Chapter 90 The niece produces evidence against her uncle.
Before Xiao Wang joined the management committee, he didn't know that Mr. Xu, whom he respected so much, was actually demoted because of Lin Jianguo, whom this woman mentioned. If he knew the truth, he would be furious and wish he could tear Lin Jianguo to pieces and skin him alive to vent his anger.
Thinking of this, the management committee's door was fully opened. Xiao Wang looked at Zhang Zhaodi with suspicion and then stepped aside: "Comrade, please come in. Please come in quickly."
He called out, "Director Zhao! This comrade is here. She has special circumstances and wants to report... report her uncle, Lin Jinguo!"
The previously faint murmurs in the lobby fell silent instantly.
Several pairs of surprised, inquisitive, and even slightly gossipy gazes shot over like knives onto Zhang Zhaodi, the "righteous one who betrayed her own family," who was soaking wet and looked like a water ghost.
Rainwater quickly seeped into a small, dark patch at Zhang Zhaodi's feet.
Under the scrutinizing gazes of everyone, she nervously gripped the hem of her clothes tightly.
She was then led into the room with a wooden sign that read "Director's Office".
An incandescent light bulb hanging overhead emitted a blinding light.
Zhao Degang, the director of the management committee, sat behind a large, peeling desk. On the corner of the desk was a huge enamel mug with the words "Serve the People" printed in blurred red on it, and dark brown tea stains remained on the rim of the mug.
“Comrade,” Zhao Degang finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse, “It’s raining so hard, sit down first and have some hot water?” He gestured to the side, indicating an empty wooden stool.
"Xiao Liu, get a towel and wipe this comrade down."
She stood still, not taking the towel Xiao Liu offered. Her eyes were glazed over, and for some reason, she mustered her courage and said, "Director Zhao, I am making a formal complaint against Lin Jinguo, a technician at the county machinery factory."
Every word was crystal clear and resounding: "He abused his power and embezzled public funds! He used the black market channels of Scarface to resell state assets, including machine parts that were not actually scrapped, and lined his own pockets!"
"Whoosh—"
Among the few clerks who gathered outside the door, one of them gasped.
Zhao Degang's facial muscles twitched suddenly. He stubbed out the nearly burnt-out cigarette butt heavily in the enamel ashtray filled with cigarette butts, making a soft "hiss" sound.
He leaned forward slightly, his hands pressed on the table, his knuckles turning white from the force, and his eyes became unusually sharp, as if he wanted to see right through Zhang Zhaodi.
“Comrade!” He emphasized, his tone almost stern, “The person you’re reporting is your relative, your uncle. He’s a key member of the machinery factory. This is no joke. You can’t just make things up; you need solid evidence! You have to be responsible for what you say.”
His gaze was fixed on Zhang Zhaodi, filled with scrutiny and immense pressure. "You're a young woman, do you know what you're saying?"
The pressure pressed down heavily, mixed with the silent gazes from outside the door, almost crushing Zhang Zhaodi.
I know what he's implying—the shackles of family ties, the judgment of human ethics, and the inherent "unbelievability" of a young woman in the face of such accusations.
Zhang Zhaodi could even feel the suspicion and disdain in the eyes of those behind her.
Has she gone mad?
Are you confused from being soaked in water?
Or was he being used by someone?
She suddenly reached out, not to retrieve the letter she had prepared beforehand from her chest, but to a hard object carefully wrapped in oilcloth and firmly tied to the lining of her trousers behind her back—something more deadly than the letter of denunciation.
Finally, with a "rip," the tarpaulin was torn open.
Zhang Zhaodi almost roughly pulled out a thick booklet and slammed it onto the table piled with documents in front of Zhao Degang!
"Smack!"
A muffled thud made the tea in the enamel mug on the table slosh around.
"evidence?!"
Zhang Zhaodi's voice was sharp and hoarse with excitement, carrying a desperate sense of desperation: "This is the evidence! The internal ledgers of the machinery factory that Lin Jinguo kept for himself, which he used to reconcile accounts and divide the spoils with Scarface."
“Every single entry on it clearly records what he smuggled out: the quantity, model, date, and even his handwritten signature as Scarface?”
She let out a short, shrill laugh, like the mournful cry of a night owl. "He was wiped out last night. This ledger was snatched from his lair by someone before Scarface fell from power! The blood on it hasn't even dried yet!"
The hardcover ledger lay quietly on the table, its dark blue cover stained even deeper by the rain. Along the edges, several dark red and brownish stains stood out starkly and menacingly under the pale light.
The entire office was deathly silent.
Even the breathing sounds of people peeking in from outside the door have disappeared.
Zhao Degang stared intently at the ledger. He took a deep breath, then suddenly raised his head, his gaze sweeping sharply toward the doorway like that of a hawk. His voice rose abruptly, carrying an undeniable decisiveness.
"Xiao Wang! Immediately! Right now! Take men to the machine factory workshop! Take Lin Jinguo under control! Immediately!"
After a brief silence outside the door, a suppressed commotion and hurried footsteps erupted.
"Yes, Director!" Xiao Wang's voice was filled with shock and a hint of barely perceptible excitement.
Zhao Degang then lowered his head again, and very slowly and carefully picked up the corner of the blood-stained ledger with two fingers, turning it open cautiously.
The paper was stained with blood. Under the dim light, rows of dense numbers, codes, and dates, as well as the familiar, hastily written signature of Lin Jinguo in the corner, were clearly visible to him.
He read very slowly and very carefully. With each page he turned, the veins on his forehead throbbed, and his face grew more somber.
The air seemed to freeze, leaving only the unsettling rustling of pages turning and the incessant, seemingly overwhelming sound of rain outside the window.
Time stretched endlessly by this heavy silence.
Zhang Zhaodi stood frozen in place, her soaked clothes clinging to her skin, icy cold. No one noticed that her eyes were as empty as a deep abyss, and she seemed to have lost all emotion, like a lifeless puppet.
After an unknown amount of time, hurried and chaotic footsteps came again from outside the door, mixed with a man's angry roar and the sounds of struggling.
The door was kicked open with a loud bang.
Lin Jinguo was shoved in, his arms twisted tightly on either side by two burly security officers.
His gray Zhongshan suit was covered in mud and oil stains, his hair was messy, and his glasses were crookedly hanging on his nose. Behind the lenses, his usually shrewd and worldly eyes were now burning with raging anger and a desperate madness.
He struggled desperately, like a trapped beast driven to the brink of despair, a sense of foreboding creeping into his heart.
Could it be...?
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