Chapter 70: I Went to Court for the First Time in My Life
“Witness Jason Kwon, please enter the courtroom.”
The bailiff’s voice echoed through the witness waiting room from a small speaker.
I stood and awkwardly tugged down the jacket of the navy suit the prosecution had prepared for me.
“This way, please.”
Following the security officer’s guidance, I opened the heavy wooden door leading into the courtroom, and an unfamiliar space appeared before me.
I never thought I’d actually come to a place I’d only ever seen in movies.
The interior was simpler than I had expected, much like an ordinary government office.
However, the American flag hanging behind the judge’s seat and the words In God We Trust created a solemn atmosphere.
Another unusual feature was the twelve people seated in the raised, two-tiered jury box.
They were ordinary citizens rather than legal experts, selected at random under the jury system to exert significant influence over the verdict.
(Translator’s Note: Jury System — A legal system in which selected citizens hear evidence and decide disputed facts or return a verdict. In the United States, juries are used in many criminal and civil trials.)
It was a system born from the distinctly American belief that the people themselves should keep state power in check so it could not arbitrarily control an individual’s life.
Step, step—
The sound of my dress shoes echoed through the silence as every gaze in the courtroom turned toward me at once.
When I sat in the elevated witness stand, the entire courtroom came into view.
Of everyone present, however, the person who drew my attention most was the man seated at the defendant’s table directly across from me.
So that’s Alistair Blackwood.
He was unlike anyone I had ever encountered.
He wore a charcoal-gray suit that was obviously expensive, with his hair styled perfectly in place.
Like the sharp line of his tailored shoulders, he sat upright without the slightest movement.
At the same time, his cold blue eyes glared at me as though sparks might fly from them at any moment.
I did not particularly care.
Following procedure, I placed my hand on the Bible held out by the court clerk.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“Yes. I swear.”
When the judge nodded, Sarah Jenkins, the prosecutor assigned to the case whom I had met during the preliminary investigation, approached me.
With silver-rimmed glasses and a sharply tailored suit, she looked highly capable.
“Witness, please state your name and occupation for the jury.”
“My name is Jason Kwon. I work in automobile restoration in Arizona.”
So this is why people hire expensive lawyers.
The trial was far longer and more intense than I had expected.
Surrounded by attorneys from a major law firm like an honor guard, Blackwood skillfully deflected the prosecution’s attacks.
“No perfect system exists in this world.”
Blackwood’s attorney emphasized each word.
“Blackwood Inventory processes tens of thousands of vehicles every year. Naturally, because the work is performed by human beings, human error may occur. But calling it ‘manipulation’ is an unjustified leap.”
They admitted to mistakes such as poor management, but refused to acknowledge the central issue of intent until the very end.
If the court ruled that it had been ordinary negligence rather than deliberate manipulation, they could avoid the crushing blow of punitive damages.
“Ordinary negligence.”
Sitting across from them, Prosecutor Sarah neatly struck the stack of documents against the table and rose.
She cast a sharp glance at the defendant’s table before slowly walking toward the jury.
“We are not talking about overlooking one pack of gum during a convenience store inventory count. ‘Human error’ is not a defensive phrase that should be used by a company expected to guarantee market trust through highly specialized expertise.”
She turned toward me and nodded.
It was the signal that she was drawing her blade.
“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please look at Prosecution Exhibit Nineteen.”
The exhibit appeared on the large screen installed in the courtroom.
It was a clear photograph of the Mercedes-Benz 280SL’s engine block and the serial number stamped into its metal surface.
“To my eyes, this appears to be an ordinary factory-stamped serial number. What does the expert witness see?”
Sarah asked in a clear voice.
“Yes. I can see unmistakable evidence of tampering.”
Until that moment, I had served mainly as a technical adviser throughout the trial.
The weight of my words suddenly became much heavier.
“Witness, please explain in greater detail,” the judge requested briefly.
“Yes. Mercedes serial numbers from the 1960s were applied using a rolling-stamp method. A machine rolled a rounded stamping wheel across the surface, pressing the characters into the metal with consistent pressure. That causes the metal grain to be displaced slightly. In the industry, we call that grain flow.”
I continued explaining as simply as possible so that both the court and the ordinary citizens on the jury could understand.
“But if you look at the photograph presented here, the metal grain around the numbers is smooth. The surface was ground down once to erase the original serial number, removing the displaced grain. The replacement number was then applied not with a rolling stamp but through dot-peen marking. Because that method can reproduce the original font very precisely, most people would be deceived.”
(Translator’s Note: Rolling Stamp — A marking method in which characters engraved on a wheel or roller are pressed across metal. The process deforms material beneath the visible surface.)
(Translator’s Note:Dot-Peen Marking — An industrial marking process in which a series of closely spaced impacts forms letters or numbers on metal. It can reproduce detailed identification codes.)
“Objection! That is merely the witness’s personal opinion and cannot be proven.”
At the objection from Alistair’s attorney, a faint smile appeared on my lips.
“I never said it couldn’t be proven.”
“Th-that...”
The attorney’s eyebrow twitched at my reply.
“Continue, witness.”
“There is a method even professional inspectors avoid because it may damage the vehicle. It is called an acid-etching test. If a solution containing copper chloride or nitric acid is applied to the area, the original serial number will faintly reappear.”
(Translator’s Note: Acid-Etching Test — A forensic method that applies an acidic solution to metal so an erased or altered serial number may faintly reappear because the original stamping changed the metal beneath the surface.)
Rolling stamps compress the metal structure beneath the surface when the characters are applied.
This is known as plastic deformation.
(Translator’s Note: Plastic Deformation — A permanent change in a material’s shape or internal structure after stress exceeds its elastic limit. In stamped metal, deformation can remain beneath the surface even after the visible mark has been removed.)
No matter how smoothly the outer surface is ground down, the metal underneath remains compressed.
When acid is applied, those compressed areas corrode at a different rate, revealing traces of the previous stamping.
“May the prosecution submit Exhibit Twenty?”
Sarah called out as though she had been waiting for that exact moment.
“Granted.”
The instant the judge gave permission, a new image appeared on the screen.
“This is the result of the acid-etching test conducted according to the witness’s instructions.”
The photograph showed the stamped area shimmering with iridescent discoloration from the acidic solution.
Click—
When Sarah pressed the button in her hand to enlarge the image, a different set of faint numbers could astonishingly be seen behind the serial number currently stamped there.
“My God...”
“There really was another number underneath.”
Low gasps rose among the jurors watching the proceedings from the raised box.
The judge also adjusted his glasses and leaned closer to the monitor on the bench.
“Everyone, maintain order.”
As the murmuring intensified, the bailiff looked around sternly.
“Ahem. Witness?”
“Yes. As you can see, the prefix is still M130, but the final six digits are different. That means this engine did not come from a 280SL roadster. It came from a 280SE sedan.”
“According to Blackwood’s purchase records, this engine appears to have been used in the restoration department after the vehicle was acquired. Is there any circumstance in which restoration work might require the engine number to be restamped by ‘mistake’?”
Prosecutor Sarah asked pointedly.
“None whatsoever. Unless there is a specific intention behind it, no restorer or mechanic would ever touch an engine number.”
“And what kind of specific intention would that be?”
“It would mean attempting to conceal or falsify the engine’s original identity for some reason.”
It was like driving the final nail into Blackwood’s coffin.
“Thank you, witness. No further questions.”
The courtroom instantly fell silent, as though cold water had been poured over it.
Alistair Blackwood’s rigid shoulders, which had remained straight throughout the trial, trembled faintly.
Eighty-five years.
A massive crack had begun to form in the fortress the Blackwood family had built over three generations.
Damn it...
Alistair Blackwood shoved open the courtroom’s heavy wooden door and ground his lips between his teeth.
The anger and humiliation he had suppressed throughout the trial boiled inside him, ready to erupt.
“What the hell was that? I pay you all that money, and this is the best you can do?”
At his roar, the attorneys who followed him out avoided his gaze in unison, as though by prior agreement.
When one ran a company of this size, there were naturally occasions when a great deal of money was lost.
Money can always be earned again. But...
The reputation of a family and a company was different.
The stain of disgrace carved into the tower they had painstakingly built could not simply be ground away and restamped like the serial number on an engine block.
Some Asian country bumpkin who crawled in from God knows where!
A single statement from him now threatened to throw the glory of a family that had maintained second place in the industry into the garbage.
Alistair descended the courthouse’s central steps with his vision burning red from rage.
Camera flashes exploded around him with repeated pops.
However, the light was not aimed at Alistair.
The media’s attention was focused on a man calmly walking toward the courthouse entrance with his face concealed beneath a hat and sunglasses.
Jason Kwon...
Reporters thrust microphones toward him and bombarded him with questions, treating him like some noble hero who had defeated a great evil.
The sight sent hot stomach acid surging into Alistair’s throat.
The unbearable humiliation paralyzed his reason.
“You can’t, Mr. Blackwood!”
His aides grabbed his arms, but Alistair shook them off like a wild beast and practically ran down the steps.
“Jason Kwooon!”
His boiling voice echoed through the center of the courthouse colonnade, an enormous space lined with marble pillars.
“...”
Jason slowly turned his head from where he stood near the entrance.
His expression could not be read behind the sunglasses, but neither the angle nor the speed of the movement showed the slightest agitation.
Without answering a single question from the reporters surrounding him, he turned around.
Then he walked back inside the courthouse, where media access was strictly controlled.
Step, step, step—
His stride was confident and strangely unhurried.
With his mouth firmly closed, he stopped directly in front of Alistair.
Alistair looked up at the Asian man, who stood at least four inches, or ten centimeters, taller than him.
His expression twisted as though he had smelled rancid oil.
“How does it feel to play the hero? Right now, you probably think the whole world belongs to you. You must feel like some champion of justice, don’t you?”
“...”
Jason still gave no answer.
He merely lowered his head slightly and looked down at him without interest.
That silence drove Alistair even further into madness.
He stepped closer and poured a bitter curse into Jason’s ear.
“Don’t fool yourself. How long do you think their applause will last? Kill a snake and you’re a good man. Kill a rabbit and you’re a villain. I hope you get to taste that fickleness for yourself.”
When he finished, Jason slowly raised a hand and removed his sunglasses.
Cold black eyes met Alistair’s blue ones.
“...”
At that moment, Alistair understood instinctively.
Although the man standing before him kept his teeth and claws completely hidden, he was a thorough predator with no interest whatsoever in showing mercy to an enemy.
Th-this bastard...
Feeling the pressure, Alistair unconsciously took a small step backward.
Slide—
Jason bent at the waist and brought his face closer.
Alistair’s rigid expression was reflected in eyes as dark as obsidian.
“I don’t care whether it’s a snake or a rabbit.”
His voice was low and calm, yet cold enough to send a chill deep into the bones.
“As long as it doesn’t bite me or anyone around me.”
Leaving only those brief words behind, Jason put his sunglasses back on and walked through the main entrance.
As though they had been waiting, the reporters immediately raised their cameras and followed him.
But not one of them heard his voice.
Watching Jason’s retreating back, Alistair swallowed dryly.
“Damn it...”
A line of cold sweat ran down beneath his expensive suit.
{@PIC:818805}