Justice System: I Litigate for the Whole City

Chapter 169 : The Drug Not on the Board

The pharmacy was on the first floor of the inpatient building, two dispensing windows side by side—one taking slips, the other handing out medication. The instant the number jumped on the screen, the person at the front of the line edged half a step closer to the glass.

An old man stood at the window, holding a prescription up high. ”Miss, is this one reimbursable?” The pharmacist inside said, ”Yes, chronic disease coverage applies.” He asked what percentage, she told him a figure, and he muttered to himself as he pulled the prescription back. The line shuffled forward half a step.

Shen Zhixia was fourth in line. She held a photocopy in her hand, the top line printed with a date and a name. She folded that part behind the paper, leaving only the medication fee column visible.

Before sheʼd left the house, He Xiufen had given her one instruction: ask about the price, donʼt ask about the drug name.

When her turn came, she slid the paper through the slot under the window.

”Checking an account,” she said. ”A family member was hospitalized. Thereʼs a one-hundred-eighty-six-yuan drug on this bill. I wanted to ask if that price is right.”

The pharmacist behind the glass was in her twenties, her white coat starched stiff, the badge on her chest reading ”Pharmacy · Yao Qian.” She had a stack of unfilled prescriptions pressed under one hand. Her fingers tapped the paper twice as she glanced up from the keyboard.

”Carbetocin injection, one hundred micrograms,” she said. ”One eighty-six. Price checks out.”

”I canʼt see it in your system,” Shen Zhixia said. ”Do you have a printed price list? Iʼd like to copy it down.”

”There is a printed one,” Yao Qian said. ”Look to your left, on the wall.”

The board had a heading: Common Drug Price Notice. Below it, dense rows of drug names, specifications, retail prices. Glucose, 3.60. Saline, 2.80. Vitamins, 1.20. They matched the lines on the sheet in her hand. The oxytocin line read ten units, 3.20. She scanned the whole board top to bottom, twice, and found no ”Carbetocin” anywhere. In the bottom right corner of the board, there was a line of small print: The items listed above are the medications commonly used in this hospital. She copied that line into her notebook too.

”How often does this board get replaced?”

”When prices change upstairs, the board changes,” Yao Qian said.

”Who prints the board?”

”The hospital administration office sends it down and we post it as printed,” she said. ”The board doesnʼt have a date on it.”

She wrote that down too: the notice board has no date.

Yao Qian glanced back over her shoulder, following Shen Zhixiaʼs gaze.

”That board is for common drugs,” she said. ”For the uncommon ones, you have to check the price catalogue.”

”Then please check it. I need this line.”

Yao Qian stood and walked deeper inside, pulling a thick blue-covered volume down from the top of a cabinet, its edge lined with a row of small labels. Behind the volume was a white sheet-metal door with a printed sign taped to it: Dispensing Room, Staff Only. The door stood half open, giving a view of the drug shelves inside, row after row stretching to the back. She flipped through the volume on the counter, found the page, and turned it around for Shen Zhixia to see.

Carbetocin Injection 100 mcg per vial Hengyue Pharmaceutical 186.00

”Could I take a photo?”

”The price catalogue is not lent out or photocopied,” Yao Qian said. ”If you want it, Iʼll read it aloud for you.”

”Then read it, and Iʼll copy.”

Yao Qian read slowly: drug name, specification, place of origin, price. Shen Zhixia looked up after each line, and Yao Qian repeated that portion. The print was small; afraid of copying it wrong, Shen Zhixia turned the notebook around when she finished.

”Does it match?”

”It matches,” Yao Qian said.

”This vial doesnʼt come in often. When did it arrive?”

Yao Qianʼs hand paused at the edge of the volume. ”I donʼt remember that,” she said. ”Youʼd have to look at the ledger.”

”Whereʼs the ledger?”

”In a locked cabinet inside, up top.”

”Could I take a look?”

”No,” Yao Qian said. ”The ledger gets counted once a month.”

”And after the count?”

”After the count, it goes upstairs along with the transfer-in slips.”

”So bringing in a drug requires a separate slip.”

”For drugs transferred in on an ad hoc basis, without a separate slip, the numbers wouldnʼt balance,” Yao Qian said. ”Which day it came in, who approved it, who signed for it—itʼs all on that one slip.”

”When was this price of one eighty-six set?”

”The price comes down from above,” she said. ”Hospital admin sends it down, we change it accordingly.”

Yao Qian pulled the volume back, and as she did, her hand flipped over the photocopy on the counter. The top line was exposed. She looked at it, and the box of medication in her other hand came to rest on the counter, motionless.

”...Chen Xiaoman?” she said. ”The one on the twenty-sixth?”

Shen Zhixia didnʼt answer.

A voice called from behind the drug shelves: ”Xiao Yao.”

”Yeah.”

”For the ledger, go to the medical affairs office.” It was a womanʼs voice, not loud, and then it was gone.

Yao Qian pushed the photocopy back through the slot, stopped halfway, pulled her hand back, and finally pushed it all the way out.

”Iʼm sorry,” she said. ”If you need to ask about that, youʼll have to go to the medical affairs office.”

Shen Zhixia slid her notebook half an inch toward the slot. ”One last thing,” she said. ”Read that line one more time. Iʼll verify and be on my way.”

Yao Qian glanced at the drug shelves behind her and lowered her voice to a near whisper: ”Carbetocin injection, one hundred micrograms, Hengyue Pharmaceutical, one hundred eighty-six.”

”Thatʼs what I have,” Shen Zhixia said. ”Thank you.”

[Thud. A drug that isnʼt in the standard formulary needs the seal of an ad hoc transfer.]

The bench in the corridor was empty. At the far end stood the elevator; someone pushed a gurney past, its wheels rattling across the concrete the whole way. She sat down and flipped to a fresh page in her notebook, writing a heading at the top: Chengbei Hospital Pharmacy, Price Verification. Below it, the time first: 9:40. Then the window, then the person: two windows, the inner one, badge read Yao Qian. Finally, she transcribed what sheʼd heard, sentence by sentence, word for word. When she reached ”For the ledger, go to the medical affairs office,” she started a new line and noted: Inside the pharmacy, female voice, not seen.

A medical records cart rolled past in front of her, went two steps, and stopped.

”Lawyer Shen.”

It was Qi Xiuyun. A stack of charts sat on the cart, and she reached over to smooth down the top one.

”You came back here.”

”I came to ask about something.”

Qi Xiuyun glanced toward the two windows and lowered her voice. ”Xiao Yaoʼs not tight-lipped, but she wonʼt dare talk,” she said. ”Month-end inventory, upstairs has been pushing hard these last two days. The people in stores are working overtime at night.”

”Which day is the inventory?”

”The last couple days of the month, probably.” She paused as she got ready to push the cart on. ”If youʼre asking about a drug, donʼt ask at the window.”

”Then who?”

”I didnʼt say anything.” Qi Xiuyun pushed the cart forward. ”And donʼt stand around here.”

Shen Zhixia added both lines to her notes, then a final entry: Ledger not seen; conversation ended at the window.

* * *

It was past six when she got back to the office. The lamp on the long table was on.

He Xiufen pushed the abacus aside and took the notebook, reading it through from beginning to end. At the line ”Inside the pharmacy, female voice, not seen,” she paused.

”This line is recorded correctly,” she said. ”When you canʼt remember a face, remember the voice first.”

”This drug isnʼt on the board,” Shen Zhixia said. ”Itʼs in the catalogue—one eighty-six—and the place of origin matches the four characters on the list exactly. The ledger is locked inside. She said after the count it goes upstairs.”

”Since what date has it been there?”

”The catalogue has no date, and the board has no date either. She said the price comes down from above.”

”No date means you go ask for a date,” He Xiufen said. ”That price in the catalogue was set by someone; once a price is set, someone approved this drug coming through that door. The hand that signed is in the ledger.”

”She only read it to me. She wouldnʼt let me copy it.”

”Writing it down is so you donʼt forget,” He Xiufen said. ”If you want it to actually count, you have to get the person who wrote it to read it again.”

”I had her read it a second time.”

”The four characters on the list and the four in the catalogue—you copied them against each other.”

”Against each other.”

”Then itʼs the hospitalʼs own printed catalogue. If anyone later says you wrote those four characters yourself, tell them to look at the catalogue.”

”Should I get Xiao Yao to sign a statement?”

”Not now,” He Xiufen said. ”She said what she dared to say today. If you push for one more line, she wonʼt dare stand at that window tomorrow.”

”Iʼll write the evidence collection application tomorrow.”

”Write three items,” He Xiufen said. ”The pharmacyʼs in-out ledger, the ad hoc transfer slips, and the procurement and acceptance records. One reason: to ascertain the source and qualification of the drug.”

”Should I also request the formulary catalogue?”

”Not yet,” He Xiufen said. ”The more you ask for at once, the more theyʼll have to say. The ledger has entries and exits, approvals and signatures—thatʼs enough.”

”The hospital will say an uncommon drug has nothing to do with this case.”

”Thatʼs them talking,” He Xiufen said. ”The drug came out of their own pharmacy, and the hand that signed for it is theirs too. Keep your request narrow; name each item clearly. If they refuse, let the court demand it.”

Footsteps on the stairs. Peng Weidong came up in his factory-padded jacket, cap gripped in his hand. He didnʼt sit.

”Any news?”

”The drugs on the board—every line has a price next to it,” she said. ”Only this one isnʼt on the board.”

”So where did that one come from?”

”The catalogue lists its origin. Matches the sheet.”

Peng Weidong stood there, working the cap in his hands. ”My brother called again today,” he said. ”Asking how much the hospital is willing to pay.”

”What did you tell him?”

”I said letʼs not talk money yet.” He looked up at her. ”I work on the shop floor. When the machines run, whoever touched what—thereʼs a record of all of it. The drug that day—there has to be a piece of paper recording it too.”

”There is one,” she said. ”Iʼll go get it.”

”How long?”

”Before the inventory.”

”Whenʼs the inventory?”

”End of the month.”

He pulled the cap back onto his head, nodded, and went downstairs.

He Xiufen flipped the desk calendar to March, all the way to the last page. She traced a finger across the squares, counting one by one, stopping on the thirty-first, and drew a circle in that box with a pencil.

”Inventory is always at the end of the month,” she said. ”One day to count, one day to archive. Once archived, itʼs locked away upstairs.”

”How many days.”

”Todayʼs the twenty-first,” she said. ”Ten days.”

”Once we file, the court has to send a letter, and they have to reply.” He Xiufen said, ”You have to set aside those days first, within the ten.”

”Thereʼs enough.”

”If there isnʼt, there isnʼt—and you make it enough,” she said. ”Every day that ledger sits in their cabinet, they get one more day to talk.”

”What about Dr. Linʼs line?” He Xiufen asked.

”She said the person who opened the drug that day was a young nurse. She needs to think about the name.”

”Let her think.”

Shen Zhixia flipped to a fresh page and wrote down the characters for ”Evidence Collection Application,” leaving three blank lines beneath. He Xiufen pushed the desk calendar back to the corner of the table.

”You got a clear look at the pharmacyʼs door today,” she said. ”Tomorrow, you walk through the courtʼs door on your own.”

[Thud. That volume youʼre after—once month-end comes, it wonʼt belong to the pharmacy anymore.]