Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 82 : I Didnʼt Sign This

”One row per household, four columns.” Shen Zhixia slid a blank sheet of paper across the table. ”Unit number, the name on the contract, the loan disbursement date, the monthly deduction date. Copy them out, then check against my three stacks.”

Tang Guo scratched the pen tip against the paper twice and wrote out the headers first. The three stacks of bank statements had been brought out from the back room; the page numbers had long since come loose. Last week He Xiufen had folded a corner on the first page of each stack, writing ”Youzhu” on one corner, ”Youjia” on another, and ”Xinhe” on the third.

”Donʼt touch the first two stacks yet,” Shen Zhixia said. ”The money all went out through Xinhe in the end.”

Downstairs, Ma Jianjun was handing out queue numbers. The old newspaper under the long table had been pressed glossy by now; the table leg that was half a finger short still rested on it, so anyone leaning over to write had one leg of the table tilted up at an angle.

At twenty to nine, Shi Lei stuck his head in and reported a count: a hundred and four households in the group chat. Tang Guo added a mark, then took Jiang Boʼs call—thirty-three households in Chengxi, and with the ones who had all three documents in order, the two sides combined came to sixty-six.

”From those sixty-six, pull out one batch first,” Shen Zhixia said, laying her pencil across the table. ”The ones where the signature doesnʼt match the name on the contract. Put those in a separate pile.”

”What counts as not matching?”

”The nameʼs Zhang San, but the hand that signed it belongs to Li Si. Thatʼs not a match.”

The paper on the corner of the counter still had three boxes drawn on it: the 10th, the 15th, the 20th.

He Xiufen came downstairs with a document envelope and set a piece of paper by Shen Zhixiaʼs hand.

”Iʼm going to the court. The 10th is the last day on that investigation order. Iʼll submit this today and ask about the expiration while Iʼm there.”

”Itʼs only three lines.”

”Three lines is enough.” She slung the envelope over her shoulder. ”Iʼll bring the receipt back to you.”

They copied until eleven thirty and got stuck on two households.

One was in Textile New Village. The contract had a manʼs name on it, but the signature was a womanʼs hand—the horizontal strokes curved at the ends. They called; the woman on the other end said yes, sheʼd signed it. Her husband was a long-haul truck driver on the road. On contract-signing day, sheʼd brought both their ID cards to the storefront herself.

The other was in Xinghua. The motherʼs name, the daughterʼs signature. The mother couldnʼt read; the daughter had signed on her behalf for two years.

”Donʼt put these two in that pile,” Shen Zhixia said. ”Have each of them write out a note, three sentences: who signed it, why they signed for them, and whether the person knew about it.”

”What good are three sentences?”

”Someoneʼs admitting to it.” She pressed the two notes into a different pile. ”Some names sit there on paper, and when you ask around, everyone says it wasnʼt me.”

A woman downstairs had filled out her form up to the signature box and stopped, pen hovering, then called up toward the stairs: ”Can someone sign for me? My husband canʼt read.”

”Thatʼs fine.” Shen Zhixia walked to the top of the stairs and spoke down through the railing. ”Have him come to the table and say in front of everyone that he canʼt sign. Then write his name out clearly and add the word ʼforʼ after it.”

”Wonʼt adding that word give it away?”

”Showing it is what makes it real.”

At ten past noon, Tang Guo poked her head up from the stairwell: the woman from Minʼan Li was here—the one whoʼd filled the unit-number box edge to edge last week—with a metal box hugged against her chest.

Kong Xiulan, thirty-four years old, Minʼan Li Building 6, Room 301. She worked stocking produce at a fresh-goods store in Chengbei. She set the metal box down on the counter and opened it. Three things inside: the lease agreement, the deposit receipt, and a loan contract. Tang Guo added a check mark to her row.

”You said yesterday to bring the contract and check the names,” Kong Xiulan said. ”I dug it out last night and stared at it half the night.”

She pulled the bottom sheet out, flipped to the last page, and pressed a fingertip to one field.

”The name on this—I didnʼt write it.”

Shen Zhixia turned the paper around. Third page of the loan contract, second-to-last field: borrowerʼs signature. Three characters: Kong Xiulan. The strokes were fast, with linking cursive between them—like the hand of someone whoʼd written these three characters many times before.

”Write it once for me to see.”

Kong Xiulan took the pen and wrote it three times. The third time, Shen Zhixia told her to slow down. Three ”Kong” characters lined up side by side: in the one sheʼd written herself, the right vertical stroke ended short; in the one on the contract, the ending stroke hooked upward. The top-left stroke of ”Xiu”—she wrote it flat, but on the contract it flicked up.

”This handwriting doesnʼt look like yours at all.”

”I told you it wasnʼt me.”

”Where did this copy come from?”

”The one that man left behind in April. After he left, I pressed it into the metal box and put the box on top of the cabinet. It sat there three months.”

She flipped the paper back to the left-hand field on page three. Four printed characters on the left: Merchant Name. The box on the right was blank, but someone had written a string of digits in black ink—nineteen digits, the last three squeezed out of the box and overlapping the printed text beside it.

Shen Zhixia pulled three photocopies from her notebook, contracts from other households. On all three, the printed number in that field was the same—same first four digits, same last four. On Kong Xiulanʼs, the last four were different.

”The hand that filled in the number and the hand that signed the name are the same hand,” she said.

Kong Xiulan pressed both hands against the lid of the metal box and said nothing.

”When did you rent the apartment?”

”Moved in April 15th,” she said. ”Put down a thousand deposit. The first monthʼs rent, a man came to collect it in person. On the afternoon of April 16th, a man in a white shirt came to my store with a badge pinned to his chest. He said the Chengxi storefront had closed and the remaining paperwork would be handled on site.”

”What did the badge say?”

”I didnʼt memorize it.” She shook her head. ”I was stocking shelves, my hands wet. The checkout counter was covered in boxes. He spread a stack of papers on the counter and flipped through pages for me to sign. Wherever he flipped, I signed—three or four pages total.”

”Was this one of them?”

”No.” The answer came quickly. ”The pages he had me sign were all pre-printed forms. On one of the pages I signed, I wrote in the unit number myself. This oneʼs got the bankʼs printing on it. If Iʼd signed a bank document, Iʼd remember. The two thousand I pay every month—I thought it was a rent installment plan.”

”The date on this is April 19th.” Shen Zhixiaʼs fingertip rested on that line. ”Where were you that day?”

”At the store.” She said it firmly. ”The 19th was the day before inventory. I worked a full-day shift. The shift schedule has my name on it, and the store manager knows I didnʼt leave the store once that day.”

Shen Zhixia looked at that line again and didnʼt push further. April 19th. She had that date on her own paper too.

”Show me those two deductions in your phone.”

Kong Xiulan unlocked it and scrolled through her messages. One deduction on May 20th, one on June 20th—two thousand apiece. Scrolling further back, she brought up a photo: six plastic buckets lined up on a balcony, all filled with water.

”The water was off for a few days in June. I hauled water up from downstairs twice a day.” She paused. ”Last month the landlord rang the doorbell twice, asking me who Iʼd been paying this yearʼs rent to. I said Youyu Apartments. He said he hadnʼt seen a cent.”

”Donʼt show the originals in this box to anyone.” Shen Zhixia smoothed the three sheets flat and took two photos against the window light. ”If anyone asks to see them, tell them to come to me.”

”What about those three characters?” Kong Xiulan pointed at the signature field. ”He didnʼt write them for nothing.”

”Iʼll use it as evidence,” Shen Zhixia said. ”Evidence canʼt be altered by even one stroke.”

[Thud. She said ”I didnʼt sign this.” To prove that statement, you first have to prove she was at the store that day.]

At two in the afternoon, she dragged the three stacks of bank statements onto the long table and flipped to April 19th.

The 24,000 that came in that day—she counted it three times: eleven transactions. Eleven transactions running straight down: Youzhu, Youjia, Xinhe, out through Xinhe, every path exactly as expected.

Upstairs, she spread the registration forms out and pulled every contract with April 19th on it: twelve households, twelve names, spread across four residential communities, the farthest one out on the Chengnan Outer Ring Road. But the books only showed eleven transactions.

Kong Xiulanʼs four-digit tail number—she spent another half hour going through the three stacks of statements. That payee name never appeared once. The money left the bankʼs door and never entered the pool.

[Thud. Twelve names, eleven transactions.]

[Thud. Thereʼs still a length of pipe connected above the pool.]

At ten past four, He Xiufen came back from court, the receipt in her hand. Her enamel mug knocked dully against the counter.

”Accepted. Told to wait. They have until August 10th to respond.”

Shen Zhixia handed her Kong Xiulanʼs contract. He Xiufen took it, walked to the window, and held it up to the light to look at the three characters.

She looked for a long time.

”Iʼve seen this handwriting before.”

”Where?”

”The red notebook from last month. Those six or seven strokes in the signature fields—same force, same style.”

Shen Zhixia pulled out her phone and opened the two photos sheʼd taken at the alley entrance last month—one of the plastic badge, one of the receipt bookʼs inner page. She zoomed in on the inner page and set it side by side with the three characters on the contract.

”The top stroke on ʼXiuʼ flicks upward; the last stroke of ʼLanʼ has a hook.” He Xiufenʼs fingertip tapped the screen, then dropped to the paper. ”One name on a receipt, one name on a contract. The same hand.”

”The man last month wore a white shirt.”

”A white shirt is just something you put on.” He Xiufen took a sip from her mug. ”Those ten characters on his badge—do you still have them?”

”Theyʼre in the photo.”

”Thatʼs the only thing on him that can be traced.” She set the mug down. ”As for the glasses Shi Lei mentioned—anyone can wear glasses. But handwriting and paper canʼt be swapped.”

Shen Zhixia pulled Shi Leiʼs page from her notebook and laid it beside the contract. His own handwriting covered it: entered through the side gate at 7:10 on July 1st, exited through the main gate at 4:20 on July 2nd; on July 3rd, went in with a man wearing a blue badge.

”He always carried a stack of printed sheets, a red stripe down the top-left corner.”

”Paper thatʼs been sealed with a perforation stamp,” He Xiufen said, looking at both items. ”That kind of paper only comes from someone sitting inside a cubicle.”

[Thud. Those six or seven names from last month—to this day, no one knows someone else wrote them.]

”This number needs to be checked with the bank.” Shen Zhixia pointed at the nineteen digits on the contract.

”You know better than I do who sits on the bankʼs side.”

”He wrote on paper that theyʼd fulfilled their duty of review.”

”Then take this womanʼs name and go ask him about those nine words.” He Xiufen set the mug down. ”Tomorrow, write this number out on one line, attach it behind her contract, and submit it again.”

”Two more things.”

”Mm.”

”Sixty-six contracts—take a photo of every signature field and sort them into a pile by unit number.” She paused. ”Then find those six or seven people from last monthʼs red notebook.”

”What kind of person are we looking for?”

”Someone willing to stand up.” He Xiufen tucked the document envelope under her arm. ”Find one, and this hand gets a name.”

Before dark, Shen Zhixia clipped the sheet with Kong Xiulanʼs three name attempts into the case file, placed it together with the contract, the deposit receipt, and printouts of the phone photos, and stapled them down with three staples. Jiang Bo sent a voice message saying the Chengxi side would be setting up a table at the community gate again tomorrow, asking whether ”signature mismatches count as a category.” She replied: they do, put them in a separate pile.

When they packed up for the night, she went upstairs and pressed Kong Xiulanʼs contract under the glass desk pad, right next to that half-sentence from nine years ago. The half still exposed read: The signature is mine,

The sheet beneath it read: I didnʼt sign this.