Chapter 506: The Case Intake Register

When the archive box came down from the second shelf of the steel cabinet, the dust along the paper edges floated in the window light for a long while. March 22nd, 3 p.m. Five days since the two plaques went up downstairs, and the people coming up to ask questions hadn't stopped.

Li Huilan tucked the Center's registration book under her arm and stood at the top of the stairs. "You sort things up here first. I'll hold the line downstairs. If anyone asks whether we charge money, I say we don't."

"Someone asked who's in charge."

"I said the person in charge is upstairs, will be down in a bit. Two more people came asking downstairs. I took their numbers and said we won't be taking new cases until the 9th."

"Keep them."

She went downstairs. The wind rattled the noodle shop door. She untied the cord, lifted the old register out of the box, and pulled the one currently in use over to her too, opening both. The old paper had a damp smell, the edges frayed. Some of the middle pages wanted to close back on their own.

Lu Jibai carried his chair over and sat to her left, pulled out a blank sheet of paper, and clicked the pen cap onto the back end.

"Which one first?"

"The old one."

The first two lines of the old register were in Director He's handwriting—long horizontal strokes, wide spacing. In the "Case Closed" column it said mediation, withdrawal. She hadn't been around for any of those cases. The third line onward was autumn 2024: client Ma Jianjun, subject matter written as Chengnan Station No. 1. In the "Handling Lawyer" column, Director He had squeezed in her name, cramped for space. The phone number had been crossed out once, the new one written beside it.

"Ma Jianjun."

"He changed his number." He crossed out the old one and copied the new.

"Wang Changshun. The consignment payment case."

"That number of his is his neighbor's." She tapped that line with her fingertip. "He can't read. You have to read it out to him."

He added a mark after the name.

"Tang Guo. Changed her number twice—second time to hide from someone."

"Which one do I write down?"

"The current one. She messaged it to me the day she changed it."

Two pages further in came the tenants' batch—Tang Guo, Shi Lei, Jiang Bo. He copied them line by line. At Shi Lei he paused. "That van of his—will we need it on the 9th?"

"No. He's not hauling that day."

Next page: Peng Weidong. In the subject matter column: Chengbei Hospital, Chen Xiaoman. She read the name and didn't keep going. He didn't ask either. The next line was Lin Qi, the characters pressed deeper than the others, the pen tip bearing down hard. She'd added that line herself.

"Peng Weidong works rotating shifts. Need to ask which shift he's on."

"Is Lin Qi on duty that day?"

"Don't know. Ask."

The old register's back half was dog-eared. Guo Jianping's line had a price and "settled daily" noted after the subject column. He Lan, Feng Xiaotian. Kang Wenying. The last line in the old register was December 29th, the year before last. The "Case Closed" box was in Director He's handwriting.

Zhou Yu's name was on another page, added in the witness column, with a blank line left above it.

She closed the old register and pulled the one in use in front of her. The first line on the first page was his handwriting, from those two days at the end of the year before last. Thin characters, flat horizontal strokes, the ending stroke curled back slightly. The next several lines were all hers. Chai Guizhi—beneath her name she'd added Ge Xiaoyu, and Xiaoyu's line had no phone number, just "with his grandma." Cai Qingru's name was in the Qinghe section. Cen Hong, with Auntie Wang after her. Lao Kan. Pang Chunlai's line was July 1st of last year, the subject column reading "Baixi Village, that night nine years ago." The box wasn't big enough; the characters squeezed into a clump and crawled a half-inch past the line.

She read that line twice, letting her finger trace along the paper's edge.

"That number is his son's."

"Got it."

Further back: the August 24th line. Her own name was in the "Client" column; the subject column was Director He's handwriting: Shen Qian, criminal retrial, defense. In the "Case Closed" box, "December 11th, effective" was filled in by her own hand on December 27th.

She didn't read that line aloud. She moved her finger off that box and turned the page. Two pages further on: Sun Guilan, December 17th, produce payment. The "Case Closed" box was empty.

Lu Jibai didn't ask about that line. He waited a moment. "Done?"

"Done. That's all."

He stood the paper upright and counted once from top to bottom, then again. "Everyone fits at two long tables. Tight, but it works."

"The noodle shop only has so many tables. Director He says we set up both upstairs and downstairs."

"No written invitations," he said.

"No. Call them one by one."

"Some won't come even if you ask."

"You only know once you ask." She laid her palm flat on the paper. "I'm taking this home. I'll call tonight. Sun Guilan's case isn't closed—she doesn't get an invitation yet."

He pushed the paper to her hand and put the old register back in the box, sliding the one in use back to the corner of the desk. She watched him check the number on Pang Chunlai's line again, going digit by digit.

March 25th, 8 p.m. She was home. Zhi'an was in his room, door half open, desk lamp light spilling into the hallway. On the table: her notebook, that sheet of paper, a glass of water. The sound of buses passing the stop came through the window crack, one every few minutes.

The first call to go through was Ma Jianjun. It was noisy on his end, several voices pressed together.

"Lawyer Shen."

"The 9th at noon. The noodle shop on Zhongshan Road—come eat."

"The 9th?" Plastic bags rustled on his end. "I'm running orders that day. Already got two morning deliveries lined up."

"Come when you're free."

"Then I'll shift one run." He paused. "Lawyer Shen, is it okay if I don't eat noodles?"

"Sure. Director He is cooking that day. Take it up with her."

He laughed twice before hanging up.

Shi Lei picked up fast. "The 9th—I'm not taking any jobs that day."

"Just come."

"Want me to come early and help move tables?"

"Yes."

Wang Changshun's number rang seven or eight times before an old woman answered, hollering for him at the top of her lungs. She called three times. Then the old man came to the phone, coughing twice first.

"Who's this?"

"Brother Wang, it's Shen Zhixia."

"Lawyer Shen." The sound of chair legs scraping the floor came through. "Go ahead."

"April 9th, noon. That noodle shop on Zhongshan Road, below the Zhengping Firm. People will be there from ten. Come whenever you like. Someone will meet you at the door. Just three steps—take them slow."

"April 9th. Zhongshan Road." He repeated it after her. "The noodle shop below the Zhengping Firm."

"That's right."

"Just three steps." He repeated that too. "Read it slower. I'll say it back again."

She said it again. He recited it back in two halves, then stopped. "Lawyer Shen, what should I bring?"

"Just yourself."

"I ground a bag of cornmeal. Fresh cracked." He sounded like he'd decided long ago. "Doesn't cost anything."

She didn't refuse. The first time, when he'd brought half a bag, she'd refused twice, and in the end wrote it in the ledger as a pending repayment. This time she just said, "Then bring it."

A barcode scanner was beeping on Cen Hong's end, one after another. She listened, then swallowed half her words back. "Mom barely goes out these past few years. She gets carsick. Let me ask her first."

"Ask. If she can't come, I won't hold it against her."

"If she comes, I'll help her."

After hanging up, Shen Zhixia drew a circle after that line, rounder than any of the others.

She called Pang Chunlai's home at about 8:40. No answer. She set the phone down, waited ten minutes, dialed again. Still nothing. Up in the mountains, the signal went thin at night. She made a dot after his name and pushed the paper to the back of the desk.

The next morning, a little after seven, the phone rang back. It was his son's voice.

"Lawyer Shen, we turned in early last night. The phone was in the main room. I told him."

"What did he say?"

"He said—yes." A pause. "I'll drive him down on the 9th."

"The road's long. Drive careful."

"I know."

On the morning of the 26th, she called Zhou Yu. Wind was blowing on his end; he walked a few steps away before speaking.

"The 9th at noon. The noodle shop on Zhongshan Road. Come."

"I'll be there." He didn't answer slowly either, but after he did, he paused half a beat. "In what capacity?"

"In the capacity of my senior."

A laugh from his end. "Then I won't bring anything."

"No."

Chai Guizhi was called on the night of the 27th. She began with, "Those days are exactly planting season," then later, "Seedlings in the ground won't run away." When it came to whether she'd go, her voice dropped. "I'm just an old farming woman. Nothing I wear looks right. I'd embarrass you."

"Wear what you always wear. Nobody's inspecting anyone. I haven't checked a single person either."

"Xiaoyu doesn't have school that day." She thought for a moment. "Can I bring him along?"

"Yes. I'll save him a seat."

"He writes slow."

"Slow's fine."

Zhi'an came out to get water and saw the paper on the table. "Who are you inviting?"

"It's written there."

"That's a lot." He set his glass down and didn't leave. "Sis, what do I do that day?"

"Serve bowls."

"What else?"

"If someone shows up at the door, lead them upstairs."

He grunted. Before going back to his room, he asked, "Is Lawyer Lu coming too?"

"He's here every day."

The words felt redundant the moment she said them, so she left it there. Zhi'an closed the door.

March 29th, 3 p.m. Lu Jibai came back from the Justice Bureau, coat still on, and set a small dark-blue booklet on her desk, pushing it toward her.

"Look at this page."

She opened it. The front had the date of admission to practice. One page over was the change of registration page: effective July 17th, 2026, practice institution now listed as Jiangzhou Zhengping Law Firm. One more page: the annual assessment filing box. Today it carried a fresh square seal, the red ink not yet dry, dated March 29th.

"Submitted this morning. Stamped around eleven." He said, "The Bar Association's assessment opinion came over long ago. The Justice Bureau filed it today."

She pressed her finger to the edge of the seal, leaving a bit of red on her fingertip. That box had been empty yesterday. Last year, on August 2nd, Hengzheng had filed a complaint against him in the firm's name. On August 26th, he'd submitted six pages of defense to the Municipal Bar Association window. She'd checked the formatting for him all night; he hadn't changed a single word of the text. On November 12th, Hengzheng withdrew the complaint, but the Discipline Committee reviewed it anyway. At ten o'clock on January 12th, Guan Min set the Decision of No Disciplinary Action on this desk, and he signed his name on the proof of service.

"It's stamped," he said.

"It's stamped."

She turned the certificate back, then forward again, looking at both sides of that page. The paper was stiffer than the other pages.

"One box a year."

"One box a year."

"Every year from now on, one more seal."

"Every year, remember to come get it stamped."

"I'll remember."

She closed the certificate, smoothed the cover with both palms, and handed it back to him. "Keep it."

He took it but didn't put it away right away. "Leave it with you?"

"It's your certificate."

So he put it into the inside pocket of his coat and buttoned it.

She'd heard that phrase before. Last winter, when the Procuratorate's reply came down, he'd taken it out front to show the two partners. He Xiufen looked at it and just said "Keep it," then took off her reading glasses and set them on the paper.

"This page came through before the 9th," he said.

"It made it." She lowered her head and slid that sheet of paper out from under her notebook, drawing a line through the dot after Pang Chunlai's name, and capped the pen.

Downstairs, He Xiufen called up from the stairway. "Zhixia, the annual report's two columns—"

"Coming."