Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 43 : Who Made It Disappear

The small courtroom on the third floor of the district court was half the size of the arbitration tribunal. Three tables had been pushed together, leaving a narrow aisle down the middle. The clerk set up her computer; the printer in the corner hummed through a cycle, spat out a sheet of paper, and settled back. She arranged the roster, the evidence list, and the hearing paper in order beside her, then glanced out the window: the row of plane trees across the way had long since lost their leaves, and a torn plastic bag hung from one of the branches.

Judge Cheng began by having the names of those present read aloud.

”For the plaintiff.”

”Shen Zhixia, citizen representative.” She nudged the papers beside her inward. ”Plaintiffs Deng Wei and Ma Jianjun are present.”

”Defendant One.”

”Hengzheng Law Firm. Lu Jibai and Lü Hang, representing Defendant One.” Lu Jibai handed up the authorization papers, then pushed another set to the corner of the table. ”Defendants Two, Three, and Four were summoned by subpoena and failed to appear.”

”Note their failure to appear in the record. Attach the summonses and proofs of service to the file,” Judge Cheng said.

The clerk clipped the three proofs of service into the case file. Shen Zhixia glanced across the table: the signature blocks on all three sheets were blank. Defendants Two and Three were still inside the public notice period posted on the Public Information Registry, and Defendant Four was revoked but not deregistered—it was the same name that had once hung beneath the gray mark on the door.

”Defendants Two and Three are going through public notice deregistration,” she added.

”Deregistration does not end a case.” Judge Cheng wrote the words ”failed to appear” down once more. ”The entities remain registered. We proceed.”

The clerk read through the lists of evidence both sides had submitted before the hearing: five items for the plaintiff, three for Defendant One. Shen listened to that ”three items.” She had read those three pages twice, and not one line on them touched the contents of the records.

Deng Wei sat to her right, squaring the edges of a stack of papers. He did it three times. The stack was the authorization and representative nomination forms for twenty people, and he checked them over before every court appearance.

Judge Cheng made two notes in the record and looked up.

”The three-line preservation ruling last time was mine too,” he said. ”Todayʼs evidence exchange is about putting what needs to be said down on paper. Donʼt leave it in your mouths.”

She gave a murmur of acknowledgment.

”Plaintiff presents first.”

She moved the materials one by one into the center of the table, laying them out in a line. The radiator under the window had curled the edges of the paper; she reached out and pressed the leftmost one flat.

”First group, account bans. Four items: twenty account ban notices, a copy of Defendant Oneʼs seven-day explanation, the January 8 screen recording from the Rider App Help Center, and a written transcript of the plaintiffʼs call with customer service.”

”What does this prove?”

”The notices give no reason. The entry point described in the explanation cannot be entered.”

Judge Cheng turned over two pages. ”Be specific.”

”The third sentence of the explanation states that the appeal channel is the online customer service in the Rider App Help Center.” She pushed the screen recording page forward. ”At noon on January 8, we borrowed an account that was still active and went into the Help Center. Four sections, eleven questions, and not one of them mentioned account bans. At the very bottom, thereʼs an ʼOnline Customer Serviceʼ button. Tapping it opens the Smart Assistant. Type ʼaccount ban,ʼ and it says ʼsubject to the in-app notice.ʼ Type ʼappeal,ʼ and it says ʼno related issues found.ʼ Type ʼI need a human,ʼ and it says ʼweʼve made a note for you.ʼ”

”The phone call.”

”Seven minutes and twelve seconds. I made the call. I asked where to appeal after an account ban, and customer service said the entry point was in the notice.”

”Is there a recording?”

”Yes.” She slid another page out. ”The original file is still on the phone. Todayʼs copy is a cleaned-up transcript.”

”Is it in the notices?”

”I went through all twenty from first page to last,” she said. ”The phrase ʼentry pointʼ doesnʼt appear even once.”

Ma Jianjun sat on her left, both hands on his knees, his fingers gripping the seams of his trousers. At that line, he pressed his right hand against his inner pocket, then let go.

On the other side, Lü Hang pulled out the original explanation, turned to the third sentence, and studied it for a long while. A stack of case files sat beside him, and she recognized the border on the printed sheet on top—the same layout as those three pages of written opinion from last time.

[Thud. A road written on paper that you canʼt walk isnʼt a road.]

Lu Jibai spoke. ”The account ban notices: no objection to authenticity. The Help Center screen recording was taken from an account outside this case and has nothing to do with the twenty accounts involved; we will not address its authenticity. As for the call transcript, we request that it be checked against the original recording.”

”I accept that,” she said. ”It canʼt prove the entry point doesnʼt exist. It only proves that I went looking.”

Judge Chengʼs gaze lifted from the paper to her face, then returned to the paper.

”Whether an entry point works,” Lu Jibai picked up, ”is irrelevant to the claims in this case. The applicant is seeking confirmation of an employment relationship and payment of wages. How the platform sets up its appeal channels is an internal management matter.”

”It is relevant.”

”Explain.”

”Twenty accounts, within a twenty-two-minute span, the same reason, one notice. The two accounts that were unbanned had no notice and no reason.” She pressed her hand against the row of materials. ”Who banned the accounts, who unbanned them, where the appeal ultimately points—all of it comes down to a single sheet of paper, and all of it is this one companyʼs say-so. These four items donʼt prove who owes money. They prove that this hand has authority over these accounts. And wherever that authority sits, thatʼs where the people and their labor sit.”

Lu Jibai didnʼt respond immediately. He spun his pen once between his fingers, stopping with the tip pointing down.

”That point,” he said, ”the respondent does not deny.”

Judge Cheng wrote that down as well, then looked up at the other side. Lü Hang closed the original explanation and put it back at the bottom of the file.

”Second group.”

She spread out several more photocopies, their corners frayed.

”Cloud backup recovery items from Yunfan Cloud Computing Co., Ltd.: the system dispatch record for July 18, the platform deduction records, the outgoing payment record, plus a cleanup work order dated December 10. They prove two things: the hand that dispatches the orders and the hand that pays out the money are not the same hand; and the July 18 records were once stored on the platformʼs own machines.”

Lu Jibai followed along in the evidence list. ”This set of materials consists of recovered backup copies, not originals. Their provenance and completeness cannot be verified, and we do not accept their authenticity.”

”I knew you would say that,” she said.

Judge Cheng glanced at her.

She arranged the photocopies in order and pointed to them one by one. ”On July 18, the system dispatched an order, and that account accepted it. The same day, on the same order, the platform deducted a thirty-yuan overtime penalty from his account. That same day, a payment went out of Wang Yuhaiʼs account.”

She paused.

”The dates match across all three pages. The order number matches. The amounts match. Only one thing doesnʼt match—the hand that assigns the work and the hand that pays out the money donʼt share the same name.”

”Last time, in that written opinion, item two stated that platform data is kept for only ninety days.” She slid that page underneath the photocopies, leaving the last one exposed. ”Ninety days after July 18 is October 16. By its own rules, on October 16 this should no longer exist. Yet on December 10, there was still a work order processing it. In the approval column: Wang Yuhai.”

No one in the courtroom said anything.

Judge Cheng turned a page. ”The plaintiff has also submitted an application for an order to produce documentary evidence. Defendant One, letʼs get the matter of the logs sorted out today as well.”

Lu Jibai pulled that page from the file.

”The relevant backend operation records have already been purged by the respondent in accordance with the platformʼs data management policy, so objectively they cannot be submitted.”

She paused.

”I brought that written opinion from last time.” She took out the three-page opinion and turned to item two. ”Item two. Iʼll read it aloud: ʼThe operation records relating to the involved accounts have far exceeded ninety days from the date of creation, objectively no longer exist, and the respondent is unable to submit them.ʼ”

She set the page down.

”The previous sentence said it expired on its own. Todayʼs sentence says you purged it. Same matter, two versions.”

[Thud. Either he says ”automatic” or he says ”someone.” Of those two words, one is a lie.]

Judge Cheng took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on.

”Defendant One.”

”Yes.”

”Were the logs purged automatically or manually?”

”We will need to verify after the hearing.”

”Which policy, executed on which day, applied for by whom, and approved by whom?”

”We will need to verify after the hearing.”

Judge Cheng lowered his head and wrote. He wrote slowly, pressing each word into the record, the nib scratching faintly against the paper.

”The court notes on the record: Defendant One has given inconsistent statements as to whether the relevant backend operation logs existed and whether they have been purged. Defendant One is ordered to submit a written explanation within seven days after this hearing—whether those logs ever existed; if they did, when, under what rule, and upon whose application, approval, and execution they were purged. Failure to submit an explanation by the deadline, or inability to provide an adequate explanation, will be treated as obstruction of evidence production.”

”Is that clear?”

”Clear,” Lu Jibai said.

The hearing record was printed out, two pages. She read it line by line, and only signed at the bottom after seeing ”automatic purge” and ”manual purge” lying side by side on the same page.

Lu Jibai signed across from her. When he finished, he capped his pen, set it down against the file with the nib facing inward, and reached over to turn the page back.

Out in the hallway, He Xiufen sat on a bench, a cloth bag beside her leg, and beneath it a proof of service she had just completed for the office.

”Did he get it on the record?” she asked, standing.

”He got it on the record. Seven days.”

”Automatic or manual?”

”He says heʼll go back and verify.”

He Xiufen slung the cloth bag over her shoulder. ”The faster he changes his story, the more it proves the logs still exist.”

She stayed where she was.

”Seven days,” He Xiufen went on, ”is long enough for it to fabricate an explanation, and long enough for it to purge the logs a second time. The logs are lying in its server room. It doesnʼt matter how many times it denies it—the hearing record in your hand is for holding it to the dates.”

The elevator at the end of the hallway dinged. Lu Jibai and Lü Hang stood at the elevator doors. Lu Jibai held the case file under his arm, facing the doors. When they opened, he stepped in sideways and put a hand against the door edge, stopping it.

”Applicant.”

”Yes?”

”Within seven days, it will only give you two words.”

”Which two words?”

”None exist.”

The doors closed. Before they shut, Lü Hang glanced at her once—the same look as that day in the Arbitration Office hallway.

She went down the steps. The wind was strong on the steps, flipping over a parking ticket outside the courthouse entrance. Across the street, three delivery scooters were parked at the curb, dust coating the bottoms of their cargo boxes. Deng Wei was waiting for her at the foot of the steps. Ma Jianjun crouched by the flower bed, a cup of soy milk long cold in his hand, a ring of white condensation on its side.

”Did he write it down?” Deng Wei asked.

”He wrote it down.”

”What good does that do?”

”Because itʼs written down,” she said. ”Next time it says ʼnone exist,ʼ it will first have to tell us what it went back and verified in those seven days. If it canʼt answer, this hearing record answers for us.”

Deng Wei put the stack of papers into his bag, zipped it shut, then unzipped it again, pulled out the representative election form, glanced at it, and stuffed it back. Ma Jianjun stood and wiped his hands on his trousers.

”Then what do we do these next few days?”

She looked up at the row of words above the courthouse entrance. The wind poured in through her collar.

On January 22, the public notice period for those two companies on the Public Information Registry would expire. On January 26, the seven-day written explanation was due. That left four days in between.

”These four days,” she said, ”are to make it write the words ʼit existedʼ on its own.”