Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 17 : Base Ledger

Five case files were spread in a row on the table by the window. She straightened them one by one, then started adding a table of contents to the top file.

Page numbers began from the cover. The table of contents was written eight characters to a line; wherever she paused, the next line continued from there. She had finished the first four. The fifth was the consignment payment case from Hewan Village. When she reached the ”missing items” column, her pen slowed.

Consignment Payment Dispute. Client Wang Changshun, sixty-seven. The file held only three things: a legal aid application, a Village Committee Certificate, and a copy of a Weighing Slip.

She flipped back and looked at the slip again. On the copy, a number had been crossed out once; the mark was gray, and beside it someone had written a smaller number. She copied both into her notebook: 5,140 and 4,740.

Downstairs the rolling shutter rattled up. Oil sizzled in the pan, and the smell of scallion oil climbed the stairwell. He Xiufen was at the stove cooking noodles. She brought the first bowl up and set it at the corner of Shenʼs desk.

”Eat first.”

”Director He, Iʼve listed the missing items for these five files.” She pushed the paper over. ”This one has the most.”

He Xiufen glanced at it and stuck her chopsticks into the bowl.

”Missing items are not guesses,” she said. ”Youʼre not allowed to put things youʼve figured out into a file. Write down whatʼs missing and whose it is. Guess a line for your client, and in court the other side will drag you down with a single sentence.”

”Remember that.”

”Have you seen Wang Changshunʼs original slip?”

”He hasnʼt come in yet.”

”Oh.” He Xiufen picked up the empty bowl and went downstairs. ”I thought heʼd already been in.”

Just before eleven, a man came up the stairway. Blue padded cotton jacket, cuffs worn fuzzy, an old knit cap pulled low over his brow. He carried a woven plastic sack and scraped his shoes twice on the doormat before entering.

”Is Director He here?”

”Sheʼs downstairs.” She stood up. ”You must be Wang Changshun.”

”Iʼm Wang.” He set the bag down by his feet, still holding onto it. ”Director He told me last time to wait for word. I waited two months. Couldnʼt sit still any longer.”

He Xiufen came up behind him, still holding a rag.

”Lao Wang,” she said, ”this is the person working your case, surnamed Shen. The case is under my name—she isnʼt qualified to handle one alone yet, so she does the legwork.”

”Miss... Shen.” The old man took off his cap and held it. ”So young.”

”Call me Little Shen.” She offered him her chair. ”Sit.”

He didnʼt sit right away. First he moved the sack next to the chair leg, then slowly sat down, both hands resting on his knees.

”When did it happen?”

”Three years ago, in autumn. October eleventh,” he said. ”I sold a cartload of corn.”

”Who did you sell it to?”

”East end of town, Liu Fuguiʼs purchasing point.”

”How much was in one load?”

”Itʼs written on the slip.” He paused. ”I canʼt read whatʼs on it.”

”Where was it weighed?”

”Right there at his place, on the weighbridge,” he said. ”That day I was loading the cart. Their people watched by the scale.”

”How was the payment supposed to work?”

”He said to leave it with him and heʼd settle it all when prices went up.” The old man rubbed a hand over his knee. ”Iʼd sold grain to him for years. Everyone in the village sent their corn to him.”

”The money?”

”Never saw a cent.”

”How many trips did you make?”

He didnʼt answer. He reached deep into the sack and pulled out a bundle, bound with a rubber band. Undone, it was half of a school exercise book, with pieces cut from cigarette boxes tucked between the pages. The corners were curled, and the edges carried dried mud.

He spread the notebook open on the table and pushed it toward her.

She read line by line. The handwriting was crooked, the strokes often going astray.

”October 12, went. Liu said wait.”

”Lunar December 23, went. Liu said talk after the New Year.”

”March, went. Liu said heʼd pay when it was sold.”

”June, went. Liu said the market was bad.”

”Lunar December, went. He ignored me.”

The entries for this year were even sparser.

”September, went. Liu said it was settled long ago.”

She counted them: twenty-seven entries.

[Thud. Three years, twenty-seven trips. By the twenty-eighth trip, the words changed.]

”What did he say that time in September?”

”The minute I walked in, he laughed and said, ʼLao Wang, you finally came. That payment was settled long ago.ʼ” The old manʼs voice was flat. ”I asked him when Iʼd settled it. He said I was confused, that heʼd paid me right then and there.”

”Did you mention the amount to him?”

”I did. I said the slip says 5,140.”

”What did he say?”

”He said that was the gross weight. He said the net weight was the number written below.”

She wrote a line in her notebook. It took her two tries to write Liu Fuguiʼs name smoothly.

”Let me see the slip.”

The old man opened the sack, reached to the very bottom again, and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside the plastic bag was newspaper, and inside the newspaper was a Weighing Slip folded in half four times.

She smoothed it flat and placed it next to the copy in the file.

The scratch on the original was deeper than on the copy. The crossed-out number was 5,140; beside it was written 4,740. The stroke changing the number was in fresher ink, as if added later.

”Did you know a number on here had been changed?”

”Last year my grandson came home from school and read it to me,” he said. ”I canʼt read. After I brought it home, I put it at the bottom of a chest.”

”Who filled out the slip?”

”I canʼt fill one out. They wrote it, had me make a mark on it, and tore off one copy for me.”

”On the day it was weighed, were you standing at the scale?”

”I was loading the cart.” He thought for a moment. ”I never went over to the scale.”

She wrote in the ”People Present” column: At the time of weighing, Wang Changshun was not at the scale.

”Lao Wang,” He Xiufen said, ”what do you want to do this time?”

”I want the money,” he said. ”Iʼm not asking for extra. I just want the money for that load of grain.”

He Xiufen glanced at her. ”Ask him.”

She looked up and met the old manʼs eyes. He didnʼt rush her. He just waited.

”I canʼt make you any promises,” she said. ”I canʼt tell you for sure whether this money will end up in your hands. But your case isnʼt empty on paper—you went back twenty-seven times, and every trip is written down. That one fact is more solid than anything else.”

The old man pressed a finger against the half exercise book. The fingertip was cracked.

”My grandson was the one who told me to keep this,” he said. ”He said, when you go to ask for money, you have to keep a record of the days.”

”Your grandson was right.”

She laid the four items out one by one, counted them twice, and pulled a blank Document Receipt List from the drawer. She began writing line by line: Received from Wang Changshun—

She stopped at the name column. ”You write it yourself.”

The old man took the pen, pulled the paper over, and wrote in careful strokes: Wang Changshun. He wrote slowly; the pen point paused three times before lifting. When he finished, he pushed the paper back and looked at it, as if making sure the name still stood.

She signed her own name, tore the receipt list in two, and handed him one half. Then she took out her phone and photographed the four items twice, both front and back.

”Iʼll keep the originals here,” she said. ”Iʼm giving you a receipt. Any time you want them back, bring this paper to collect them.”

The old man took the half sheet, folded it twice, tucked it into an inside pocket of his padded jacket, and pressed his hand over it.

”Have a bowl of noodles before you go,” He Xiufen said.

”No.” He put his cap back on. ”Still got pigs at home.”

He picked up the empty sack. At the top of the stairs, he turned back.

”Little Shen.”

”Yes?”

”When are you coming to my place?”

”Day after tomorrow,” she said. ”Once tomorrow morningʼs business is done, Iʼll go. Take me into town. I want to hear Liu Fugui say it in person.”

The old man stood still. ”He wonʼt admit it.”

”He still has to say it, whether he admits it or not,” she said. ”Iʼll write down every word he says.”

The old man nodded and went downstairs. His steps sounded loud on the stairs, one after another, until they faded below.

At dusk, she rearranged the four items on the table in the order of the first page of the file: original Weighing Slip, Village Committee Certificate, exercise book, retained copy of the Document Receipt List. She put the photocopy back at page three.

She did the math.

5,140 minus 4,740 was 400 jin. The old man had agreed to settle at 1.1 yuan per jin. That 400 jin alone was 440 yuan—but the actual weight depended on what was written in Liu Fuguiʼs ledger. Based on 4,740, it came to 5,214 yuan.

She wrote in her notebook: Claim amount, estimated at 1.1 yuan per jin, about 5,200 yuan, subject to the Base Ledger.

When she finished, she stared at the phrase ”subject to the Base Ledger.”

[Thud. Consignment Payment Dispute, one case.]

[Thud. In your hands: one Weighing Slip, one Village Committee Certificate, one notebook of collection attempts.]

[Thud. What you donʼt have: his Base Ledger.]

[Thud. What the two sides canʼt agree on is the same question: settled or not.]

She drew a line under that sentence. The system didnʼt stop.

[Thud. His ledger has your weight recorded in it; your paper keeps his scratched-out mark.]

[Thud. The last line of the checklist is still blank.]

She turned to an earlier page in the notebook. At the top half still stood another half-written line: Chengnan Station No. 1, Ma Jianjun. The rest was faint, as if written on water.

She flipped back, gathered the things sheʼd need tomorrow into a neat pile, and added a line to the notebook: 24th, 9 a.m., noodle shop, seven people, bring originals, donʼt switch phones, donʼt leave the group.

Then she called the number Wang Changshun had left. A woman answered.

”May I speak to Wang Changshun?”

From the other end came a shout: ”Wang Changshun—someoneʼs looking for you—”

A moment later, footsteps came closer.

”Hello.”

”Itʼs Little Shen. The morning after next, Iʼll wait for you at the fork on the road into the village.”

”All right.” He paused. ”Girl, when you come, donʼt wear good clothes.”

”Whyʼs that?”

”That stretch of road into the village is all mud.”

She said she understood, then hung up. In WeChat, Tang Guoʼs chat was lit up with a screenshot—someone had commented under her video: Did that delivery riderʼs case ever win?

She replied with three words: Not over yet.

She went downstairs to get water. The stove fire had been banked, only a bit of red left. The door to the inner room wasnʼt shut tight, and a light was still on.

He Xiufen sat at the long table. Next monthʼs hearing schedule was spread out in front of her, and a sheet of glass sat by her hand.

She stood at the doorway and didnʼt go in.

”Director He.”

He Xiufen looked up and idly moved the hardcover ledger beside her a little aside. Beneath the glass sheet lay a paper. Moving the ledger exposed just one corner. The paper was yellowed, the edges brittle. On the exposed corner, only half of a written character remained, with a water radical on the left.

She stared at that half character.

He Xiufen neither revealed more nor covered it.

”Your fatherʼs business, Iʼm in no hurry to tell,” she said. ”First, get the money from this slip back.”

”And after I get it back?”

”After you get it back, ask me again.”

”What do these two things have to do with each other?”

He Xiufen moved the ledger back, right over the half character.

”Youʼll know when the time comes,” she said. ”Some things need the right opening before they can be said. One thing at a time.”

She stood at the doorway holding her cup, motionless.

”Your waterʼs full.”

She looked down. Water was spilling over the rim of the cup and running onto the back of her hand.

She stepped back and pulled the door shut for He Xiufen. Back in her room, she closed the notebook. The last line sheʼd added read: the morning after next, Hewan Village fork road.

She turned off the light. The room went dark. The corner of the paper under her pillow poked against her ear. She turned over to face the wall.