Price of Justice
“Price of Justice — eight hundred people. Unfortunately, we fell short of the thousand mark.” Choi Kang-wook’s voice carried a note of apology over the line.
“Eight hundred in the middle of winter is already impressive,” Yoo Jae-won replied.
The number eight hundred represented the actual headcount of mobilized participants. A protest had been scheduled in front of the Seoul District Court’s Southern Branch, where the first-instance verdict had been handed down. After the initial wave of intense media coverage, the organizers filed a notice for another demonstration outside the Eastern Branch once the spotlight had begun to fade. The group behind the filing was the Council for the Resolution of the Comfort Women Issue, a coalition known for its weekly protests in front of the Japanese Embassy every Wednesday. Formed on November 16, 1990, by thirty-seven women’s, civic, religious, and student organizations, the council had leveraged public support to expand its usual Wednesday gatherings into court-side demonstrations as well.
The organizers had originally reported an expected turnout of around one hundred. Given that their regular weekday protests drew only dozens, they had anticipated two or three times that number under the current media spotlight. Yoo Jae-won had then added his own weight to the effort.
Eight hundred. Choi Kang-wook had assembled the figure through both overt and covert channels—an undeniably artificial number, yet one possessing tremendous explosive potential in the present climate. If eight hundred appeared now, the second and third rallies would surely draw even larger crowds.
“By the way, this is fascinating,” Yoo Jae-won murmured after ending the call. He returned his attention to the Nextcom news page, where articles continued to flood the screen—allegations against the judiciary, the history of forced labor, and Korea’s unresolved pro-Japanese collaborators. The layout placed headlines first and newspaper names second, a deliberate design choice. When headlines grew long, the publication’s name disappeared entirely. The arrangement reflected Yoo Jae-won’s expectation that major dailies would refuse to run the stories he wanted. He had anticipated that smaller-circulation national papers—Culture Daily, Korea Daily, International Daily, and the like—would participate enthusiastically in this particular event. Newspaper influence was waning daily as corporate advertising migrated to television, which explained why most of the advertising managers begging at Choi Kang-wook’s office or over the phone represented these smaller outlets.
“Everyone except Daehan Ilbo joined,” Yoo Jae-won noted. Yet even that assessment proved an underestimation. Every media outlet except the largest, Daehan Ilbo, had participated. The pattern had become routine: publish pieces on pro-Japanese issues, forced labor, or comfort women, or criticize the government and courts, and the following day an ID Group full-page or double full-page advertisement would appear. Even Dongha Daily, the second-largest paper and longtime rival of Yoo Jae-won, had shamelessly joined the lineup despite earlier promises to withhold advertising until a formal apology for past incidents was issued. The urgency of the moment had forced an exception.
Choi Kang-wook had handled the matter with characteristic finesse, never directly requesting favorable coverage. In Dongha Daily’s case, the paper had published first and received the advertisement the next day.
“The cartel hasn’t yet reached an extremely organized level,” Yoo Jae-won observed. Korea’s establishment cartel remained dense and tightly woven. Beyond shared interests, media, chaebols, and politicians were interlinked through marriage, leaving ordinary citizens no room to intervene. It was still 1993; less than a decade had passed since the 1987 democratization. Political power had only recently shifted from the military to civilians, and the economy had not yet reached twenty-first-century scale. Media influence was limited, and no group yet wielded it in a coordinated fashion.
In contrast, Yoo Jae-won possessed both overwhelming capital and formidable political leverage. His strongest ally remained Prime Minister Jeon Myeong-heon, whose Tongil National Party held more than fifty seats in the National Assembly. He also enjoyed the tacit support of President Kim and Kim Young-chol. Roughly two-thirds of the ruling Minja Party’s seats could be influenced by this bloc. The opposition Democratic Party remained, but calculations were favorable. Even the Democrats could not openly side with pro-Japanese forces. As the opposition, they were compelled to adopt a harder line than the ruling party’s democratic faction.
“We need to settle this before March,” Yoo Jae-won muttered, pulling up the 1994 calendar on his monitor. No issue had dominated Korean public discourse as thoroughly as the first-instance defeat of the Japanese colonial-era victims. The media’s attention could therefore be channeled exclusively toward colonial-era victims and related matters. Yet March would bring the massive inter-Korean family reunion event. Without the colonial-era victim issue, reunion coverage would have dominated the news. With family reunions in March and a possible inter-Korean summit in May, Yoo Jae-won’s optimal outcome was to resolve the matter before March arrived.
“Still no counterattack?” A week had passed since the campaign began. The opposing side had yet to respond. Yoo Jae-won had expected immediate pushback, and the continued silence made him uneasy. In the twenty-first century, the establishment had always moved swiftly and viciously against anything threatening its interests—crossfire from the media, white terror orchestrated through front organizations like the Parents’ Federation. It was strange that the judiciary and pro-Japanese forces had absorbed a week of blows without striking back.
“Did I overestimate their capabilities?” Overestimating an unknown opponent was entirely possible. Just as underestimating an adversary could lead to flawed strategy, so could exaggerating their strength. Still, complacency was dangerous. The overall plan had not even reached its halfway point. Even if the opposition was currently paralyzed, they might soon regroup and launch a counteroffensive.
December 15. The scheduled protest outside the courthouse took place. More than one thousand people participated. The original eighty-odd members of the Council for the Resolution of the Comfort Women Issue were joined by the eight hundred carefully assembled by Choi Kang-wook and hundreds of netizens who had learned of the demonstration online. The scale was so large that both newspapers and television had no choice but to cover it.
Though the participants had been mobilized with money—the exact amount still uncalculated—they demonstrated with far greater fervor than Yoo Jae-won had anticipated. Perhaps because they were professionals paid to protest, they proved more aggressive than the volunteers. The organizers had to restrain the crowd to prevent the event from escalating into the violent demonstrations of the 1980s. Yoo Jae-won had insisted from the outset that any protest must remain peaceful, a point he had emphasized repeatedly to Choi Kang-wook. Once violence entered the picture, noble intentions vanished and the establishment gained an easy target to attack.
Fortunately, the demonstration concluded peacefully. The police, apparently under orders from above, made no unnecessary provocations. When a few participants initially grew confrontational, the authorities refrained from using the incidents as pretexts for escalation or immediate crackdowns—the standard 1980s protest-suppression playbook. Today’s rally never reached that point. Yoo Jae-won’s earlier warnings to President Kim and Kim Young-chol had likely played a role.
Moreover, the protest produced an unexpectedly constructive outcome. During the open-mic session, someone proposed an idea Yoo Jae-won had not considered.
“An anonymous citizen has suggested a fundraising drive.”
“Fundraising?”
“Most victims live in poor conditions. If we want them to remain healthy until Japan issues a proper apology, improving their housing is essential. Someone set up a collection box on the spot.”
“You don’t think it’s a scam?”
“A scam? What do you mean?”
Yoo Jae-won’s instinctive suspicion surprised even Choi Kang-wook.
“Was the collection box properly recovered?”
The concern was understandable. In the twenty-first century, several large protests had seen individuals carrying collection boxes who later vanished, entirely unconnected to the official organizers.
“Yes, it was returned safely to the protest committee. Over five million won was collected through small donations.”
The donor’s intentions had been genuine, and the box had been returned intact. For an impromptu collection, the sum was substantial.
“Hmm. The response is quite good.”
“It shows how many citizens share your anger over this case, sir.”
Yoo Jae-won nodded, then had an idea.
“In that case, shall we properly expand the scale?”
Improving the victims’ living conditions was something he could handle alone. Yet if the funds came from the collective goodwill of countless citizens rather than a single individual, the gesture would carry far deeper meaning and provide greater emotional healing for the victims. It would also exert significant pressure on Japan, the Korean government, and the judiciary—proof that this was not one man’s fight, but a shared national cause.
“Do you have a plan, sir?”
“We’ll match every private donation won for won. The fundraising period will run for exactly one month starting today.”
Money was always better in greater quantities. The more collected, the more victims whose living conditions and quality of life could be improved. If ID Group matched every private contribution, the impact would be undeniable. Large donations would also allow proper monitoring to ensure the funds were used correctly.
“An excellent idea. Shall I announce it immediately?”
“Yes, please do.”
Yoo Jae-won had expected private donations to remain modest. The next day, however, he felt thoroughly betrayed.
The front page of the Korean Nextcom news portal featured beaming photographs of Jung Byung-woo and Kim Chang-hwan. Together they had pledged six hundred million won. The article reported that donations from other public-spirited individuals and companies had begun pouring in. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since the announcement, so the total could not yet be considered large, and the figure was likely inflated by at least fifty percent. Still, the six hundred million from Kim Chang-hwan and Jung Byung-woo was real. The campaign had started with six hundred million already secured. No one could predict how much more would follow once other donors and corporations were inspired to participate.
For Yoo Jae-won, this was a significant development. It also served as a red alert to the establishment. Once the fundraising drive took concrete shape, Daehan Ilbo—the flagship of conservative establishment forces—finally opened fire.
Daehan Ilbo led with the 1965 treaty’s extinguishment of claims. The controversy surrounding the treaty had existed for decades and was tied to one of the most problematic presidents in Korean history. Reevaluation had occurred in the twenty-first century, and his daughter’s scandals had largely dispelled the aura surrounding him. But this was still 1993, and his shadow remained. Daehan Ilbo struck precisely at that vulnerability. Even conservative-leaning citizens who had begun to sympathize with the colonial-era victims flinched at the article.
“The 1965 claims agreement is no magic wand,” Yoo Jae-won thought. Both the Korean and Japanese governments routinely invoked the treaty to quash compensation lawsuits by colonial-era victims. Yet the agreement contained a fatal flaw: the secret protocols attached to the basic treaty. The full text of the 1965 treaty had never been disclosed, and the existence of the secret protocols remained unknown. Declassification was scheduled for the mid-2030s, and the revelations would be explosive. Every detail was already stored perfectly in Yoo Jae-won’s mind. Releasing it now would carry the destructive power of a nuclear bomb. Without material evidence, however, mere words would flare up and die like a pot of boiling water. He needed at least some of the classified documents in hand before detonating the story. The timing was not yet right.
“Is that really all they have?” Yoo Jae-won found the response underwhelming. The only counterattack had been a handful of articles from Daehan Ilbo. He would have welcomed statements from heavyweight ruling-party politicians or a Supreme Court spokesperson defending the fairness of the trial, but nothing of the sort appeared.
Another day passed. Yoo Jae-won was preparing for bed, satisfied with the day’s progress, when his phone rang. It was Choi Kang-wook.
“An order has been issued to shut down Korean Nextcom.”
The urgent report was shocking. The police had ordered the closure of Nextcom, the platform leading online public opinion and serving as the campaign’s frontline attacker.
“What’s the stated reason?”
“Violation of the National Security Law. They claim the Modern Philosophy Club on Nextcom posted and shared declarations from socialist groups such as the Sanomaeng. Temporary closure begins tomorrow. We filed an immediate injunction, but the closure will take effect before the court rules.”
Choi Kang-wook spoke rapidly, his anxiety palpable. If Nextcom were blocked at this stage, Yoo Jae-won would lose half his available megaphone.
Yet when Yoo Jae-won finished listening, his expression remained perfectly calm. The Modern Philosophy Club incident had been famous even in his previous life. It had already fallen within his range of predictions.