“That depends on how much our witness cooperates, doesn’t it?” the lawyer asked curtly.
“Oh, that’s not to say we’ll forcibly detain him. I’m sure you know the law well, and you’ve probably done this often, so you understand that the police have no grounds to compel a witness.”
Ki Jun-hyeok smoothly deflected the cold response, like watering down alcohol.
He wasn’t usually this type, but when it came to interviewing witnesses or taking suspect statements, he became a completely different person.
He had a way of disarming people, a knack for making even the most stubborn individuals feel at ease, or at least, less inclined to resist.
It was a subtle skill, honed over years of dealing with a spectrum of human emotions and legal intricacies.
This transformation wasn’t just about professional demeanor; it was a psychological shift, a complete immersion into the role required to navigate the often murky waters of witness interrogation.
He understood that in this line of work, composure was a weapon, and an unreadable face, an asset.
He bowed his head then lifted it, trying to appear simply frustrated by the situation to others.
His body language was carefully calibrated, a silent communication to everyone in the room that he was merely a man trying to do his job, hindered by an uncooperative situation.
He knew how to play the part, how to elicit the desired response without ever crossing a line.
Every gesture, every slight tilt of his head, was a deliberate act designed to shape perceptions and guide the conversation.
He had perfected the art of appearing earnest while simultaneously maneuvering the legal chess pieces.
“So, if you have any discomfort, you can tell us anytime. If there’s even one thing I say that makes you uncomfortable, you can ignore it or cut me off entirely. Okay?”
Jun-hyeok formed a circle with his fingers, a gesture meant to convey openness and reassurance. Jung Yong-joon nodded instinctively, a small, almost imperceptible movement.
The lawyer, who quickly stopped even minor movements, spoke, his voice firm and unwavering, cutting through Jun-hyeok’s carefully constructed facade.
“We will refuse video recording.”
“…Ah, well. As you wish.”
Jun-hyeok gritted his teeth, his eyes smiling faintly as he shifted his crossed legs and muttered lowly.
It was a battle of wills, a silent struggle for control, and Jun-hyeok, despite his outward calm, was seething.
He knew the importance of recorded statements, the irrefutable evidence they provided, and the lawyer’s refusal was a clear obstruction, a deliberate act to obscure transparency.
This was a move straight from the playbook of experienced legal counsel, designed to limit exposure and control the narrative.
Then he raised a hand, gesturing to turn off the recording.
A gasp erupted from various parts of the observation room, a collective understanding of the implication.
Han-gyeol, noticing the mood, quickly turned off the recording button at Jeong-rok’s nod.
The tension in the room thickened, palpable even through the glass.
“Please begin.”
“Yes, yes. That’s what I was hoping for.”
Throughout the investigation, Jung Yong-joon trembled like prey before a predator.
His anxiety was palpable, a nervous energy that filled the room despite the lawyer’s attempts to create a semblance of calm.
He shifted in his seat, his hands fidgeting, his eyes darting nervously around the room.
It was no use, even when the lawyer reassured him, and Jun-hyeok smiled softly, mimicking a gentle tone.
The fear in Jung Yong-joon’s eyes was undeniable, a silent testament to something deeper than mere discomfort, perhaps even guilt.
His body betrayed his composure, revealing the tremor of a person caught in a precarious situation.
“Is that guy really sick?”
One by one, officials gathered in the narrow observation room.
These were people who had caught wind of rumors spreading everywhere, the grapevine of the police station working overtime, buzzing with speculation.
The Chief, who had been silently observing among them, nudged Hyun-cheol’s shoulder. Hyun-cheol, who was seriously examining the police report, glared disapprovingly at the Chief.
Their dynamic was well-known, a constant friction between seasoned experience and fiery determination, a blend of old-school intuition and by-the-book adherence.
“If that’s an act, why is that bastard doing that in the countryside? He’d be at some academy, or whatever it’s called.”
Hyun-cheol scoffed, his skepticism evident. He had seen enough acts in his career to spot a faker from a mile away, or so he thought.
To him, the theatrics felt out of place, an attempt at manipulation that lacked the sophistication he associated with urban schemers.
“No, I just… the way he’s acting, he seems like someone with something going on.”
The Chief insisted, his gut feeling speaking louder than any official report.
He trusted his instincts, a trait that had served him well throughout his long career, guiding him through countless cases where logical evidence was scarce.
His years of experience had taught him to read between the lines, to sense discrepancies that others might overlook.
“That’s something we’ll only know once we dig deeper. Seriously, how can a Chief not even know about the presumption of innocence?”
Hyun-cheol shot back, a hint of exasperation in his voice.
He was a stickler for protocol, for the letter of the law, believing firmly in the process of gathering concrete evidence before drawing conclusions.
His frustration was evident, a desire for clear, undeniable facts.
“I’m saying this because I’m the Chief, you bastard. When you’ve got my experience, you can tell at a glance.”
The Chief raised his hand like he was going to chop Hyun-cheol’s neck, a playful threat, yet with an undercurrent of genuine conviction.
Hyun-cheol scoffed and shook his head, a gesture of exasperated fondness, acknowledging the Chief’s stubborn pride.
“Then why didn’t you catch the culprit and throw him in jail already? Why did you create a team like this?”
Jun-hyeok retorted, unable to hold back, his frustration bubbling to the surface.
He was tired of the rhetoric, of the endless political games that often overshadowed the pursuit of justice.
His question hung in the air, a challenge to the Chief’s self-proclaimed expertise.
“This bastard really thinks if it’s words, it’s sweet.”
The Chief muttered, a wry smile playing on his lips, a familiar exasperation.
Anyone else would have stopped them for arguing with the Chief, but the detectives, knowing the two’s usual familiarity, quietly sighed and ignored them.
It was a familiar dance, a part of the daily rhythm of the office, a spectacle that was both irritating and, in its own way, reassuringly consistent.
“No, it’s obvious he’s not sick, he’s putting on a show, what…!”
Hyun-cheol started to protest, his voice rising, but Jeong-rok cut him off.
“Please stop. Aren’t you ashamed in front of your juniors?”
As the language began to cross the line, Jeong-rok stepped in, his voice firm and authoritative, a quiet command that instantly brought order.
The room instantly quieted as if cold water had been thrown on it, due to his firm tone.
The Chief and Hyun-cheol, who had been bickering, glared at Jeong-rok as if united in their annoyance at being interrupted.
Jeong-rok merely shrugged, in response to their looks that asked whose fault this all was.
He was the calm in the storm, the steady hand that kept things from spiraling out of control, a silent force of reason.
As silence settled in the observation room, Jun-hyeok’s voice soon came through the speaker, clear and crisp despite the earlier tension.
The detectives’ eyes, now serious, sharply focused on the monitor, their attention fully drawn to the unfolding interview.
Jung Yong-joon’s face was visible from various angles in the four-section screen, his nervousness almost tangible, every twitch and glance amplified for their scrutiny.
[So, Mr. Jung Yong-joon, regarding the day you last went out. Do you remember your schedule for that day?]
Jung Yong-joon’s primary physician, apparently frustrated by Jun-hyeok’s gentle question, retorted irritably.
His voice was sharp, laced with impatience and thinly veiled contempt, a clear sign of his defensiveness.
[Did you even read the opinion statement we submitted? Given patient Jung Yong-joon’s cognitive abilities, answering questions of that level is impossible! I submitted all the opinion statements, and honestly. How are you even doing your jobs….]
His tone was accusatory, implying incompetence on the part of the police.
A vein pulsed on the back of Jun-hyeok’s hand, which held the mouse on the monitor, a silent testament to his barely contained anger.
He maintained his composed facade, but the subtle tremor in his hand spoke volumes. Jeong-rok clicked his tongue, muttering softly that it was a relief these people weren’t the suspects.
He knew Jun-hyeok’s temper, and it was a volatile thing, capable of erupting if pushed too far.
Han-gyeol vigorously nodded in agreement, sharing Jeong-rok’s sentiment. Jung Yoon, who had only heard rumors about Jun-hyeok but hadn’t seen him in action, simply focused on the voices from the interrogation room, trying to piece together the dynamics, to understand the subtle shifts in power and emotion.
He observed the physician’s demeanor, the lawyer’s stoic silence, and Jun-hyeok’s calculated patience.
Eventually, Jun-hyeok, having barely suppressed his temper, continued speaking distinctly, his voice deliberately calm, a sharp contrast to the physician’s agitation.
[An opinion statement is, as the name suggests, just an opinion, isn’t it? We’re asking because we also have conducted our own investigation. We also have testimonies from the villagers, so we’re confirming them. This is how our job is.]
Jun-hyeok’s words were a polite but firm reassertion of their authority and purpose.
He was clarifying the boundaries, reminding the physician of the police’s role.
[That’s what ordinary people would think….]
The physician mumbled, his frustration evident, dismissing Jun-hyeok’s explanation as simplistic.
The primary physician, who had been constantly wiping away sweat and glancing around, suddenly snapped in frustration.
His gaze was fixed on the lawyer, who said nothing, just staring at his watch, a silent acknowledgment of the lawyer’s authority and the passage of time.
Jung Yoon’s gaze turned cold as he observed the relationship between the two, a chilling realization dawning on him. There was more to this than a simple medical opinion.
Jun-hyeok silently watched him, then belatedly curled the corners of his lips.
It was a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but to Jeong-rok, who knew Jun-hyeok intimately, it spoke volumes – a sign of contained fury and impending strategic action.
From a distance, Jeong-rok let out a small sigh and clicked his tongue, recognizing the signs of Jun-hyeok reaching his breaking point.
He could feel that Jun-hyeok was holding back a lot, a tightly coiled spring of suppressed anger, ready to unleash.
Jeong-rok thought it was fortunate there were many eyes watching, serving as a silent deterrent.
Otherwise, Jun-hyeok would have already been dancing with a knife on that table, a metaphorical expression of his unrestrained fury, a vivid image of the chaos he could unleash if unconstrained.
[We’re trying to get answers that ordinary people would understand, so unless you’re officially refusing to answer, please wait. Or is this, too, included in Mr. Jung Yong-joon’s personal affairs?]
Jun-hyeok, who had briefly held his breath, relaxed his twitching lips slightly and asked calmly. |
His voice was deceptively smooth, a veneer over a simmering frustration, his words carefully chosen to corner the physician without overtly threatening him.
[That’s me…!]
the physician began, his voice laced with indignation, but Jun-hyeok cut him off, his tone sharp and decisive.
[You’re the attending physician.]
[…Huh?]
The physician was caught off guard, clearly unprepared for the redirection, his flow of argument abruptly interrupted.
[The attending physician, not the lawyer. Or is there a health problem with Mr. Jung Yong-joon that contradicts the villagers’ testimonies? I don’t see such a phrase in the opinion statement.]
Jun-hyeok’s questions were precise, cutting through the obfuscation, aiming directly at the inconsistencies in the physician’s behavior and statements.
He was exposing the hidden agenda, layer by layer.
Jung Yoon focused on the physician’s seemingly anxious behavior.
He became extremely sensitive whenever Jun-hyeok spoke, then seemed to be contemplating something at the end of each exchange, as if searching for an escape route or a plausible lie.
It was as if the physician was struggling to formulate his responses, to conjure them from thin air, betraying a lack of genuine conviction.
He seemed to be fabricating rather than organizing his words, looking complicated and strained. Intermittently, he fiddled with his tie and tapped his fingers on the table, which also seemed like a sign of nervousness.
The tells were all there, if one knew how to read them, screaming of discomfort and deception.
“It’s all within the expected range anyway…”
Jung Yoon muttered, the words escaping him almost unconsciously, a self-reflection on the predictable patterns of human behavior in such situations.
“Hmm?”
Lost deep in thought, Jung Yoon didn’t even realize the sentence had escaped his lips.
He only realized it when Jeong-rok, who had been leaning against the wall and concentrating, turned and met his gaze, a silent question in his eyes.
Jung Yoon clicked his tongue, a silent acknowledgment of his slip and the shared observation.
“Like Lieutenant Jeong said, the lawyer is keeping his mouth shut, and only the doctor is blabbering, so it feels a bit off.”
Jung Yoon articulated his discomfort, the discrepancy nagging at him, a subtle but significant detail that didn’t fit.
“Since he’s just a witness, there’s no need for him to speak much,” Jeong-rok added in a low voice, trying to offer a logical explanation, but a look of dismay crossed Jung Yoon’s face.
He wasn’t convinced; the situation felt too deliberately orchestrated.
Just then, Han-gyeol, who had glanced at Jeong-rok, spoke in a puzzled voice, his innocent observation cutting through the professional speculation.
“Then wouldn’t there be no need for him to even sit here with us? A lawyer of his caliber must charge by the hour.”
Han-gyeol’s practical observation hit home, highlighting the financial implications of the lawyer’s unnecessary presence.
“Of his caliber? Do you know that bastard?”
Jeong-rok, who had been staring through the glass with a complicated expression, asked Han-gyeol, a hint of surprise in his voice.
The question held a touch of genuine curiosity and suspicion.
Hearing this, Hyun-cheol glared at Jeong-rok, wagging his index finger at his lips to tell him to watch his mouth, a reminder of decorum.
“What do you mean by ‘bastard’ when talking about a lawyer, ‘bastard’?”
Hyun-cheol chastised, ever the stickler for proper decorum, even if he often failed to adhere to it himself.
It was a minor point, but in a tense environment, every word mattered.
“Well, it’s not like they can hear us anyway. Han-gyeol, tell me.”
Jeong-rok waved off Hyun-cheol’s remark, eager to get to the bottom of Han-gyeol’s insight, valuing information over formality.
“I don’t know that lawyer personally. But his law firm, Sunyang, it’s number one in the industry, isn’t it?”
Han-gyeol revealed, his words immediately shifting the atmosphere in the room from a minor squabble to a profound realization.
Han-gyeol, at some point, held up the lawyer’s business card to his face, a tangible piece of evidence that validated his statement.
Jeong-rok’s expression became peculiar as he examined the extended business card, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow, recognizing the implications.
Hyun-cheol, who had jumped up from his seat, snatched the card and brought it close to his eyes, his interest piqued, a sudden jolt of understanding passing through him.
Hyun-cheol, with his brow deeply furrowed, held the card far away and, having read all the tiny letters, punched the air in frustration.
“Argh, it’s all over. Dammit!”
His outburst conveyed the gravity of the situation, the sudden realization of a much larger, more formidable opponent.
Jung Yoon’s gaze went to the business card Hyun-cheol had thrown into the air, now lying on the floor, a stark symbol of their predicament.
As Han-gyeol had said, the large characters for Sunyang were imprinted on it in Chinese, a name that resonated with power and influence.
Jung Yoon focused on the law firm’s name, ‘Sunyang’.
It was a name frequently mentioned in a book, one he hadn’t forgotten.
He initially mistook it for a character’s name, then later realized it was a law firm, though he couldn’t recall why…
The pieces of information were there, fragments of a forgotten puzzle, but they weren’t connecting into a coherent picture.
Not being able to remember properly only gave him a headache, a dull throb behind his eyes, adding to the growing sense of unease.
He felt a frustrating intellectual block, a sense of having crucial information just out of reach.
Jung Yoon gave up relying on his memory and asked Han-gyeol what was so special about Sunyang. Han-gyeol then looked at Jung Yoon curiously and said, “So there was someone who didn’t know Sunyang. They’re the law firm that got that rapist bastard, Choi Taek-sang, acquitted last time, aren’t they?”
Han-gyeol’s explanation laid bare the firm’s reputation, painting a grim picture.
Complete trash.
Han-gyeol didn’t hesitate, even though he was in the presence of superiors who were much higher in rank than him.
He pointed his finger, saying that they were also the ones who handled the recent assault case involving a third-generation chaebol.
His disdain for the firm was palpable, a shared sentiment among law enforcement.
It seemed his memory wasn’t completely useless.
It was a similar assessment to what he vaguely remembered.
But there was no way he could just be happy about it.
A law firm of that caliber would try to get away with it somehow, and they might even succeed.
The implications were dire, signaling an uphill battle against a well-resourced and ethically questionable opponent.
Jung Yoon finally understood the confident and unyielding demeanor of the lawyer sitting upright.
It all made sense now; the lawyer’s composure wasn’t just professional, it was a display of power, an assertion of dominance.
He probably thought the case was already lost.
In his eyes, the police clinging to this case would just seem ridiculous and pitiful, a futile exercise.
Jung Yoon clutched his head, the weight of the realization pressing down on him, a heavy sense of impending defeat.
The battle just became much, much harder.