The Shadow in the Gallery
The courtroom atmosphere shifted in a strange, almost unsettling way, and Attorney Lee Joo-heon hurriedly stepped forward.
“Your Honor, the plaintiff’s line of questioning is trying to connect this case, which has nothing to do with the defendant’s investment from about ten years ago.”
“Your Honor, as we can see from the company-owned PCs and KaTalk logs, Jo Ji-han stirred up rumors about Twice and pushed Dive’s Dailya in an attempt to profit from the price difference.”
It was something I’d already said once, but it seemed the lawyer had forgotten.
“What’s more, Jo Ji-han didn’t just use his position as a PD to stage this; he also signed a contract with an advertising agency and specified that they should ‘mainly produce content that disparages Twice and praises Dailya.’”
The presiding judge murmured with the associate judge in a low voice. The associate judge opened the case file and pointed to a specific section. After a slight nod, the presiding judge looked up.
“Defense, your objection is dismissed.”
“……!”
He also said that, as an exercise of the court’s authority, he would review the defendant’s financial transaction records before making a judgment.
“W-what? Why would you—”
In an instant, the defendant’s face went dark.
Looks like he’s done even more rotten things than I thought.
Either way, it was cause for celebration on our end. We had already asked them to subpoena the defendant’s financial records, but the previous panel had refused.
It took a little detour, but it’s playing out exactly according to plan.
Before long, the third hearing date was set.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
July 22.
The third hearing.
The presiding judge reviewed the additional documentary evidence submitted by the defense. But judging by the devastated expression on Attorney Lee Joo-heon’s face, he must have understood it too—the result that would come at the sentencing date.
We inferred the facts from direct evidence, while they inferred them from circumstantial evidence. There was never going to be any other outcome.
In any case, Team Leader Yoo finished the plaintiff’s closing argument and took his seat.
So now all that’s left is the sentencing date.
But then.
Before the presiding judge could say the hearing was closed and that we would meet again on the sentencing date, Judge Yang Seung-nam—the legal grenade—spoke first.
“The press has described this case as having reignited the public’s long-standing distrust of the legal profession.”
He went on about how, in the past, the chief judge of the Seoul Western District Court had covered up a case in which an employee from the execution office inflated labor costs during a forced execution and embezzled the wages; how the Special Investigation Team at the Seoul Central District Prosecutors’ Office on Abuse of Judicial Administrative Authority had indicted the chief judge without detention; how, in court, the chief criminal division director of the Supreme Prosecutors’ Office—an accomplice in that same case—had directed the investigation and tried to bury the matter with a lenient sentence that didn’t fit the sentencing guidelines.
Everyone agreed it was a catastrophe brought on by the legal establishment.
“I’ve made up my mind not to argue, so this one case can at least look like it’s being handled properly.”
Then, a little awkwardly, he turned and looked at the presiding judge.
“Especially this judge here, who rose to chief judge through the special rural-and-farming-region appointment track. A very fresh, very recent sort of person.”
Laughter burst from the gallery.
It wasn’t really something to laugh about from a legal standpoint, but to ordinary people it seemed to land somewhere around the image of a small-town overachiever who made it big.
What judges jokingly called the “special rural-and-farming-region appointment track” referred to the boundary between the white bench—Seoul-area judges—, the black bench—Seoul-area judges who had only ever rotated through provincial assignments—, the Gyeong bench—judges assigned in the capital region—, and the local bench—judges stationed in the provinces—after regional judge appointments and the senior chief-judge promotion system were abolished.
It was the term used when a local-bench judge, without any powerful backing, made it all the way to chief judge.
In any case, Judge Yang Seung-nam’s pledge—“He’s a man of character and ability, so don’t worry. He’ll rule fairly”—was met with unusually enthusiastic applause.
The applause went on and on, until the presiding judge’s ears turned red. He cleared his throat, then said, “That concludes the arguments. We will see you at the sentencing hearing on July 26.”
And with that, he declared the hearing closed.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
“It’s already the end of July.”
I pulled up my smartphone calendar and checked today’s to-do list.
From July 29 to August 9: the 2024 summer court recess.
When that came around, every case got jammed into the period before or after recess, so the courts—and the law offices—were always slammed.
I was an exception, since I hadn’t taken on any other cases.
“Attorney Cha! Over here, right here!”
Attorney Kim Seong-woo from Yuria Entertainment was waiting for me outside the courtroom.
Even though it was the same courtroom as the hearing and I could have found it by myself.
“…Oh.”
At that moment, after passing the bar exam and seeing myself standing in front of a restaurant with the words “Right here, right here” overlaid by my mother’s smile in my mind—
unexpectedly,
I swallowed the ache that had burrowed deep into my chest, forcing it back past my throat.
For some reason, it felt itchy, like a bug crawling slowly beneath my skin.
I clenched my teeth against the unfamiliar disgust.
Why do I feel so filthy? Because this is the first time my mother’s face has overlapped with someone else’s in front of me?
No, that wasn’t it.
It wasn’t even the moment when my mother shielded me and got hit by a car. It was just a gesture, her smiling at me.
I couldn’t put a name to it, but if this was PTSD, then maybe it was PTSD.
“Are you okay?”
Kim rushed over and studied my face.
“There’s a heatwave warning in effect today, so maybe it’s heat exhaustion. Do you want to go up to the second-floor café? Western District Court doesn’t have an infirmary.”
I stopped him when he said he’d go to a nearby pharmacy and buy a cooling sheet.
“I’m fine. The sentencing hearing’s about to start.”
“You can check the result on the Supreme Court electronic litigation site anyway.”
That wasn’t possible. I still had work to do.
“I think I just got dizzy for a second.”
“…….”
“It won’t take long for the judgment, right?”
“That’s true, but—”
“I’ll tell you if I start feeling bad while I’m sitting in the gallery. Let’s go in first.”
I practically dragged him in and sat down beside Attorney Byun.
“Attorney Cha, you made it.”
“You all came early.”
Team Leader Yoo turned in his seat at the counsel table.
“By the way, Attorney Cha, why haven’t you been coming around lately? Everyone keeps asking me when you’ll show up.”
“It’s better not to go to the office too often.”
I had been faithfully showing up for every hearing, though after the final closing argument I’d been scarce. I’d been running around following the information I’d gotten from my mother’s photograph.
“Nothing’s wrong, is it?”
“I’m just taking advantage of the time I can rest. While running around here and there.”
Salarymen don’t understand. Self-employed people don’t get to choose when they can rest.
Then the court officer cleared his throat.
“Everyone, please stand.”
This morning, when Oh Ye-ji had sent me a praying emoji, it hadn’t felt real. But now it did.
Even if Judge Yang Seung-nam had spoken favorably, the associate judge and the presiding judge might still have rejected our claims.
The saying “moneyed people are innocent, the poor are guilty” hadn’t become a proverb for no reason.
It came from the mouths of lowlifes.
From the mouths of cruel murderers.
From even the mouth of Judge Mo Gok-hong of the Seoul High Court, who had been recommended as a candidate for Supreme Court justice.
“If you have money, you can pay for your sins with money.”
The law, he had preached, was an elegant system for those who had wealth.
I didn’t know whether the same 80 percent of Koreans who agreed with that saying would be proven right here, too.
If the ruling went against the plaintiff, then we could always take it to the appellate court.
We could also create grounds for recusal.
And once we laundered the illegally obtained evidence and turned it into something admissible, we’d send Jo Ji-han straight to hell.
The panel looked around and took their seats.
“From this moment, I will pronounce judgment in Case 2024Gahap91234, regarding defamation and damages to property interests.”
The summary of the ruling came next.
“Under Article 307 of the Criminal Act, the defendant is found to have made statements that tarnished another person’s reputation.”
Since it was substantially acknowledged that the broadcast had damaged the plaintiff’s corporate standing, defamed employees, and harmed the reputation of the artist in question by tarnishing or lowering their public image—
“The defendant shall compensate the plaintiff in the amount of 200 million won.”
The court ruled partially in favor of the plaintiff.
Hah. This is ridiculous. Partially in favor?!
For Yuria Entertainment, a partial win was not necessarily a bad result. But I couldn’t accept it.
“Under Article 751 of the Civil Act, since damage was caused by defaming another’s reputation, economic compensation liability shall apply.”
The judge went on with the nonsense that, even if the defendant’s intention had been to reveal the reality of workers’ conditions and help them, the production should still have been handled with caution in light of the power of broadcasting.
And yet, it was also acknowledged that the production had been careless and damaged the plaintiff’s reputation.
“The defendant shall pay 200 million won, representing 40 percent of the plaintiff’s requested compensation, and the plaintiff is ordered to provide education on the relevant labor laws to its workers and to notify the relevant authorities again that such education has been completed.”
This concludes the judgment.
Bang.
The court panel left.
Team Leader Yoo’s face stiffened at the unexpected result. But he still patted Kim and Attorney Byun on the shoulder.
“Still, we achieved our main goal.”
“Exactly. It may be only a partial victory, but it’s still a victory.”
“If the defense appeals, then we can fight even harder the next time.”
Then Team Leader Yoo looked embarrassed.
“I should’ve made the labor-related materials and filed them as evidence like you said, Attorney Cha.”
He seemed to be bothered by the court’s order that the plaintiff confirm the education.
“No. The choice was yours, Team Leader.”
Han Representative’s sharp remark—better not leave even the slightest room for trouble—had left Team Leader Yoo with no choice.
If I had pushed harder and argued that this was only for the purpose of organizing Yuria Entertainment’s past labor-education materials, maybe things would have been different.
But ever since my days as a public-interest attorney, I had adhered to client-first principles, no matter how unfavorable the situation was.
Unless it was truly unavoidable.
Because I believed that was the proper path for a lawyer to walk.
So long as it didn’t violate a lawyer’s ethics and didn’t trample over my effort.
In any case, I shook his hand to acknowledge the hard work.
“Team Leader Yoo, once you terminate the labor relationship between AB and Jo Ji-han, you’ll need to proceed with the criminal case as well.”
“Of course. You’ve already prepared all the materials, Attorney Cha. All we have to do is submit them.”
Then.
Across from us, PD Jo Ji-han muttered something under his breath, his expression blank and unfocused.
“This can’t be happening. What’s so wrong with the directing? This should be fine. It’s always been fine until now.”
And then his gaze turned toward the gallery.
“……!”
So you came.
The shadow of that man—or maybe the chairman, or whoever he was.
For an instant, his fixed gaze swept over the direction it had landed on.
Aside from the reporters, there were only two people who had been attending steadily since the very first preliminary hearing.
Two.
One of them had a Twice merchandise doll hanging from their bag, so I could rule them out.
That left only the person with a mask covering their face.
I need his face, or at least a single strand of the hair sticking out behind him.
I moved toward the exit. But Jo Ji-han stepped right in front of me.
I placed a hand over my chest and lowered my head, staring up at him through the glare of resentment in his eyes.
Almost like his signature greeting.
“What the hell are you?”
“What the fuck are you doing?”
To the bastard who took the bait—
Hunter.
I silently told him, then headed for the doorway.
The court officer would stop the lunatic trying to get tangled up with me, so I only needed to run now.
“Attorney Cha, where are you going?”
I ignored Attorney Byun’s voice from behind me.
“Attorney Cha didn’t seem to be feeling well today,”
and I ignored Kim’s excuse on my behalf, too.
To the elevator.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Aw, shit.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Excuse me, just let me through.”
Standing right in front of the open button.
The one in the white T-shirt.
Found you.
Tap-tap-tap.
With a ding, the elevator packed full with people before anyone could get off.
The bastard would be getting in next.
Damn it.
Gasping for breath, the moment he finally set one foot inside—
I grabbed his shoulder.
With all the strength I had.
And then I spun him around.
“What the—!”
“……!”
The instant I saw that familiar face, the reason in my head that had been knotted tight simply came loose.
“…….”
“You.”
Even though his hairstyle had grown shaggy.
Even though he was still wearing the mask.
I knew exactly who it was.
“Why are you here?”
It was sworn brother Choi Jae-woo.