Chapter 12 — Justice, Six Years Later

The person who writes the rules, the person who enforces them, and the person who wields them to conceal their true intentions are the ones who ultimately decide upon whom those rules will cut. When the company sent my formal offer of employment, I insisted on adding a specific clause: no internal investigation regarding any whistleblowing incident could target only the accused. The motive behind the accusation, the web of conflicting interests, and the origin of the evidence must be examined simultaneously. Han Trac read the document and asked me, "Is this to prevent another To Dao from emerging?"

"No," I replied.

"Then what is it for?"

"To protect the next Chu Quoc Luong."

On my first day back at the company, the maintenance crew was busy dismantling the wall of slogans that Trieu Hang had erected, which once read: "Rules are superior to human emotion." A worker asked me what the new slogan should be. I told him, "Do not hang anything for now."

"The board of directors requires it to be finished today," he insisted.

"Then write this: Rules are meant to protect people, not to facilitate the harm of others."

The worker looked stunned. "That is a bit long."

"If it is long, use more wall space," I replied.

The human resources department began reissuing my staff ID. My new assistant presented a stack of recruitment documents awaiting approval. At the top was a list of candidates leftover from the project team previously managed by To Dao. Next to their names were marked proficiency levels: High compliance, heavy family burden, unlikely to file complaints, easy to manage. I handed the entire project plan over to the police, then announced that all candidates would have to participate in a new, fair recruitment process. Someone asked, "What about those who have already received verbal promises?"

"Compensate them if necessary," I said.

"And if there are truly capable people among them?"

"They can retake the test."

"Isn't that too much trouble?"

"Trouble can never be used as a justification for deception."

After saying this, I paused. To Dao had enjoyed saying similar things. But while both sides might adhere to the rules, some use them to push others down, while others use them to steady those who deserve to stand. The difference was never in the words themselves; it lay in who benefited, who was wounded, and who bore the consequences. Six months after To Dao was imprisoned, she sent a letter through her lawyer. It contained no apology. Instead, she listed seven procedural objections and demanded that my father-in-law return the original receipts for the medical expenses he had fronted without a written agreement years ago. On the final page, she wrote: "If Chu Quoc Luong had not intervened to save me, none of this would have happened."

My father-in-law read it and folded the letter. Lam Lam asked, "Are you still keeping it, Father?"

"I am."

"She has already done all this, and you still keep her things?"

"Evidence cannot be discarded."

He placed the letter into a file folder and marked the date on the cover. I asked, "Will you reply?"

"No reply."

"She might keep sending them."

"Then we will keep them all."

My father-in-law locked the folder in a cabinet. Inside were the recovered data from the bus, the apology letter from the transport company, and the petition with the forged signatures. As the cabinet door clicked shut, he let out a long, weary breath. That afternoon, the bus company invited my father-in-law back to participate in a safety training session for drivers. The new manager in charge asked him what a driver should do if a passenger were to fall suddenly and critically ill on the bus. My father-in-law stood on the stage, silent for a moment. Below him sat over a hundred drivers. Some suggested calling the police; others said to stop and wait for an ambulance. Someone asked who would be held responsible if the delay caused the passenger to miss the window for life-saving treatment. My father-in-law picked up the microphone.

"First, contact the emergency center and the traffic management authorities," he said. "Anything that can create a record must be recorded. If you can have the passengers confirm the situation, have them confirm it."

"And then?" a young driver asked.

My father-in-law looked at him steadily. "Then save the person."

"What if saving the person violates company regulations?"

The hall went silent. My father-in-law smiled. "Then tell the person who wrote the regulations to go and explain it to the King of Hell first."

Applause erupted through the hall. It was not for the red lights he had run all those years ago, nor for an apology that had arrived six years late. It was simply for a man who had driven buses his entire life and finally did not have to bow his head to explain why he refused to watch a girl die on his coach. After the training ended, my father-in-law declined the company's invitation to return to work, citing his age and his trembling hands. As he walked out of the hall, a number nine bus pulled up to the curb. The driver recognized him and opened the front door.

"Driver Chu, get on! I'll take you home."

My father-in-law instinctively patted his pocket. "I have my senior citizen card."

The driver waved him off. "No need to swipe today."

But my father-in-law pressed his card to the machine regardless. The device chimed: "Senior citizen card."

He found a window seat and sat down. Lam Lam sat beside him. I stood outside the bus and saw him tap on the glass pane. "Luc Kieu, are you coming?"

"I drove here," I said.

"Then follow us."

Before the bus departed, the driver turned his head and asked one last question: "Driver Chu, if someone faints on the road today, would you still dare tell me to run a red light?"

My father-in-law slid the window open just a crack. "Call and report it first."

The driver laughed.