Kicking the Ladder

“Netizens, let me be clear. I am a man of action. During my inauguration, I stated that we ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠must unite to overcome the national crisis, and that the burden of pain must be shared equally among all parties involved.”

Jeon Myeong-heon raised his voice inside the President’s study at Cheong Wa Dae, often called the innermost sanctum of power. Though called a study, most of the books had been cleared away, replaced by top-tier broadcasting equipment. Among the gear stood something unusual: the latest iWorks model, the G2. Three years had passed since iWorks first launched, prompting a full generational refresh. The new model was named G2, its standout feature being a multi-core CPU capable of housing up to four Intel Xeon processors—the kind reserved for professional workstations. The unit Jeon Myeong-heon used carried only two, a mid-tier configuration. Anything tagged “professional” in computer components started at several million won, and with the nation’s coffers empty, a modest spec had been chosen.

The high-performance camera filming him was linked to the iWorks, which encoded the footage in real time and streamed it to Nextcom’s live servers. Nextcom then broadcast the feed across the entire country. To the outside eye, Jeon Myeong-heon appeared to stand alone before the camera, yet through the virtual world of the internet he was meeting hundreds of thousands of netizens. Their voices reached him live as well. With so many people chatting at once, the feed would have been chaos; even Yoo Jae-won lacked the technology to connect everyone to a single server. Instead, channels had been divided, each with its own moderator who filtered messages and passed suitable ones to the President. A NewEgg G4 sat on the desk beside him, its screen displaying a single oversized chat window. The font was set to 36 points so the filtered messages scrolled at a readable pace—an accommodation for Jeon Myeong-heon’s aging eyes. The preparation was meticulous. This was the first live “Dialogue with the People” broadcast from the Blue House, yet it ran without a single hitch.

“Ah, netizen GwangcheonKim, yes, this is live, and I am indeed Jeon Myeong-heon.”

Jeon Myeong-heon adapted better than expected. He had rehearsed extensively, but live broadcasts always carried risk. He even read the chat and responded directly. The user GwangcheonKim had repeatedly asked whether the broadcast was truly live; once Jeon Myeong-heon confirmed it, the flood of identical messages stopped.

“Ahem. In any case, the Corruption Investigation Office for High-ranking Officials I mentioned earlier should be understood as the government and societal leaders sharing the pain of this foreign-exchange crisis.”

The moment he finished, the chat exploded. Many of the messages came from journalists who had hurriedly logged in through Nextcom accounts. Unlike ordinary netizens, reporters typed with aggressive speed, so moderators noticed and forwarded their comments to the President. Jeon Myeong-heon read them without changing expression and continued.

“When I say this, some will ask why we need a separate office when prosecutors and judges already exist in the judiciary. My reply is simple: how many times has the judiciary properly punished crimes committed by the upper class under the previous administration? It makes no sense that someone who embezzles tens of billions receives a lighter sentence than a person caught stealing a few packs of instant noodles from a supermarket. Any reasonable citizen understands that.”

Through repeated calls with Yoo Jae-won, Jeon Myeong-heon had fully internalized the necessity of the Gongsucheo.

“Lenient punishment for those in high positions with deep pockets is nothing new. Everyone here agrees that the law should apply equally to all, yet reality tells a different story. I can say this plainly because I myself once belonged to that privileged class.”

Now that he had reached the presidency, Jeon Myeong-heon’s final goal was to be remembered as a successful president. For that, he was willing to make personal confessions.

“Preventing another foreign-exchange crisis requires many measures: reviving the economy, raising national competitiveness, and increasing foreign reserves. But without decisive punishment for those who caused the crisis, the same disaster will return. The surest deterrent is severe punishment for wrongdoing, yet the current judiciary has already proven incapable of delivering it.”

The words would have been deeply offensive to members of the judiciary, but Jeon Myeong-heon spoke without hesitation. After becoming a successful president, nothing else remained, so he could afford to say what needed saying.

“This is not the only problem. Those who wield enormous power have never faced real checks. Look at the Hanbo scandal, one of the triggers of the crisis. In principle, a company drowning in debt should never have received new loans; doing so would have prevented the bank’s insolvency and limited the chain of bankruptcies. Yet the loan was approved simply because the borrower was the president’s son.”

The chat erupted again the instant he finished. The window Jeon Myeong-heon saw showed only filtered messages, so the reaction appeared measured, but in the unfiltered public rooms the response was volcanic.

“Furthermore, should a prosecutor or judge commit a crime, there is currently no mechanism to restrain them. Think about it—it is absurd. Our constitution established separation of powers so that each branch would check the others. Instead, the branches have treated one another’s domains as off-limits, turning non-interference into custom. The only time a check actually worked was the historic impeachment of a judge, made possible thanks to the Tongil National Party. Even that only happened because ignoring victims of Japanese colonial rule caused such an uproar that the matter could no longer be buried. Under normal circumstances it would have been impossible. That is why the Gongsucheo is essential.”

Jeon Myeong-heon’s logic was airtight. He deliberately omitted any mention of how the office would be staffed or who would appoint its head; those details would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be fiercely debated in the National Assembly, so now was not the time to discuss them.

“Well, that concludes today’s session.”

Having said all he intended, Jeon Myeong-heon ended the broadcast. The chat immediately filled with pleas for more.

“Of course, this meeting is not a one-time event. Whenever there is something the people need to know, I will turn on the broadcast and speak directly. Ah, the next broadcast will cover real-estate measures and the media issue.”

With that promise, Jeon Myeong-heon concluded his first Dialogue with the People. The reaction was explosive.

“Honestly, their repertoire never changes.”

Yoo Jae-won grumbled while reading a freshly delivered paper newspaper—an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠indulgence possible only in Korea. The reaction felt more immediate this way. He could have checked online, but not every article that appeared in print made it to the web. In the United States he had been limited to the internet; here in Korea he saw no reason to forgo the physical edition when it was convenient.

The day’s biggest story was the Gongsucheo. Because the proposal upended the entire judicial system, coverage filled the front page and spilled into politics and society sections alike.

“That just proves how much they hate it.”

One thing the privileged class excelled at was instantly calculating what benefited or harmed them. They recognized at once that the Gongsucheo was aimed squarely at them. Regardless of its eventual composition, any investigative body outside the existing judicial framework would be beyond their influence. Yet they could not oppose it outright; the foreign-exchange crisis had left the New Korea Party—their political voice—unable to speak loudly. The conglomerates were equally constrained; with credit lines frozen, their old leverage had vanished.

“With more than half the seats in the National Assembly, the Gongsucheo establishment bill will pass without trouble.”

Yoo Jae-won summarized the situation while scanning the paper. The Tongil National Party held 71 seats, the Democratic Party 80—together 151. They could also count on the support of the United Liberal Democrats, a center-right party with a Chungcheong base. The New Korea Party still commanded 109 seats, the largest single bloc, but that was no longer enough to block legislation. Moreover, the party was fracturing after Chun Doo-hwan’s execution; its support in Daegu, Gyeongbuk, and Busan was splitting. Internal divisions were so severe that a formal split seemed inevitable. Thanks to President Kim’s purge of the old Democratic Justice Party faction before the last general election, the number of defectors from the Daegu-Gyeongbuk region was at most thirty. Even those thirty were now a precious commodity for the New Korea Party.

Beep.

“Chairman, Director Hwang Jae-hong has arrived.”

“Please show him in.”

Yoo Jae-won folded the newspaper and set it aside at Kim Dae-seok’s voice over the speakerphone. Ordinarily he would have tossed it straight into the trash, but today’s edition he left on the desk; every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠article was filled with such transparent opposition to the Gongsucheo that rereading them later might prove amusing.

A moment later, Kim Dae-seok escorted Hwang Jae-hong into the study. Each time Yoo Jae-won saw him, Hwang Jae-hong looked different. The saying that position makes the man seemed true; he now radiated the unmistakable presence of a seasoned businessman. The first time he had appeared in Deokjin-ri he had carried the slick, untrustworthy air of a con artist. Now the weight of real corporate authority clung to him.

“Chairman, here is the report you requested.”

After a respectful bow, Hwang Jae-hong opened his briefcase and produced a stack of documents. Although ID Group was a cutting-edge IT conglomerate, paper documents remained indispensable; no technology could yet match their convenience. A truly paperless office would not arrive until well into the twenty-first century.

“Quite thick.”

Yoo Jae-won was surprised by the heft of the files. The volume was larger than he had expected.

“Yes. Given the dire market conditions, a great many high-quality properties have come onto the market.”

The documents Hwang Jae-hong had compiled were real-estate listings flooding the market. With cash drying up, both companies and wealthy individuals were selling assets to raise funds. Yoo Jae-won had tasked Hwang Jae-hong with sorting through the flood and bringing back the most promising opportunities. Now that Jeon Myeong-heon had shed his president-elect title and begun his official term, Yoo Jae-won intended to intervene directly in the Korean economy. Real estate was his first target—an asset class that rarely lost value and offered deals available only in the present crisis.

Hwang Jae-hong had selected properties befitting the chairman’s stature; many carried impressive names. Halfway through the stack, Yoo Jae-won’s hand stopped.

“There are quite a few apartments here. From now on, exclude apartments.”

He was looking at a listing for the Geumma Apartments in Gangnam, described as a prime candidate for reconstruction that would yield substantial capital gains. The analysis was accurate, yet Yoo Jae-won had no intention of touching residential apartments, no matter how attractive the other assets.

“Apartments are best owned by the people who actually live in them.”

“Ah, of course. You’re absolutely right.”

Hwang Jae-hong quickly removed a portion of the files and returned them to his briefcase. Those had all been apartment listings.

Yoo Jae-won’s reason was straightforward. For people to live with dignity, food, clothing, and shelter must be secure. Tampering with any of those essentials—especially food and housing—invited public condemnation. In Korea the default form of housing was the apartment. In times like these, any property suddenly listed for sale almost certainly came with a story. Such units should go to actual residents; doing so stabilized prices and prevented bubbles. One man acting alone could not solve the problem, but Yoo Jae-won no longer needed to worry. He had already discussed the matter with Jeon Myeong-heon, and countermeasures would be announced soon.

“Skip the small stuff like apartments. Focus on large-scale assets—shopping malls, office towers, or entire streets.”

With capital on this scale, Yoo Jae-won aimed for single, decisive acquisitions.

“Understood, Chairman.”

Hwang Jae-hong produced another, much thinner report—the list of companies that had gone bankrupt since the previous year, filtered for those with strong recovery potential or valuable assets. Real-estate investment had been only a side topic; the true purpose of today’s meeting was this list. As Yoo Jae-won scanned the names, his eyes glittered like starlight.