Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 91 : Inventory of Personal Effects

The ink pad was one sheʼd bought that morning at the little shop at the mouth of the alley. Three fifty, a small tin box, the layer of red paper on the lid already worn fuzzy at the edges.

In the car, He Xiufen spread the papers across her knee and counted again: two pages for the inventory of personal effects, one page for the custody statement, one page for the witness record.

”Two copies of the inventory—one stays with the family, one goes back to the firm for the file.” She said, ”When it comes time for fingerprints, donʼt rush her. Let her press them herself.”

”How many times will she press?”

”Once is too light. It leaves nothing but a red shadow on the page.” He Xiufen squared the papers. ”Iʼve looked at the fingerprints in our case files for decades. The light ones—those are from people who didnʼt want to do it.”

August 14th, 8:50 a.m. The car stopped outside the Qingyuan Testing family compound. The half-section of barbed wire still ran along the top of the wall. Below, the row of pickling jars had gained two empty basins, and the clothesline now held a blue quilt cover with white flowers.

At five to nine, the person from the community arrived. Around forty, black cloth shoes, also holding a box of ink paste.

”The subdistrict office sent me to serve as witness.” She set the ink pad on the carʼs hood. ”We only witness. Sign, press a fingerprint, nothing else.”

”Thatʼs enough,” He Xiufen said.

At nine sharp, Cen Hong came out of the No. 3 buildingʼs entrance supporting her mother. Auntie Wang wore the same faded housedress, a plastic bag in her hand, a folded towel inside.

”His cabinetʼs thick with dust on top,” she said. ”Iʼll wipe it down for him.”

Cen Hong spread the items on the car hood first: the household register, her motherʼs ID card, her own ID card, and one sheet of paper. On that sheet was her brotherʼs writing, sent over from Shenzhen, printed out at the courier hub. The name was signed neatly, with his ID number and phone number beside it, and below, a thumbprint pressed in red so dark it was nearly brown.

”He went downstairs to the little shop to borrow their ink pad,” Cen Hong said. ”I told him a signature was enough, but he insisted on pressing one.”

The community worker checked the three IDs against each other and wrote two lines in her notebook. He Xiufen read the written statement twice, then slipped it into the case file bag.

”Before we go up, letʼs get four things straight.” She stood by the car door. ”Open the door, read off the items, sign, seal it back up. One item read, one item photographed, one item recorded. Which item belongs to whom, who it goes to—everything goes down on paper with the community representative watching. As for the contents of the cabinet, nobody leaves with anything except that one iron case—and that one requires a separate signature.”

”Why does that one get a separate signature?” Cen Hong asked.

”Because itʼs leaving this building,” He Xiufen said.

Ten minutes by car to the old factory district in the north of the city. Half the plane tree leaves had yellowed. The dust-covered bicycle under the tree was still there, its chain dragging on the ground.

Master Cui stood waiting on the steps, the cotton glove on his left hand washed even paler now, his keys tapping against his trouser seam. A second person stood by the steps—early twenties, white shirt tucked into his waistband, a ring of keys in his hand.

”Qingyuan Testing Administration Office, Xiao Tan,” Master Cui said.

”The cabinet lock is with us,” Xiao Tan spoke first. ”And let me be clear up front: none of the unitʼs archives leave this building.”

”Itʼll be written clearly on the inventory,” He Xiufen said.

Terrazzo stairs, dust gathered in the worn groove down the middle. The door at the end of the third-floor corridor stood open. Along the window, a row of metal cabinets gleamed gray-white in the light; two pots of pothos on the windowsill had long since dried brown. In the corner, the shorter cabinet still bore the printed label: Cen Shouye.

”Last time, the key wasnʼt in our hands.” He Xiufen set the case file bag on the old desk. ”Today it is.”

Xiao Tan crouched down, fitted the key into the new lock, turned it half a circle. Click.

Auntie Wang wiped the cabinet from top to bottom with the towel. When she reached the label, she paused, then moved past it.

The door swung open, releasing a smell of paper and mothballs.

”Start from the top shelf,” He Xiufen said.

Shen Zhixia read aloud. The community worker wrote. Cen Hong photographed.

”Enamel mug, one. Chipped at the rim.” She said, ”Two pens inside.”

”Reading glasses, one pair. Right temple wrapped with adhesive tape.”

”Glasses case, one.”

”Write that one down,” Auntie Wang suddenly spoke.

He Xiufen looked at her.

”The glasses case—write it down for me,” Auntie Wang said. ”That year he said the case pinched the temple of his glasses, so he ripped the zipper out of the lining.”

”Write it,” He Xiufen said. ”Ripped or not, write it all.”

”Black leather notebooks, two. Held together with a rubber band,” Shen Zhixia continued.

He Xiufen picked up the top notebook and opened it. The first page was a form: date, sample number, water temperature, turbidity—line after line in small, dense handwriting that stopped in May. The second was soft-covered. The front recorded household matters—loaned Lao Wang fifty, bike tire repair eighty. The back recorded medicine costs, box by box, with prices, the last entry dated May 11th.

”The first one belongs to the unit,” Xiao Tan said.

”The second oneʼs from our home,” Auntie Wang said.

He Xiufen separated the two, pushing one toward Xiao Tan, handing the other to Auntie Wang. ”The second one goes under personal effects. Record it.”

Auntie Wang held the soft-cover notebook in her hands without opening it.

[Thud. Only what gets read aloud counts as filed.]

The middle shelf held stacks of paper, each sheet the size of an envelope, edges soft from handling, heavy when lifted. At the very bottom lay an old towel, and beneath the towel, the iron case.

”Blue cloth work uniform, one,” Shen Zhixia said. She shook the garment out and felt both pockets. ”A bus card in one pocket, a pharmacy receipt in the other.”

”Record it,” He Xiufen said.

She nudged the stack of paper aside to make room for the uniform. Master Cui leaned over past her and glanced at the stack.

”Thatʼs from the archive room,” he said.

The top volume had a small slip of paper attached—a file index—with a red seal in the lower right corner.

Xiao Tan gathered the stack up, meaning to set it at the other end of the desk. A page slid out from the middle and caught on the deskʼs edge.

Shen Zhixia was standing right at that end of the desk. She did not reach for it.

The page was a form, the fields printed: the header read ”Jiangzhou Qingyuan Testing Center Sampling Record.” In the middle column, three characters—Baixi Village. The year and month in the date field were from nine years ago.

Those three characters—Baixi Village—she had seen them in her fatherʼs address book, read them in that nine-year-old newspaper, where the red pen had circled the same Qingyuan Testing mentioned in that very article. Today the three characters sat neatly printed in a form, followed by a column of sampling point codes.

The bottom line of the form carried a handwritten signature. She didnʼt make out what the characters were; what she saw was the way they were written: the first stroke pressed down hard, the last stroke flicking upward at the end. Xiao Tanʼs arm closed over the sheet, and it disappeared beneath his elbow.

He Xiufen put her pen down. ”This stack isnʼt leaving here today.”

”These are the unitʼs documents,” Xiao Tan said.

”The archives belong to the unit,” He Xiufen said. ”Whether this stack was pulled from the archive room, when it was pulled, and who pulled it—thatʼs also the unitʼs business. But today, nobody takes it anywhere. You seal it, we sign the seal strip, photograph it, and record one line in the witness record: one stack of old archive materials, temporarily stored in place. Whenever it moves and wherever it goes, thereʼll be a written record.”

Xiao Tan stepped into the corridor to make a call. It lasted over three minutes. He came back and said, ”The section chief says the materials stay put for now. Seal them, and weʼll send someone to sign.”

They sealed the stack of kraft paper with a seal strip, three names across the seam: Xiao Tan, the community worker, Master Cui. Master Cui signed the slowest, his right hand pressing the paper flat as he wrote, stroke by stroke.

[Thud. This page doesnʼt belong on the inventory. Just remember where it is.]

”Old Cui.” Shen Zhixia asked, ”That batch of samples sent over from Chengnan nine years ago—the sample receipts, where are they?”

”Third row.” Master Cui gestured toward the row of cabinets against the wall.

”His stack came out of the third row.”

Master Cui said nothing, only glanced at the shorter cabinet.

”He wasnʼt rummaging.” He Xiufen lowered her voice. ”He was moving things.”

Shen Zhixia understood now. A man of few words, making trip after trip up to the third floor for half a year, shifting the materials from that nine-year-old sample batch—one shelf at a time—from the third row into his own cabinet. For whom, he never wrote it down, never told anyone. He only left that one line on the balcony: if someone comes asking about Baixi Village, then you bring it out.

Auntie Wang lifted the towel away.

The iron case was palm-sized, square, black paint chipped in one spot to show bare metal, secured with a small brass lock. Shen Zhixia hefted it in her hands. Something inside shifted slightly—not empty.

”I held it for two days,” Auntie Wang said.

[Thud. This item has left this building. For two days.]

She photographed it four times: front, bottom, lock, the chipped spot. He Xiufen spread the custody statement on the desk and read it clause by clause: one iron case with original lock, entrusted to Zhengping Law Firm for safekeeping; opening requires one dayʼs prior notice to the heirs and the unit, with witnesses present, full video recording; contents to be used only for this case and related cases, not to be diverted, not to be disclosed; loss or damage during custody to be the responsibility of the custodian.

Auntie Wang accepted the ink pad and pressed her thumb down. The first press was too light—only a red shadow left on the page.

”Again,” He Xiufen said.

The second press was firm. The fingerprint landed beside the name.

[Thud. A fingerprint pressed by someone who canʼt read is still a signature.]

Cen Hong signed, then added a line at the edge of the page: ”I will be present on the day it is opened.”

”Iʼll make a copy of your brotherʼs written statement and staple it behind this one,” He Xiufen said. ”Have him send another message today, stating clearly what the item is and who itʼs entrusted to.”

”Iʼll print it out at the courier hub later,” Cen Hong said. ”If he asks why, what do I tell him?”

”Tell him itʼs the one thing from his fatherʼs cabinet. After the inventory, the family needs a written record.” He Xiufen said, ”No need to tell him anything else.”

The community worker spread out the witness record and signed her name. Master Cui signed last.

”I want to be there when itʼs opened,” Cen Hong said.

”Weʼll notify you a day in advance, and the unit as well,” He Xiufen said. ”Iʼll make both calls this afternoon and set it for tomorrow morning.”

Auntie Wang held out the towel.

”Wrap it in this,” she said. ”His towel.”

Shen Zhixia wrapped the iron case and placed it at the bottom of the canvas bag, the folded newspaper layered beneath it.

As they went downstairs, Xiao Tan locked the cabinet door again, the keys jingling once in his hand. The light in that room went off, leaving only the window light in the corridor.

The blue-covered logbook lay open on the desk in the guard room. Master Cui turned to a fresh page and wrote: August 14, 10:50 a.m., removed one iron case (with lock), personal effects, carried by Shen Zhixia. When he finished, he pushed the pen toward her.

As she signed, she noticed a new line added to yesterdayʼs page: August 13, 3:00 p.m., phone call, asked when the third-floor archive room would be cleared out, name not given.

”Who called?”

”Someone who didnʼt say.” Master Cui said, ”I asked who he was. He hung up. Even if he hangs up, I still have to write it down.”

She photographed that line and didnʼt ask further.

One of the steps at the entrance was loose, tilting underfoot. Auntie Wang stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at the window near the inner end of the third floor. The sun-bleached paper on the glass still stirred in the wind.

”If thereʼs something in his handwriting when you open it,” Auntie Wang said.

Shen Zhixia turned back.

”You read it to me.” Auntie Wang said, ”I canʼt read.”

”I will.”

The car crossed the bridge; the sky had gone overcast. One hand on the wheel, He Xiufen laid out the next steps with the other: go see the locksmith tomorrow morning, bring the authorization and Cen Hongʼs ID; submit the archive access request this afternoon—if the unit refuses, take it to court for an investigation order; the bankʼs ten days run through the 22nd.

Shen Zhixia pulled the old newspaper from the bottom of the bag and spread it on her knee. Along the four-fold creases, the red pen had circled ”Qingyuan Testing.” The form today had ”Baixi Village” printed on it. Two names from nine years ago, standing on the same page today, separated by a manʼs half-year of stair-climbing, one trip at a time, and a locked iron case.

And that column of handwritten characters. Heavy first stroke, last stroke flicking upward.

She had seen handwriting like that somewhere.

She couldnʼt remember where.