Chapter 4 — The Family That Accused Me Now Wants Me Back

The regular counseling session at the community reintegration support center took place on a Saturday afternoon, when Gia Han had just finished her morning shift at the Thanh Tin printing factory. She arrived later than usual because she had to urgently process a printing order, entering the waiting room a few minutes after the group counseling session had begun.

"Today we have a young lawyer volunteering to provide free legal assistance to you," Ms. Hoa, the person in charge of the center, introduced when Gia Han sat down. "This is Mr. Kha Bach Tuong, currently working at a law office specializing in assisting people who have gone through reform schools and prisons to reintegrate."

Gia Han looked up and saw a young man, probably only a few years older than her, tall, calm face with sharp but not cold eyes. He wore a simple white shirt with neatly rolled up sleeves, giving off the neat look of someone used to working with papers and files.

Bach Tuong spent most of the consultation session answering general questions about labor rights, procedures for expunging criminal records, and how to apply for a job without being overly discriminated against. He spoke clearly and easily, without a tone of grace or pity like some people who had come into contact with Gia Han before, making the whole group feel much more comfortable.

At the end of the session, when everyone left one by one, Mrs. Hoa kept Gia Han for a bit.

"Gia Han, can you stay for a few minutes? Mr. Tuong said he wanted to look through some old files of people who are having difficulty with legal procedures, to see if he can be of any further assistance."

Gia Han hesitated a bit. Since leaving the camp, she had gotten used to keeping her distance, avoiding letting anyone dig into her past. But thinking about the possibility of getting free legal aid, something she had never dared to think about with the small salary of a printing factory employee, she nodded in agreement.

Bach Tuong sat down opposite her, flipped through the notebook, his voice was gentle but professional. "Can you briefly share your situation? I will see how I can assist within my ability."

Gia Han recounted briefly and cautiously, only saying that she had been punished for a serious traffic accident, had completed three years at a reformatory, and was currently having difficulty applying for a job because of her background. She deliberately did not go into detail about her injustice, partly because she was too tired to explain to people who did not believe, partly because she did not want to reopen a wound that had been trying to close for the past three years.

But Bach Tuong, with the professional acumen of a lawyer who has handled many cases involving minors, quickly noticed a few unusual points in the way Gia Han told the story.

"You said the accident happened at a party, but you weren't at that party?" He asked, his eyes attentively observing her expression.

Gia Han paused for a second, realizing that she had accidentally revealed a detail that she had never intended to share. "I... don't want to talk about it anymore. It's over."

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," Bach Tuong said, her voice softening. "But if what you just said is true, then there is a serious problem in your case file. If you were not present at the scene, then what evidence holds you responsible?"

That question seemed to touch a string that had been tight for six years in Gia Han's heart. She sat silently for a long time, her hands tightening her hem, struggling between continuing to be silent as she was used to, and the fact that for the first time, after many years, there was someone with real expertise asking the right questions.

"The neighborhood security camera recorded an image of a car with a license plate registered to my name," she said, her voice slow. "But I never left my room that night. My phone was still charging in the bedroom."

"Do you keep any copies of the case files? Minutes, handling decisions, witness statements?"

Gia Han shook her head. "My family kept all the documents. I only have the administrative handling decision given to me when I entered the reformatory."

"Can you show me that version? That's all, I can look up more information through official channels."

Gia Han was silent for a long time, her eyes glued to the wooden table in front of her. She had learned not to put her hope in anyone over the past six years, learned to protect herself with almost absolute caution. But there was something in the steady gaze of the young lawyer in front of her that made her feel that this was not an empty promise.

"I'll think about it," she said, making no further promises.

Bach Tuong did not force her, just nodded and gave her a business card. "When you're ready, contact me. I don't promise to change anything, but I believe that if there are irregularities in a case, the person involved deserves to know the truth, no matter what the final outcome."

After Gia Han left the center, Bach Tuong sat alone in the empty consulting room, closed his notebook, and looked thoughtfully out the window where the sunset was gradually falling. He thought of his cousin, who had been falsely accused of stealing company assets at the age of sixteen by a small business owner's family, just because no one had enough legal knowledge to defend her amidst the clumsily staged evidence. At that time, Bach Tuong was only twelve years old, he could only stand and watch his sister being taken away in tears, helpless to do anything. The case was later exonerated thanks to a kind volunteer lawyer, but his cousin had to endure nearly a year of social discrimination before the truth was revealed. That memory became the motivation for Bach Tuong to choose the path of law, and later decided to spend most of his time working pro bono for people who had been through reform schools and prisons, people that society is often quick to label without knowing the truth behind them.

Gia Han's story, even though she only told it cautiously, still made him feel something familiar, a feeling of insecurity that he had learned to trust over many years of practice: when a story has too many unexplained gaps, when the storyteller avoids going into detail not because they are at fault, but because they are tired of no one ever believing them, it is often a sign of an unresolved injustice.

That evening, returning to the small law office located on the second floor of an old building in the city center, Bach Tuong shared briefly about Gia Han's case with Bien Dac Nguyen, a partner in the same office.

"A traffic accident happened at a party and the person responsible was not there?" Dac Nguyen frowned and lightly tapped his fingers on the table. "It sounds more like a case of planting evidence than a case of getting the person right."

"That's what I think too," Bach Tuong replied, his eyes still lingering on the image of the girl sitting silently, her hands clasping her shirt during this afternoon's consultation. "But she's not ready to go deeper into this. I don't want to force it, I can only wait to see if she contacts me again."

"If she contacts you again, where are you going to start?"

"From the decision to handle administrative matters," Bach Tuong said, his voice firm. "As long as I have the case number, I can look up more archived information, see what the original file contains, who signed the decision, and how the evidence collection process took place. If there really is an anomaly, those administrative documents, even after six years, will still leave traces."

On the way back to the small rented room, Gia Han held the business card in her hand, turning it over and over again under the yellow streetlight. His name, lawyer title, contact phone number, all were simple, nothing special, but to her, that small business card suddenly became a symbol of a possibility that she had not dared to think about for six years: the possibility that the truth could be exposed.

That night, Gia Han took out the old notebook and reread every line recorded about the night of the accident again, more carefully than ever. She remembered Bach Tuong's sharp eyes when he asked about her absence at the scene, how he immediately recognized the absurdity that in the past six years, no one, including herself, had ever thought of asking such a systematic question.

Perhaps, she told herself, it was time for her to need someone with enough expertise and objectivity to look back at her entire story, instead of just holding the truth in silence like she had for the past six years.

But at the same time, a vague fear also crept into her heart. If she really turned the case over, she would have to face the family that abandoned her again, and had to reopen the wounds that she tried to bury deep so she can continue living. She wasn't sure if she was strong enough to enter that battle or not, even though deep down, the desire to be vindicated had never really died.

She placed the business card on the nightstand, next to the old notebook, turned off the light, lay looking at the ceiling in the dark, her mind was filled with hundreds of thoughts, not knowing if she had the courage to call that phone number again or not.