Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 93 : The Surname in the Approval Column

”The bankʼs documents are in.”

The first sound from the receiver was paper feeding through a printer, sheet by sheet, in quick succession, and only then came the court clerkʼs voice.

”What time?”

”Nine twenty.” Pages turned on the other end. ”Last day. Thereʼs a one-page explanation attached.”

He Xiufen let those words sit in her mouth for a moment. ”Nine twenty,” she said. ”If Iʼd gone to review the file half a day later, cross-examination wouldʼve been delayed ten days.”

”Coming this afternoon?”

”Two oʼclock.”

At 2:10 p.m. on August 22nd, the file reading room on the second floor of the courthouse. The young woman at the window pulled the kraft envelope down from the shelf; the flap was wound twice with white string that took three tries to undo.

She laid the contents out on the long table, announcing each item as she went: ”One entrusted payment agreement, original. One page of loan approval records. One page of explanatory statement.”

He Xiufen didnʼt reach for them. ”Read the explanation first.”

Shen Zhixia read aloud:

”One: Materials submitted by this bank that involve internal approval personnel information and customer personal information constitute trade secrets. We request non-public cross-examination, for use in this case only. Two: Apart from this transaction, retrieval of the remaining loan disbursement materials is being processed under this bankʼs internal procedures and will be submitted separately once obtained. Three: Submitted materials have been stamped with this bankʼs official seal.”

”Three points.” He Xiufen rested both elbows on the tableʼs edge. ”The first is a curtain. The second is a date with no number written on it. The third—an official seal.”

The explanatory statement bore no personʼs name at the bottom, just a seal, pressed dead center. He Xiufen flipped it over and held it up to the window light, checking whether the ink had bled through to the back.

”They know who we want to ask about,” Shen Zhixia said. ”ʼInternal approval personnel informationʼ—those eight characters are their own words.”

”They know.” He Xiufen said. ”So they took one manʼs name and turned it into a category of people.”

She flipped through two pages of the agreement. On the last page, the payee column was still the same ten printed characters; the perforation seal was perfectly aligned on all four edges.

”Before we make copies.” He Xiufen said. ”Hold the original up to the window light first.”

”What for?”

”What you see at the courthouse is the original. Back at the office, youʼll be looking at photocopies.” She slid the approval record page over to Shen Zhixia. ”Feel it.”

Three lines of sign-offs. The bottom line held three characters: Yin Jianping. The pen tip had pressed a shallow groove into the paper; running a finger over it, you could feel the indentation. He Xiufen felt it too, then withdrew her hand.

”Someone who presses down that hard is gripping the pen with force when they write.”

Shen Zhixia went to the window to make copies, registering three pages, then pointed at the checklist on the shelf: ”Print this one too.”

At the bottom of the checklist was a ”submitter” column with three characters, written with a darting pen tip, each stroke landing inside its box. She stared at it for two seconds, then pushed the list back.

”Four pages.” The young woman pulled the paper out and squared it up. ”One yuan twenty.”

”Miss.” He Xiufen asked. ”Has the judge set a date for the cross-examination?”

”The bank says they still need to submit supplemental materials. Itʼll be scheduled after those come in.”

”Then Iʼll file the request for those supplemental materials today.”

They walked out of the courthouse at 2:40. The sun on the steps was white-hot.

”Ten daysʼ deadline, and all we got is three sheets of paper.” He Xiufen shifted the envelope higher against her chest. ”Back to the office. This afternoon, we set up the lights.”

* * *

Three oʼclock, above the noodle shop. The smell of scallion oil drifted up in waves from downstairs. She cracked the window open; the breeze lifted a corner of the photocopied papers on the desk and she pressed it back down.

Four items were laid out: three photocopies bearing the file-review stamp; one photocopy of Qingyuan Testingʼs sampling record—on the morning of August 19th, He Xiufen had gone to the old building with an investigation order, Xiao Tan accompanying her into the archives room for a full hour, retrieving that page stamped with the unitʼs seal, its original still sealed beneath the No. 14 evidence strip; an old magnifying glass dug out from the very bottom of the drawer, a small chip on the edge of its lens; and a piece of red plastic film.

She rolled the red film between her fingers: palm-sized, edges worn and frayed, cut from some file envelope who knew how many years ago.

”What is this?”

”Old case files were covered in red seals.” He Xiufen pressed it over the approval record column. ”When your eyes canʼt tell two things apart, color can. Look.”

The instant the red pressed down, the round seal on the paper receded, sinking back into the page, leaving only a faint shadow. Beneath the seal, the strokes of that pen floated up one by one.

The top line: on the left, printed, ”Approved”; on the right, one handwritten character: Shi. The first stroke landed heavy, ending in a final upward flick—a flick that rose high, cutting past the edge the seal had covered. After it came another character, but even with the red faded it showed only a sliver of one side, unreadable.

”The approval column only has a surname,” He Xiufen said. ”The other half—the seal covered it for him.”

The next line down: a square seal pressed over a handwritten character. The bottom line: three characters—Yin Jianping. The strokes pressed deep, the paper indented; through the red film, the three lines looked like three steps of a staircase.

”See it now?” He Xiufen asked.

”Whose hand is the one on top?”

”The bank says itʼs internal approval personnel information.” She moved her hand away from the paperʼs edge. ”Theyʼve seen thereʼs a hand up there too.”

Shen Zhixia took out her phone and photographed the page through the red film. He Xiufen glanced up at her.

”Just for notes,” she said.

”Notes are fine,” He Xiufen said. ”In court, this paper has to stand on its own original.”

[Thud. Whatʼs visible is a surname. Whatʼs invisible is the hand that wrote it.]

Shen Zhixia pulled over the sampling record. In the middle of the form, one column printed: ”Baixi Village.” The year and month in the date column were nine years old. The bottom line held a handwritten signature, two characters: the first was ”Shi,” the second scribbled into a single unreadable stroke.

On the 14th, sheʼd only caught the style: a heavy first stroke, the last stroke flicking upward. Today, under the magnifying glass, that flick was right before her eyes—leaving the last stroke of ”Shi,” moving up, then right, ending clean.

”This column is sample receipt,” He Xiufen said. ”Nine years ago, with that batch of samples—whoever signed this column was the one who handled them.”

”Cen Shouye went upstairs trip after trip for half a year, moving that nine-year-old batch out of the third row and into his own cabinet.”

”If he knew this surname,” He Xiufen set down the magnifying glass, ”then what he moved was something he recognized.”

In the corner stood the old safe, a small padlock hanging from its handle, two keys—one in her pocket, one in He Xiufenʼs. The hard drive was locked inside, behind iron, behind a folded towel.

”Should we tell Cen Hong?” Shen Zhixia asked.

”Not today,” He Xiufen said. ”Tell her and sheʼll be calling you in the middle of the night. Wait until the other half of that name comes out. Then we tell her everything at once.”

* * *

He Xiufen moved the two pages together. One ”Shi” set against another ”Shi.”

She leaned down, running the magnifying glass back and forth between the two, then stopped; moved it up an inch, then down an inch, and stopped again. Her reading glasses slipped down her nose and she didnʼt push them back. From downstairs someone shouted for extra chili, and the sound of oil sizzling in the wok rose up, then faded.

”Well?” Shen Zhixia asked.

”They look alike.”

”Can you confirm it?”

”Canʼt confirm it.” He Xiufen laid the magnifying glass flat on the paper. ”Saying ʼthey look alikeʼ is what my eyes see. Saying ʼitʼs the sameʼ requires comparing against samples of his regular handwriting. For a handwriting examination, first you need to know who that surname belongs to, and you need examples of how he normally writes. What we have here—oneʼs a duplicate, oneʼs a photocopy. Photocopies can be looked at, not used to confirm.”

”Then what is todayʼs surname?”

”A direction.” She lifted the red film off the page and tucked it into the hardcover notebook as a bookmark. ”Last time I said: ask the question mark, not the name. This time, weʼll start by writing just a surname.”

Shen Zhixia drew her hands back from the tableʼs edge. Her palms were damp, and the sweat had gone cold. She remembered the 14th, standing before the cabinet, the way that page had shut beneath Xiao Tanʼs arm—sheʼd only managed to catch that one upward flick.

”He didnʼt just sign once,” she said.

”Right.”

”Of the missing one hundred and five transactions, every single one has an approval column.”

”The samples are in his own pile of paper.” He Xiufen picked up her pen. ”So those three requests—not one can be dropped.”

”One more thing,” Shen Zhixia said. ”On the 14th, we filed the access request. The unit never responded. On the 19th, the investigation order went in, and only then did the records appear. On the bankʼs side: a ten-day deadline, and all we get is one page of explanation.”

”Both sides are the same,” He Xiufen said. ”He submitted late because he wants us to slow down.”

She flipped to a fresh page and listed the deficiencies one by one: no disbursement materials for any transaction beyond this one; only one page of approval records; the signatoryʼs full name not provided. Shen Zhixia copied each item down, then set her pen aside. He Xiufen drew a horizontal line in the notebook and wrote three lines beneath it:

One: Request the court to order the bank to submit the original approval record for this loan disbursement, for verification at cross-examination.

Two: Request the bank to explain who signed the approval column.

Three: The remaining one hundred and five transactions—demand them one by one.

”One hundred and five,” Shen Zhixia said.

”One by one.” He Xiufen pressed the cap onto her pen. ”We ask the question mark, not the name.”

* * *

Seven oʼclock, the long table set up downstairs. Tang Guo came up carrying two bowls of wontons; her livestream light was set up at the alley entrance, and though she hadnʼt started broadcasting yet, her phone was already propped in place.

”Did the bank submit anything?” she asked.

”They did,” He Xiufen said. ”Three sheets of paper.”

”Three sheets.” Tang Guo set the bowls down. ”One thousand and forty-two households, and they give us three sheets.”

She looked down at her phone and turned the screen around: 8:07 that morning, a deduction text message, still two thousand.

”Iʼm keeping this one,” she said.

”Keep the screenshot too,” He Xiufen said.

Shi Lei sent a message in the group chat: ”Sis, did the bank submit anything?”

He Xiufen took Shen Zhixiaʼs phone and replied: ”They did. Three sheets of paper and one page of explanation. Whateverʼs missing, Iʼll demand it back one item at a time.”

After replying, she set the phone face-down on the table and looked up. ”Todayʼs surname goes in the notebook. Not on any paper.”

”Everyone sits at that table downstairs,” Shen Zhixia said.

”Right.”

Nine oʼclock, the lamp still on. Shen Zhixia turned the approval record page face-up and stared at it for two seconds, then tore a slip from the notepad and wrote a single character: Shi.

She lifted a corner of the glass desk pad and slid the paper in, pressing it down beside the half-sentence of cut paper. All the other papers beneath the glass lay flat; only this new one still had one corner curled up.

”Nine years ago, he signed the sample receipt column,” she said.

”Nine years later, the final approval column for the money too.” He Xiufen pulled the desk lamp closer, its light falling across the two characters side by side. ”Nine years between them.”

She turned off the lamp. The only light left in the room came from the streetlamp outside the window, a single bar falling through the curtain gap onto the glass desk pad.

The phone screen lit up once and went dark. The message box was empty. She pressed the screen off, and through the glass, flattened down the curled corner of that newly inserted sheet.

[Thud. Two ledgers, one pen. Whose hand holds that pen—go ask.]