The Thin Line Between Art and Crime
“You’re following along properly, at least.”
I glanced at the man trailing behind me, then turned back toward the entrance.
“We’re almost there.”
“…….”
No signboard.
Just my office, with a lawyer’s badge drawn on the glass door in black marker.
When I threw the door open, a faint whiff of the cup ramen I’d eaten earlier drifted out.
It was a little embarrassing, but in moments like this, you had to act shamelessly.
“This is it. Come on in.”
“…….”
The man stood frozen as if he’d been turned to stone.
“This is Cha Do-hyuk Law Office?”
“Yes. Have a seat.”
“There isn’t even a sign.”
I could guess the rest without hearing it.
No sign makes it hard to find. What kind of lawyer’s office is tucked away in some corner of an underground arcade like a bus terminal annex? Something like that.
Sure enough.
“If we hadn’t happened to run into each other, I would’ve spent ages looking for the place.”
Apparently the earlier commotion had left him irritated, because the feeling bled right through his tone.
Back when I was at Continent Law Firm, I used to answer this sort of thing with a breezy smile.
“As you know, a lawyer doesn’t need a signboard for people to find him. People leave Continent and go elsewhere all the time, but they don’t usually set up their own practice.”
“I-I suppose that’s true.”
“Please, sit here.”
I guided the reluctant man to the consultation table.
“…….”
His eyes were dark with unease, and deep lines were carved between his brows.
The moment he swept his gaze across the office, it was obvious what he was thinking.
I should get to the point fast before he has a chance to bolt.
“Setting aside what happened earlier, what brings you here?”
I didn’t bother with empty pleasantries like asking whether he was all right. I kept it plain.
That was the rule in this line of work.
The man bit his dry lip before speaking.
“My job is painting, and I’ve been sued because a commissioned piece is allegedly a problem.”
“Sued? Is this about ghostpainting or plagiarism?”
“No! They say the materials and subject matter I used for the client’s commission are the problem.”
“The materials and subject matter? That’s an unusual case.”
I’d thought there was nothing new left in art, but apparently people could still get sued over materials and subject matter.
Unless it’s ghostpainting or plagiarism, there’s really only one kind of painting that can get you in trouble for its materials and subject matter.
And if that were the case, he’d usually be in a detention center, not sitting here.
“To be honest, I still don’t understand why there’s a problem. …There’s freedom of expression, isn’t there?”
“I see.”
People who’ve been sued always speak the same three languages.
I didn’t know. It’s unfair. How was I supposed to know it would be a crime?
But this artist, in addition to the standard trio, was waving around freedom of expression as if he understood the law a little.
Usually, that meant he was trying to gauge how expensive I’d be.
He slid a large envelope across the table.
“I think it’ll be faster if you just look at this.”
“That does seem likely.”
I took the papers out of the envelope.
A first-instance criminal judgment.
As expected.
Article 207 of the Criminal Act. Counterfeiting currency.
Rustle.
“You got the first-instance ruling a few days ago?”
“Yes. I honestly had no idea that drawing banknotes could count as counterfeiting currency.”
“You wouldn’t necessarily know. And just because you draw currency doesn’t automatically mean it’s counterfeiting.”
“…Really?”
“Counterfeiting currency requires the act of forging it with the purpose of putting it into circulation—in other words, with the intent to use or distribute it. Did you have any such intent?”
“None at all.”
The man waved both hands in protest.
“I’ve been drawing currency for years, and nothing ever happened.”
“That makes sense.”
“Then why now!”
He suddenly shouted and slammed his fist down on the table.
“…….”
“…….”
“…I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
He’d crossed a line, but only barely.
At Continent, people do worse than this all the time. Compared to that, this is practically cute.
Still, his face had stiffened without him realizing it, and he shot me a sideways glance before letting out a long sigh.
“W-Well, as you can see, I’m not exactly flush with cash, so I asked for help, and then this problem came up. If I’d known something like this would happen, I never would’ve taken the commission in the first place.”
“Everyone who comes looking for a lawyer says that.”
“Haah.”
“Was someone born knowing the law? Right now, more than half the people walking through the underground arcade probably couldn’t tell you what Article 21 of the Korean Constitution says.”
“…Article 21?”
“Yes. Freedom of expression.”
Whether the man’s cheeks turned red or not, I flipped to the next page of the judgment.
“By the way, did you not request a court-appointed attorney?”
He looked like the sort who’d asked for one and more than deserved it, given his know-it-all act and frayed sleeves.
Sure enough...
“I did, on the grounds of poverty, but it was denied.”
“Did you submit supporting documents?”
“I didn’t submit anything separate, but I did provide proof that my bank account—the one where my weekend part-time wages are deposited—had withdrawals restricted because of a creditor seizure? Anyway, that kind of document was already on file.”
Hmm.
“I think we can say that infringed on the defendant’s right to defense.”
“Th-then...”
“I’ll need to look more closely, but if that’s the case, there’s a good chance this could be remanded.”
“Remanded?”
“Yes. I can’t say for certain yet, though. Let me keep reading the judgment.”
“Yes, yes!”
I turned the pages one by one and verified the facts.
Rustle.
There are defendants who only look for a lawyer after they lose in the first trial.
They put it off because legal fees are a burden, then rush to find counsel when they realize they might actually lose.
Most ordinary people think it doesn’t matter because there are three trials, but the first and second are trials on the facts.
They’re where the facts themselves are examined.
Once the first court confirms the charges and hands down a ruling, the second court usually keeps the same verdict unless there’s evidence strong enough to overturn it.
In other words, the facts established in the first trial are difficult to reverse on appeal.
Of course, if major evidence turns up that can overturn the factual findings, the appellate court would be favorable.
But the real problem was that he had missed the most important opportunity—the first trial.
Thud.
I laid the papers on the table and looked at him.
“Do you plan to appeal?”
“...Is that possible?”
“Of course. Fortunately, including today, you’ve got two days left.”
“What?”
“An appeal has to be filed within seven days of the first-instance ruling.”
“Th-then is there any chance of winning?”
“There’s always a chance.”
It was certainly better than if the defendant were preparing the case alone.
But we’d need additional evidence to justify the appeal.
I was about to explain that when the client slapped the table again, losing his temper.
“Why do lawyers always speak so vaguely? If it’s guilty, say guilty. If it’s not guilty, say not guilty—just tell me straight!”
“Sir, I’m sorry to cut you off, but that would violate the Lawyers Act. We’re not supposed to declare an outcome as if it’s certain.”
“Haah! Then what the hell am I supposed to do?”
He vented his frustration and scrubbed at his hair.
Then he shot me a sharp look, the kind that said he was deciding whether to hire me or not.
Fine. Then I’ll narrow your choices for you.
Go big or go home.
Or rather, go big.
“My fee, including the retainer and success fee, is ten million won.”
“...What? N-no, if this starts at the appeal stage, why is the fee the same as what a lawyer would charge from the first trial?!”
Now that I’d confirmed he’d already been to several firms from the first trial onward, I didn’t need to say any more.
“Continent would charge exactly double that. And that’s just the retainer.”
“……!”
Truthfully, even I knew that was inflated.
Sure, fees rose once you got to partner level, but I was deliberately padding the number to hit him with a shock.
“And I’m a former senior from Continent’s High Criminal, Corporate, and Legal Affairs team.”
Not just anyone could get into that department, even as a former prosecutor or judge.
That was Continent Law Firm.
Ironically, the label of coming from Continent was useful at times like this.
“If you don’t want to proceed, you’re free to leave. I can even recommend another lawyer.”
“...What did you say?”
“But then you only have one day left. Until the final deadline for filing the appeal.”
There was no need to add the rest.
How would you like to proceed?
“Damn it. Fine, I’ll hire you!”
Holding the pen as if he meant to see just how good I was, he finally signed the retainer agreement.
“For reference, the success fee is also payable in cases where the lawyer has begun work and the client unilaterally terminates the contract, withdraws the suit, makes false statements contrary to what they told the lawyer, abandons or withdraws an appeal, or if the facts they asserted turn out to be false, and so on.”
“……!”
When someone’s already stretched thin enough to be unable to hire counsel from the first trial, you have to spell things out clearly to avoid trouble later.
Clack.
I stood up.
“Sim Oh-han, let’s head out right away.”
* * *
I took Busan 02 village bus and got off at the Hongseongdae Annex Middle and High School stop.
“So, in other words, it’s not that there’s some other reason—you need to submit additional evidence so the appeal doesn’t get dismissed, and that’s why you want to see where you met the client who commissioned the work?”
“Yes. I’ve said it several times already, but there has to be something at the scene for the court to think, ‘Well, Sim Oh-han may have been wronged. We should look into it more in the second trial,’ shouldn’t there?”
“Then when will the appeal be filed...?”
“I’ll go straight back to the office and prepare to submit the notice of appeal along with the attorney appointment form.”
“Oh?”
“Then the court will send a notice of record receipt, and I’ll submit the appellate brief within twenty days.”
After walking up the winding alleys that twisted left and right for what felt like ages, red-brick houses finally came into view.
Sim Oh-han took a deep breath and pointed at one of them.
“T-this is it. NeoVille.”
“Please wait outside for a moment.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m not going to take anything. I’m checking whether there’s any evidence left.”
“They already took everything worth taking when the prosecutor came by. Which means there wasn’t much to take, really.”
Sim Oh-han averted his eyes and folded his arms.
I could see right through him, but the client was obviously planning to deny it.
“Do you have the unusual sheet of paper the client handed over? There’s no way he only gave you a single A4-sized sheet.”
His eyes widened.
“H-How did you know? It wasn’t even written in the judgment.”
“I didn’t become famous for handling easy cases by accident.”
“Easy cases?”
“A legal term for complicated cases that are hard to make sense of at a glance. For reference, when I was at Continent, I went through twenty thousand pages of statements in so-called easy cases.”
“Whoa.”
Exactly like this.
Sometimes you have to show off a little to give your client confidence that they’ve hired a competent lawyer.
“Um... actually, there’s one sheet the investigator dropped. I was going to submit it as evidence, but I thought it might cause more trouble, so I didn’t hand it over.”
“Good call. Now give me the key.”
I held out my hand for the key at once.
He placed it in my palm and rolled his eyes.
He’s wondering what else I’m going to catch.
“I taped that sheet to the drawing board. The paper itself was really good quality.”
“Even better. Makes it easier to find, and saves time.”
“R-right?”
As if some weight had finally lifted from him, he followed me down the stairs.
Going down to the semi-basement, I found two front doors.
“Which one is it?”
“This is B1. Open the front door, and the room diagonally across from it is my studio. The—uh—living room, please pretend you didn’t see it.”
“I’ll be quick.”
Click.
Creeeeak.
A semi-basement in a house in Seongbuk-dong, about thirty years old.
Oil paint mingled with the damp smell of the room.
I passed a sofa bed buried under piles of laundry and went into the studio.
Old, battered bookshelves that looked as if they’d been bought secondhand were scattered around at random.
In front of a worn wooden easel, the yellowed sheet the client had handed over was pinned to the drawing board.
I touched the paper, then held it under the ceiling light.
“Hmm.”
Near the left-center, there was a very faint image of Shin Saimdang—so faint you’d miss it unless you looked closely.
I let out a breath.
“No wonder the prosecutor went ahead and indicted him.”