Chapter 30 ..
December 8th, Friday, 9:00 a.m.
I opened the office door and swept the floor. The place was small, so it didn’t take long, though the air purifier kept running nonstop.
“Lawyer bachelor.”
“Ma’am, welcome.”
The lady from Yeji’s flower shop walked in, this time wearing arm covers she usually didn’t bother with.
“Cleaning?”
“Yes. I can’t do it often, but whenever I get the time, I should.”
Nodding in approval, she placed a file on the consultation table.
“This is Yeji’s father’s resident registration and the power of attorney. I also brought some other documents.”
“Oh, how many pages did you rip out?”
“Two.”
“You held back quite well.”
“The moment I mentioned divorce—”
She drew a cold slash across her neck.
As expected, divorce was the ultimate trump card.
“But didn’t he say anything else? I must be a thorn in his side.”
On the day Mr. Oh Yun-sik threw the ashtray, he’d asked me to cut my retainer fee in exchange for introducing me to acquaintances.
We fought back then, so why would it be different now? If anything, he’d rage even more, saying I tore the family apart. He’d blame me for being the cause.
Even yesterday, when the lady mentioned hiring me, he grumbled about it. No doubt about it.
“…Bachelor, are you a fortune-teller or something?”
“I laid out the mat.”
“Heh. Yeji’s dad really did complain about wasting money on a lawyer. Said fighting your own family in court was shameful enough, why spend money too?”
The lady’s tone suggested she’d completely lost affection for him.
“Think about it yourself, bachelor. A healthy person insists on getting a referral to a university hospital for prevention? But when it comes to siblings, suddenly prevention doesn’t matter? What kind of nonsense is that?”
“I think you’re right.”
Maybe it was just a difference between how doctors and lawyers think.
Doctors can’t practice without a license. But lawyers—our qualification is just a certificate.
In other words, you can’t practice medicine without a medical license.
But you can appear in court as a representative even without passing the bar exam or the judicial exam, albeit with limitations.
So some people thought paying a lawyer’s fee was a waste, regardless of their ability.
“Yesterday I was boiling mad, but Yeji’s dad said if he doesn’t hire a lawyer, that’s the end of it.”
A bluff.
He probably thought that if he complained about fees, I might help for free.
Like I wouldn’t help an acquaintance, even with my expensive time? Ridiculous.
His intentions were obvious.
“Lawyer bachelor, is that true? Is there really no other way?”
“Of course there is.”
I unfolded the power of attorney with Mr. Oh Yun-sik’s seal in front of her.
“I wrote here that full authority is given to nullify the Bupal-eup land compensation agreement.”
“Mm-hm.”
I pointed at the clause.
“That also includes the right to hire a lawyer. An agent can appoint a sub-agent.”
“Sub-agent?”
“Yes. Civil Act, Article 123. A sub-agent acts within the given authority.”
Meaning: her power of attorney allowed her to appoint me.
“…So I can appoint you?”
“Yes. If you hire me, it’s legally valid.”
“…!”
“And if you ever think I’m negligent, you can dismiss me. Work has to remain official.”
Her jaw dropped.
“I wrote the power of attorney broadly just in case, so this works out. Oh! And don’t worry, it’s perfectly legal.”
“Oh my goodness! So this is that ‘good digestion’ Yeji kept texting me about!”
Apparently, her daughter Yeji liked sending funny memes that eased her mood.
Seeing the lady clap like a happy seal filled me with pride.
“So this is why they call it Continette, huh? Totally different.”
“Not Continette. It’s me. That place has parachutes too.”
I pointed a finger downward like something dropping from the ceiling, and she burst into laughter.
“Didn’t know you were such a fun guy. Ah, Soo-young must’ve loved being around you.”
Patting my hand with both pity and admiration, she added softly:
“…You really loved her, didn’t you?”
And still do.
Whatever expression I had, it must not have been bad, judging by her face.
“By the way, when will you tell Mr. Oh Yun-sik about hiring me?”
“…Do I have to? Maybe in three days? Feels better to wait a little.”
Three days? Even better.
“Good. Then tell him: if a lawyer-client contract is canceled, only 40% of the initial fee can be refunded.”
That’s precedent.
After she left, I booted up the computer and opened the complaint draft.
“Need to add defendant addresses and IDs I missed last time.”
I filled in the six siblings’ details.
“Oh Yun-ja (eldest sister) lives in Gangnam? Then jurisdiction will likely be Seoul Central District Court.”
The siblings were scattered across Seoul and Gyeonggi.
If their suits merged, Seoul Central would likely handle it.
File complaint.
Defendants file answers.
Supplementary answers take at least two weeks.
First trial hearing? Minimum three months away.
The mission will speed up the trial date, so I should secure one more solid piece of evidence in the meantime.
I set aside the keyboard and grabbed the soap-flower bouquet I’d left outside while cleaning.
Channeling my psychometry, I prayed to glimpse the past I needed.
Hup!
Whirrr.
The house was lavish, dark, with gold embellishments—like a villain’s mansion in a drama.
Arrogant. Twisted. Reflecting its owner perfectly.
Through the window… Gangnam Hospital? Then this must be Oh Yun-ja’s place.
The youngest, Oh Yun-taek, whom I’d seen in photos, flopped onto a crocodile-leather sofa.
“Big sis, is this bouquet okay?”
“Perfect. Doesn’t wither.”
“Then why bother bringing it?”
“Ugh, you idiot. We need to give Yun-sik something as thanks.”
Sneering, he placed the soap-flowers on the table.
“Couldn’t we just buy him a meal?”
“With what money?! We already lost the sibling savings fund.”
“The legal fees weren’t that much.”
“And that’s all we spent?”
Oh Yun-ja pulled a package from under the table.
“Still, a micro recorder is risky, don’t you think? Leaves evidence.”
“How? Yun-sik’s not going to throw out the bouquet or smash it.”
Oh Yun-taek muttered about not leaving traces, but the ripping of tape drowned him out.
She ignored him.
“See why I always take the lead?”
“……”
“You think the land payout is the end? There’s the shops, land, and Gangnam property under Kkot-soon’s name.”
“That apartment’s prime.”
Yun-taek licked his lips, convinced he could seize it with force.
His sister suppressed a laugh.
“And that’s not all. Isn’t Oh Yeji a hot idol?”
“Hot? She’s the top in Korea. My kids spam her on chat, and she just leaves them on read.”
“Exactly! If she’s a celeb, she makes billions yearly.”
“Oh!”
Yun-ja egged on his greed.
“So we just need one thing. One piece of dirt to drag her down.”
Thud.
My grip tightened around the bouquet.
So the soap-flowers were a trap targeting Oh Yeji?
Completely insane.
Instead of supporting their niece’s success, they schemed to destroy her.
Money matters, but there’s a line.
And planting a recorder? That meant selling it to tabloids or blackmailing her agency—even if it ruined her life.
These are con artists preparing their scam in advance.
Blocking another spam call, I set the now-tainted bouquet on the consultation table.
I’ll have to root this out completely.
I headed straight to Geum Yun-ho’s law office, the one that notarized the agreement.
10 a.m.
Most offices opened by then, but this one was shut.
No answer on the phone either. I’ll wait at the café across the street.
Sipping tea by the window, I watched until—around 11:30—the shutter finally rose.
“There we go.”
I crossed the street.
“…Hello?”
The door opened to classical music. Desks lined the front, but no one was there.
Not in the client lounge either. Maybe stepped out.
Just then, I heard a chair scrape behind the innermost partition.
“Ah, welcome. This is Geum Yun-ho’s office.”
“So you are here.”
I shook hands.
“I’m Attorney Cha Do-hyuk. Are you Mr. Geum Yun-ho?”
“He’s my father. What business do you have?”
A middle-aged man adjusted his glasses.
“I urgently need to discuss a contract Mr. Geum drafted on November 29. When does he come in?”
“…What? What do you mean?”
His baffled stare wasn’t feigned.
Another person with the same name? But this is the only Geum Yun-ho office around Seoul/Gyeonggi they could’ve used.
Though puzzled, I pulled out my phone and showed the seal from the agreement.
“This seal—doesn’t it belong to this office?”
“Wait… why is this stamped here? Where did you get this?”
“So it is your seal?”
“Yes, but… we don’t use it anymore. Haven’t for years.”
He fetched an old Legal News paper from 2022.
Just as I thought.
“My apologies for the confusion.”
“No, it’s fine. In fact, maybe we should change our office name after this.”
If rumors spread about involvement in a scam, business would suffer regardless of history.
“But I have no idea how our seal ended up there.”
“Nor do I.”
Sometimes it was best to pretend ignorance. The details weren’t certain.
“If you ever learn how, please call the number on my card.”
“Will do. Take care.”
As I prepared to leave, I noticed an old promotional newspaper framed on the wall.
“By the way, may I take photos of that old ad and the paper you showed earlier?”
