Don't Trust the Police
All characters, incidents, and locations appearing in this novel are fictional. Any similarity to actual events or people is purely coincidental.
Park Tae-gi was watching a Nertube channel run by a woman who enjoyed hot springs in Japan. It was a sweltering summer day in July 2024. With the air conditioner humming away while he held down the fort alone, the office felt like paradise.
"She ought to take the mask off while filming. Must have a complex about her face or something."
The algorithm had served it up, and since it was built on layers of videos he'd already watched, he felt no resistance. He stared hard at the desktop monitor, devouring the sight of that Japanese woman's naked body—the parts that teased visibility without quite revealing everything.
"My eyesight really has improved."
The moment he stretched with deep satisfaction, the office door swung open.
"Hello."
"Who the hell?"
A perfectly normal-looking man stepped into the Law Firm Sukphil office. Walk-ins were never good news. These days even eighty-year-old grandfathers ran at least a basic internet search before visiting a lawyer, so anyone wandering the streets between Seocho Station and Gyo-dae Station hunting for an office didn't seem ordinary at all.
"I'd like to consult about a case."
"Ah, yes, yes. Why don't you head into the conference room for now."
"Alright."
The man walked in the direction Park Tae-gi indicated and took a seat on the inner side of the table.
Sigh. Another schizophrenic or some weirdo related to a petty criminal, wandering around causing trouble for everyone.
Whenever people like that showed up, Tae-gi sent them straight to the Legal Aid Corporation. It was an organization that helped people in difficult circumstances, staffed by passionate lawyers who genuinely enjoyed helping others. If they refused to go, he would quote a consultation fee of three hundred thousand won for thirty minutes. Whether they were mentally ill, senile, or just stubborn old fossils, the mention of money usually sent them walking right back out the door on their own two feet.
"So, what kind of case brings you here? Our office doesn't even have a homepage yet. How did you find us?"
"Sex crimes specialist Suk Ho-pil."
"Cough. So you came knowing the name. Who referred you?"
"Yes. BJ Jeup-serin, who works with me in broadcasting, gave me the introduction."
"Ah! I see. You should have said so sooner."
"It was urgent, so I came despite the imposition."
"But what exactly is the matter? To be honest I was planning to pretend to be a lawyer and handle the consultation myself, but if you're a real client you'll probably need to wait until the actual lawyers return."
"I thought you were the lawyer."
"'Nim' is an honorific. What you said earlier was basically a curse."
"I said 'nim'..."
"Sorry. Would you mind writing a summary of the case here? Verbal explanations tend to get disorganized."
"What does 'disorganized' mean?"
"Head 'du,' clue 'seo.' It's a Sino-Korean word meaning sequence or order."
"Can you write that in hanja?"
"No."
"Understood. Please give me some paper."
"Here you go."
Park Tae-gi handed him paper and a ballpoint pen. The man began writing with surprising fervor. Tae-gi slipped away to the pantry, loaded the machine with Starbucks beans, and brewed a fragrant A-grade coffee before bringing it back.
"Have a cup."
"Hmm? Thank you. How did you know I like bean coffee?"
"I'm Sherlock Holmes. When you first entered the office, your glance toward the coffee machine in the pantry was anything but casual."
"Hmm... that doesn't seem related to Sherlock Holmes at all."
"I'm studying to become a detective. I plan to go independent and get my license."
"Ah... I see..."
The man turned his attention away from the unsolicited chatter and resumed writing his summary. One sheet wasn't enough; he was already on the second page.
"By the way, what do you do in broadcasting? Are you a producer?"
"Sigh. I think that's something I should only discuss with the lawyer."
"Although I'm not a lawyer, I'm essentially Suk Ho-pil's limbs. You could call me his right arm."
Park Tae-gi launched into the tale of how he had nearly gone to prison for a wrongful accusation in the past, only to be saved by Suk Ho-pil during his time as a judicial apprentice. It was a grand epic he never tired of retelling.
"In that case, I suppose it's fine to tell you. After all, there's only one staff member and one rookie lawyer here."
"Yes. We're all one body."
"Don't be surprised."
"Okay."
"I am Han Jin of Korea's Truth—the masked Nertuber."
"Whaaat!!! The masked Nertuber. So you're the famous Han Jin. But you're not wearing your mask right now."
"I can't exactly walk around wearing it all the time."
Han Jin, the Nertuber who wore a Hahoe mask and ran the channel "Korea's Truth" (shortened to "Han Jin"), was notorious as a cyber wrecker.
"But you got caught recently, didn't you? Some influencer claimed they felt sexual humiliation and filed a complaint with the American headquarters."
"That's correct. In fact, I just came from an investigation at the Seocho Police Station."
"Did you feel the process was unfair?"
"Yes."
"That's why you need to bring a 'rice farmer' with you. Ordinary people usually think they're either innocent or that their crime is minor, so they show up for questioning empty-handed."
"You speak like someone with experience."
"Those dog-cops! Those fucking trash bastards!!!"
"After hearing about your past wrongful circumstances, I feel a certain kinship."
"Right? I was completely screwed over too, wasn't I? By the way... I sometimes watch your broadcasts. Is this the same Han Jin who appears on them?"
"Why the suspicion?"
"No, it's just... you don't seem like the type who'd act that way..."
"That's because it's a broadcast persona. I went through countless trials and errors before succeeding as a Nertuber."
"What kind of errors?"
"Pure original content is just a waste of time and money. That kind of thing only works for former public-broadcast celebrities, eating-contest champions, or women like BJ Jeup-serin who can leverage their natural beauty to draw in viewers."
"A very reasonable observation."
"Cyber wrecking was the subject I was best suited for."
"And you use such harsh language. Calling people sluts, pussy-selling bitches, and so on."
"Yes. What's wrong with being a little provocative? It's not like we're subject to the broadcast standards committee."
"Still, it must have been a disaster for the influencer who sued you."
"Do you know about that case?"
"Of course. It was the talk of the entire country. A Nertuber with a million subscribers carries a lot of influence."
"I only spoke the truth."
"Our country has a law against defamation even when the statement is true."
"That's right. But that influencer bitch piled on sexual crime charges as well, and my personal information just got dug up at the police station."
"If the cops tip off a reporter they know, there might be a bounty on your head, Mr. Han Jin."
"Are you one of my subscribers?"
"One of the channels I follow. It's in a league of its own."
"That fucking bitch. I only told the truth..."
BANG!!
The Nertuber Han Jin slammed his fist on the desk.
"Whoa, whoa. Calm down. Drink your coffee and keep writing."
"Yes, sorry about that."
To avoid provoking him further, Park Tae-gi stepped out of the conference room. He immediately sent an urgent text to Suk Ho-pil and Attorney Han Seo-rin, who were both out on business, informing them that the major Nertuber "Han Jin," referred by Jeup-serin, had come to the office.
"The police were simply doing their job."
Suk Ho-pil had never been one to say comforting things.
"Lawyer, did I hear that correctly?"
"You did."
"Your right-hand man Park Tae-gi was talking about how Korean dog-cops can go fuck themselves."
Han Jin's true colors finally emerged. Just like in his broadcasts, roughly half his speech consisted of curses, as if he had a rag stuck in his mouth.
"I... when did I say that? I didn't tell them to fuck off. I said they were fucking."
Tae-gi looked awkward.
"Tae-gi, that's a violation of the Attorney-at-Law Act. Paralegals aren't allowed to conduct consultations directly."
"I'm sorry, Attorney Suk Ho-pil. Hiiik!"
Attorney Han Seo-rin, sitting across the room with her arms crossed, shot Tae-gi a sharp glare.
Damn it. I'm your older brother by a whole year.
"What is the job of the police? Catching criminals. They are neither lawyers nor judges. Correct?"
"Yes..."
"It was you, Mr. Han Jin, who trusted the police without any basis."
"Yes, that's right."
"Of course, police investigations sometimes rely on wild speculation worthy of a mystery novelist. But they've improved compared to the past."
"Have they?"
"CCTV exists now. Torture is gone. In the eighties they used to frame innocent people all the time. There was a man beaten half to death as a serial killer suspect who developed a mental illness and committed suicide. An innocent disabled man spent twenty-nine years in prison. And let's not forget the film Namyong-dong that made it famous—human scum who subjected innocent pro-democracy activists to water torture and electric torture."
"Sigh... The investigator who questioned me today was human scum too."
Han Jin shuddered with rage.
"You should have exercised your right to remain silent on any unfavorable points. Suspects who don't have a lawyer's assistance often fall for leading questions or provocations."
"Yes! That's exactly it, Mr. Rice Farmer. That's what happened to me!"
"But we can't turn back time on an already completed investigation. You reread the statement and stamped it with your thumbprint, didn't you?"
"Yes..."
"All of that can be used as evidence. Sigh. What a mess."
"Actually, Jeup-serin told me I should consult with Attorney Suk Ho-pil."
"Then why didn't you?"
"Well... I tried an AI internet consultation first."
Han Jin launched into a long, detailed explanation of why he was clearly innocent. The AI had even cited specific statutes and precedents.
"Law firm websites usually post disclaimers stating that online content does not constitute legal advice, and that you should only use it for reference before consulting a real lawyer in person."
"They do?"
"Cases vary wildly. You can't rely one hundred percent on internet AI. Technology hasn't advanced that far yet. One mistake and your entire life could be ruined."
"Aigoo, I really screwed up."
He lowered his head and began to cry. The shoulders of Han Jin—the Nertuber behind "Korea's Truth," the channel feared most by South Korea's social elite, celebrities, and athletes—suddenly looked very small.
"You're not dead yet, Mr. Han Jin. Lift your head."
"Huh?"
"Looking at the statement you wrote, I've found a way for you to survive this."
"Huh? Honto ni honto? (For real? Really?)"
Han Seo-rin took the statement and read it as well. She couldn't fathom what basis Suk Ho-pil had for speaking with such groundless confidence.
He's crazy. After reading it, the police didn't do anything wrong and it's a clear-cut guilty verdict.
Yet Park Tae-gi gazed at Suk Ho-pil with the eyes of a religious fanatic, full of reverence.
Just where does he see a way out of this?
Han Seo-rin felt utterly frustrated.