Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 65 : The Phone Was On

She didnʼt let anyone cut the zip tie.

The landlordʼs wife reached to pull the plastic zip tie off the new lock cylinder, and Shen Zhixia moved her phone half an inch forward. ”Donʼt touch it. Leave it where it is.” The hand stopped in midair, and the woman looked back at her husband. He closed his keychain into his palm, turned, and went inside, pulling the door shut behind him. A sliver of living room light leaked through the crack.

Shen Zhixia backed up to the stairwell and studied the door plate: red lacquered numbers with two faded notices taped below. She had Tang Guo stand under the plate holding the light and took a picture, person and plate together. Then she went downstairs and photographed the building number, the unit number, and the security door at the entrance with its ”No Parking” sticker. Tang Guo asked what all this was for.

”To prove that tonight, you were standing at your own front door.”

She pulled up the details on the photos sheʼd just taken: timestamps were there, location wasnʼt recorded. She took Tang Guoʼs phone, turned on the watermark, and shot them again, date and time stamped into the corner.

Tang Guo fished the old key out of her pocket. Shen Zhixia had her try it in the lock: it wouldnʼt go in, only half a tooth before it jammed. She recorded for eight seconds, the scrape of key against lock housing caught on audio, and at the end had Tang Guo say, ”This is the apartment I rent.” Tang Guo said it, her voice shaking.

Under the light, a patch of damp showed through the wall plaster. From the next door came gunshots from a TV drama, one after another.

”What time did they change the lock?”

”Afternoon. I got off work at seven, came back, key wouldnʼt go in.” Tang Guo said, ”I sat downstairs until past nine. Then they came up and opened the door, started carrying my things out, one by one.”

”When you saw them, did you say anything?”

”I did. I said this is my apartment. He said he didnʼt sign the contract with me.”

Shen Zhixia wrote this in her notebook: June 16, lock changed in the afternoon; after 9 p.m., door opened and belongings removed, tenant present on-site, asserted claim.

She turned and knocked on the door. It opened a crack.

”Do you still have the contract you signed with Youyu?”

”Yes.”

”Could I see it tomorrow?”

The man narrowed the gap by half an inch. ”Weʼll talk tomorrow.”

Tang Guo sat on her suitcase, holding the light. Shen Zhixia made a call. It was picked up on the second ring.

”Lawyer Shen.”

”Can you move your van?”

”Just finished the last run. Iʼm outside the building supply store.” The sound of a rolling shutter hitting bottom came through. ”Where?”

”Chengdong, Minsheng Road. Old building, fifth floor. Elevator stops at ten.”

”Twenty minutes.”

The call ended. Tang Guo looked up. ”Whoʼd you call?”

”The one with a car. Out of the twenty.”

The door across the hall opened another crack. A stainless steel rice cooker came out first, then a plastic basin. The man shoved both over the threshold with his foot. ”These are yours. You didnʼt take them.”

”Those are mine,” Tang Guo said.

”Take them,” Shen Zhixia said.

By the time the white minivan pulled tight against the curb, most of the lights upstairs were already out. Ma Jianjun climbed to the fifth floor, reflective vest draped over his shoulder, and looked first at the lock.

”What time did they change it?”

”This afternoon.”

He pressed a finger against the lock housing; it didnʼt budge. He bent, stacked two cardboard boxes in his arms, and went down sideways through the stairwell. The second trip he stacked two more, each box marked on the side in marker with a character for ”Guo.” The third trip, he carried the suitcase in one hand and two red-string-tied woven bags in the other. Tang Guo reached to help; he said, ”You carry the light.”

After three trips, the back of his T-shirt was soaked through with sweat. He set the light by the passenger seat, told Tang Guo to get in, and only spoke after pulling his door shut. ”Next time something like this, donʼt wait until eleven.”

”Thatʼs it for tonight,” Shen Zhixia said.

”The van rolls at five-thirty tomorrow,” he said. ”If you need it, call me at four-twenty.”

Shen Zhixia locked her electric scooter to the telephone pole downstairs, chain wrapped twice. Sheʼd have to come back for it tomorrow.

The van pulled out of the complex. Old courtyard walls and tree shadows all the way. She sat in the back, looking out between two boxes.

The two-bedroom on the sixth floor—sheʼd moved out in early May. She was already sleeping at the firm by then. It didnʼt make sense for Tang Guo to hold two rooms by herself, so sheʼd picked this place on Minsheng Road in Chengdong. During that stretch, Shen Zhixia was buried every day in the files of twenty delivery riders, and had only heard one sentence from Tang Guo over the phone: Found one.

”Who introduced you to the rental?”

”The property steward. On WeChat. Surname Li.” Tang Guo held up her phone. ”His last Moments post is last monthʼs listing.”

”How much was the deposit, and who did you transfer it to?”

”Two thousand. I scanned a QR code. The payee showed Youyu Apartments.”

”And the twenty-four thousand?”

”I didnʼt transfer it.” Tang Guo said. ”The bank paid them directly. I just clicked agree.”

”What did he tell you at the time?”

”He said annual payment was cheaper. Monthly was twenty-two hundred; paying a year at once came out to two thousand a month.”

”Cheaper by twenty-four hundred a year.” Shen Zhixia said. ”When you signed, did you see the word ʼinstallmentʼ?”

”I did. I thought that was just how they collected rent.”

”Did you try contacting him afterward?”

”I did.” Tang Guo pulled up the WeChat chat. ”Three messages, no reply. His profile pictureʼs back to the default.”

Red light at an intersection. Ma Jianjun suddenly spoke. ”Youyu.”

Shen Zhixia looked at him in the rearview mirror.

”That name sounds familiar.” He eased the van forward half a meter and stopped again. ”Canʼt remember where I heard it.”

The light turned green.

”I was supposed to get an ad payment this month,” Tang Guo said. ”Twelve hundred.”

”Eight hundred short of one installment,” Shen Zhixia said.

”Yeah.”

They reached the noodle shop at eleven-twenty. The rolling shutter was halfway down. He Xiufen pushed it up and stood in the doorway, coat draped over her shoulders.

”As long as no one got hurt.” She glanced at the light in Tang Guoʼs arms. ”Put the boxes by the stove. I open the door at five tomorrow morning.”

The back room had a folding cot with a bamboo mat. She brought out a thin blanket. ”Itʼs June, but the nights still carry a chill.” She disappeared into the kitchen and came back five minutes later with a bowl of noodles, the smell of scallion oil drifting over. ”Eat, then sleep. Weʼll settle up tomorrow.”

Tang Guo held the bowl, took two bites, and stopped. She looked up. ”Can I ever go back to that apartment?”

”Sleep first.” He Xiufen nudged the chopsticks closer to her hand. ”Whether you can go back or not—tomorrow weʼll see that piece of paper.”

”The lightʼs still got two bars,” Tang Guo said.

”Outletʼs under your feet,” He Xiufen said.

The bowl was emptied. As He Xiufen took it, she glanced at her. ”Iʼve seen that video of yours. You explain better than the people we used to hire. You just talk too fast.”

”Still do.”

”Fast isnʼt bad.” She stacked the bowls and said to Shen Zhixia, ”Tomorrow, go get that piece of paper from the landlord. Right now the three pages youʼve got all came from her side.”

”Understood.”

”Whoever holds the money, the words come out of their mouth. If you donʼt even have all the papers in hand, nothing you say gets heard.”

Twelve-thirty, the back room. Tang Guo sat cross-legged on the cot, phone in the middle of the bed, scrolling through the contract page by page. Shen Zhixia sat on a small stool by the door, reading it aloud line by line.

Lease term one year, from May 10. Monthly rent 2,000 yuan. Security deposit 2,000 yuan, received. At clause three, she paused.

”Rent payment method: Party B agrees to pay the full yearʼs rent in one lump sum through the installment service provider cooperating with Party A. Party B shall pay monthly installments to the installment service provider.”

[Thud. A yearʼs rent, paid in one go.]

”Did you read this line at the time?”

”No,” Tang Guo said.

”ʼInstallment service provider.ʼ Who did you think that was?”

”I thought it was their company.”

”Itʼs not their company. Itʼs the lender.” Shen Zhixia pointed at the line above. ”Youʼre renting from Youyu, but youʼre repaying a bank. Whether those two accounts actually match—tomorrow, first ask what the landlordʼs paper says.”

”He had me click next.” Tang Guo said. ”From filling in my name to the signature—I counted. Seven clicks.”

Shen Zhixia flipped open the other document. A loan contract, twelve monthly installments over one year. The first had been deducted last month; eleven remained, two thousand each. A red electronic seal was stamped at the bottom, over the signature.

She cross-checked the names on the three pages. Party A on the lease was a companyʼs full name. The notice taped to the door was signed with a phone number. The deduction column listed a bank. Three names, none of them the same as the others.

”Whereʼs the deposit receipt?”

”Inside the door. Locked in, along with the contract.”

”Then who actually owes me money?” Tang Guo asked.

”Donʼt ask that yet.”

”Then what do I ask?”

”Ask whatʼs on the landlordʼs paper tomorrow.”

She spread her notebook on her knee and did the math: deposit two thousand, first installment two thousand—those two were cash Tang Guo had paid out of her own pocket. Eleven installments remaining, two thousand each: twenty-two thousand. She also flipped back to the two lines sheʼd written down at noon—Qingyuan Testing, Shuangqiao Road, Chengxi, Active—looked them over, added nothing, and turned to a fresh page to write tonightʼs entry.

”Twenty-two thousand.” Tang Guo stared at the number for a while. ”I spent three days picking that apartment.”

”Yeah.”

”Last week I was still telling people how nice the light was on the fifth floor.”

”Give me your phone.”

”Why?”

”To sit on it.” Shen Zhixia said. ”Right now they donʼt know anyoneʼs watching this. The moment you post, that phone gets even harder to reach.”

”They already donʼt answer.”

”They do.” Shen Zhixia said. ”Itʼs just not my turn to call yet.”

Tang Guo looked at her for two seconds, then flipped her phone face-down on her lap. ”Fine. Iʼll keep shooting material. When you say post, Iʼll give you three posts for every one you ask for.”

”Will you take this case?”

”I donʼt have my license yet. It has to go through the firm.” Shen Zhixia closed the notebook. ”First, get the papers together. Iʼll pick you up first thing tomorrow.”

Before lying down, Tang Guo turned off the light, then two seconds later turned it back on. She said it was too dark. Shen Zhixia said, fine.

At one-twenty, she sat back down on the stool and turned to the last page of the contract. The bottom had a line printed ”Service and Repairs,” followed by a customer service number, starting with 400.

She dialed. It connected on the second ring. The other end wasnʼt quiet—many people talking, like a whole row of phones ringing at once. A womanʼs voice: ”Hello, Youyu Apartments.”

”Chengdong, Minsheng Road, Building 5, Unit 502.”

”Ms. Tangʼs unit, right?”

She hadnʼt given a surname.

”The lock was changed tonight,” she said. ”Her things are in the hallway.”

Two seconds of silence on the other end. ”Weʼve logged the lock change. A colleague will contact you.”

”Which colleague?”

”The one who originally handled your case.”

”The deposit and the yearʼs rent—who do those get refunded to?”

”I canʼt see that from here.”

The call dropped. She dialed again—busy. Third time, it rang to the sixth ring. The same womanʼs voice said ”Weʼve logged it” and hung up.

She copied the number into her notebook, writing the date and time above it: June 17, 1:20 a.m. Below, she wrote, ”The person who answered knows her surname.” At the character for ”surname,” her pen stopped.

The light in the back room was still on, angled toward the wall. Tang Guo had turned on her side, breathing even.

[Thud. The phone was on.]