Chapter 478: Business as Usual

November 12, 3:00 p.m. Second floor, outer office. Li Huilan was reviewing a case intake form.

The form had come in yesterday. A woman who sold dried goods at the market—the neighboring stall had run their freezer's drain pipe behind her stand, and over one summer it had ruined two crates of wood ear mushrooms. Li Huilan reached the line for "Requests" and drew a red mark beneath it.

"Have her sit in on a mediation session at the market first," she said.

"Already noted," Shen Zhixia said.

"Noted isn't enough. You need their record of it. If they won't give one, write 'not provided.'"

"Got it."

"That way, when they ask again, you've got a paper trail." Li Huilan slid the form back.

Her desk was covered with the agent's opinion due tomorrow—three plasterers' unpaid wages. The labor contractor claimed the men "worked under Old Zhao." The work-day sheet was pinned under her left hand, three places circled in red, all dates that didn't match up. The third circle was around a day after heavy rain, when the site had been closed, yet the contractor had logged a full day's work.

On the old wooden chair by the window, He Xiufen sat peeling garlic. The skins landed on a newspaper, piling into a small white heap. She peeled slowly, clove by clove, dropping each peeled clove into the enamel basin with the chipped rim.

The door to the inner office stood half open.

A few minutes past three, a phone buzzed twice inside, went still, then buzzed again.

"Hello," he answered. "...Guan Min."

Her pen paused on the paper for a beat, then continued writing.

"When was it submitted."

The other end spoke. His end went quiet for a while.

"What reason does the letter give."

Another pause.

"Which one did they withdraw."

"What's the committee's process."

"Wait for the judgment to take effect," he said. "...Mm. Thank you."

The inner office went quiet. A drawer opened, then slid shut. A moment later, a chair scraped against the floor, and the door swung from half open to fully open. He came out, phone still in hand, and stood by the north-facing window.

He Xiufen still held a clove of garlic. "Talk."

"Hengzheng withdrew it," he said. "One-page letter, sealed with the firm's stamp."

"Which one did they withdraw."

"All of it. The letter says the firm has decided, after review, to withdraw the complaint filed on August 2."

"Reason."

"No reason given."

"Who signed it."

"Guan Min read it to me. I haven't seen the paper."

He Xiufen dropped the clove into the basin and wiped her hands on the newspaper. "They're withdrawing the complaint, but not for your benefit. A one-page letter can only say so much, and they know exactly how much it says."

"So both are withdrawn?" she asked, looking up.

"The letter only says 'withdraw the complaint,'" he said. "Guan Min says one letter covers both counts."

"The first count was that he went to the procuratorate this July without telling the firm. The second was how his practice certificate came about." He Xiufen said, "The first one, once withdrawn, they just write 'complainant withdrew' in the register, turn the page, and it's turned. The second one can't be written. The second one needs a judgment to write it."

"What does the committee say," Li Huilan asked.

"Withdrawn or not, they still review it." He set his phone on his own desk. "Count one—even with the withdrawal, the process runs its course. Count two's facts get determined after the retrial judgment takes effect."

"When did the acceptance notice arrive," He Xiufen asked.

"August 11," Li Huilan said. "Ten in the morning. Guan Min delivered it to the office."

"Fifteen days to respond. He wrote six pages and submitted them on the 26th." He Xiufen shifted the enamel basin beside her leg. "Once submitted, the response is on record. Withdrawing is the complainant's business; reviewing is the committee's."

She remembered the morning he came back after submitting. He'd pressed the window slip under the corner of his desk and said only one thing: "Submitted. The hearing request—didn't file it."

"Withdrawn doesn't stop the review." He Xiufen gathered the garlic skins inward on the newspaper. "It's not clean until the review is done."

She remembered September 14, when Guan Min came to the office with a clerk. They'd questioned He Xiufen first, then Li Huilan, then asked her—on July 7, when he went to the procuratorate, did she know in advance. She'd answered no. When the questioning ended, Guan Min closed the notebook and said at the stair landing before going down: count two waits for the judgment. That morning, this very chair had been dragged over to the table against the wall in the outer office, and He Xiufen had sat in it.

She looked up at the man by the window. "Don't read anything into this letter. They withdrew because the hearing's over. What was said in that courtroom is in the record. No one can withdraw that."

"I know," he said.

"Then get back to work."

"Mm."

Li Huilan folded the intake form once, then smoothed it open again. "I got a call this morning."

"Which firm," He Xiufen asked.

"One in Chengdong. Does administrative work. I cross paths with her maybe once a year."

"What did she want."

"She asked whether that lawyer at Zhengping is still practicing." Li Huilan said, "I said, business as usual. Taking cases as usual. Handling them as usual."

"That's all you said?"

"That's all. She went 'oh' on the other end, said fine, fine, and hung up."

He Xiufen snorted. "She's not concerned about him. She's got a case, needs to know who she's up against, came to feel things out first."

"Licenses come from the Justice Bureau." Li Huilan said. "After the Bar Association finishes its review, whether anything gets passed up is for the committee to decide. My answer was correct."

"It was correct." He Xiufen said. "Could've been a little sharper."

"That was the only call all morning." Li Huilan pressed the intake form flat. "One nameless sentence, and it reached me within half a day. Someone's counting his slot."

"Let them count." He Xiufen said. "That year he was a witness. A witness's words are in the court file. Whoever counts, they'll have to turn to that court record eventually."

She looked down and flipped to the third page of the agent's opinion, kept copying. When she reached the three circled dates, her pen moved steadily.

"After the withdrawal, are the six pages still any use," she asked after a while.

"They are." He Xiufen said. "Those six pages are all facts. Facts can't be withdrawn."

"And the second count?"

"On the second count, the fact is that he didn't speak that year." He Xiufen rested the basin on her knees. "That year's matter waits for the retrial judgment. When the judgment comes is up to the court. The time limit's already been extended once."

"Extended to when?"

"They didn't tell me, which means they don't intend to let me count the days." He Xiufen said. "His slot just stays suspended."

"People with suspended slots don't sleep at night," Li Huilan said.

"People who don't sleep can still try cases."

He pushed the window open half an inch. Wind came in and lifted a corner of He Xiufen's newspaper. She pinned it down with her elbow.

At 5:30, He Xiufen picked up the enamel basin and headed downstairs. At the stair landing she turned back: "I'm taking the garlic down. I'll need it for the pot tonight." Her footsteps descended step by step, then came the sound of the curtain rustling at the noodle shop.

Li Huilan filed the intake form, locked the intake register in the drawer, set the key on the iron tray on the windowsill. "I'm heading out. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon—I'm going with that woman to get their record."

"Buy something hot to eat on the way," she said.

"I've got food at home." Li Huilan picked up her bag, paused at the stair landing. "Little Shen."

"Mm."

"About his matter—ask less." Li Huilan said. "Every question you ask, he has to think about how to answer without worrying you."

"I don't ask."

"You don't ask, and he still knows you're thinking about it." Li Huilan went downstairs.

At six, only two people remained on the second floor.

She finished copying the last paragraph of the agent's opinion, squared the pages, bound them, clipped them into a folder. Her fingers had picked up a trace of garlic from the enamel basin and it was still there. She wiped her hand on her pants. The smell stayed.

The exhaust fan rumbled downstairs. Stools dragged across the floor, one after another. November darkened early; the alley lights were already on, and the chalk writing on the blackboard had been half erased, the remaining prices unreadable.

The inner office door was not closed. He set his teacup back on the desk; the porcelain base knocked against the wood.

"Shen Lawyer."

"Mm."

"Hengzheng withdrew it," he said. "But that count of mine—I still have to answer it myself."

"You answered it," she said. "In court."

He didn't respond.

The lamp in the inner office was brighter than the outer one. He stood at the boundary of the two lights, shoulders in the brightness, face in shadow. The desk lamp's glow fell on her folder and onto the floor by the stairs, cutting a slanted edge. Someone shouted from downstairs—a regular here for noodles—and He Xiufen called back from inside.

"Where does tomorrow's agent's opinion go," he asked.

"Chengdong. Civil. Ten in the morning." She said, "Three workers' wages, under thirty thousand, summary procedure."

"Did the work-day sheet line up?"

"I circled three spots. A full day logged on a rain day when the site was closed." She lifted the folder. "The contractor says he has an attendance book. I'll have him bring it tomorrow."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then I'll ask the court to make him." She said, "Three workers. Not one left out."

He nodded, said nothing more.

"Withdrawn doesn't mean it was never filed," he said after a moment.

"Filed is filed. The six pages are still in the record." She opened the notebook to the November page and wrote: November 12, 3:00 p.m., Hengzheng withdrew. Committee proceeds with review regardless.

She capped the pen.

"Count two waits for the judgment," he said.

"Waits for the judgment."

"The time limit's been extended once."

"I know," she said.

She closed the folder, angled the desk lamp slightly toward Li Huilan's desk, stood up, tucked the notebook under her arm. At the stairs she gripped the handrail. The wood was worn smooth and bright, the edges lighter than the rest from years of palms.

"Turn off the light before you leave," she said.

"All right."

She took one step down.

"Shen Lawyer."

She looked back.

"That handover form," he said, "the checkmark on the seal—I didn't make it."

"I heard you in court."

She went down step by step. The door upstairs stayed open, light spilling from the doorframe onto the floor at the landing. At the bottom step, the noodle shop's heat met her, the exhaust fan suddenly loud, and He Xiufen called "Slow down" from inside—who she was calling, no one knew.