Chapter 24
Chapter 24
Park Geon panicked.
...That’s me!
Then the message I sent that day had gone to Marcus?
Aaaargh...
His vision swam.
“There are traces of amateurism here and there, so he still seems like a rough gemstone, but if polished properly, he looks like someone who could become a jewel.”
“...!”
Before things got even more tangled, he had to come clean now.
Just as he was about to open his mouth, he caught sight of Big Joe’s profile.
Then that means... in the end, I sold songs to the Bloods?
A Crips producer.
To the rival gang, the Bloods.
L-let’s think this through again after I sober up a little.
The listening party continued.
Aella’s new song flowed from the speakers, and before long, people’s attention subtly began gathering in one direction.
The first to approach was an A&R executive from a major label.
He started to offer a business card, but then...
This kind of puts me on the spot.
He glanced at Big Joe.
But Shotgun was essentially a freelancer at the moment. He was not under any exclusive contract.
“We’d like to offer you an exclusive producer contract with our side.”
Soon after—
“If you’re interested, please contact us anytime.”
“We know you’re working with the Crips side, but you’re not exclusive, right?”
Business cards began piling up one by one.
Shotgun merely accepted them without saying a word.
He doesn’t accept things right away, does he?
He’s being cautious. It means he’s not going to just sign with any label.
Still, I don’t like that blank expression much. He gives no reaction at all. And he’s still just a producer with only one body of work to his name, at that.
Big Joe was watching from one side.
If one asked why he was staying quiet, the answer was simple.
“...”
This was the guy who had spat out “ART” in front of Leonard.
The guy whose convictions about music were ironclad.
To walk up to someone like that and say, Come sign an exclusive contract with us, would be no better than a child whining for what it wanted.
That was Big Joe’s thinking.
That was Big Joe’s pride.
“Don’t worry about it. Take them all. The judgment is yours to make.”
“...”
After the party ended, he let out a sigh of relief in the back seat of the car.
He had survived.
I need to get home and go to the bathroom first.
He must have drunk more than he realized, because he felt dizzy, and more than anything, his bladder was sending out an SOS.
I’m way past my limit already.
Maybe this, too, was survival instinct.
Perhaps because he kept thinking he did not know what would happen if he made a mistake, his body had forcefully broken down the alcohol.
A few streetlights passed by outside the window.
Then Big Joe asked, “Got any producer you respect? A role model?”
The sudden question made him stiffen, but the answer itself was not difficult.
“...DJ Cabin.”
Big Joe smiled in a meaningful way.
“That’s a strange connection. The last person my brother, Lil K, was working with before he died in a drive-by shooting was DJ Cabin.”
He had had no idea.
“They never got to finish it. My brother died first.”
Wheee-ooo, wheee-ooo—
A sudden siren sounded.
Red and blue lights flashed in alternation in the rearview mirror.
Ah, why now of all times?
His bladder’s SOS had just been upgraded to a full emergency.
“Shit. Here we go again.”
Big Joe sounded like this kind of thing happened fairly often.
The driver pulled the car over to the side.
Two white male officers stepped out of the patrol car.
“License and registration.”
The police already looked as though they knew who they were dealing with.
The internal database probably already flagged it as a Crips OG’s car.
But doing this simply because it was Big Joe’s car was obviously unreasonable.
The driver handed over the documents.
While one officer checked them, the other began shining a flashlight into the car.
Onto Big Joe in the back seat.
Then onto Park Geon beside him.
“This vehicle matches the appearance of one suspected in narcotics trafficking. We’re going to conduct a search. Step outside.”
It was obvious.
In LA, if a Black man was riding in a luxury sedan, this excuse came up nine times out of ten.
He had only learned through case law why Black communities distrusted the justice system, but now he was experiencing it in real time from the back seat.
As an East Asian man, he was newly understanding why Ice Cube had not released “Fuck Tha Police” for no reason.
But more than that—
Ah, I really need a bathroom.
That was the real problem.
One minute had passed while the officer checked the documents, and on his bladder’s internal clock, that minute was equivalent to an hour.
At that moment—
“Officer.”
The word came out of his mouth.
The tension in his vocal cords made his voice come out low, but that was not what mattered right now.
“Did you obtain consent for a search of the vehicle?”
“...What?”
“The Fourth Amendment. The right to be protected from unreasonable searches and seizures. To search the vehicle, you need the owner’s explicit consent or a warrant.”
(Translator’s Note: Fourth Amendment — Part of the United States Constitution, ratified in 1791 as part of the Bill of Rights. It protects against unreasonable searches and seizures and generally requires a warrant or a recognized exception.)
A line etched itself between the officer’s brows.
“I told you this vehicle matches one suspected in drug trafficking.”
“A match in appearance is only enough to justify the stop. The stop and exterior observation are permissible, but searching the interior requires a separate legal basis.”
The two officers exchanged glances.
“Furthermore, extending the search beyond the purpose of the traffic stop is unlawful. Once the license and registration check are complete, any additional search requires new, independent grounds.”
So let us go already so I can go to the bathroom!
This time, it was not survival instinct.
It was sheer bodily instinct.
“And if this stop amounts to racial profiling, then a constitutional claim could be raised under the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. Since there will be dashcam and bodycam footage, the legality of this stop can be reviewed afterward.”
(Translator’s Note: Fourteenth Amendment — Ratified in 1868 after the American Civil War. Among other things, it guarantees equal protection of the laws and is a major constitutional basis for challenging racial discrimination by state actors.)
One of the officers flinched.
Then he exchanged another look with his partner.
“So, with that said, could I have your badge numbers and station assignment?”
“...”
“...”
Silence hung in the air.
Then one of the officers handed the documents back to the driver.
“You’re free to go.”
Bathroom first.
Bathroom first.
Bathroom first.
The moment he opened the front door, he ran.
It was late at night, so his family was already asleep.
“Haaaaaah...”
His quality of life skyrocketed.
Back in his room, he took off his suit.
As he peeled the law books off his body with the tape still attached, reality suddenly hit him.
...Lawyer.
He opened the UCLA Law School app.
His schedule for next semester appeared.
Monday: Advanced Constitutional Law. Tuesday: Administrative Law. Wednesday: Legal Writing. Thursday: Seminar. Friday: Mock Trial.
On top of that, there were reading assignments, case summaries, and team projects.
Is it really possible? Going back, I mean.
He remembered answering AIGHT a few days earlier when his classmate had asked whether he was returning.
Crazy bastard. I can’t believe slang slipped out of my mouth without me noticing.
Anyway.
At the time, it had felt possible.
Law school during the day, music work at night.
He had thought he could just sleep less.
“...”
But now, after looking at the app, he realized it probably was not possible.
Had he really been thinking back then that four hours of sleep would be enough?
But if someone maintained four hours of sleep for one week, cognitive performance deteriorated to the equivalent of forty-eight hours of sleep deprivation.
He remembered it from a negligence case involving a traffic accident: impaired judgment from lack of sleep was comparable to a blood alcohol level of 0.05%.
That would mean attending law school classes basically half-drunk.
His grades would obviously crash.
He would be writing a case analysis report while thinking about where to place an 808 kick.
He would be making an argument in mock trial while thinking about verse structure.
He would end up being neither one thing nor the other.
Give up becoming a lawyer?
No.
Being a lawyer was not only his dream, but also his parents’ dream.
But if he gave up music, the gang would not leave him alone.
He could not let go of either one.
More precisely, he was in a situation where he was not allowed to lose either one.
Isn’t there some way?
He turned it over in his head for a long time.
The ticking of the clock’s second hand echoed in the room, then gradually faded from his awareness.
How much time had passed?
“!”
His eyes snapped open.
California was one of the only places in the United States where one could take the bar exam without graduating from law school.
Its formal name was the California State Bar’s Law Office Study Program.
In the industry, it was called the Law Reader system.
(Translator’s Note: Law Office Study Program / Law Reader system — A California legal apprenticeship route that allows qualified applicants to study under a practicing attorney or judge instead of completing a traditional law-school degree, then become eligible for the California bar exam if all requirements are met. This route is unusual in modern U.S. legal training but remains legally recognized in California.)
The requirements, in summary, were these:
Completion of at least two years of law school coursework.
I’m already in my second year, so that fits perfectly.
Then four years of legal apprenticeship under a practicing attorney or judge.
After completing the apprenticeship, one became eligible to sit for the official California bar examination.
If one passed, one obtained the same full attorney qualification as a law-school graduate.
Of course, this route was not easy.
There was a reason most people graduated from law school instead.
The pass rate through the apprenticeship program was not even one-tenth that of law-school graduates, and for four years, one had to work under a lawyer while teaching oneself the law.
There was no structured curriculum, no professor feedback, and no opportunity to debate with classmates.
Even so... this is the only way.
That was right.
He remembered clearly what Big Joe had said about building HOOVER SOUND into an independent label.
Once a label was established, there would be corporate registration, artist contracts, music distribution agreements, copyright management, royalty settlements, and more.
(Translator’s Note: Corporate registration — The formal legal process of establishing a business entity under applicable law, including filing and recognition by the state.)
Legal counsel would become essential.
If I go in there as a legal apprentice...
He could provide legal support to Big Joe’s label while also accruing apprenticeship hours.
He could also continue music work while commuting and working there.
Physically, it would be far more efficient than attending law school by day and running back and forth to the studio all night.
But if a second-year law student wants to apply to a legal office, wouldn’t I need a professor’s recommendation letter?
So a few days later—
UCLA campus.
Knock, knock.
“Come in.”
He opened the door.
Professor Marshall looked up over his glasses.
“Park?”
The first thing that crossed the professor’s face was pleasure.
“It’s been a while. Sit down.”
After sitting across from him, Park Geon drew in a deep breath.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Yes? What is it?”
He needed to take this in order.
“The truth is... I’m Shotgun.”
“Oh, is that so?”
...That was it?
The reaction was so calm that it threw him off instead.
Did Professor Marshall perhaps not know who Shotgun was?
“Uh... I mean, I’ve been working as a music producer lately.”
“I see.”
Again, the response was calm.
It was nothing like what he had expected.
“That’s not such a strange thing. I saw you several times in class with your laptop open, fiddling around with music software.”
“...”
“So, why did you come to see me today?”
He moved to the main point.
The route of skipping the rest of law school, entering legal apprenticeship under an independent label, and qualifying for the bar exam that way.
“Hoh, so you want to skip the law-school path and go straight into a legal apprenticeship?”
“Yes.”
“You do know that’s a difficult road.”
“...Yes.”
“Well, it might not be possible for just any student, but for someone like you, Park, I think it can be done.”
Before he could even bring up the recommendation letter, Professor Marshall spoke first.
“I’ll write it.”
“Thank you...”
“However.”
Professor Marshall lifted his pen.
“There’s one realistic point I should make. Apprentices don’t have much standing in the industry. Most companies outsource to law firms; they don’t entrust legal advisory work to inexperienced apprentices.”
“...”
Then he lifted his eyebrows slightly.
“So persuading that label will be your job. Why should they use a legal apprentice? What can you do for them? A recommendation letter only opens the door. Establishing your place inside is something you’ll have to do yourself.”
“...Understood.”
“I’ll contact you when the letter is done.”
He stood from his seat.
He gave his thanks and reached for the doorknob.
“Park.”
The professor’s voice came from behind him.
He turned.
“What is your dream?”
“...What? Well, obviously...”
“There’s no doubt that you’re exceptional. Your argument in mock trial is still talked about in the department. But.”
Professor Marshall leaned back in his chair and continued.
“The expression on your face when you’re in class and the expression on your face when you secretly work on music in the back row are completely different.”
“...”
“It’s as if your eyes are alive when you’re making music.”
Then he gave a hearty laugh.
“Think carefully about it, Shotgun.”
He flinched.
Shotgun?
Click.
He stepped outside the building.
The campus at noon.
Students were crossing the grass, and the sharp sunlight stung his eyes.
How am I supposed to persuade Big Joe?
He was scared.
Very scared.
No, fucking terrified.
To do that, I’ll have to reveal first that I’m a second-year law student. Ha, that part alone is already terrifying.
Professor Marshall was right—he would have to persuade him.
But how exactly was one supposed to persuade a gang boss?
As he walked, he thought:
Maybe I should turn this feeling into music...
Around the moment when the grass stirred in the wind, his mind was unsettled, and the sounds of outside and inside began turning into melody in his head—
a question suddenly occurred to him.
Up until now, all the music he had drawn out of himself had been the product of fear.
That fear had released the limiter in his brain, and the adrenaline had burned through every synapse to produce those results.
So in a sense, the tracks he had made with the Crips could hardly be called purely his own skill.
But what if...
Without the fear of dying, he simply made the kind of music he wanted to make.
Would anything good still come out?
It’d probably be difficult.
The eight tracks he had uploaded to SoundCloud came back to mind.
Experimental, self-indulgent beats with no trace of commercial appeal.
Let’s find out this time.
Then where should he send the result?
Not to the Crips, obviously.
Every time he worked with them, the focus was always on commercial appeal.
Because if it did not sell, someone might die.
So if he suddenly brought them something like this, they might kill him for real.
“...”
The Bloods.
Of course, they were scary too, but unlike on the Crips’ side, ASD was anonymous.
And besides, the Bloods were the ones who had recognized the value of his difficult tracks.
Should I... try sending it?
A new beat had arrived from ASD.
“Fuck, what is this?”
The kicks hit, but their placement was strange.
They dropped awkwardly in the middle of nowhere, then shifted to entirely different positions in the next bar.
The melody line wandered outside the scale until it was on the verge of dissonance, then barely resolved on the final note.
“There’s no room for rap to sit on this.”
“The beat completely devours everything.”
“How are you supposed to spit a verse over this? I can’t even catch the rhythm.”
Every Blood-affiliated rapper cursed under his breath.
The eight tracks they had bought from SoundCloud had already been difficult, but this newly sent beat was even worse.
“So he really is an amateur.”
“I have no idea what Marcus saw in this guy’s music to buy eight tracks from him.”
The rappers, all professionals in the scene in their own right, were shaking their heads—
when someone who had been listening quietly finally spoke.
“...Shit, it’s genius.”
It was B.I.G.
“Genius on a level that doesn’t even compare to Shotgun.”
The rappers’ eyes widened.
They clearly did not understand at all.
But there was another person who spoke right after.
“I’ll take that beat.”
Slipknot.
After the flasher incident, he had been living in seclusion back in his hometown, which was why he was now holed up in the hideout.
“You know what kind of position you’re in right now, and you’re still talking like that?”
B.I.G frowned and stepped forward.
A vein bulged at Slipknot’s temple.
“Where does a fake-hood bastard like you get off running your mouth?”
“Dawg, say that one more time.”
Slipknot just shrugged with total ease.
“B.I.G, even in terms of career, you can’t measure up to me. So shut up and watch what kind of rap I put over this beat—”
“Yo, what career? Oh, you mean the career where you got caught waving your dick around in a park?”
“...!”
Motherfucker.
But showing that he had been rattled would mean losing, so Slipknot forced himself to act calm.
“You think you can really get on top of that beat? For real? You couldn’t even write one proper return diss at Lil D before you tucked your tail, dawg.”
“I may have tucked my tail, but at least I didn’t drop my pants like you did.”
“If you keep talking, I’ll call your mom right now. Won’t she come pick you up again in her Volvo?”
“Shut the fuck up, you flasher bastard.”
“Go fuck yourself, you mama’s boy bastard.”
“You damn nigga bastard!”
“You gonna move your hand or what? What, you wanna fight? Huh?”
The gang members barely managed to pull B.I.G and Slipknot apart before they came to blows.
“Ayyy, what’s wrong with you two? Calm down.”
“OG will be pissed if he sees this.”
B.I.G straightened his collar, and Slipknot spat on the floor.
Only harsh breathing filled the air for a moment.
Then—
“...Yo, then let’s do this. Record demos, both of you, and send them to ASD. Let him choose.”
“Bet.”
“Bet.”
Both men turned their backs at the same time.
Each headed toward his own studio.
No matter how far a rapper had fallen, he could always turn the mood around by dropping strong work.
That was why both of them were desperate for this difficult beat.
They wanted the public to praise them for being able to digest even something like this.
Of course, neither of them knew.
The ASD who had made this beat was the very person who had sent them into ruin.