Justice Reborn

The official schedule of Ilseong Group Chairman Choi Hyun-hee began at 8 a.m. sharp for his most ardent followers, the Esquires. Until last year it had started at 9 a.m., the same as any ordinary office worker, but after his so-called New Management Declaration in Frankfurt, the hour had advanced. He had begun arriving early simply to demonstrate that things would be different. The change was not imposed on the entire group; he was merely leading by example, hoping to inspire others. The effect was immediate. When the chairman came in earlier, his secretariat followed suit, and executives began arriving ahead of time to stay in his good graces. Choi Hyun-hee claimed working hours were flexible, yet he watched closely to see who arrived first.

Today, as always, he entered the chairman’s office at precisely eight o’clock, sipped a cup of Colombian coffee, and began his morning by scanning the daily newspapers. He did not limit himself to a single outlet; he quickly reviewed nearly every major Korean daily. “Good,” he murmured. Prominent advertisements for Ilseong Group occupied the lower front page or the back page of each paper. What mattered to him was not the lead stories or editorials—those were already handled by his secretariat and executives—but whether Ilseong’s ads appeared exactly where they should.

“Hmm?” Today, however, something required his personal attention.

The article, a full five-column spread on the society page of the progressive daily Onkyore Shinmun, featured large photographs of both men and detailed interviews. It glossed over the precise reasons they had left the courts and prosecution, yet the headline and subheadings clearly implied they had been forced out by internal power struggles. What irritated Chairman Choi most was that the two men, who should have remained quietly disgraced, had registered as lawyers and immediately begun making noise. They were meant to serve as cautionary examples to everyone in the judiciary. Although they had not yet touched Ilseong directly, it was obvious that if left unchecked their influence would eventually reach the group. That was why he had quietly lent his support to the Busan Group family to help drive the pair out. Now both men had lost their patrons and were ostracized by colleagues and juniors alike. Yet here they were, founding a law firm.

Choi Hyun-hee pressed the intercom button.

“Mr. Chairman! You called for me.”

Kim Hyuk-soo, chief of staff, appeared in under ten seconds.

“What is the meaning of this?” Choi showed him the Onkyore Shinmun page.

“Hah!” Kim Hyuk-soo gasped. He had personally overseen the operation to remove Kim Chang-wan and Jung Byung-woo. He had believed the matter ended the moment they submitted their resignations.

“Look into it at once. And deal with this newspaper as well.”

Choi Hyun-hee issued two new instructions without scolding his aide. The orders were somewhat indirect, for the immediate problem belonged not to Ilseong but to the Busan Group, whose appeal was still pending. Even so, Kim Hyuk-soo understood perfectly. He was to activate the intelligence team to gather every scrap of information on Kim & Jung Law Firm while quietly reducing the volume of advertising Ilseong placed in Onkyore Shinmun’s daily and weekly editions. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠It seemed a simple task.

“I’m sorry, son.”

“It’s all right.”

“I’ll come back next year for sure.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“Even without us, you must stay strong.”

The brief, sentimental scene unfolded at San Francisco International Airport. Yoo Jae-won’s parents, who had come to America with him at the start of summer, had reached their limit. Watching their son’s success had been gratifying, yet by late October the strain had become too great. The language barrier, the unfamiliar food, and the alien culture of a country so different from their rural hometown proved overwhelming. Homesickness finally forced an early return to Korea.

“Yes. I’ll visit soon myself.”

Executive secretary Kim Dae-seok would accompany them. After escorting Jae-won’s parents home, he had been granted a two-week vacation. Having spent so long on extended assignment at Jae-won’s side, he was visibly excited at the prospect of seeing his own family, attending a cousin’s wedding, and enjoying dates with Oh Hyun-ji.

“All right. See you later.”

Jae-won had booked everyone first-class tickets so his parents could travel in comfort. The expense was negligible once deducted as a business cost. Kim Dae-seok would return in two weeks, and his parents planned to visit again next spring, so Jae-won felt no heaviness as he saw them off.

“Boss, shall we go?”

Once the plane had taken off and disappeared into the sky, Jae-won turned at Remington’s words.

“Home, sir?”

“Let’s go to the office. There’s still plenty of work to do.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

Remington, who enjoyed driving, took the wheel himself. Jae-won sat in the passenger seat rather than the back. The car was a Pontiac Firebird—an American muscle car. Nothing about the scene suggested they were the chairman and president of a company employing thousands worldwide. Nevertheless, with Jae-won beside him, Remington drove with extreme caution, stretching a ten-minute trip into fifteen. The experience only strengthened Jae-won’s resolve to hire a dedicated chauffeur.

Upon reaching the office, Jae-won immediately sought out the head of personnel—Alan. Although Alan served as general counsel for the U.S. subsidiary, he also handled human resources. ID Technology’s subsidiaries and major divisions had proper structures, yet the parent company itself still relied heavily on concurrent appointments. This unusual arrangement stemmed from Jae-won’s deliberate pace; he preferred to build organizations only when he personally felt the need. Hiring had so far been handled through referrals and direct interviews, so no separate HR department had been required. That the company ran smoothly despite the unconventional setup was itself a testament to Jae-won’s ability. He had long experience maximizing efficiency with minimal overhead. Meanwhile, the divisions and subsidiaries under ID Technology had already developed robust organizations. ID Software and Nextcom were fully staffed under appointed presidents, and the largest unit—the Android Division—had completed its integration of Microsoft’s assets and thousands of employees. Finance, administration, marketing, production, and audit departments were all in place. The ID logo now stood prominently before the Android headquarters in Redmond, and the division’s robot mascot leaned against the building. Branch offices and dealerships worldwide had replaced their signs; every trace of Microsoft had vanished.

The Android Division’s organization was solid. Only the presidency remained vacant. Kevin Johnson remained the leading candidate. Lately Jae-won’s greatest concern was the recruitment of Russian talent, and Kevin Johnson had treated the task as his own. Whenever obstacles arose, Kevin Johnson resolved them with remarkable ease. Most importantly, the successful global launch of Android 1.0 owed much to his efforts. While Jae-won had designed the future-oriented architecture, memory management, multi-core and multi-thread capabilities, and even the acclaimed sound features, the work of bringing the finished product to consumers and enterprises had fallen to Choi Kang-wook, Remington, Alan, and Kevin Johnson. Kevin Johnson had been responsible for every country outside the United ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠States and Korea, and his results had exceeded expectations.

“Good. I’ll make the appointment soon.”

Having settled the matter of both a chauffeur and the Android Division presidency, Jae-won made a note and turned to his next task: preparing for a meeting. His appointment with Edwin Feulner of the Heritage Foundation was the day after tomorrow. Since Jae-won had requested the meeting, he would fly to Washington, D.C. himself. He planned to stop in New York tomorrow to visit ID Investment and the Manhattan flagship store before continuing to the capital.

The purpose of the meeting was entirely practical. He needed someone with sufficient influence to expedite visas for the Russian scientists he intended to bring over, and Edwin Feulner was the most suitable candidate. Although Jae-won had been doing business in the United States for several years, he had few connections among politicians. The only one who had approached him was Al Gore. They shared common ground on IT issues and Gore had shown goodwill, so Jae-won had provided generous campaign contributions. Yet as a Democrat, Gore held little sway with the current Republican Bush administration. Edwin Feulner, by contrast, was widely regarded as the intellectual backbone of the Republican Party and maintained close ties with President Bush and other senior administration officials—precisely the person Jae-won needed.

After depositing a one-million-dollar donation into the Heritage Foundation’s account, Jae-won’s request for a meeting had been granted without delay.

The following day, a Rolls-Royce carrying Jae-won’s party arrived once more at San Francisco Airport. Five people were traveling: Alan, chosen to assist Jae-won during the New York trip, two additional staff members, and Remington, who again insisted on driving. Although the president protested that driving was beneath him, Remington claimed that once a chauffeur was hired he would lose the opportunity, and took the wheel. The spacious Rolls-Royce easily accommodated everyone. The staff disembarked first, followed by Alan.

“Boss, I have something to tell you.”

Remington stopped Jae-won as he moved to follow.

“Yes? What is it?”

Jae-won wondered what could be so important. Had Remington made some mistake? Even if he had, Jae-won was prepared to be lenient; the man had been an enormous help in his previous life.

“I think I’m going to get married.”

The announcement caught Jae-won completely off guard.

“What? Married?”

In his previous life, Remington’s marriage had occurred in 1997, when the IT boom was just beginning—quite late in life. Now, with only two months left in 1991, the topic had surfaced six years earlier than expected.

“With whom?”

The question was unnecessary. Everyone in the Silicon Valley team knew that Remington had been living with his secretary, Shannon.

“Shannon, of course.”

“I was half afraid someone else might appear, but I’m relieved.”

“Haha, what are you saying? There’s no one more devoted than I am. Truthfully, we’ve felt married for years already.”

Remington had left the police force to start his own detective agency. Shannon had been his first hire once the business stabilized. That had been in the early 1980s; they had worked together for more than a decade.

“Yes! No couple suits each other better. Congratulations. When’s the wedding?”

“Ah, I’m not sure yet. I haven’t even proposed. I intend to do so as soon as possible—especially since Shannon’s belly is starting to show.”

“Wow! She’s pregnant?”

“Yep! Keep it a secret, though. Strangely enough, I felt I had to tell you first.”

“That’s huge! Congratulations!”

A small exclamation escaped Jae-won’s lips, accompanied by a faint electric thrill. In his previous life, Remington and Shannon had never had children. After Shannon’s death, Remington had suffered greatly and eventually turned to religion. That path had ultimately led him to Korea and to his fateful meeting with Jae-won. Now the timeline had shifted. Although Jae-won had appointed Remington president of ID Technology, paid him handsomely, and entrusted him with important responsibilities, he had never felt the debt of his previous life fully repaid. Hearing the news of the marriage and impending child, however, the weight on his heart seemed to lighten.

“In that case, we should establish a comprehensive maternity support policy at the group level. We’ll provide benefits so generous that no one needs to worry about pregnancy or childbirth.”

With no HR department yet in existence, such policies did not currently exist. It seemed the right moment to formalize structures across the entire ID Group.

“Thank you! But I don’t want special treatment just for myself.”

“Don’t worry. When have I ever given preferential treatment only to acquaintances?”

“Never. Understood. I’ll trust you completely, Boss.”

“Focus on the proposal, President Remington.”

Jae-won had no particular advice to offer on proposals. He had dated in his previous life but had never reached the point of marriage, so he had no experience to share.

Late that afternoon, upon arriving in New York, Jae-won received a warm welcome from Vincent Greenhill, vice president of ID Investment. ID Investment still occupied part of the second floor of the Manhattan flagship store building, but the space was beginning to feel cramped. Where once only Vincent Greenhill had worked, eighteen employees now sat at their desks. Most were Wall Street veterans commanding average salaries of $150,000. Their compensation was justified; whenever Jae-won needed analysis of a country’s economy or a company’s condition, a high-quality report arrived within days. As his interventions gradually altered the world’s trajectory and the gap between reality and the data stored in his Memory Palace widened, these reports provided an excellent benchmark for measuring deviation.

“Good to see you. I’m Yoo Jae-won.”

Vincent Greenhill introduced each employee. Their eyes shone with admiration. After all, the news that ID Investment ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had turned a $100 million oil-futures position into $8.8 billion the previous year had sent shockwaves through Wall Street. Naturally, people had rushed to learn more about the firm. When Vincent Greenhill’s name alone had drawn skepticism, the mention of Yoo Jae-won had brought nods of understanding. The keyword-data analysis method he had pioneered was now being studied by numerous investment firms. Having become a legend on Wall Street as well as in IT, Jae-won naturally drew intense interest. Some gazes held not only admiration but open challenge. Jae-won met those looks without reaction. He welcomed any challenge from ambitious newcomers.

Vincent Greenhill led Jae-won straight to the conference room and began his report on the Japanese investment without preamble, knowing Jae-won disliked long introductions.

“The Nikkei, which stood above 24,000 points until recently, has now fallen below 23,000. Our current put position, struck at 24,500, generates a profit or loss of $620 million for every 500-point movement.”

In short, if the Nikkei rose above 24,500 the position would lose money; if it fell below, it would profit—$620 million for each 500-point decline. With the index hovering near the 23,000 level, ID Investment was already showing an unrealized gain of $1.86 billion.

“Excellent. Maintain the position.”

The Nikkei’s collapse had only just begun. The famous Lost Decade was starting, and 23,000 was merely the shoulder. Once the index passed the knee and reached bottom, the profits would be substantial—though not the eighty-eight-fold windfall of the oil futures. Many American and European investment banks shared Jae-won’s pessimism about Japan’s economy. Because no one knew how far the market would fall, most remained on the sidelines rather than taking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠new long positions. Consequently, the leverage available was limited. Still, given the size of the principal, the absolute dollar amount would likely exceed the oil-futures gain.

Seeing his bank account, which had been steadily shrinking, now filling again, Jae-won felt reassured. The next morning, on his way to meet Edwin Feulner at the Heritage Foundation, he carried not a single trace of anxiety. Whatever demands Feulner might make in exchange for his assistance, Jae-won was confident he could meet them.