TLWSL 04

The Lawyer Who Sees the Light – Episode 4

“He’s following properly.”

I glanced at the man trailing behind me, then turned my head away.

“We’re almost there.”

“……”

No signboard.

My office only had a lawyer’s badge scribbled in black marker.

When I pushed open the glass door, a faint smell of instant noodles I had eaten earlier drifted out.

Slightly embarrassing, but this is when you need to act shameless.

“Here we are. Please, come inside.”

“……”

The man froze like stone, unable to move.

“This is Attorney Cha Do-hyuk’s law office?”

“Yes, have a seat here.”

“There’s no signboard?”

I didn’t need to hear the rest to know what he was thinking.

‘It was hard to find because there’s no signboard. What kind of lawyer’s office is hidden away in a corner of the underground terminal? Something like that.’

As expected—

“If we hadn’t run into each other by chance, I would’ve been wandering around for ages.”

Maybe it was still the aftereffect of the earlier commotion, but his words carried a sharp edge.

I responded with the same sly smile I always used back at Continet.

“As you know, even without a signboard, the people who need me will find their way here. Sure, Continet lawyers sometimes join other firms, but they rarely open their own practices.”

“Well, that’s true, I suppose.”

“Please, sit here.”

I guided the reluctant man to the consultation table.

“……”

His eyes were anxious, his brow deeply furrowed.

As he scanned my office, I could guess exactly what was on his mind.

‘Better start talking quickly, before he bolts.’

“So then, putting aside what happened earlier—what brings you here?”

I kept it brief, without adding pleasantries like “you must be worried” or “this must be urgent.”

That’s the rule of the trade.

He bit his parched lips before speaking.

“I’m an artist, and I was commissioned for a piece. But now, I’m being sued because of it.”

“A lawsuit? Is it related to ghost-painting or plagiarism?”

“No! They’re saying the materials and subject matter I was given by the client are the issue.”

“Materials and subject matter? That’s unusual.”

In the long history of art, where nothing new supposedly exists anymore, could someone really be sued for that?

‘If it’s not forgery or plagiarism, there’s really only one kind of case where materials and subject matter become a problem…’

Which usually meant imprisonment—sitting in a detention center.

“Honestly, I still don’t understand why this is a problem. …We have freedom of expression, don’t we?”

“I see.”

It’s strange, but there are three common phrases people who get sued always say:

‘I didn’t know.’
‘I’m innocent.’
‘Who could’ve guessed it was a crime?’

But this artist added something extra, invoking freedom of expression—as if he knew a bit of law himself.

Which usually meant he was weighing whether the legal fees were worth it.

Shhhk.

He slid a thick envelope across the table.

“Rather than me explaining, it’s faster if you see this.”

“I thought so.”

I pulled out the documents.

It was a first trial criminal judgment.

As expected—

Article 207 of the Criminal Act. Counterfeiting currency.

Rustle.

“So the first trial judgment came down just a few days ago?”

“Yes. I truly didn’t know drawing banknotes would count as counterfeiting.”

“It’s understandable. And simply drawing currency doesn’t automatically make it a crime of counterfeiting.”

“…Really?”

“Counterfeiting requires intent to use the fake currency—that is, to distribute or spend it. Did you have such intent?”

“Not at all!”

He waved his hands in denial.

“I’ve drawn currency before, and it was never a problem.”

“I believe it.”

“Then why now!”

He suddenly shouted and slammed his fist on the table.

“……”

“……”

“…I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

He had crossed a line, but I let it go.

‘Back at Continet, worse outbursts than this were commonplace. This feels almost cute in comparison.’

Still, maybe my expression had hardened unconsciously, because he glanced at me and let out a deep sigh.

“As you can see, my finances aren’t great. I only took the commission because I needed the money. If I’d known this would happen, I never would’ve accepted it.”

“Everyone who comes to a lawyer says the same thing.”

“Sigh…”

“No one is born knowing the law. I’d wager more than half the people walking through this underground passage right now don’t even know what Article 21 of the Constitution is.”

“…Article 21?”

“Yes. Freedom of expression.”

His cheeks flushed red, but I turned another page of the judgment unfazed.

“By the way, didn’t you request a court-appointed lawyer?”

Given his tattered sleeves and wannabe ‘I-know-law’ attitude, he seemed like the type who would’ve tried.

And sure enough—

“I did, citing poverty, but it was denied.”

“Did you submit supporting documents?”

“Not separately, but I did provide evidence that my bank account—where my part-time wages are deposited—was under seizure, meaning withdrawals were restricted.”

Hmm.

“I think that could count as a violation of your right to defense.”

“Th-then…”

“I’ll need to look deeper, but if that’s the case, the judgment could be overturned and remanded.”

“Remanded?”

“Yes. I can’t say for certain yet, but let me review the ruling further.”

“Y-yes!”

I flipped through the pages, confirming the facts.

Rustle.

Sometimes defendants only seek out a lawyer after losing the first trial.

They couldn’t afford the fees earlier, but now, terrified of losing, they come rushing in.

Most laypeople think it’s fine since there are three trial stages, but the first and second trials are both fact-finding.

The courts examine the facts.

Once facts are established in the first trial, unless you have compelling new evidence, the second trial almost always upholds it.

Meaning: it’s hard to overturn what’s already confirmed in the first trial.

Of course, if new, decisive evidence comes to light, the appeal court could favor the defendant.

But the problem here was that he had already wasted the most important chance—the first trial.

Tap.

I set the document down and looked at him.

“Are you thinking of appealing?”

“…Is that even possible?”

“Of course. Luckily, including today, you still have two days left.”

“What?”

“You must file the appeal within seven days of the judgment.”

“Th-then do I have a chance of winning?”

“There’s a chance.”

Better than if he fought alone, at least.

But he’d still need additional evidence to justify the appeal.

I was about to explain this when he suddenly slammed the table again.

“Why do all lawyers talk so vaguely?! If it’s guilty, say guilty! If innocent, say innocent!”

“Sir, forgive me for cutting you off, but the law prohibits us from declaring verdicts as certain. That’s just how it is.”

“Ugh! Then what am I supposed to do?”

He clawed at his hair in frustration.

Then he glanced at me again—his face clearly torn over whether to hire me.

‘In that case, I’ll narrow the choice for him.’

All or nothing.
And I chose “all.”

“The retainer fee, including contingency, is ten million won.”

“…What? Wait, how can the fee for starting at the second trial be the same as if you’d handled the case from the first trial?!”

He’d already shopped around law firms at the first trial stage. No need to spell it out.

“At Continet, they’d charge double that—just the retainer alone.”

“……!”

Of course, that was a lie.

Partner-level lawyers did charge higher, but I had exaggerated for shock value.

“And I was a senior in Continet’s high criminal and corporate teams.”

Not even former judges and prosecutors easily got into Continet.

Ironically, that tag carried weight in situations like this.

“If you’d prefer, you’re free to leave. I can even recommend another lawyer.”

“…What?”

“Though tomorrow is the final deadline for appeal filing.”

No need to add ‘What will you do?’

“Grr… Fine. I’ll hire you!”

With a determined grip on the pen, he signed the retainer contract—his expression saying “I’ll see how good you really are.”

“For reference, the success fee is still payable even if the client unilaterally terminates, withdraws the suit, makes false statements, abandons or withdraws the appeal, or if their claims are later proven false.”

“……!”

Better to make this crystal clear upfront, especially with clients who skipped hiring a lawyer earlier due to costs.

Scrape.

I stood up.

“Mr. Sim Oh-han, let’s head out right away.”

* * *

We took the Seongbuk 02 village bus and got off at the stop for Hongseongdae Middle & High School.

“So, it’s not for any other reason—you just want to visit the scene, to see if there’s additional evidence that could prevent the appeal from being dismissed, right?”

“Yes. Like I said before, unless we bring something from the scene, the court won’t think: ‘Perhaps Mr. Sim might really be innocent. Let’s look into it further on appeal.’”

“Then… when will you file the appeal?”

“As soon as we get back to the office, I’ll prepare both the notice of appointment and the appeal submission.”

“Oh?”

“Then the court will send us a record-receipt notice, and within 20 days, I’ll submit the statement of appeal grounds.”

After winding through narrow alleys, we finally climbed up to where rows of red-brick houses stood.

Mr. Sim took a deep breath and pointed at one.

“H-here, Neovil.”

“Please wait outside.”

“Eh?”

“I’m not taking anything—just checking for evidence.”

“The prosecutor already took anything worth taking. Though, to be honest, they barely took anything.”

Mr. Sim averted his eyes, crossing his arms.

Clear as day to me: he was hiding something.

“Wasn’t there any unusual paper the client gave you? I doubt it was just a single A4 sheet.”

His eyes widened.

“…H-how did you know? The judgment didn’t even mention the size?”

“I didn’t get a reputation as a ‘Kkangchi-case specialist’ for nothing.”

“Kkangchi?”

“A slang term in legal circles for cases too tangled to summarize simply. For reference, back at Continet, I combed through over 20,000 pages of testimony in such cases.”

“Whoa.”

Moments like this—

A lawyer needs to show off a bit, to assure the client they made the right choice.

“T-the truth is, one sheet was left behind by an investigator. I kept it, afraid it’d cause more trouble if I handed it in.”

“You did the right thing. Now, the key please.”

I held out my hand.

He reluctantly dropped the key into my palm, eyes shifting nervously.

‘So, there really is something.’

“That sheet—it’s mounted on my easel. The quality of the paper was just too good.”

“Good. That makes it easier to find.”

“R-right?”

Relieved, he followed me down the stairs.

In the semi-basement, there were two doors.

“Which one?”

“B1. The studio is the diagonal room after the entrance. P-please ignore the living room.”

“I’ll be quick.”

Clack.

Creak.

Seongbuk-dong. A semi-basement in a 30-year-old house.

The damp air carried the smell of oil paint.

I passed a sofa bed piled with laundry and stepped into the room.

Mismatched, worn bookshelves stood around.

And on the old wooden easel—

A yellowish sheet of paper, given by the client, hung stretched.

I touched the paper lightly, holding it up to the ceiling light.

“Hm.”

On the left center, so faint you’d miss it if you weren’t looking carefully—

A ghostly image of Shin Saimdang.

I sighed.

“The prosecutor had good reason to indict.”