The Judge Who Could Not Be Ostracized

Judge Shin Kwang-ryeol had been feeling quite depressed lately. Anyone unfamiliar with the court’s internal culture might have offered him encouragement to stay strong. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠After all, his conscience-driven testimony during the National Assembly investigation had made the unprecedented step of impeaching judges possible.

They would have assumed that being branded a traitor by the court would make each day at work a struggle, and thus cheered him on. Yet Shin Kwang-ryeol’s gloom had nothing to do with ostracism inside the courthouse. Instead, it arose because the aftermath of the parliamentary probe was unfolding in a direction completely opposite to what he had anticipated.

Of course Shin Kwang-ryeol knew better than anyone how insular the court truly was. He could therefore predict with certainty how whistleblowers were treated. That knowledge had allowed him to quickly calculate the gains and losses of siding with Ma Tae-sik’s faction versus following Yoo Jae-won. Weighing the benefits and drawbacks of each path had been straightforward, so choosing Yoo Jae-won had not taken long.

Thanks to that decision, he had done his utmost during the investigation to expose the court’s internal affairs and had even brandished documents that should never have left the building. The result was the removal of eight high-court presidents and chief judges—men who had occupied the very heart of the judiciary, not some remote backwater posts. They were stripped of their positions in the Court Administration Office and barred from practicing law entirely.

The Ma Tae-sik line was so tightly knit that insiders called it the Judicial One Club. They had coalesced around the Civil Precedent Research Society. Ironically, belonging to such a group was not illegal; the Supreme Court actually encouraged judges to join research societies to improve their professional skills. Most judges chose societies that addressed their personal weaknesses or interests, but the Civil Precedent Research Society was different. It was not open to just anyone.

Unlike other groups, its members systematically supported one another, pulled strings, and worked together to seize key posts within the judiciary. Only those who passed rigorous vetting and shared identical interests were granted membership. Naturally, all eight judges who had been purged belonged to that society. Far more members remained behind than had been removed.

Shin Kwang-ryeol knew he had been marked by them. He had also been marked by the Chief Justice and the associate justices who disapproved of his whistleblowing. “Then they should ostracize me the way they do everyone else!” he exploded in his office, glaring at the mountain of case files piled on his desk.

One common method of shunning a marked judge was to exclude him from major cases while burying him under a deluge of trivial matters far beneath his rank. Yet after returning from the National Assembly, Shin Kwang-ryeol had received the same balanced case assignments as before. There was no drop in quality. He saw none of the usual signs of ostracism—no colleagues avoiding him, no subtle warnings, no summons to be dressed down by superiors.

One might think the absence of ostracism was a good thing, but it was not the picture Shin Kwang-ryeol had drawn for himself. He was supposed to be thoroughly rejected by the organization because of his conscience declaration, eventually forced to leave the judiciary. Only then could he ride into Kim & Jung Law Firm in triumph. Lately the two partner attorneys at Kim & Jung—already riding the highest ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wave of prestige in legal circles—owed much of their fame to being tied to the hero of the conscience declaration.

They had gained both honor and enormous legal fees from ID Group. Shin Kwang-ryeol had even seen the bank statements; he was bitterly envious. That envy had driven him to testify even more vigorously at the National Assembly. All that remained was to arrive at the firm like a hero on a flower palanquin, yet the expected rejection from within the court had never materialized.

He had even considered faking ostracism and leaving anyway. But the judicial world was small and gossip traveled at light speed; such a transparent act was impossible. As a result, Shin Kwang-ryeol had begun to suspect that the Civil Precedent Research Society had anticipated his plan and deliberately withheld the usual brand of traitor.

Yet that made no sense. Dozens of judges still remained in the society. For the sake of their unity, Shin Kwang-ryeol had to be expelled. Frustrated beyond endurance, he finally dragged his assisting judges out for drinks. Only after several rounds, when he asked about his situation, did he learn the truth.

“Ostracism? Judge, the whole world knows Chairman Yoo Jae-won stands behind you. Who would dare ostracize you?”

The answer left him feeling utterly hollow. Thinking back, the assistant judge was right. For prosecutors and judges, having the right sponsor mattered far more than choosing the right faction. Matchmakers swarmed anyone who passed the bar exam. Shin Kwang-ryeol himself had married through such an arrangement—the daughter of the director of a fairly large provincial hospital. After his appointment, once he learned how the world really worked, he had sometimes regretted marrying so early.

That was how important a sponsor was. And when he considered it, his sponsor was none other than Yoo Jae-won, the man currently shaking the entire nation. Shin Kwang-ryeol’s mind grew complicated. There was no immediate need to shed his judicial robes. Yet that would postpone his triumphant entry into Kim & Jung Law Firm. Would the promise still be honored? Unable to bear the anxiety, he returned home after work and picked up the phone.

The voice on the other end belonged to Yoo Jae-won, who had taken the call after first being contacted by Chief of Staff Choi Kang-wook. Shin Kwang-ryeol had reached out to Jung Byung-woo, who had then connected the call. Yoo Jae-won had been in the middle of a video conference issuing instructions to his executive team, but he considered Korean matters important enough to pause the meeting without hesitation.

Yoo Jae-won knew perfectly well that Shin Kwang-ryeol was not truly a righteous man. But given how events had unfolded, the judge would have to become one—willingly or not. The promised compensation would be calculated to the last won once he joined the firm.

“Understood!” Shin Kwang-ryeol answered instantly, his voice noticeably brighter than before.

“If you doubt my words, feel free to record them. I’ll repeat everything slowly. Are you ready?”

Shin Kwang-ryeol, who had already been recording since he first called Jung Byung-woo, inadvertently admitted it. Yoo Jae-won calmly repeated the same statement. He did not mind if the recording leaked; he had spoken only of law, conscience, and justice, never of personal gain. Moreover, Shin Kwang-ryeol’s unintended transformation into a genuinely righteous judge was advantageous to Yoo Jae-won.

Korea was filled with companies—from chaebols to small businesses—that operated in legally gray areas. Every time the hammer fell on them, ID Group advanced another step. It was pure profit.

“Do you have any further questions?”

“No, none.”

After ending the call with Shin Kwang-ryeol, Yoo Jae-won returned to his seat in front of the computer. On the screen of his Shell Book, the executives of ID Group—including Choi Kang-wook and Remington—sat in their respective offices. A large main screen occupied the left side, while the right displayed a grid of live VGA-resolution webcam feeds. What had begun as basic video chat in ID Talk had evolved into full multi-party videoconferencing.

Advanced features now allowed the administrator to grant or revoke speaking rights, push specific screens to the main display for everyone, and even open, annotate, or edit documents linked with ID Office in real time. The full-package version of ID Talk that included multi-party video and shared-document functions had become a high-spec program requiring powerful HPC-grade CPUs and fast internet. As a result, ID Group distributed two versions: the lightweight basic edition with only messaging and one-on-one video, and the full package. Both were free, and messages could be exchanged between versions without issue.

“Where were we?” Yoo Jae-won asked after sitting down. He was simply refocusing the room.

“You mentioned five hundred million, Chairman, and we were saying it was excessive,” Remington, the most senior participant, replied on behalf of the group.

The five hundred million in question referred to the IPO bonus for Android. Stock options were the best way to extract passion at low cost, but ID Group had never used them. Every share except the preferred stock given to three teachers from Deokjin Elementary School belonged to Yoo Jae-won. Even after Android went public, no employee had become rich through options.

Instead, Yoo Jae-won had decided from the beginning to distribute a portion of the gains as a bonus upon listing. He had originally planned to give away ten percent—roughly nine hundred million dollars after taxes and expenses. But Choi Kang-wook, his parents, and even the school principal had urged him to reconsider, reducing the figure to five hundred million. Now even that amount was being called excessive by the executive team. Only Vincent Greenhill supported Yoo Jae-won’s original idea.

“Actually, my original plan was nine hundred million dollars.”

Gasps rippled across the video feeds.

“We understand your generosity, Chairman, but wouldn’t the funds be better used constructively?”

“That amount could fund dozens of venture companies!”

Yoo Jae-won silenced the free-speaking mode and continued.

“Even at nine hundred million, that is merely ten percent. Are you saying our employees’ efforts accounted for less than ten percent of Android’s successful listing? And we have already reduced it further to five hundred million.”

The executives fell silent.

“What disappoints me most is your mindset that treats labor costs as mere expenses. I want ID Group to be the company every talented person in the world envies and longs to join. How do we achieve that? By clearly demonstrating that we reward ability with commensurate compensation. If we maintain this principle, ID Group will become a black hole drawing in global talent, and our growth will be sustainable.”

Under that principle, Yoo Jae-won—as owner and chief developer—would take his nine parts. The remaining employees therefore had every right to the final one part.

“I will hold four hundred million of the nine hundred million for now, to be distributed at the end of 1994 strictly according to performance. The remaining five hundred million will be paid out immediately as a bonus.”

When Yoo Jae-won made his will clear, the executives, including Remington, finally yielded. There was no better way to differentiate themselves from other companies than through unmistakably superior compensation.

“I prepared the distribution criteria yesterday. I have uploaded them as a shared document. Each subsidiary’s HR department should calculate the bonus amounts according to those standards and send the figures to Seoul.”

The five-hundred-million-dollar distribution principle was simple. Although Android had gone public, the bonus would be shared across all ID Group employees. The justification was that the operating system had begun during the ID Technology era, so the achievement belonged to the entire group. Two hundred million was allocated to Android itself, and three hundred million to the remaining subsidiaries, including ID Technology.

One might wonder why the listing entity received only two hundred million, but Android had far fewer employees. Even a simple per-head division gave its staff significantly larger individual payouts.

“It is not a flat one-over-n split. The longer the tenure and the closer the work to Android OS development, the higher the ratio. Shorter tenure or unrelated work means a smaller share. Some employees may feel disappointed, but this same principle will apply to future listings of other subsidiaries.”

Under those rules, core programmers who had worked on the operating system since the ID Technology days would receive roughly three hundred million won. A new recruit at ID Entertainment with little connection to the project would receive about one million won.

“There is a saying that shared joy doubles and shared sorrow halves. Please help every one of our employees fully enjoy the joy of Android’s successful listing.”

“Yes, Chairman!” the executives answered in unison.

As soon as the video conference ended, Kim Dae-seok brought cool water as if he had been waiting. Yoo Jae-won, whose throat was dry from speaking at length, accepted it gratefully. Kim Dae-seok then handed him a note.

“Chairman, Tiffany contacted us during the meeting. She asked you to call this number as soon as you were free.”

Yoo ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Jae-won glanced at the unfamiliar number, then immediately dialed it.

She answered on the first ring, as if she had been sitting beside the phone.

“It’s me, Jae-won! Did you wait long?”

“About thirty minutes? It’s fine! I was doing schoolwork, so I wasn’t just staring at the phone. Besides, you were working too.”

“Thanks for understanding. By the way, whose number is this? I don’t recognize it.”

“Oh! This is my maternal grandfather’s house. I think this is the first time you’re hearing that he’s still in good health.”

Tiffany rarely spoke about her family. Come to think of it, Yoo Jae-won had hardly ever talked about his own family with her either.

“Really? Is your grandfather doing well?”

“Very! He’s incredibly robust. We were talking and your name came up. He showed tremendous interest. He says he would very much like to meet you.”

“That’s not difficult at all. Where is he? I can fly over right now.”

It was neither a request for money nor anything burdensome. A grandfather wanting to meet his granddaughter’s boyfriend was perfectly natural, and with a private jet it was no trouble.

“Wow! Thank you! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠But not right this moment—there’s a family gathering at the end of February. I’ll formally invite you then.”

“Got it. I’ll keep the end of February completely open.”

The gathering had grown from simply meeting her grandfather to a full maternal-family event, but Yoo Jae-won did not mind. Tiffany’s voice regained its usual brightness once the weight had been lifted. Their conversation drifted into everyday topics.

“Oh, right! Have you visited 2CH lately?”

“2CH? I’ve been too busy with the Android listing to check anything else. Why?”

“The atmosphere there has been really strange lately.”

“Strange? In what way?”

“It’s hard to explain in words. You’ll understand once you see it yourself.”

At Tiffany’s suggestion, Yoo Jae-won moved immediately. He opened the Shell Book on his lap, launched the web browser, and typed in 2CH.com.