Chapter 32….
Although we were college classmates, Sister Sun Ryeo-won was a year older than me.
She was also my peer at the Judicial Research and Training Institute.
I’d heard she got married right after finishing the institute, so seeing her as a lawyer felt a bit surprising.
It seemed that once the hearing date was set for Oh Yoon-ja and the five others, they hastily appointed a lawyer.
“L-Lawyer sir.”
I smiled at the concerned lady who was looking at the defense attorney.
“Is it okay to hire a lawyer so late? Won’t that put us at a disadvantage?”
“It’s fine. Even if they acted in the trial without having filed a notice of appointment, as long as they submit it later, the Supreme Court recognizes it as valid. A ruling came out about this just this past summer.”
“I see.”
“What matters is whether or not the lawyer is Cha Do-hyuk.”
I wasn’t trying to brag—just helping her relax.
And if she came away feeling her own lawyer was more capable? Even better.
Sure enough, her lips curved in satisfaction.
“Of course, our lawyer sir is what matters most.”
“Right? Ms. Lee Kkot-soon, why don’t you sit here.”
She sat at the plaintiff’s side, and I draped my coat over the chair behind me.
“Remember the courtroom manners I explained earlier?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all you need to follow. Leave the rest to me. And if the judge asks you to testify, just read the parts I highlighted with the green marker.”
Suddenly, there was a commotion at the back of the courtroom.
“Why won’t you let me in?”
It was Oh Yoon-bok in a cap.
Wearing a hat isn’t respectful in court. Did Sister Ryeo-won not tell him that?
Flustered, Attorney Sun hurried over to the shouting Yoon-bok and bowed to the bailiff.
“Sorry. I’ll explain the court etiquette to my client.”
Then she sternly told Yoon-bok, who was cursing, “If you don’t observe courtroom etiquette, the judge can order you out. Please be careful.”
“Ha! Hey, miss. Did you just glare at your client?”
What? Right before a hearing, he’s picking a fight with his own lawyer? Has he lost his mind?
Attorney Sun simply tilted her head with a blank expression.
“‘Miss’? Mr. Oh Yoon-bok. Should I take that as meaning you don’t recognize me as your lawyer? Would you like me to file a resignation?”
“What? No, but you are a miss, aren’t you?”
“As I’ve told you several times during consultations—I’m not a ‘miss.’ I’m an attorney.”
With that, she signaled the bailiff and turned away.
“Oh, so I called you ‘miss’ because you’re pretty, but I guess educated women always have a nasty temper,” Yoon-bok muttered, plopping down beside her.
Unbelievable. Impossible to deal with.
“Defendant, remove your hat.”
The bailiff barked, and Yoon-bok grudgingly took it off after grumbling.
“Mr. Oh Yoon-bok, don’t cross your legs. Sit up straight. Court etiquette.”
“What a stupid rule.”
The old lady beside me whispered, her mouth agape:
‘Is that allowed?’
‘Of course not. Arguing with the bailiff, or with your lawyer, all counts against you.’
Good for us, though.
Thud.
“The trial will begin. Everyone, please switch off your phones and remain quiet during proceedings.”
The bailiff announced the opening.
Soon, the judge’s door opened.
Judge Moon Yoo-jin entered, bowed at the bench, and switched on the microphone.
“Good afternoon. This is the Seoul Central District Court, Civil Division 31. We will now begin the hearing.”
“Case number 2023-Gadan-12345. We will confirm the appearances of the parties.”
He checked for the plaintiff, Lee Kkot-soon.
“Representative for plaintiff Oh Yoon-sik, are you present?”
“Yes, counsel for the plaintiff, Attorney Cha Do-hyuk.”
“Please be seated.”
Sometimes judges buried in work only ask whether the attorneys are present, but this one was meticulous—clearly passionate.
I’d heard he was easygoing, but he’s surprisingly thorough. Judge Moon Yoo-jin—worth noting.
“Defendant Oh Yoon-ja and five others, are you present?”
“Defendant Oh Yoon-bok, present.”
“Counsel for defendants Oh Yoon-ja et al.?”
“Defense counsel, Attorney Sun Ryeo-won.”
“Very well.”
The judge flipped through the papers.
“Plaintiff: Complaint submitted December 12, 2023, preparatory brief January 30, 2024, and Exhibits 1 through 7.”
“Yes.”
(For reference, “Exhibit 1” means the plaintiff’s first piece of evidence.)
“Defendants: Answer submitted January 25, 2024, preparatory brief February 2, and Exhibits 1 through 2.”
“Yes.”
In Korea, 2–3 weeks before a civil trial, each side files a preparatory brief stating what they plan to argue. The judge’s confirmation just now meant: Can these documents be used as the basis for judgment?
So all you had to do was answer, “Yes.”
But in civil concentrated hearings, the judge digs deeper than in regular 10-minute trials.
So it begins.
Since the recent February 19 judicial reshuffle, this was Division 12’s first trial under this judge—he’d be inclined to listen closely.
Like holding a ritual for a safe film shoot before rolling the cameras, this was almost like praying for the trial to start without mishaps.
“Counsel for the plaintiff, Attorney Cha Do-hyuk, please state your case.”
The judge was practically rolling out the mat.
Time to build it up.
“Plaintiff Oh Yoon-sik worked as a subcontractor for O-sung Construction but, after the IMF crisis, devoted himself to household matters.”
It was basically his autobiography, but still.
“On November 29, 2023, around 8 p.m., at a barbecue restaurant in Samseong-dong, Seoul, the defendants Oh Yoon-ja and five others persuaded him to sign an agreement to distribute among siblings the compensation for inherited land in Sancheon-ri, Bubal-eup, Icheon City, totaling 1,000 pyeong.”
Since he was illiterate, he trusted their words and signed.
“On December 4, 9 p.m., plaintiff Oh Yoon-sik and his wife, Lee Kkot-soon, checked the agreement. But the contents were completely different from what the defendants had said that night.”
That violated not only Civil Code Article 110 (fraudulent intent) but also Article 2, Clause 1 (good faith principle).
Even if the defendants didn’t raise it, the court could investigate this on its own.
Still, to speed things up, I had submitted CCTV footage from the barbecue restaurant showing Oh Yoon-sik never once examining the agreement.
Unshakable proof.
“Furthermore, on December 5, 2023, at 10:40 a.m., at Seoul Express Bus Terminal underground shopping mall, defendant Oh Yoon-bok assaulted the plaintiff’s daughter, Oh Ye-ji. Therefore, we request nullification of the agreement.”
When I finished, the judge smiled faintly with his eyes.
He caught the rhetorical play.
But he didn’t skip procedure—he pressed on.
“Defense counsel, Attorney Sun Ryeo-won, your response.”
“The defendants acknowledge the November 29 agreement to donate compensation to the plaintiff. But this stemmed from the plaintiff’s own proposal. Furthermore, the defendants spent nearly two hours explaining the details to him at the restaurant.”
They claimed he even agreed to the killer clause about bearing all taxes.
“As for the December 5 incident, it was unforeseen. Defendant Oh Yoon-bok merely raised his hand in the air. He had no intention of striking the plaintiff’s daughter, Oh Ye-ji. It only appeared violent because she rushed at him unexpectedly.”
There’s video online showing the whole thing, yet they call this an excuse?
They were underestimating both me and the judge.
“Defendant Oh Yoon-bok cooperated with the police afterward and left quietly. Please take that into account. That is all.”
The judge switched on the mic again.
“The plaintiff and defendants have each stated their claims. The key issue is whether the defendants’ agreement is invalid.”
He looked straight at me.
“Plaintiff, do you have evidence to support your claims?”
“Yes. We submit Exhibits 1 through 7, attached to the complaint.”
Now it was time to present them one by one.
Exhibit 1:
“A recording of a 9:24 a.m. phone call on November 29, where Oh Yoon-ja summoned Oh Yoon-sik.”
Exhibit 2:
“A revised inheritance division agreement. Originally, the defendants tricked the illiterate Oh Yoon-sik into signing a fraudulent version, but his wife, plaintiff Lee Kkot-soon, discovered it and had it corrected.”
It was underlined heavily.
Without her effort, even the land in Bubal-eup—at issue in this lawsuit—wouldn’t have been inherited properly.
“Hold on, Attorney Cha.”
Is he steering the trial himself?
In civil law, when a judge breaks neutrality to ask like this, it’s often an invitation to elaborate.
“Are you saying the defendants deceived the illiterate plaintiff into signing the inheritance division, and his wife corrected it afterward?”
“Yes. The defendants knowingly misled him, despite being aware of his illiteracy.”
The judge’s gaze sharpened.
“Like with the land compensation agreement?”
“Exactly. And this time, they even told him not to inform his wife, so she only learned about it on December 4.”
“Does plaintiff Oh Yoon-sik often do things like this?”
“No. On the contrary, he has always trusted his siblings. He even paid their inheritance taxes on their behalf, and for 23 years never once asked for help with memorial service expenses.”
“…?”
The judge’s expression practically said: That’s not brotherly love—it’s being a pushover.
So I nodded.
Yes. A complete pushover.
