Chapter 125
It was 6:30 p.m. Everyone was wrapping up, slipping on their coats to head out. I kept checking my phone intermittently, waiting for word from Choi Jonghyeon.
That morning, he'd texted right after arriving at the office: he'd posted the video and text messages on the company's anonymous board and laid out all the facts. I had no idea how things had unfolded since then.
"Lawyer Cha."
I turned to Oh Yanghun, who was locking up as we left the office together. He called out to me suddenly.
"Yes?"
"Don't come in tomorrow—take the day off. You look exhausted these past couple days. Kang and I can cover things anyway."
Kang Minjae nodded in agreement.
"Yeah, you've seemed wiped out since Monday. Must be 'cause last week had no chill weekend, huh."
He wasn't wrong. I'd barely slept over the weekend tailing Kim Jeongu, and I'd been neck-deep in the forged suicide note mess until dawn. I'd powered through on coffee without dozing off, but apparently it showed.
"I've been leaving early lately, so I'm fine."
Since the Jeong Yeongjun case, the office had been busier than ever, but nothing requiring heavy legwork. I headed to the elevator with them. After pressing the button, we chatted briefly—until the doors slid open, and Oh Yanghun reacted first.
"Reporter Choi?"
"Oh, Manager Oh?"
It was Choi Jonghyeon stepping out. Oh Yanghun seemed flustered by the unexpected face; Choi looked shocked to see someone from the prosecutors' office here.
"Heading home?"
Choi glanced at us and asked.
"It's fine. Let's talk inside. You two go on ahead."
I looked at Oh Yanghun and Kang Minjae. They hesitated curiously for a second, then nodded and hopped in the elevator. I unlocked the office door again with Choi and went back in.
"Cha, you look beat. Should've just talked tomorrow?"
Choi eyed me awkwardly as I fiddled with the lock.
"No, I was waiting for your call anyway."
I hadn't expected him to show up in person like this. Still, face-to-face beat phone tag.
"Long story short: they're convening a disciplinary committee. Man, it was chaos."
Choi stared off into space, reliving it. He filled me in on everything from when he'd held off contacting me earlier that day until now.
Gratefully, some reporters backed his play, storming the editor-in-chief's office demanding answers. Without the video, he said, his post would've been buried no matter what. If we were handing out merits, the NIS agent—Gukjeongwon—deserved top billing. He'd whipped up that spyware to record the laptop cam and screen, letting us snag the footage.
Choi had downloaded the program onto Kim Jeongu's laptop the second he got in, and the oblivious editor typed up the fake note right there. NIS was damn useful all around. Sure, they loved their cash, but if they delivered, who cared.
"Oh, the chief seemed like he was acting on orders from above. When we barged in, he started whining he didn't want to do it, tried to say something—but clammed up. The culture desk deputy agreed with me: no way the chief cooked this up solo."
I nodded. Every time Choi submitted a critical piece on Wooshin or Lee Jungchan, the chief must've started seeing him as a thorn. He'd have reported it up the chain eventually. Whoever got that report would've ordered him muzzled. The chief probably schemed the specifics, but the intent came from higher up.
And who that was? Obvious.
"Figures. Probably Park Hyo-seong, the editor-in-chief."
"Park Hyo-seong?"
Park was Iljungilbo's pillar, its public face. Everyone knew one word from him swung the paper's direction. Back in the day, he'd fought as a democracy activist alongside today's power players, endured brutal torture, done hard time. As a student movement heavyweight, he'd been famous before even becoming a journalist.
But two decades at Iljungilbo had changed him—no need to spell it out. In my past life, I'd learned later: he was tight with Go Sangjun, Wooshin's chairman. Buddy-buddy in private, brothers almost.
Maybe Go Sangjun heard Choi Jonghyeon's name straight from him.
I let out a low groan. Choi poking Wooshin's sore spots so brazenly? Assuming he'd stay safe was naive optimism. Now that he'd admitted Iljungilbo was sabotaging digs on Wooshin and Lee Jungchan, things would heat up. Once the fuss died down, they'd sideline him openly.
"If Park Hyo-seong's involved, doesn't he bear moral responsibility too? Though I doubt he'd greenlight forging a suicide note outright. It's... too crude and vicious for his style."
As focus shifted from the chief to Park, Choi frowned. Park commanded respect from countless journalists. To Choi, who'd chosen the opposite path from Iljungilbo's line, he was a sellout. Still, Choi held him in high regard. In my past life, even when I trashed Park, Choi had held back.
Water under the bridge now.
"It looks crude 'cause it failed. Success changes everything."
He'd cop to Park blocking his stories or fishing for info—but not the forgery. Time to drop Park.
"Even if he is tangled up, we can't touch him. No hard proof anyway."
Would be nice to uproot him at once, but Park wasn't that fragile.
"...Yeah. Anyway, the chief's stunt is out, and the company's signaling discipline. Should crimp his micromanaging for a while."
"Disciplinary direction set?"
"Committee decides."
For this, firing was the least. But the world didn't bend to my will. We had to bury the chief completely. Without this, like in my past life, he'd climb to commentary editor years from now—and under Park, he'd seethed at not crushing me. Infuriating. Every outlet had it out for me back then, anyway.
"It's murky. If Jeongu had actually died and the fake note was found? Unavoidable firing. But he didn't, and no major fallout happened."
True. If the note had cost Choi his job unjustly, triggered cops, or trashed his rep—we'd stopped it cold. Mild slap on the wrist seemed likely.
"Placate the pissed-off reporters right, and a transfer ends it. Leaves the door open for comeback. Hate that."
"Can't have that."
I said firmly.
"Let's blow it up. It's maxed out internally at Iljungilbo. Now externally."
"Externally? Ha, love to—but Iljungilbo won't run a single line. I can tip friendly reporters elsewhere, but impact...?"
"Aim where it'll hit hard."
"You got a way?"
Planned from the start. I flipped open my business card wallet and showed him.
"...Jin Hye-kyung? This News9 anchor Jin Hye-kyung's card?"
I nodded. She'd bite. She craved scoops. Yun Se-yeon nagging me was child's play compared.
Jin started at SBC as a reporter, rode fame to anchor desk—ambition personified. She hungered for ironclad status at the station. That's why she jumped to the Blue House next regime: hit her ceiling there. With partner anchor Kim Woojin holding firm, she'd never be top dog. Talented women anchors kept rising, rattling her spot. Thirsty woman.
"Not asking for bias—just handing over full sourcing. Why would Anchor Jin pass?"
Her job to sway PDs and chiefs, but she'd manage.
I held the phone to my ear.
"Yes, Jin Hye-kyung speaking. Long time no see, Lawyer Cha."
It connected quick. Figured she might skip with news live in two hours.
"Long time. Doing well?"
"Of course. I gave you my card, but didn't expect a call."
Curiosity laced her voice.
"Got a tip for you."
"A tip to me? That's intriguing. But direct to the main news anchor? Must be big."
Polite way of saying she'd pass on small fry.
"Would I call for nothing?"
"No clue what it is, but sounds sensitive. Right?"
"Yeah."
"Better meet ASAP. Need time to pitch the chief. Assuming the source pans out, that is. Tonight? Post-news—11:30 to midnight-ish work?"
"Perfect."
"Your card says Seocho-dong office. I'm nearby too. Pick a spot around there and text you."
She kept hedging on source quality, but no journalist would sniff this and balk. Might ruffle top brass, though.
I hung up and pointed to the News9 logo on the card. Choi stared, wide-eyed, like Really?
But I was certain.
"News9 will run it."