Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 58 : The Thumbprint on the IOU

”The plaintiff filed a supplemental document yesterday. The court forwarded you a copy.”

Liao Hong slid the papers across the counter, squaring the edges with the desk. May 18, morning. Window No. 3, Enforcement Affairs Center. The number machine clicked to thirty-six.

Two pages. The first was a three-line Written Statement: The relationship between myself and Wang Deshan is a personal loan matter. All funds in my name are unrelated to Hengtong. As for the transactions in Wang Deshanʼs accounts, an IOU exists as proof.

The second page was a photocopy. Header: IOU. Below, the body text: This day borrowed from Wang Yuhai RMB two hundred twelve thousand four hundred yuan exactly. Repayment terms: RMB eleven thousand eight hundred yuan exactly on the fifth of each month. Bottom right, a name: Wang Deshan. Over the name, a thumbprint—round, pressed neat and even.

She held the page up to the window and read it through, then flipped it over to check the back.

”The originalʼs in the case file?”

”In the original file. If you want to compare, file an application.” Liao Hong said. ”Objections have a review deadline. Donʼt push it to the last day.”

”This print—you canʼt tell anything from a photocopy.”

”The original will show it.” He pushed the two pages back half an inch. ”First, write out clearly what you need to examine.”

”And if he wins.”

”If he wins, the card gets unfrozen and the money returns to Wang Deshan. The frozen settlement funds in the merchant ID go with it.” Liao Hong moved the stapler on his desk to one side. ”That old Hengtong case with the hundred thirteen thousand, and this account youʼre on—both fall through.”

She copied the exchange into her hardcover notebook, adding a line at the bottom: IOU original—I need to examine it.

[Thud. A liar isnʼt afraid to put things on paper. Heʼs afraid of putting down the wrong date.]

Noon, upstairs at Zhengping. The scallion-oil smell from downstairs drifted up the stairwell. He Xiufen spread the photocopy on the long table and tapped the signature line with the back of her pen.

”February 3.”

”Mm.”

”On February 3, Hengtong transferred its legal representative—also its sole shareholder—to Wang Deshan for one yuan.” She looked up. ”On the day he swapped shells, he wrote himself an IOU.”

Shen Zhixia flipped the hardcover notebook to the April 14 page. The passbook figures sat there, line by line.

”Eleven thousand eight hundred, times eighteen.”

”Two hundred twelve thousand four hundred.” He Xiufen wrote it in the margin. ”Eighteen deposits on your reply letter, the last one April 5.”

”This paper is dated February 3.”

”A man writing on February 3 wrote down a number that only added up after April 5.”

”And the money he supposedly lent out.” He Xiufen asked.

”He never had it,” she said. ”Not one transaction left the account under any of those four names. Money came in from the payment company, routed by merchant ID. Money went out when the old man took cash from the bank in town on the sixth.”

”This paper only shows the leg leaving the door.” He Xiufen moved her pen to the thumbprint. ”It says nothing about how the money came in. The name on it is written out, but the print is round.”

”The person who wrote it wasnʼt him.”

”And the person who pressed this print wasnʼt him either.” He Xiufen pushed the photocopy back. ”I canʼt see it from this. You go look—look at his hand, at the places in his house where heʼs pressed prints before, at whatʼs still under the rice in that jar. Two years of weekly withdrawals. The family will have kept a slip or two.”

”He filed this paper to make the IOU stand?”

”He doesnʼt care about the IOU.” He Xiufen pressed the cap onto her pen. ”What he wants is for you to fight one more round before May 31.”

[Thud. A man who canʼt read has pressed more prints than heʼs ever written characters.]

May 20. Same bus route, different ticket seller, counting change in the aisle. At the village entrance, she set a plastic bag—two jin of peaches—down on the steps of the little shop, to pick up on her way back. She walked into the village empty-handed. Got off at the bridge; the stone railing was spread with green fava bean shells. The metal door hung half open. The old man sat on a low stool shelling beans, splitting each one in two.

His daughter-in-law came out of the kitchen first, flour on her apron. ”You came before.”

”Came to see Grandpa.” She raised her empty hands. ”Just waterʼs fine.”

Two bowls of plain water, one plastic stool. She sat and went straight to the old man.

”Grandpa, did anyone come last month asking you to press a thumbprint?”

”They came.” The old man didnʼt look up. ”A driver.”

”What kind of paper did you press?”

”Couldnʼt tell.”

”Did it have writing on it?”

”It did.” He said. ”He pointed at a spot. I pressed.”

”Was the paper laid out flat, or folded over?”

The old man set down the bean in his hand and thought.

”Folded.” He said. ”He held both ends. Only let me press the middle.”

”What day did they come?” she asked the daughter-in-law.

”May 6.” The daughter-in-law said. ”Water fee collection day. The village loudspeaker yelled all morning, so I remember. They came in the morning. A black car parked at the gate. I asked what the paper was; he said company accounts, just sorting things out. Grandpa canʼt read, so he just needed a print.”

”And after?”

”He folded it up and left.” The daughter-in-law wiped her hands on her apron twice. ”I asked if we should keep a copy. He said no, the company keeps records.”

”Which hand did he press with?”

”Right hand.” The old man raised his right hand to show her. Thick nails, yellowed.

”So what he pressed last time,” the daughter-in-law stopped short. ”What was it.”

”The fifthʼs deposit.” She pulled the conversation back first.

”It came in.” The daughter-in-law said. ”The sixth, I took him to town to withdraw. Cleaned it out, not a fen left. Someone was waiting at the door again—van, different face.”

”Did they ever give you a receipt?”

”Once. The first year.”

The daughter-in-law stood and went into the house. In the corner of the kitchen stood a rice jar, an iron ladle resting across the mouth. She moved the ladle, reached her hand into the rice, and dug all the way to the bottom. She pulled out a plastic bag, and inside the bag: the red-covered passbook, and underneath the passbook, a few sheets of paper folded in half. She drew one out, spread it on the small table, smoothed it with both hands.

The edges were frayed—folded, crumpled. The text was printed: This confirms receipt from Wang Deshanʼs passbook withdrawal of RMB eleven thousand eight hundred yuan exactly. On the left, a red stamp: Jiangzhou Hengtong Delivery Service Co., Ltd. Bottom right, three handwritten characters: Wang Yuhai. Below, a date: December 6, the year before last.

”Where did this come from?”

”That time I went to town with him.” The daughter-in-law said. ”After we handed the money to the man at the door, I said we ought to get something. He pulled a stack out of his pocket—stamp already on, name already signed. He just filled in the amount and tore one off for me.”

”And after that?”

”When we asked again, they always said they hadnʼt brought any.” The daughter-in-law stared at the page. ”I kept it, just in case. Two years pressed under rice. The powder kept them off. Even the bugs didnʼt touch it.”

She smoothed the receipt flat and laid it beside the IOU photocopy. She turned the notebook to a fresh page and set four items side by side: the IOU photocopy, this old receipt, the three lines copied on April 10, and the interview record page.

She activated Testimony Comparison once. The Justice Points sheʼd saved accumulated slowly, and this took another small chunk.

[Thud. Three mismatches: the date, the amount, the print.]

”Start with the date.” She turned the old receipt toward the daughter-in-law. ”This one is December 6, the year before last. The IOU says he borrowed the money on February 3 of this year. Receipt first, IOU second. Fourteen months apart. According to the IOU, he only borrowed the money this February—but in December the year before last, this company was already issuing receipts, taking eleven thousand eight hundred from your dadʼs passbook.”

The daughter-in-lawʼs hands went still on her apron.

”Now the amount.” She turned the IOU photocopy around. ”Two hundred twelve thousand four hundred borrowed. Eleven thousand eight hundred times eighteen—exactly eighteen deposits. It only added up after the April 5 deposit. A paper dated February 3 canʼt account for money that arrived April 5.”

”Third.” She held the photocopy up against the sunlight through the door. ”Grandpa, let me see your hand.”

The old man had no idea what she wanted. He extended his hand, palm up. The right thumb had a notch missing from the nail, a callus ridge around the edge.

”That finger of his,” the daughter-in-law said, ”got caught in a threshing machine years ago. Every print heʼs ever pressed has a missing piece.”

She tore a blank page from her notebook and wrote: May 20, morning, No. 173 Shiqiao Village, Linhe Town. Who asked, who answered, one line each. She read it back to the old man, and he nodded at each line; last line: The above was read aloud to me.

”Press one here.”

The old man touched his thumb to the ink pad, pressed down, lifted up. The print sat neat and centered—with a corner missing. The daughter-in-law pressed hers beneath it. Two prints side by side, both missing the same piece.

She laid this page on the table next to the IOU photocopy.

One print had a missing piece. One didnʼt.

”Every print he makes is missing a piece.” She said. ”The one on this paper isnʼt. Either the paper he pressed last time wasnʼt this one, or the hand wasnʼt his. Either way, itʼs enough.”

The daughter-in-law looked at the two prints for a long time.

”That time,” she said, ”that paper he had Dad press—what was it.”

”The company has it.” She said. ”Let me photograph this old receipt. Keep the original. On hearing day, have your son bring it to court.”

”He canʼt write.”

”Thatʼs why Iʼm photographing the paper.” She turned the phone toward the daughter-in-law: six shots—front, back, red stamp, signature, date, and one with the passbook side by side. ”You keep the physical copy.”

The old man leaned over to look at the screen, understood nothing, sat back, and picked up his beans again.

”Once you press, itʼs settled,” he said. ”Thatʼs what the man said.”

”Settled or not isnʼt for him to say.” She said.

The daughter-in-law pressed her hands against her apron and asked: ”So this paper—itʼs fake. Does that make my dad a cheater?”

”Your dad isnʼt the one cheating.” She said. ”Someone else wrote the name; someone else used the print. In half a year, apart from pressing his thumb twice, your dad hasnʼt put a single character on paper.”

She smoothed the old receipt flat again and read it from beginning to end. At the word ”received,” she paused.

”Money that moved through this passbook—this company accepted it and issued receipts. Someone signed their name on top.” She said. ”Grandpa, the company itself acknowledged this money.”

The daughter-in-law folded the receipt back up, tucked it into the rice jar again, and set the iron ladle over it.

Two new lines in the notebook: IOU original in the file; the print isnʼt his. Receipt original in the rice jar; the stamp is the companyʼs. One more line: Application to retrieve IOU original; name and fingerprint to be compared together.

At the door, the old man stood up, tipped the shelled beans into a shallow basket, and braced a hand on the doorframe. ”Is it over yet?”

”Still a while.” She said.

On the way out, she picked up the bag of peaches at the village entrance. The shopkeeper had kept an eye on it all afternoon and asked if sheʼd stay for a meal. She said she had to catch the bus.

The bus ride was one hour and forty minutes. She opened the notebook on her knees and added a line at the very bottom of the May 20 page: May 31. She paused after writing it, then drew a horizontal line beneath—eleven days between her and that mark.