I smiled brightly with all my might so he wouldn’t see how much I had gritted my teeth and given my all for that one hand extended to some pitiful kid, how much full force I’d put in to answer that homework, to prove myself. So I understood the meaning of the business card pressed into the hands of that shabby man who had nothing he could do except endure the cold and guard the courthouse gate. It was painful hope.
***
The February regular personnel season was always noisy. I finished my ten years of regional service and was transferred to Seoul. My twice-expressed unwillingness to transfer to Seoul had been accepted, but the third time failed.
Seoul was complicated. I hated complicated things. Infiltrating during the recess was also to organize my things in advance. I hated making it obvious that I’d come to a new workplace, and therefore hated having to go around greeting people. I wanted to stay quiet as I always had.
The profession of judge suited me, an extreme individualist, quite well. Being a judge is a fight with case records. I holed up in my chambers all week examining documents exceeding 20,000 pages. After that, I spent a week writing about ten verdicts. The longest verdict exceeded 100 pages.
And one day a week, I went to court. It was the day I presented to the world the verdicts I’d examined and concluded while holed up in my chambers, and most judges welcomed this day of the week the most. Because they thought of it as a deadline. But I hated this day the most. The path to the courtroom made me more nervous than the path to the bar exam. I had to submit my prepared answers, but I had no confidence in marking the correct answer. I always suffered from indigestion.
After receiving the personnel transfer to Seoul, my stomach felt bloated from gastritis, so I even skipped lunch. That’s why the smell of cup ramyeon that the duty officer had made was particularly stimulating to my sense of smell.
“The person in charge isn’t here because it’s recess. I can only issue a temporary pass. Here, your pass.”
The duty officer’s voice was indifferent. His attention was entirely focused on the Champions League Round of 16. The caster’s cheering intensified as if it was a goal chance. I put the pass I received in my coat pocket. When the goal attempt failed, he opened the cup ramyeon lid and said,
“Usually when you come on your official start date, everything’s prepared. You’re a bit impatient, aren’t you.”
He, who had been stirring the noodles with wooden chopsticks, suddenly asked curiously,
“Are you a new clerk by any chance? Let’s have a drink when you officially start. Hey, you’re good-looking. If I know any young ladies, I’d like to introduce them to you.”
The smell of ramyeon spread on the warmth from the heater on the desk. My glasses fogged up and my form blurred.
“I’m Judge Mo Hyo-kyung from Criminal Single-Judge Division 1. I look forward to working with you.”
I bowed deeply in greeting. The hand lifting the noodles stopped abruptly. This time it was really hard to endure. My stomach felt like it would growl. I quickly finished greeting and left the office.
I scanned my pass in the lobby and took the elevator. Unlike the small-town branches I’d been at, the Central District Court had tight security. I accidentally got off one floor below, and the screen door wouldn’t open at all. My pass was set to only access the 6th floor where my office was. It didn’t matter. I had no intention of learning the structure of this matchbox-like building anyway.
The corridor was quiet. There were hardly any signs of people. Unlike the prosecutors’ office where dozens of defendants and witnesses came and went daily, courthouse corridors were always quiet. Except for the one trial a week, judges were locked in their chambers battling documents. The familiar silence relaxed my body’s tension.
Regular footsteps echoed in the quiet corridor. When I reached the room at the end of the corridor, I took a low breath. When I grabbed the doorknob and pushed it open, a small exclamation escaped without me realizing it.
The windows on both sides in a “ㄱ” shape captured the scenery like a painting. It was the advantage of being the room at the end of the corridor. Grayish snowflakes tapped on the window. I could see old trees wrapped in straw. How many winters had they spent there with the courthouse? I felt reverence for life in the old trees that endured winter.
I opened the window wide. Early evening had the refreshing feeling of early dawn. I breathed in deeply so the cold wind filled deep into my lungs. A faint cigarette smell mixed with the refreshing breeze. I stuck my face out and looked to the side.
A red flame flickered at the tip of the lips of a man leaning against the windowsill. I stared at the flame burning the crisp blue air. The precariousness of the cigarette hanging at the edge of his lips drew my gaze. He frowned hard and exhaled cigarette smoke like a sigh. Suddenly, the acrid air stabbed my nose and a cough rose up. He whipped around. As if meeting an unwelcome guest, he met my eyes, slowly looked me over, then slowly stubbed out his cigarette.
“Cough!”
I raised my hand to apologize and quickly closed the window. Just as my coughing fit barely stopped, I heard a knock. The man who had been in a dress shirt was now wearing his jacket. He looked to be in his late twenties, and despite his well-groomed appearance, I felt terrible ennui and fatigue.
“I thought no one would be here during recess. Excuse me, but who are you? Please show me your pass.”
His tone was extremely polite despite his aggressive demeanor. His options didn’t seem to include the assumption that I was the owner of this room. It wasn’t surprising. No one saw me as a 10-year judge. I passed the bar exam before it was abolished and was fortunately appointed when it was possible with a shorter career than now.
I still faced the question in court of whether I was really a judge. When that happened, I didn’t know what to do. How else could I prove it besides standing in the middle of the courtroom?
“Are you perhaps a reporter? You can’t enter a judge’s chambers without permission like this.”
The situation was more disadvantageous than in court. He, having effectively threatened me, stared intently at my eyes beyond his glasses. His appraising gaze lingered near my neck. He slowly examined the knit sweater made of soft wool material that covered my neck without gaps, and when he reached my loose jeans, he said stiffly,
“I’m going to contact the security desk.”
Ready to sacrifice me to security at any moment, I quickly read the civil servant ID hanging around his neck. The name was Im Ji-seok. The man, who was definitely younger than me, was a judicial clerk. I was also a former judicial clerk. Judicial clerks are court officials who assist judges with trial work. It was also one of the standard routes for law school graduates to become judges.
They organize complicated cases so judges can understand them easily, or draft verdicts. In short, they’re something like prospective judges, but it’s a very difficult time as they’re caught between superiors and subordinates.
Only then could I understand his unique atmosphere. Why, despite carrying innate arrogance and confidence, he couldn’t hide his wariness and suspicion of people throughout, like a drawn bow’s sensitivity.
The profession of judge is rougher than you’d think. Because the world where legal principles that existed in law books are implemented is real reality.
The lives in the dark corners I’d never looked into in my life were dark and terrible. Sometimes even I was crushed by those unfortunate lives. How much more flustered would they be, most of whom grew up ordinarily in harmonious families? They who joined the battle with confidence that they could cut down justice and injustice with one stroke, holding the weapon called law books in one hand, were mercilessly knocked down. It was a harsh sense of defeat for those who had lived marking only correct answers, whether in life or on test papers, to endure.
Fellow judicial clerks began to suffer from insomnia. But they couldn’t get even a common Zolpidem prescription. Judges are the only profession where the state officially reviews psychiatric treatment records.
What kind of anxiety was the man before my eyes carrying alone? I calmly looked at the man and offered a handshake. I deliberately stood next to the nameplate. His eyes read the name on the nameplate.
“I’m Judge Mo Hyo-kyung, transferred as of February 10th. Nice to meet you.”
His eyebrows shot up. It was a subtle change in expression he probably wasn’t aware of himself. He seemed flustered. But as if he had a cautious personality, he frowned and remained silent for a while. With his gaze fixed on me, he called the duty office.
“This is Researcher Im Ji-seok from Criminal Single-Judge Division 1. Can you confirm the ID left when the pass was issued a little while ago? What’s the name?”
I could faintly hear the duty officer’s voice. Im Ji-seok’s complexion rapidly darkened. A sense of defeat crossed his face. I understood this profession’s disease of suspicion. I wasn’t offended at all. Im Ji-seok hung up the phone, straightened his shoulders, and bowed politely.
“I apologize, Judge-nim. I’m Judicial Clerk Im Ji-seok.”
I shook hands with a small smile so he wouldn’t worry. His eyebrows twitched once again. He seemed to frown when flustered.
“Don’t worry about it. Suspicion is our job. I’m going to organize the things I brought, so you can leave now.”
I opened the drawer and put in the belongings I’d brought. I took out the writing instruments I used and stuck them in by type. I still sharpen and use pencils. Because I feel at ease when I hear the sound of thin wood flesh being cut away with a rustling sound.
Im Ji-seok, who had been silently watching several pencils of different sizes and a blunt eraser, returned from the next room with wet wipes. He walked over the desk without hesitation in long strides, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and wiped the desk.
I was pushed back several steps by his unhesitating action. He cleaned the desk neatly with a few efficient movements. He glanced at the unscented hand cream in a small tin case, yellow sugarless candy, and blue thimble, then quickly checked his wristwatch and said,
“Judge-nim. Do you have any more schedule? A power outage notice was issued for the courthouse starting at 7 PM today. That’s why I was just about to leave too.”
“Ah…”
It was a disaster. I had a summary judgment schedule tomorrow. The assignment office directly asked me to do it because many trials were backed up, so I couldn’t refuse. I planned to review the documents late tonight before going. If that wasn’t possible, I’d have to take materials home.
“I have a summary judgment tomorrow—did you hear anything about it?”
“Yes. I know about it. I thought you wouldn’t have enough time to review the records since it’s early tomorrow morning, so I organized some things.”
