17th, Friday. 8 PM. Yonghwa-dong
As always, only the time and place were written. I took a bite of the still-warm hoppang while throwing the note in the trash.
***
I feel sad when old and worn things are thrown away. I thought this while looking at my old used car stopped in the parking lot. The used car with over 200,000 km mileage had only minor problems like broken taillights or a stopped air conditioner until last year, but recently it finally stopped in the middle of the road.
The owner of my regular car center said it probably couldn’t go on anymore. He recommended scrapping it, saying even if he fixed it to just roll along, it would break down again soon, and that would be really dangerous.
But I absolutely couldn’t scrap my first car that I’d been with for ten years. For me, this car was a memory. I drove this car from Seoul to my first posting at the land’s end village. It took a full six hours.
There I could face the rising and setting sun with my whole body. The sun that dyed the sea red finally let me put down the tension and pain that had sustained my life for so long.
Everyone probably has at least one thing they can’t quite throw away because of memories.
From early morning, elderly people were gathered at the apartment rest area. A banner written in red lacquer was being hung under an old juniper tree.
‘Resolute Opposition to Reconstruction Project’
It was shabby compared to the banners congratulating reconstruction approval lined up in a row from the apartment entrance to the main alley. I entered the dry cleaner’s to pick up the jacket I’d left yesterday. The dry cleaner owner lady was struggling with flyers from the morning.
“No, I said I can’t go! Oh my, a customer’s here. Did you come to pick up clothes?”
The man whose flyer was rejected by the lady now held out paper to me. It was a notice for a residents’ project briefing. Prizes ranged from refrigerators to drum washing machines.
“Yes, I left a black jacket.”
“Your name?”
“Mo Hyo-kyung.”
The dry cleaner owner found mine at once from among the laundry hanging densely on the ceiling and took it out. I put on the black wool jacket right there. The jacket with its neat, shiny grain warmed my body that had frozen in just a short time.
“I haven’t seen you before—did you originally live here? You’re so handsome, there’s no way I could fail to remember.”
“I moved here recently. Including this, please pay 200,000 won in advance. I look forward to working with you.”
“Oh my, young people these days all use chain stores with pickup and delivery service, so business isn’t what it used to be. I’ll treat you well! I’ve been running a dry cleaner’s in this neighborhood for 20 years.”
A middle-aged man who seemed to be a reconstruction association official showed interest in me.
“Did you move here because of reconstruction investment? Please definitely attend today’s briefing. The prizes are great.”
“No. I’m a tenant.”
His disappointment was obvious. The courthouse area had already undergone much redevelopment. Across the road, a luxury residential-commercial complex had been built early on. In other words, this was the only remaining golden goose. Unlike across the street, this place with its remaining old multi-family houses and mansions was a relatively modest scene. I decided on the contract after seeing the dry cleaner’s with bicycles parked and the small supermarket across from it.
On the day of the contract, the real estate owner clicked his tongue saying development was slow because there were many elderly people who had never left this neighborhood. He said the elderly hated moving more than house prices or anything. To the real estate owner who asked if that made sense, if it was understandable, frustrated, I who couldn’t even scrap a single car had nothing to say.
“Do you happen to know the reconstruction schedule?”
“Well, at the earliest you might have to move out next year. Didn’t the landlord tell you? Wasn’t it written in the special terms that you have to vacate if it’s reconstructed?”
“Ah, yes…”
It would be troublesome if I had to move again because it was difficult to find a place at this price near the courthouse. The reconstruction official clicked his tongue as if it was unfortunate.
“A young person ignorant of the law. Ignorant tenants think they don’t have to leave if their jeonse contract remains, citing the Housing Lease Protection Act or something. There’s something called the Urban Improvement Act. Once reconstruction relocation begins, all tenants get kicked out. That’s the law!”
Right. Just last year alone, I ordered over 100 tenants to be evicted based on the “Act on Maintenance and Improvement of Urban Areas and Dwelling Conditions.” It meant that even if I insisted on not leaving, I’d be kicked out by my fellow judge.
“Oh! Don’t say such unnecessarily unlucky things and get out!”
The dry cleaner owner beat the reconstruction official’s back and chased him out.
“Anyway, they came into a quiet neighborhood and made it a mess. Making neighbors split sides and fight. These days I’m so stressed I could die because of those people. Young man, don’t worry too much. Hurry off to work!”
***
I liked reading law books. Stiff and tedious articles and standardized explanations. Only when reading those blunt statements could I finally be at peace. For me, thrown into all kinds of uncertainty, they were the only truth and god.
I liked the equality that law possessed. Not determining anything, not discriminating against anyone, equally embracing all complex things. Only within that could I be respected.
But now, ten years after becoming a judge, I know. The true nature of law books. How clear it is to some, and how merciless to others. The cruelty of that blunt blade.
People chasing the real estate speculation craze, people who don’t want to leave the living space filled with memories, ordinary citizens who have nothing to claim besides the right of being a tenant—all gather wanting verdicts under the law, but the law never looks into their lives one by one. A verdict is never the correct answer. Because there can be no correct answer in life.
But ironically, verdicts must continue. Today as well, I merely try to endlessly reduce that margin of error in this multiple choice with no correct answer.
The summary judgment courtroom was crowded with people who came for trial. Summary judgment delivers verdicts on the spot for minor cases corresponding to fines of 200,000 won or less or detention. There’s none of the solemnity of a courtroom that people commonly imagine. No lawyers or prosecutors. People sitting in the gallery come in one by one, and I can barely meet the set time only if I sentence without rest. I feel like a fast food restaurant part-timer chased by orders. Defendants receive the sentences I pronounce like hamburgers.
The first case was a common drunken disturbance. A man in a luxury suit continued his phone call right until being called and came to the front of the courtroom.
“I’m at court now. No, check that matter with the finance team once more before handing it over. Those finance team bastards are so damn stingy…”
“Mr. Kim Nam-guk. There was a drunken disturbance at the police station. A chair was damaged from kicking it. Do you admit it?”
Of course he would have to admit it. Because it was fully captured on the police station CCTV.
“What? Ah, yes yes I admit it. If we kill it there, only we who proceeded will be fucked, so get a definite answer so they can’t say otherwise.”
I notified again the man making a fuss as if he were the busiest office worker in Korea.
“Mr. Kim Nam-guk. The defendant may not testify, or may refuse testimony disadvantageous to them. Did you properly listen and answer correctly?”
“Yes. I said it’s correct. I’m busy, so just do it quickly please.”
I briefly considered referring him to a formal trial, but since he was a first-time offender, I sentenced him to 200,000 won, adding only the aggravating offense of property damage to drunken disturbance. It would be pocket change to him. The man left without even listening to my words that he could request a formal trial within seven days if he didn’t accept the verdict. I called the officer in charge who arrested him. The officer was more apologetic himself.
“He’s not a first-time offender, is he?”
The officer asked, surprised.
“How did you know?”
“It’s obvious. You kept just warning and releasing him, but brought him in thinking it wouldn’t do anymore, right?”
The young officer grinned.
“He was a habitual offender. Yesterday he made more of a fuss than usual and swore obscenely at a female officer.”
“Next time he does that again, definitely arrest him.”
People like that need to taste the law’s harshness. The law made something called aggravated punishment for bastards like that. But I couldn’t say it out loud. People don’t want to know that judges think such things in their heads.
The next case number was called. A middle-aged woman came to the defendant’s seat. Dressed in a thin, worn jumper for the middle of winter. She, who had been looking only at the floor the whole time, looked straight at my face when she stood at the defendant’s seat. Precisely, she carefully watched my lips.
“Please state the defendant’s date of birth.”
“I…ee…sook…ja…”
Along with a deflating voice, her fingers moved busily. Lee Sook-ja. She was saying her name. The gallery stirred briefly. I asked,
“Defendant, can you not hear?”
Just then the courtroom door opened hard. A high school boy suddenly entered. The boy with his head shaved short walked with a fierce demeanor. He looked resentfully at the woman standing frozen in the middle of the courtroom, then wrapped his hands around her finely trembling hands.
“Mom’s birthday is February 15th. I don’t really know what year.”
February 15th. It was today.
