Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 80 : The Pool Has a Leak

The pencil dragged a horizontal line across the back of the registration form. ”Tenant” on one end, ”Landlord” on the other, a gap in the middle.

Shen Zhixia wrote ”Bank” in the gap, and to the right, ten more characters: Jiangzhou Xinhe Trading Co., Ltd. Downstairs, Ma Jianjun had already set out the long table, the roll-up shutter raised halfway, waiting for eight oʼclock to start handing out numbers. The lights upstairs at Zhengping Firm were still off. She moved the soy sauce bottle, number slips, and two stacks of registration forms off the table onto a bench, then pulled the papers from the file one by one and spread them flat—Tang Guoʼs loan contract page, the photocopy of the payment transfer voucher with the perforation seal, the disbursement account statement, the asset inquiry statement from the court, the ledgers from Ren Dechangʼs and Zhao Guangtianʼs notebooks, and finally the page Shi Lei had written himself, signed himself.

Six documents laid out. People stood on both ends of that line, and the middle box held only two words. Under ”Xinhe,” she added a line: 24,000 in, 2,400 out the same day. Under ”Landlord,” another: water cut off intermittently starting March 19th.

The route was mapped. One place still unaccounted for—where the water was leaking out.

Footsteps on the stairs. He Xiufen came down carrying an enamel mug of congee, a two-yuan flatbread tucked under her arm. She stood at the table for half a minute, then set the mug down.

”Clearer than the form in the filing hall.” She tapped two fingers on the word ”Bank.” ”Money doesnʼt know people. Money knows routes. Map the route, and you know whose pocket to reach into.”

”The routeʼs open.” Shen Zhixia pushed over the asset inquiry statement, her fingertip resting on the last line. ”Three accounts, thirty-one yuan forty-six cents total. Reach in, and you canʼt even fish out a bowl of noodles.”

”Then go upstream. Only one end of this route has money standing on it.”

”He shows up in court for that end.”

”He shows up for them—so that makes them clean?” He Xiufen tore off half the flatbread and pushed it over. ”You need grounds to add them. Walk into a judgeʼs chambers saying ʼtheyʼve got money,ʼ and it gets tossed back in one sentence. You have to say they handed the money to the wrong hands—the contract says Youyu Apartments collects the rent, but they paid the 24,000 to Xinhe. The landlordʼs been cut off since March 19th. The tenantʼs still paying to this day. Which end the money passed through—they know better than anyone.”

Shen Zhixia copied the lines into her notebook. On the last sentence, the pen paused.

[Thud. Statute Quick Search: Interim Measures for the Administration of Personal Loans. For entrusted payment loans, funds shall be paid directly to the borrowerʼs counterparty; loan purpose and transaction background must be verified after disbursement.]

”One more thing.” He Xiufen flipped the inquiry statement back. ”When judgment comes down, where does the money come from? Three company accounts with thirty-one yuan forty-six cents. Canʼt touch it. The bankʼs sitting on tens of thousands of 24,000s. You add them to the defendant column not for what theyʼd pay—after the judgment, the next step needs a name with money in an account.”

”What if they deny it.”

”Deny or not, they have to file a written statement.” She swept the breadcrumbs to the corner of the table. ”No loss if itʼs bounced back. The application sits there, and they have to answer every word. And every word they answer becomes grounds for the next piece of paper.”

”What about Yin Jianping?”

”He doesnʼt go in the defendant column.” He Xiufen picked up her mug. ”The defendant column gets names with money in their pockets. The application gets hands that have been busy. Let the bank hand those hands over itself.”

”You told me not to name names the day before yesterday.”

”Walking into a courthouse isnʼt broadcasting. Yelling it in the market after you walk out—that is.”

”On the application, under ʼwhat youʼre requesting,ʼ write three things.” She tapped the table with the corner of the flatbread. ”One: add Jiangzhou Bank Co., Ltd. Chengdong Branch as a defendant in this case. Two: order it to bear liability for the plaintiffsʼ losses within the scope of its fault. Three: litigation costs borne by the defendant.”

”ʼScope of fault.ʼ” Shen Zhixia wrote it down. ”Those four words have to be provable.”

”If itʼs provable, itʼs fault.” He Xiufen said. ”It handed money to someone whose name wasnʼt on the contract, and after handing it over, never verified where that money went. Both of those—the papers are in your hands.”

She took the pencil from Shen Zhixia and drew three boxes beside the diagram: the 10th, the 15th, the 20th. Investigation order expires on the 10th. The 11th floor wants answers on the 15th. Tang Guoʼs account hits another installment on the 20th.

”Three things.” She said. ”Within three days, file the application to add the bank—contract, vouchers, statements as initial evidence, two copies. In the same application, add one line: request the court order the bank to produce a complete list of all entrusted payment transactions handled by the same officer, along with purpose verification records for each. Third oneʼs the hardest—people need to gather.”

”How much is a thousand households.”

”One household, 24,000 a year.” He Xiufen counted on her fingers. ”Really get to a thousand households, thatʼs twenty-four million a year rolling through this pool.”

Shen Zhixia turned the number over in her mind. Twenty-four million in water, draining out through one opening—someone had to be catching it at the other end of the pipe. She wrote ”24,000,000” at the very bottom of the diagram, leaving no line connecting it.

”More people isnʼt free either.” He Xiufen added. ”A thousand households is a thousand stories. Some want their money first. Some want their apartments back. Starting tomorrow, every word you say, someone will show up asking whether youʼll deliver.”

”I wonʼt promise.”

”Then donʼt. Thatʼs right.” She snapped the lid on her mug. ”You only promise one thing—every householdʼs paperwork gets filed.”

Before heading downstairs, Shen Zhixia pulled out a clean application form and wrote four names in the defendant column: three companies plus one bank. The plaintiff column got seven blank lines, with more pages if needed.

At 8:40, the line at the long table had reached number sixty-something. Ma Jianjun had a stack of power of attorney templates weighed down under a glass of water so the wind wouldnʼt scatter them. She told him to do nothing else today—just sort the complete sets by building, one stack per building, clipped together.

”Whatʼs the point of sorting?”

”So when we go to court, we hand them over stack by stack.” She said. ”Judge wants a certain building, I reach and there it is.”

Someone in line asked if the case cost money. She shouted across the table: Zhengping Firm charges fifty yuan per household, issues a stamped receipt on the spot, no receipt no fee; anything collected elsewhere, we donʼt recognize.

At 3:15 in the afternoon, the filing division called. A womanʼs voice read out the case number, said the supplementary application had been received, and asked for two more items within three days: the written application to add the bank to the defendant column and the initial evidence photocopies, in duplicate. Then one more line—representative election materials: one per person, signed in person, no proxy signatures; on court day, every household gets verified one by one.

”Verified one by one.” She wrote those five words on paper, the pen point hesitating. Lu Jibai had stood at the alley entrance saying this number would get hacked at with a knife. This was where the knife would land.

Tang Guo came down with her phone to report numbers: Shi Leiʼs group had reported sixty-four households from morning to afternoon, Jiang Boʼs side in Chengxi added eighteen, forty-one households total with all three documents complete. She turned the screen around—the group chat was running a chain message, one unit number per line, and around the seventieth line someone had put their ID number in the unit number column.

”Tell him to rewrite it.” Shen Zhixia said. ”That box gets the unit number only.”

Shi Lei sat on the steps and looked up. ”Sis, if I see that guy again, can I follow him for a stretch.”

”No.”

”Just watch from a distance.”

”The moment you follow him, you become the most suspicious person in this case.” She handed him the stack of forms. ”Your job is copying the chain message onto paper. If you see him at any hour, send me one word.”

”What about my page then.”

”Gets filed tomorrow with the application.”

”I wrote Zhou Kemingʼs name on it.”

”The page you wrote, Iʼm keeping.” She pulled the page from her notebook to show him. ”What gets filed is a different page. Only time, place, and what he looked like: last week, past 10 a.m. and 4 p.m., July 1st morning, Chengdong Branch; thin black-framed glasses, a hard-shell bag that stands up on its own. Write a name, and theyʼll call it slander in one breath. Write those details, and theyʼll go pull the surveillance footage themselves.”

Shi Lei took the page and read it again, wiping his hand on his pants before handing it back.

A woman in her thirties stood beside the table, from Minʼan Li, contract clutched in her hand, not yet handed over.

”If I sign this,” she asked, ”does that mean Iʼm admitting to owing that 24,000?”

”Signing means this case runs errands for you.” Shen Zhixia flipped the power of attorney template toward her. ”It only states what day you moved in, how much you paid, and what day the water stopped. You donʼt sign, your name never enters the file, and nobody keeps count of your share.”

”I already have a mark on my credit record.”

”Every day the bank keeps deducting, it goes on record.” She said. ”Whether it stops doesnʼt depend on this signature. It depends on where the case goes.”

[Thud. Credit records donʼt recognize signatures. They recognize dates.]

The woman lowered her head and wrote her name. At the unit number box, she asked if she could write it smaller. Shen Zhixia said just write it clearly—too small and the judge canʼt read it. She filled the box completely. A man behind her held out his contract directly: ”Iʼll sign too.”

Around four, Jiang Bo called: two landlords in Chengxi also wanted to join, asking if they could be counted in the same case as the tenants. He Xiufen overheard from the stairwell and said through the railing: ”Landlords get one ledger, tenants get another. They donʼt squeeze into one box.” Shen Zhixia relayed that to Jiang Bo, then asked how many statement pages each of those two households had and whether the property owners were in Jiangzhou.

Tang Guo wanted to ask if tonightʼs livestream could talk about this pool. Shen Zhixia redrew the morningʼs diagram on a clean sheet for her: four boxes—Tenant, Bank, Xinhe, Landlord—one route straight through, three dates marked beneath. Two rules—no naming any individual, no slogans; just put up this diagram and explain how the money moved.

”Whatʼs the point of talking about it.”

”Those thirteen thousand reposts of yours—none of them ever make it into a case file.” She set the pencil down. ”But if the diagramʼs right, the people who show up know what papers to bring.”

Tang Guo nodded, walked to the door, then turned back. ”My 2,000 on July 20th.”

”Still paying.”

”Until when.”

”Until I say stop.”

At 4:20, her phone buzzed with one word: glasses. Under ”10 a.m., 4 p.m.” she added a line: ”4:20.”

Zhao Guangtianʼs voice message arrived just before quitting time, asking only one thing: where does my 6,600 fall in line.

She held the words for a moment, then replied: ”The poolʼs hit bottom. Iʼve spent the past few days looking for the hole itʼs draining through.”

Darkness fell, the numbers were all handed out, the table moved back inside. She went upstairs and pressed the clean diagram under the glass desk pad, lining it up with the previous three: the half-sentence from nine years ago, ”The signatureʼs mine,” the eleven words ”The bank isnʼt the last pocket either,” and the white paper reading ”10 a.m., 4 p.m., 4:20.” Next to the ”Bank” box on the diagram, she added four small characters: Chengdong Branch. From that box she drew a short line outward, the end left hanging.

She sat down to write the two-page application. At the plaintiff section, she flipped through the clipped forms by building, counting. Reaching the last stack, her hand paused—the woman from Minʼan Li had filled the unit number box to the edges, the strokes crowded together, but still legible.

[Thud. Justice Checklist Item One: Where is the money—bottomʼs been reached.]

[Thud. The money is in the pool. The pool has a leak.]

Thirty-one yuan forty-six cents was the last water at the bottom. The leak wasnʼt among the two hundred-plus households upstairs, and it wasnʼt on those three business licenses.

The screen lit up.

A line of text: The ones he handled—not just Youyu.

She read it twice, then replied with one word: Who.

Sent. Only then did she hear Tang Guo setting up the livestream light downstairs, white glow seeping up through the stairwell gap, landing exactly on that hanging line under the glass.