Chapter 31..
December 11th, a rainy Monday morning from dawn.
As soon as I got off at Express Bus Terminal Station, I headed straight to Yeji’s flower shop.
“It’s freezing, will the lady still be sitting by the street stall today?”
She always said the owner needed to sit by the stall to draw more customers, but on a day when the cold seeps into your bones, she should have been by the heater.
Thankfully, she was inside the building.
“Ma’am, you’re staying inside today?”
“It’s too cold. Here, young lawyer, I roasted this on the way—have some.”
It was sweet, steaming-hot roasted sweet potato.
I gave her a thumbs-up for her excellent cooking skills yet again, but quietly studied her face.
Even while insisting sweet potatoes are delicious no matter the variety, the corners of her lips drooped, her expression lifeless.
She was clearly worried—about whether this lawsuit was worth pursuing, whether we could actually win.
That was the typical “lawsuit blues” people showed before filing.
Then—
Her smartphone rang relentlessly, ignoring its owner’s foul mood.
“Who’s bombarding me with messages so early in the morning…?”
After checking for a while, her expression darkened.
“Young lawyer, look at this.”
“…?”
I looked at the screen she handed over.
It was a frivolous complaint, sent with harsh words from Oh Yun-ja, filed just now at the Seoul Central District Court.
“They filed before we did?”
“How could they?! It’s not even their money to begin with!”
“Ma’am, calm down.”
I handed her Yeji’s shop’s signature warm herbal tea as her hands trembled.
“Isn’t this too much? Yeji’s dad was so generous to them—always lending money when they were short, treating them to meals, helping with whatever they asked… and this is how they repay him?!”
It was a classic case where one side had taken on the role of the perfect pushover.
She gripped the cup tightly but couldn’t drink, swallowing her rage instead.
Moments like this, you had to act brazenly to help bad feelings evaporate faster.
“Mom was the same way too.”
“Ma’am, do you still not believe in Cha Do-hyuk-gyo? You saw it firsthand.”
“…?”
I spread my arms like a benevolent saint.
“Have you already forgotten? He changed after experiencing the Advance Payment Technique.”
“…?!”
“So don’t worry, just warm your back by the heater.”
She stared blankly for a moment before smacking me playfully and bursting out laughing.
“Alright, alright, stop hitting me. Could you show me those messages from Oh Yun-ja again?”
“Pfft, here they are.”
Behind the photo of the complaint, there was even a PDF file carefully attached.
“I’ll download it and review it.”
Swipe.
In civil law, duplicate lawsuits are prohibited. Even though the details depend on the cause of action and res judicata (binding effect of final judgments), filing had to be done carefully.
“Wow, this is what they dared to call a complaint?”
At first, I thought maybe they were trying to save money on lawyer fees, even though the land compensation money was in the billions, not just a few million.
“They’re treating this lawsuit way too lightly.”
The complaint Yun-ja sent was laughable.
Clearly written just for show—a form of intimidation.
“If you’re not going to hire a lawyer, at least watch LaborTube or NewTube tutorials before writing one. Even scammers don’t skimp on legal fees when filing lawsuits.”
After all, this was someone who returned a gift of soap flowers just to save money on buying a present, and another who used pooled club money to buy a recorder. No way they’d spend real money on a frivolous complaint.
“Good for us, though.”
“Young lawyer, is it serious?”
“The problem isn’t ours—it’s theirs.”
“What do you mean?”
Civil complaints must clearly state the cause of claim, method of proof, and relief sought.
“This one is missing the essentials—no record of the settlement agreement, payment dates, or amounts. Without those, the court can’t even hold a trial. It’s basically a diary entry.”
All that remained on her side was resentment—that despite how much she’d sacrificed, the brothers betrayed their family bond over money.
“Still, the court will go through the formal review.”
That was the first step: the judge (or clerk) checks whether the complaint meets procedural requirements—jurisdiction, standing, legal capacity, and whether the plaintiff has any actual benefit from suing.
If the complaint doesn’t meet these requirements, the court recommends correction.
Meaning the plaintiff is told to rewrite and refile.
“And in this case, they don’t even have standing.”
I had my conclusion.
“Ma’am, the court will issue a correction order for this complaint. They’ll tell them to fix it and re-submit.”
But knowing their personalities, even if they resubmitted, they’d likely fail again to meet the requirements.
“If they don’t, the case will be dismissed outright.”
“…!”
Dismissal—meaning the court wouldn’t even consider the case on its merits.
“And even if they refile with a lawyer’s help, at most the claim would be denied. The court won’t consider it worth hearing.”
“Th-then what about us? We’re filing too—are we okay?”
“Ours is to nullify the promissory note, so yes—we have standing.”
“…?!”
Her jaw dropped, then she clapped like a seal.
There’s nothing sweeter as a lawyer than seeing a client satisfied.
“Young lawyer! Without you, I’d have been trembling in fear over those messages.”
“Ahem. And actually, there’s more good news.”
“More? Better than this?”
“Yes. News that means we’ll win—one hundred percent.”
“…!”
I wasn’t exaggerating.
“We just need to analyze this complaint. Even if it’s just a diary, it shows exactly how they plan to fight.”
“Unbelievable!”
She jumped for joy, while I quietly sat by the heater, peeling another sweet potato.
“Call Oh Yun-ja and thank him very much. Put strong emphasis on very.”
They might chuckle, thinking they’d scored a win, but once trial day came, they’d be the ones rotting inside.
“Did you bring the call recordings? Hand me your phone and I’ll transfer the files.”
“No need—Yeji taught me how to send them by email yesterday. Like this, right?”
“Yes, I’ll check right away.”
“Attach the call recordings as evidence, and that’s that.”
December 22nd would be the last court day of the year.
With Christmas on the 25th a holiday, and the Seoul Central District Court on winter recess from the 26th to January 5th.
“Even if we submit the complaint today, with responses and briefs going back and forth, the earliest trial date will be late February next year.”
January 2, 2024
The new year arrived with news that Oh Yeji’s group, Tweets, had just entered the Billboard Hot 200 chart.
“Just from Yeji’s messages, you can feel how cheerful their family is.”
The underground mall was packed with New Year’s shoppers, but Cha Do-hyuk’s law office was as quiet as ever.
The flower shop lady stopped by with homemade ginger tea.
“Young lawyer, how’s the case going?”
I logged into the e-litigation site and clicked on Oh Yun-sik’s case.
Still under review.
“Not yet. Once the court recess ends, the status will change. The court either finishes cases before recess or postpones them all until after, which is why judges work overtime then.”
Clients always felt reassured if you explained step by step, even if you already knew.
“The court’s just like a company. My eldest used to work for one, and they always had overtime before holidays.”
“True. Though technically, civil servants fall under different labor laws—the National Civil Service Act or Local Government Officials Act, not the Labor Standards Act.”
Anyway—
“Once the review ends, the court will send the complaint copies and instructions to the brothers. Then they’ll have a month to respond. We’ll file a rebuttal after that, and they’ll reply again, and so on. The papers bounce back and forth until a trial date is set. Then we just show up in court.”
“But since it’s certain that Yun-bok hit Yeji, this case will only need a round or two of back-and-forth.”
“If the facts were complicated, there’d be a separate pre-trial procedure, but this case is straightforward. One or two hearings max, and it’ll wrap up—by March at the latest.”
“So soon?!”
The mission had also said things would proceed quickly.
“So will we have three judges like in dramas?”
“They probably do that in shows for dramatic effect.”
In reality, civil trials are divided between single judges and three-judge panels, depending on complexity and claim value.
“If the claim exceeds 500 million won and the case is complex, a panel of three judges handles it. But there are exceptions.”
“Then since our land compensation claim is over 500 million, won’t we get a panel?”
“…Not likely. Even if the claim value exceeds that, if the presiding judge decides it’s simple, a single judge can still handle it. And this one’s straightforward.”
“…This case is straightforward?”
She looked shocked.
“The facts are clear, and the evidence is solid. Unless the brothers hire a lawyer, their response will be just as flimsy as their original complaint.”
“Wow… so this is why you hire experts.”
“And flowers—I always ask you for advice, don’t I?”
“True. You even asked me about arrangements for your mom’s memorial, and for your grandmother’s house recently.”
Her eyes sparkled mischievously, as if she’d caught me.
She mouthed words silently:
—What about those soap flowers over there?
She was asking why I’d left the recorder hidden inside them instead of removing it.
I replied simply:
—Because it’s important evidence.
January 25, Thursday
The brothers’ response arrived.
“Since it took this long, their lawsuit must’ve been dismissed.”
The response was full of even greater outrage than their original complaint.
You’d expect panic, but instead they insisted the brothers should preserve their family bond.
“Do they still not realize Yun-sik has changed?”
He hadn’t missed how his brothers looked down on him—that day he threw the ashtray.
Illiterate, uneducated, and constantly belittled, he’d always tried to soothe his inferiority complex by being generous to them.
But with my whisper to seize control, plus the advance-payment divorce tactic, Yun-sik had finally decided to sue.
“A huge step forward.”
I submitted the response I’d drafted earlier.
Too bad I couldn’t drag the case out longer because of the mission.
“If only I could, I’d make the brothers squirm for months.”
Now all that was left was to brief the lady on courtroom etiquette.
“Hopefully the trial date comes soon.”
February 23, Friday
First hearing of Yun-sik’s case.
The Seoul Central District Court had six separate entrances. If you took the wrong one at the start, you couldn’t get to your courtroom. You had to check carefully at the main lobby which entrance led to your assigned courtroom.
“Young lawyer, should I give you some calming pills?”
“I’m fine.”
“Then… then I’ll take two myself.”
“Just one.”
I calmed the trembling lady, and we entered courtroom 459.
Courtroom 459, presided over by the 31st Civil Single Judge Division, was huge—too grand for a case like this.
“Of all things, it had to be a concentrated-trial division…”
Maybe a bug caused by the mission, but I had to stay sharp.
“Young lawyer, where do I sit?”
“Over there, second seat on the plaintiff’s side.”
Civil courtrooms were different from criminal—plaintiff and defendant faced each other across the judge’s bench. Plaintiff to the left, defendant to the right. Lawyers sat closest to the bench, clients beside them.
But someone was already sitting in the defendant’s lawyer’s seat, which should have been empty.
“Young lawyer, didn’t they say they hadn’t hired a lawyer yet, up until their response?”
“…Yes.”
And shockingly, the person sitting there was someone I knew.
