Price of Justice
The witness oath began. "Pursuant to Articles 7 and 8, I swear to speak the truth according to my conscience, and if there is any falsehood in my statements or written answers, I will accept the punishment for perjury."
At 10 a.m. Korean time—6 p.m. in San Francisco—the National Assembly hearing opened with the witness oath. Yoo Jae-won sat before his computer, watching the live KBS internet broadcast without missing a moment. Naturally, the feed he was viewing was not KBS's official streaming service. In Korea, companies were only just beginning to build their own websites. KBS had launched a homepage, but it offered little more than news articles and a viewer bulletin board; video-on-demand and live streaming remained distant dreams.
The video Yoo Jae-won watched came from Nextcom Korea's pilot service, a feature still being tested by a very small group of users. The resolution was a mere 320 by 200—worse than VCD quality. Yet he harbored no complaints. Broadcasts were still in the analog SD era, so the original source material itself was hardly high definition. Besides, a National Assembly hearing was never going to deliver visually exciting footage. The audio, at least, was clear enough to follow, comparable to a cassette tape.
Even so, the fact that one could watch a live television broadcast from the other side of the world in late 1993 was remarkable in itself. Most people would have found the experience satisfying; Yoo Jae-won did not.
"Hmm. For the next version of Android, I'll need to refine the multimedia features."
Development on the tentatively named Android 3.0 had already begun. Version 2.0 had launched successfully in early 1993 and was spreading, but as both developer and executive, Yoo Jae-won always prepared for the future. He had set the release target for Android 3.0 no later than early 1995, which meant serious work had to start now if the schedule was to hold.
"Maybe I should skip the version number entirely and give it a different name. NT or NX could work."
Moving from 2.0 to 3.0 was standard industry practice, but continuing with numbers risked confusing ordinary users. From a marketing standpoint, a single digit change offered little excitement and made promotion difficult. Using an abbreviation like NX or NT would create clearer distinction and open more promotional possibilities.
"Since we've enhanced multimedia and gaming performance for HPCs to deliver experiences people haven't seen before, New eXperience or New Technology would fit nicely."
Yoo Jae-won's thoughts drifted while the live hearing played on his screen. The witness oath had begun, yet nothing compelling enough to hold his attention had appeared. Questioning followed the order of seats in the Assembly. The first speaker was a ruling Minja Party lawmaker—a former Democratic Justice Party member who clearly disapproved of the hearing. He spent his entire allotted time defending the court's original ruling. The arguments made no logical sense and only irritated listeners. He never once raised the central issue of external pressure from above, the very reason the hearing had been convened.
Most Koreans were surely watching the proceedings on television. Thanks to this man, they were probably accumulating stress. Yoo Jae-won suspected many were already concluding that this hearing would change nothing. He felt the same and muted the sound.
"People like that disappearing as quickly as possible would help the country."
Even for Yoo Jae-won, that was impossible to achieve immediately. The lawmaker enjoyed solid support in his district; simply raising his party's flag guaranteed reelection. Time passed regardless. The former Democratic Justice Party member's slot ended, and the microphone moved to the next lawmaker—a Democratic Party member. Only then did Yoo Jae-won restore the audio.
"I will ask the witness directly. During the trial in question, was there any external pressure or pressure from above?"
The question itself revealed the difference between parties. The camera work was equally skillful. It held on the Democratic Party lawmaker until the question finished, then cut immediately to a close-up of the presiding judge. The judge swallowed dryly, then drank water from a cup as if that alone could not moisten his burning throat. With a deeply troubled expression, he finally spoke.
"…Yes."
The single-word answer came slowly, yet its impact was enormous. Even the associate judges waiting in the witness area and the officials from the Court Administration Office looked stunned. The lawmaker who had asked the question seemed equally unprepared for such a swift admission and momentarily lost his words.
"You said yes?"
"That is correct, Assemblyman."
"Who was the pathetic individual responsible? Does that person not understand the Constitution? Does he not know that each individual judge is an independent constitutional organ?"
The Democratic Party lawmaker knew how to perform. He expressed fiery anger and pressed the witness relentlessly.
"It was not one person. Most of them were from the Court Administration Office. They understand the Constitution very well."
The presiding judge answered readily, as though he had come prepared to make a full conscience declaration.
"Since they work at the Court Administration Office—"
"What is the name of the person from the Court Administration Office?"
"Ethics Inspector Ma Tae-sik."
The three syllables of Ma Tae-sik's name were finally spoken in a public forum. The faces of the Court Administration officials waiting behind him turned ashen. Until moments before the hearing began, they had worn stern expressions, confident the presiding judge would never break ranks. They had coordinated their stories in advance and pressured the judges to do the same. The presiding judge had played along, reassuring them. Even during the former Democratic Justice Party lawmaker's questions, everything had seemed to follow the script. Now, with the Democratic Party lawmaker's questions, the entire cartel was collapsing.
"Witness, is there any falsehood whatsoever in your testimony?"
"No. I have spent every day regretting that I yielded to pressure and issued that ruling. At this moment, I wish to speak the truth according to my conscience, complete my duty, and beg forgiveness."
The hearing chamber fell silent.
"Well, he speaks well—for a judge."
Yoo Jae-won, watching the low-quality live feed from across the Pacific, felt no particular emotion. Knowing the presiding judge's true character, he merely noted that the man had prepared thoroughly.
"I understand your feelings. Your testimony will carry significant weight. However, without evidence to support it, the controversy may grow even larger. Can you bear that?"
The Democratic Party lawmaker, having absorbed the shocking answer, quickly regained composure and asked the precise follow-up question. National Assembly members were easy targets for blanket criticism, yet many possessed impressive individual abilities. When gathered together, however, they often subordinated personal judgment to party lines and organizational logic. Yoo Jae-won recalled that this particular lawmaker had once dramatically thrown his nameplate during the Fifth Republic hearings years earlier.
"I do have evidence. I brought it in my bag. With your permission, I will submit the originals."
The presiding judge spoke as though he had been waiting for the moment.
"Objection!"
"There is a possibility of forgery or alteration. Since this is physical evidence interpreted at the witness's discretion, it must be verified before being treated as evidence. Releasing it without verification could cause great public confusion!"
Some ruling-party lawmakers erupted in protest the instant the witness finished speaking. Their mission was to bury the hearing. Within minutes, the name of the central figure had been revealed and now evidence was about to surface. They had to stop it.
"Very well. If the witness presents it, legal complications may arise. Give it to me, and I will present it myself."
The Democratic Party lawmaker was quick-witted. One of the powerful privileges of a National Assembly member was immunity from arrest and from prosecution for statements made during official proceedings. He walked to the witness stand, received the bag, and opened it toward the cameras. Inside were a bundle of documents and a stack of ten-thousand-won notes. With a showman's flair, he first spread the cash across the desk—a ten-million-won bundle still bearing the clear Bank of Korea seal. Such sealed bundles were never seen in ordinary circulation; the markings revealed exactly when and to whom the money had been sent.
The documents were equally damning. The very first page bore Ma Tae-sik's signature in the signature field. The title read "Guidelines for Changing the Framework of the Japanese Colonial Era Victims' Compensation Lawsuit." It looked suspicious at a glance.
"This hearing is over."
Yoo Jae-won clapped lightly. He had hoped for evidence, and the witness had produced irrefutable proof. Even if the hearing collapsed here, it had achieved 120 percent of its goal. With this level of impact, Ma Tae-sik's name would be firmly lodged in the public's mind. Having watched this far, Yoo Jae-won saw no reason to continue viewing the broadcast. He closed the live feed and turned his thoughts to what would follow.
"Ma Tae-sik will now become a target of the hearing and will be summoned as a witness. The Supreme Court side will protest vehemently."
They would argue that the Supreme Court, as a constitutional organ, was guaranteed independence. The judicial administrative power abuse scandal that would erupt in the twenty-first century had followed the same pattern. Yoo Jae-won could already predict the Supreme Court's next move: they would claim that only a formal prosecutorial investigation and a proper trial—not a "people's trial"—could determine guilt or innocence.
"What nonsense."
On the surface it sounded reasonable, yet it was absurd. The wrongdoers were judges. Ma Tae-sik held the title of Ethics Inspector at the Court Administration Office, which gave the impression of a civil servant, but everyone in the Court Administration Office was a judge—high-ranking judges at that. Allowing them to investigate and punish their own was equivalent to asking an organization to cut out its own flesh. Few organizations succeeded at such self-purification. The judiciary, bound by academic, regional, and seniority ties, was especially unlikely to do so.
"It doesn't matter if he doesn't appear."
Now that Ma Tae-sik's name had surfaced, the media would handle the rest. The press was already moving according to Yoo Jae-won's arrangements, and aggressive reporters would soon begin intensive coverage. If the resulting articles felt insufficient, Yoo Jae-won could feed high-grade information to the media under the guise of anonymous tips, just as he had done with Kang Im-seok. Moreover, this hearing was never intended to result in a trial. Knowing that any trial would produce a flawed verdict, Yoo Jae-won had chosen impeachment from the beginning. Prosecutorial investigation could proceed after impeachment stripped the judges of their positions and legal qualifications, reducing them to ordinary citizens.
"I hope that day comes soon."
Possessing a faster biological clock than most, Yoo Jae-won found the pace of 1993 unbearably slow. He wanted to see the face of Ma Tae-sik, the first judge in Korean history to be impeached.
Time passed. Dynamic Korea had been filled with incidents throughout December 1993, beginning with the hearing. The shocking conscience declaration was followed by further testimony from affected parties and internal court documents, exposing the Supreme Court's hypocritical face—the institution once regarded as the nation's final bastion. Eventually, even former Democratic Justice Party lawmakers abandoned their defense; the revelations were too damning. As expected, Ma Tae-sik refused to appear before the hearing. Citizens' disappointment and anger grew. They had believed a National Assembly hearing could summon even chaebol leaders, so Ma Tae-sik's absence revealed the existence of a privileged class above the law. Several judges' refusal to take the witness oath shocked many. Lawmakers themselves finally recognized the numerous loopholes in the National Assembly Hearing Act and agreed to prepare supplementary measures. Although most ruling-party members fiercely opposed the changes, the United National Party and the Democratic Party stood united, and some ruling-party members agreed as well. Passage of the revised Hearing Act appeared likely.
The hearing concluded on January 24, 1994, with decisions to impeach and indict eight judges, including Ma Tae-sik, for exerting improper external pressure in the Japanese colonial era victims' compensation lawsuit, and to enact a special law for the victims. Normally, no extraordinary session would be held in January; after fierce budget battles through December, a brief recess was customary. The unprecedented judicial scandal, however, forced an extraordinary session.
"Of the total 299 members, 274 have completed attendance, excluding 25 members absent for personal reasons. The quorum has been met, so we will now begin the vote on the impeachment motion against Ma Tae-sik and seven others."
With the Speaker's declaration, voting commenced.
"Ah, it's finally ending."
Watching the internet live broadcast as before, Yoo Jae-won felt his throat tighten. He had secured the vote count and maintained discipline, yet a lingering tension refused to leave. For ordinary legislation, members simply pressed buttons at their desks and results appeared instantly on the electronic board. Personnel votes, however, were secret ballots; the outcome remained unknown until the boxes were opened. Some lawmakers who had accepted money might still cast "no" votes once inside the booth. United National Party members could be trusted to vote as instructed, but defections from the Democratic Liberal Party and the Democratic Party were possible. Former Democratic Justice Party members voting against the motion was acceptable, but the others absolutely could not be allowed to defect.
"If anyone plays games, I won't let it slide."
Even before the results appeared, Yoo Jae-won clenched his fists. This was the final, decisive moment.
"Voting has concluded. We will now begin the count."
"Out of 274 total votes cast, 203 were in favor and 71 against. I hereby declare that the impeachment motion against Ma Tae-sik and the seven others has passed."
The Speaker struck the gavel three times as he announced the result.
"Whew! Excellent!"
Yoo Jae-won, who had forgotten to breathe while staring at the monitor, cheered at the Speaker's declaration. With more than two hundred votes in favor, Ma Tae-sik and his seven subordinates had been impeached. From this moment, all constitutional privileges granted to them vanished; they were now ordinary citizens. Unfortunately, the matter was not yet fully resolved. Ma Tae-sik and the seven judges had repeatedly declared that they would immediately file a constitutional complaint if the motion passed, claiming the impeachment was unjust. The final decision would therefore rest with the Constitutional Court. At least the Constitutional Court understood public sentiment. Society had already rendered its death sentence on Ma Tae-sik and his group. No constitutional justice wished to reinstate them and invite all public criticism onto the Court. The prosecutorial investigation had also begun immediately. Beyond the charges of judicial interference revealed during the hearing, investigators would examine Ma Tae-sik's astronomically accumulated illicit wealth and the numerous suspicious rulings he had issued over the years. Prosecutors had long prepared for the investigation and had only been waiting for the impeachment to take effect.
"Whew. At least the money wasn't wasted."
Yoo Jae-won exhaled in relief and closed the KBS internet broadcast. He then opened a new document on his desktop—a report showing the balances of various bank accounts managed by ID Group Korea. His attention focused on the line labeled "Price of Justice." The figure listed was approximately 13.92 billion won. This did not mean the total spent to purchase justice amounted to 13.92 billion won. It had begun when Yoo Jae-won impulsively wired one hundred million U.S. dollars. Converted immediately into Korean won, that sum had equaled roughly 80.2 billion won. After all subsequent expenditures, the remaining balance stood at 13.92 billion won.
Would the remaining 13.92 billion won return to Yoo Jae-won? Not entirely. Further calculations remained. A fundraising campaign for Japanese colonial era victims was still underway, and Yoo Jae-won had pledged to match the total amount raised. The hearing had ignited the campaign like oil on fire, increasing the sum Yoo Jae-won would ultimately have to contribute.
"Cheaper than expected."
Even after all calculations, Yoo Jae-won felt the price had been surprisingly low. If justice could always be purchased at this rate, he would gladly buy it ten times over. He also knew, however, that future purchases would not come so cheaply. Inflation did not apply only to the economy. As society grew larger and more complex, it would become murkier, and the price of justice would inevitably rise. At the same time, someone watching this incident closely would have learned that justice could indeed be bought with money. Yoo Jae-won had spent his wealth for a cause everyone could agree upon, but others might use the same method for personal gain.
"The answer remains simple."
ID Group simply had to grow large enough that no one else would dare attempt it. Knowing this, Yoo Jae-won scheduled a trip to New York several days earlier than planned—for Android Corporation's Nasdaq listing ceremony.