Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 95 : The Strokes Left Unfinished

”Whatʼs in the case.”

The woman behind the counter slid the number slip under a folder without looking up. Early forties, short hair, blue cloth sleeve protectors over her cuffs, a round stamp lying face-down at the corner of her desk.

”A hard drive,” Shen Zhixia said. ”Full-disk encryption. Canʼt open it.”

”Thatʼs the easy part.” She clicked her pen cap back on and looked up at them. ”The openable ones, I donʼt bother with.”

The desktop was pale gray. Taped to the glass partition was a sheet of paper: Take a number before requesting evidence preservation notarization. The number slip stuck out from under the folder. Shen Zhixia had come downstairs at 7:50 that morning; He Xiufen was already standing at the foot of the stairs, canvas bag resting by her feet.

”That thing he said yesterday. Iʼll handle it for him.”

”Which thing.”

”Donʼt go alone.”

He Xiufen set the canvas bag on the counter and took things out one by one, announcing each: custody statement, witness record, opening record, four photographs, two photocopies of the inventory record from the 14th, household register, and a written agreement mailed from Shenzhen.

Ning Ping checked them off one by one, tapping each with her pen. At the household register, she looked past them at Cen Hong in the back row: ”When did the decedent pass.”

”June fourteenth,” Cen Hong said.

”Itʼs written in here.” Ning Ping set her pen down. ”Two applicants: custodian, and heir.”

”Both here,” He Xiufen said.

”Then both sign.”

Cen Hong unclipped the barcode scanner from her apron and set it on the counter edge. After signing, she glanced at her watch: ”I have to be back at the courier hub by ten. Iʼm the only one there.”

”One hour,” Ning Ping said. ”What do you want preserved?”

”What this thing looks like today,” He Xiufen said. ”One case, one lock, the disk inside, two pieces of foam. Anyone touches it later, they start from what it looks like now.”

Ning Ping wrote this down slowly. When she finished, she looked up.

”Two things first. One: this certificate only verifies three things — what it looked like today, who was present, and when it was sealed. Whatʼs inside, I donʼt vouch for, and I wonʼt guess for you. Two: it doesnʼt block anyone. If someone comes requesting it, the proper procedures still apply. I wonʼt say who I mean. You know.”

”Thatʼs enough,” He Xiufen said.

Cen Hong slid her chair forward half a seat: ”Once itʼs sealed, can I still show my mom the case?”

”The case is sealed inside. If she wants to look, look at the photos.”

”Then who can open it?”

”You decide.” Ning Ping turned to a fresh page of the record. ”Weʼll write that rule down today. From now on, thatʼs the rule.”

He Xiufen dictated: ”Opening condition — upon notification by this office, heir Cen Hong and custodian Jiangzhou Zhengping Law Firm must appear jointly; or the Peopleʼs Court or Peopleʼs Procuratorate obtains it through legal procedures.”

Ning Ping finished writing and read it back from the top.

”What if I come alone,” Shen Zhixia said.

”No.”

”Her alone?”

”Also no.”

”What about scissors,” Cen Hong said.

”Then what gets cut open isnʼt what this certificate covers.” Ning Ping set her pen down. ”Names go on the seal strip. If the paperʼs torn at a corner, anyone can tell.”

Cen Hong pulled out her phone, swiped a couple times, and held it out.

”Yesterday afternoon, after four, someone called our courier hub.”

”Asking about your dadʼs things,” Shen Zhixia said.

”Asking whether my dad left behind old materials from his former employer. Word for word the same as the call from late June.”

Ning Pingʼs hand paused. Below the line sheʼd just written, she added another: Applicant states that yesterday someone called inquiring about the decedentʼs lifetime materials.

”Write that line too,” He Xiufen said.

”Three fees.” Ning Ping recited the amounts. ”Preservation: four hundred twenty per item. Duplicate: twenty per copy. This office can hold it in custody: one hundred eighty per year.”

Shen Zhixia folded a piece of paper into four sections. Original stays with the office; four duplicates — one for Cen Hong, one for the community office, one for the firm, one for herself.

”Four copies,” He Xiufen said. She counted out the money fast, then folded the receipt and tucked it into the inner pocket of her notebook.

* * *

”Take it out,” Ning Ping said.

Shen Zhixia pulled the canvas bag onto her lap and lifted the towel out from the bottom, unwrapping it layer by layer. The iron case sat on the white paper. A yellow stain marked one corner of the towel, washed but never gone.

”The lockʼs open.”

”Made a detour down Xi Street this morning,” He Xiufen said. ”He opened it once on the fifteenth. Went back to him today. Cen Hong and the community officer followed, recorded it. After he opened it, he set the lock on the counter and said he still wouldnʼt look.”

Ning Ping wrote: One lock, opened this morning at 8:40 by a third party. The person who opened it was not present and did not view the contents.

”Whatʼs his name.”

”Didnʼt ask,” He Xiufen said. ”Donʼt write it.”

Ning Ping didnʼt press. She placed the hard drive under the lens: front, back, the serial number along the side, and a separate shot of the white scuff mark on the label. After photographing, she tapped the case twice with two fingers: ”Inside.”

Shen Zhixia held the case up to the desk lamp. Two iron halves, one darker than the other, with two ridges along the seam. She angled her phone light in from the side. Along the bottom edge, there were a few spots that werenʼt smooth.

She set the case down and ran her fingertip along them.

Four points. So shallow they were barely tangible, the edges fuzzy with fine burrs.

”Scratches or carved,” Ning Ping said.

”Carved.” She pressed her finger into one point, then lifted it. ”A scratch is one continuous pass. This is jabbed in, one strike at a time.”

”How many strikes.”

”Four. First two right next to each other, third one dragged sideways, a finger-width gap, fourth starts from below and curves up, stops halfway. Broken off.”

Ning Ping repositioned twice: one straight-on shot, one angled, then had the phone light held to the side for a third.

He Xiufen pulled the chipped magnifying glass from her bag, held it to her eye, and bent down. The lens moved three times, each pass slower than the last.

”The hand holding the blade was steady.” She straightened up. ”First two cuts, same depth. The third drags across, controlled. The one that breaks off there — he didnʼt keep cutting.”

Cen Hong stepped half a pace closer and raised her phone too. After studying it for a moment, she said: ”Thatʼs how he wrote.”

Ning Ping looked at her.

”Writing a character, on the last stroke, heʼd always pause.” Cen Hong said. ”When I was little, I used to think heʼd forgotten what he was writing. Iʼd lean over, and his hand would just be hanging there.”

”Did he leave you anything written?”

”No,” Cen Hong said. ”Thatʼs exactly what my mom asked — ʼNothing written? Then he never finished.ʼ”

He Xiufen set the magnifying glass down and looked at the four carved marks for two seconds.

”He didnʼt leave writing,” she said. ”He carved writing.”

Shen Zhixia put the case back on the white paper, pulled out the hardcover notebook, and turned to a fresh page. She measured the location first: seven finger-widths in from the latch end. Then she sketched the direction of the four marks — the first two as two short strokes, the third dragged horizontally, the fourth curving up and stopping halfway. When she finished, she noted in the margin: no wider than a pinky nail, blade edge facing inward.

Ning Pingʼs record held only one line: Four carved marks found on the inside of the case; photographed and attached to the file.

”Not writing what the character is?”

”I wonʼt identify it for you.” Ning Ping put the camera away. ”Whoever comes later can look at the photos themselves.”

”That lineʼs right,” He Xiufen said. ”These marks — something else will have to identify them someday.”

Ning Ping took out a cardboard box and a seal strip. She placed the hard drive, the two pieces of foam, the case, and the lock inside in order, paper wedged into the corners. The seal strip went across the lid and the box opening, pressed squarely over the seam. On the strip she wrote first: Jiangzhou Chengnan Notary Office, sealed August 24th.

Then she held out the pen.

”Sign horizontally, one stroke crossing the seam.” She said. ”Whoever signs, their stroke breaks right here.”

Cen Hong signed first. The first stroke of her name landed on the lid; the last vertical stroke ended on the strip.

The community officer signed second. Her logbook was the same one from before, the word ”Witness” on the cover worn and curled at the edges. After signing, she stepped back half a pace, then returned to double-check the date.

Shen Zhixia signed third. After writing the last character of her name, the pen tip hovered over the lid for half a second before lifting.

He Xiufen signed fourth. One continuous stroke, the fastest of all.

Ning Ping stamped the office seal last, pressing it directly over the four names, perfectly centered. She wrote a number and turned the box around: ”The numberʼs in this column. Copy it down. You donʼt need to memorize it.”

Shen Zhixia copied it twice — once into her small notebook, once into the hardcover.

Ning Ping carried the box into the back room, set it on a numbered steel rack, wrote a line in the register, pushed the box flush, and closed the door.

* * *

The sun was blinding white when they came down the stairs. Cen Hong stood at the bottom of the steps holding her electric scooter, the barcode scanner already back in her apron pocket, the duplicate folded twice and crammed in beside it.

”Come to my place tonight,” she said.

”Three sentences.”

”Go on.”

”I wonʼt read documents,” Shen Zhixia said. ”Iʼll tell her three things: itʼs sealed; who can open it is written on paper; and the last one — those strokes he didnʼt finish. Theyʼre real.”

Cen Hong nodded once, pushed off, and rode away.

At six, the noodle shop downstairs fired up its stove. Shen Zhixia spread the three duplicates across the long table and checked page counts one by one. He Xiufen came up, first unhooking the old safeʼs key from her key ring and setting it on the table corner.

”Itʼs empty now,” she said. ”It held the thing once. From now on, itʼs not in our hands.”

”Sealed at the notary office. How do we use it later?” Shen Zhixia asked.

”Three routes,” He Xiufen said. ”Court inspection, appraisal by an institution, or procuratorate and court retrieving it through legal procedures. Any route requires a document first stating what it looked like today. These pages we brought back — thatʼs the document.”

”This disk has nothing to do with the housing case. The court wonʼt keep an unrelated item in custody for us indefinitely.”

”You saw that too.”

”So notarization it is.”

”Right.” He Xiufen gathered the duplicates into three stacks and clipped them with paper clips. ”Say it again, what it is now. Itʼs a key. A key canʼt be used as evidence, but the door inside only opens with it.”

[Thud. Physical evidence preservation complete. It is now a key, not a piece of evidence.]

[Thud. The strokes inside the case — the one who carved them never finished.]

”When do we use it?”

”When someone comes knocking at the door.” He Xiufen said. ”Sealing it today is to keep hands from reaching in at night. The words inside — thatʼs still a long way off.”

Past eight, Shi Lei popped up in the group chat: Sis, any word from the bank? He Xiufen took the phone and replied: Date not set yet. Those one hundred five payments — we fight for each one, and every one gets a receipt. She set the phone down on the table.

”Twenty-seven households hand over keys at monthʼs end.” Tang Guo poked her head up from downstairs. ”Iʼve sorted the list by handover date.”

”Good,” He Xiufen said. ”Start with those twenty-seven. Photograph one door lock at each, with the date visible.”

At 9:40, Shen Zhixia took her phone down to the stairwell. The sound-activated light came on when she coughed, went dark half a minute later. She stood in the darkness and typed out the message: Itʼs sealed. Chengnan Notary Office. Number written in my notebook.

Sent. Nine minutes passed before the reply.

The screen lit up with five characters: Donʼt send me the number.

She stared at those five characters for a while. If that number ever passed through his phone, then later, when someone asked ”who knows this number,” he wouldnʼt be able to answer cleanly. And not answering cleanly meant heʼd be carrying it.

She replied with one character: Okay.

Back upstairs, she opened the hardcover notebook and added a line in the margin of todayʼs page: Number not to be shared, notebook only. Then she flipped back to the page with the carved marks.

Sheʼd traced those four marks three times that day. The depth of the first two, the controlled edge where the third dragged to a stop, the place where the fourth curved up and broke off — all on paper. Seven finger-widths in from the latch end, written at the top of the page.

The bottom half of that page was blank.

At the very top of the blank half, she wrote two words: To be matched.

Then she closed the notebook.