'"

"How do you know that isn't true?"

"I don't know what's in his mind," she said. "What I'm saying is, what he said doesn't match the papers in the file."

"Which papers?"

"The handover form copy, the page the prosecution showed in court. The seal column had a checkmark reading 'intact.' Lu Jibai said in court he didn't draw that checkmark. The retest original was appraised—the seal and signature are both genuine. All of it's in the Chengdong District Court file."

"You don't have these papers?"

"I don't. The court does. You can retrieve them."

The female officer printed out the record and handed it over. She read page by page, slower than she'd spoken. Midway through, she stopped: it read, "The complainant asserts Han Chongli committed perjury in court."

"I didn't say that." She turned the paper around. "What I said is, his words don't match the papers in the file."

The female officer leaned over, reviewed it, deleted that line, retyped the sentence, and swapped in the new page. "Put your fingerprint here."

She pressed her index finger into the ink pad and onto the amendment. The female officer handed her a tissue.

On the final page, the female officer gave her the pen. "Write a line at the end yourself: 'I have read the above record,' and 'it matches what I said.'"

She wrote line by line, signed, dated November 1st. Then signed and fingerprinted each page, flipping through one after another. By the end, the red on her finger wouldn't rub clean—the tissue took half, a ring still remained.

The male officer gathered the record, tapped it even, clipped it. "Anything else to add?"

"Everything I said is on the paper," she said. "What's not on the paper, I don't know."

The male officer looked up at her, nodded, said "Keep the receipt safe," and told her to close the door on her way out.

Outside, the wind in the courtyard cut hard. A police car sat at the foot of the steps, nose toward the gate. The woman with the child was still in the lobby; the child was awake now, reaching for a notice taped to the wall.

Shen Zhixia stood on the steps for a while, took the notebook from her bag, and turned to the back pages—still empty, clean white. The wind caught the receipt, rustling it. She folded it in half, pressed a crease, folded it again, and tucked it into that back page, closed the cover, smoothed it with her palm.

The back of the notebook had been empty for nearly a year. Today, the first page went in.

She descended the steps and walked toward the bus stop.