Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 151 : Who Set the Pen Down

February 10, 8:50 a.m., third-floor conference room, Chengbei District Health Commission. The heat was cranked too high. On the long table sat only two things: a twelve-page case file and a glass of water no one had touched.

The window faced north, fogged over. Shen Zhixia laid out her power of attorney, firm letter, and trainee lawyer certificate photocopies one by one, in a neat row. Lin Qi sat to her right, down jacket still on, the cloth bagʼs strap looped twice around her wrist.

Across from them sat Director Xu of Chengbei Hospitalʼs Medical Affairs Office. Today heʼd skipped the white coat, wearing a dark gray jacket with the cuffs let down. Beside him, a young man had an open notebook. Before entering, Shen Zhixia had checked her phone. He Xiufenʼs reply was four characters: Peng family hasnʼt called.

At exactly nine, the door opened. The woman who came in was in her forties, hair tucked behind her ears, a hardcover interview notebook in one hand and two pens in the other. Her eyes went first to the stack of papers on the table.

”Section Chief Zou.” Clerk Yu stood and greeted her.

Section Chief Zou sat at one end of the long table, laid the two pens side by side next to the notebook, and pulled the twelve-page file to her left.

”Today weʼre getting things clear,” she said. ”On the twenty-seventh of last month, Medical Administration Division received the hospitalʼs submitted materials. The receipt register shows eleven pages. February third, one more page was added. Today weʼll hear what the hospital has to say, and weʼll hear what Dr. Lin herself has to say. Once thatʼs done, we make a record, and everyone signs. Anyone with an authorized agent, Iʼll take their materials—whatʼs on paper counts.”

She looked across the table. ”The hospital goes first.”

”Section Chief Zou, our hospitalʼs position has been consistent from the start—” Director Xu tugged at the front of his jacket.

”On the materials.”

Director Xu paused a beat. ”The department had management oversights. A duty physician was non-compliant with medical record notations. It falls both ways, a bit each. The hospital has already taken internal action—the Disposition Decision and the subsequent Disposition Opinion have both been submitted. How to handle it, weʼll defer to the district.”

”In the submitted materials, the name ʼLin Qiʼ appears in several places.”

”Handwriting analysis isnʼt something Medical Affairs can determine.”

[Thud. He swapped ”position” for ”materials.” Materials speak for themselves.]

Shen Zhixia passed over a page of Agentʼs Opinion. Clerk Yu took it and placed it on top of the file.

”Iʼll raise three points,” she said. ”First: the signatures.”

She pulled three sheets from her file folder and laid them in a row: the name Lin Qi had written at the Zhengping Firmʼs table on Sunday; the last page of the transcribed nursing record; and page eleven of the submission file—the Self-Review Statement on Changes to Medical Records, signed ”Lin Qi,” dated the twenty-eighth.

”I wonʼt draw conclusions,” she said. ”Iʼm asking the district to look at one thing—the same personʼs name, on these three pages, doesnʼt look like the same person. On this one, the three horizontal strokes slant upward, the last stroke ends light. On these two, the horizontals are level, the last stroke presses down heavy. I ask the district to retrieve the originals and have the handwriting professionally examined. The submitted materials say she did this herself. What I want to know is: which day those two signatures were written, and in whose hands the pen was.”

[Thud. Donʼt say ”forged signature.” Say ”doesnʼt look like the same person.”]

Section Chief Zouʼs pen moved a line down the notebook. ”Where are the originals.”

”The transcribed copy and Self-Review Statement were submitted to the court starting January twenty-third. The court sealed one set. What was submitted to the district are photocopies. The hospital still holds the originals—I ask the district to issue a letter requesting them.”

”Second point.”

”Time.” Shen Zhixia set a page on the table. ”The submitted materials say the Self-Review Statement was personally written by Dr. Lin on the twenty-eighth. At 4:05 a.m. on the twenty-eighth, she arrived at Tongling. She sat in the waiting room until 5:30. That evening at 7:20, she was on a twenty-minute long-distance call with me. She threw away the bus ticket, but she remembers the schedule, and I can pull the phone records.”

”Who printed these materials. Who delivered them.”

Director Xuʼs fingers twitched at the tableʼs edge. ”The department submitted them as a whole.”

”Which person handled it.”

”A dozen-odd pages—who printed them and on what day, Iʼll go back and verify.”

”Then put it on paper,” Section Chief Zou said.

”Third point.” Shen Zhixia pushed forward an excerpt from the January eighteenth Statement of Defense. ”This says, ʼThe department, per internal management requirements, organized and transcribed the shift handover records.ʼ In the submission to the district, it became ʼdone by the individual herself.ʼ Same handover record, one sentence says the department did it, one says she did it. Which is true? The hospital can answer first.”

”The Self-Review Statement page—you signed and submitted it personally.” Section Chief Zou asked.

”It was submitted.”

”Why is it signed Lin Qi.”

”That statement is about her matter. Of course itʼs signed by her.” Director Xu paused after saying this, then added, ”The department reviewed it.”

”Who in the department reviewed it.”

”Iʼll go back and verify that.”

He said ”go back and verify” twice. The second time his voice was quieter than the first.

The conference room went still. Water moved through the heating pipes.

”One more issue,” Shen Zhixia said. ”On the night of December thirtieth last year, the medical records were removed from the Medical Records Room. That night, on the Obstetrics departmentʼs shift schedule for the thirtieth, the name in that box is not Dr. Linʼs. The photo with the altered schedule was sent at 10:04 a.m. on December twenty-seventh, in the department group chat. We have the original device. The hospital says the record changes were the work of the duty physician alone—so I ask you to submit who was on duty that night, and the duty handover log.”

”Whose name was in that box originally.” Section Chief Zou copied down the date.

”Hers,” Shen Zhixia said. ”She worked the night shift on the twenty-sixth.”

Section Chief Zou set her pen back against the notebook and looked up at Director Xu.

”Within three business days, the hospital will provide written explanation of three things: who wrote the two signatures in the submitted materials and who handled them; the night-shift handover logs from December twenty-eighth through the thirty-first; and those two statements—why one says ʼdepartment organized and transcribedʼ and the other says ʼdone by the individual herself.ʼ Iʼll issue a letter for the originals. The signature line must name a specific person. Donʼt just stamp it and call it done.”

She turned a page in her notebook. ”One more thing. The three-page Legal Opinion Letter submitted with the file was issued by a law firm. Iʼve read it. The firmʼs opinion is the firmʼs opinion; the hospitalʼs matters are the hospitalʼs matters. Each writes its own.”

Director Xu made a sound of assent and dropped his eyes back to the table.

[Thud. Three business days. A name has to land on a single person.]

”Section Chief Zou.” Lin Qi spoke.

Her voice was hoarse. She slipped the cloth bagʼs strap off her wrist and clasped both hands on her knees.

”Go ahead,” Section Chief Zou said. ”Say what you saw. Tell the parts that concern you; leave out what doesnʼt.”

Lin Qi glanced at Shen Zhixia. Shen Zhixia neither nodded nor shook her head—only nudged the glass of water an inch in her direction.

”The night shift on December twenty-sixth was mine,” Lin Qi said. ”I was on duty that night. At 3:40, the bleeding wouldnʼt stop. She died. The rescue record pages have my signature on them. I signed those.”

”Mm.”

”On the Autopsy Notice she received, the signature line has her own name on it.” Lin Qi said. ”The informantʼs signature line is blank. From admission to death, that line stayed blank. No one said what needed to be said to the family, and that paper never reached my hand.”

”The 6:20 notation.”

”I was on duty at that hour,” she said. ”But that notation wasnʼt mine. The pen never reached my hand, and the name isnʼt in my writing.”

”Afterward.”

”Afterward I got off work. On the morning of the twenty-seventh I submitted my annual leave form. Later the department called me upstairs. That paper—Iʼve seen it.”

”What day, where.”

”The afternoon of January fourth, Obstetrics turned the logbook over to the Medical Affairs Office,” Lin Qi said. ”Morning of January fifth, in the Medical Affairs Office, on a long table by the window. Printed pages laid out, one line every four rows, the signature block left blank. Someone handed paper. Someone handed a pen. Both of their badges were flipped over.”

”Did you sign.”

”I didnʼt write,” she said. ”I said I canʼt sign this. They said, department materials, just a formality. On the morning of January twenty-seventh they brought it out again. I still didnʼt write. On the twenty-eighth I went back to Tongling.”

”You received the hospitalʼs Disposition Decision,” Section Chief Zou asked. ”The four characters ʼbear corresponding responsibilityʼ they asked you to sign—did you sign them.”

”No. I couldnʼt write it.”

”What about the eight characters the hospital told you to write.”

”I copied them once,” Lin Qi said. ”The characters are in my writing; the signature line was left blank. I never handed that page in.”

”Anything else.”

”The night of the thirtieth wasnʼt me,” she said. ”Whose name was in that box on the schedule—thatʼs who worked the days I was on leave. The logbook was removed from the Medical Records Room that night.”

She fell silent. Both hands still clasped on her knees. The sound of the notebook page turning seemed enormous in the room.

Section Chief Zou wrote with her head down, then read two lines aloud: ”The hospitalʼs submitted materials state she admitted to altering records; the individual states in this record that she never signed. These two cannot be reconciled.”

”Section Chief Zou, a young doctor going through something like this—memory discrepancies are normal,” Director Xu said.

”Memory can differ. Handwriting doesnʼt,” Shen Zhixia said. ”Those two signatures—the hospital can bring in the handlers to compare. If you canʼt verify it, weʼll verify it for you. The person who borrowed the hole punch on the morning of January fifth—white coat open, sleeves rolled to the forearm. The afternoon of the seventh, the person who set the punched stack on the windowsill and said, ʼSignatures are all set.ʼ Both statements are already written in my on-site record. Signed. Read aloud in person.”

Director Xu looked at her and said nothing.

”Verify it and put it on paper,” Section Chief Zou said, closing her notebook. ”Write whose name it is. Write the name.”

[Thud. That line wasnʼt spoken to the hospital. It was the district speaking.]

Clerk Yu printed the interview record—three pages. Section Chief Zou pushed it to Director Xu to review first. He read it through twice, end to end, and wrote his name on the signature line. The record moved in front of Lin Qi. She wiped her hand on her sleeve, then wrote ”Lin Qi” stroke by stroke—nobody handing her a pen this time.

10:40, the hallway. Clerk Yu placed a printed copy of the Deadline Statement in Shen Zhixiaʼs hand, saying the three business days start from tomorrow, and materials should be turned in at the Medical Administration Division window. Three lines on the page. The middle line had two columns: Writer. Handler.

At the end of the hallway, Director Xu stood by the window on the phone, voice kept low. The long corridor echoed; only half a sentence drifted over—”That document... the district wants the handlers...”. The rest was lost. He switched the phone to his other ear, his back to them.

At the stairwell, someone came up carrying an armful of case files, stepping aside to let Director Xu pass. His steps were faster than when heʼd arrived. He didnʼt look back.

Lin Qi stared at the two blank boxes on that page.

”Writer. Handler.” She read the six characters aloud. ”Two boxes. Two names.”

”Three business days.” Shen Zhixia folded the paper in half, pressed a crease down the middle, and tucked it into her file folder. ”The hospital has to hand someone over.”