House of Cards

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Eunha’s office door was closed. You, with Kyungsoo behind you, knocked twice. You felt a lump in your throat. The tone she used to ask you to come in was unusual, even for her.

“Come in,” she said from inside a few seconds later.

You and Kyungsoo entered.

The office smelled of coffee, as usual. But today the coffee cup was still full in a corner of the desk, probably cold.

Eunha was standing by the window, her back to you. The gray light of Seoul streamed in, marking her silhouette against the glass. She was wearing her usual tight black skirt, with a long-sleeved white shirt, and her long, perfectly straightened, shiny blonde hair fell freely over her shoulders. Her arms were crossed, the fingers of one hand drumming on the other.

Three years at the firm, and you were sure you’d never seen her like this. She was always sitting in her chair or sipping her coffee somewhere in the office.

In the upper left corner of the ceiling, the television was on. Muted, but on. On the screen, a reporter gestured in front of an official building. The headline read a name next to a man’s photo. Kang Jaewon.

You recognized the name instantly. Anyone who lived in Seoul and was even remotely familiar with the world of finance and politics knew him. Kang Jaewon owned a massive holding company, encompassing everything from real estate investments to stakes in technology firms. A heavyweight who pulled the strings of the country behind the scenes.

Kyungsoo must have recognized him too, because he let out a soft whistle as he sat down in one of the chairs across from Eunha’s desk.

“Hm… fucked up,” he said quietly.

“Sit down,” Eunha said curtly, without turning around.

You sat down next to Kyungsoo. Eunha stood for a few extra seconds, staring out at the street. Then she turned, picked up the TV remote, and unmuted it. The reporter’s voice filled the office.

“…the formal indictment of businessman Kang Jae-won, founder of the Aquarius Group holding company, for alleged crimes of embezzlement, tax evasion, and establishing a network of shell companies based in tax havens. The prosecution, which has been working discreetly on the case for the past eight months, requested pretrial detention this morning, citing a risk of flight and destruction of evidence. Sources close to the case say that…”

Eunha turned the volume down again. The reporter continued gesturing silently. She finally sat down.

You stared at the screen for a moment. Eight months was a long time. Someone within the prosecution must have pulled some serious strings for no one in the industry to find out about it.

“What do they have against him?” Kyungsoo asked, getting straight to the point.

“Damn…” you whispered to yourself.

“That,” Eunha said, nodding her chin at it. “Transfers, emails, server logs, meeting minutes, statements from protected witnesses. They’ve built a solid case. Or at least, it seems solid.”

You reached out, picked up the folder, and opened it to the middle to read a random paragraph.

“These are bank records from…” you frowned, thinking you’d misread. “The Cayman Islands?”

“Yes,” Eunha said.

“How the hell did they get these?” you asked. “That usually takes months of letters.”

“And international cooperation,” Kyungsoo added.

“They’d been working for eight months. Do you think that’s not enough time?”

Kyungsoo took the folder from your hands and quickly flipped through it, turning pages with his thumb.

"My god, It’s a lot of crap,” he said after a few seconds. “All the evidence has the seal of the Southern District Attorney’s Office.

"That’s why you’re here. You’re my best lawyers, and the others are up to their necks in other cases.”

Eunha leaned back in her chair. Her posture relaxed slightly, but you could see the unease in her eyes.

“Miss, I don’t mean to intrude, but…” Kyungsoo closed the folder. “May I ask what your relationship is with Jaewon? Because if we’re going to handle his defense, I need to know if there are any conflicts of interest. If there’s anything that could later affect the firm.”

Eunha looked at him. She didn’t answer for a few seconds.

“He’s my partner. In a business separate from the firm. Investments,” she finally replied in a low voice.

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing of your business.”

Kyungsoo nodded. He didn’t ask any more questions. But you noticed that Eunha was holding the pen too tightly.

“The news says they’ve requested pretrial detention,” you said, nodding your chin at the television. “Do you know which judge is handling the case?”

“Song Jinho is the investigating judge in charge of the pretrial detention,” Eunha retorted, with a hint of disdain. “The same cretin who threw a member of the Democratic Party in jail on frankly flimsy evidence.”

“It could be worse,” you said. “Song Jinho is just unpredictable.”

“That’s dangerous enough for a judge, Calloway,” Kyungsoo said. “Would you say a game of Russian roulette could be worse?”

“Would you choose the possibility of entrusting your brains to chance or having them blown out without question?”

Eunha snorted in annoyance.

“Could you two just shut your mouths?” she spat. “The hearing is tomorrow at nine o’clock, at the Central District Court. What are you going to do?”

Despite all your differences, you and Kyungsoo shared a worried look.

“At nine o’clock?” you asked, incredulous.

“Do you have wax in your ears or what?” Eunha asked back.

“Eunha, there’s no time!” Kyungsoo protested. “We haven’t even spoken to Jaewon!”

“We should contact his lawyers immediately…”

“He doesn’t have lawyers anymore,” Eunha interrupted. “He fired them all and wants you guys.”

Your whole body went cold. Both you and Kyungsoo remained silent, processing this information. Seeing that you weren’t saying anything, Eunha dropped her pen on her desk and straightened up in her seat, arms crossed again.

“You heard the news, he’ll be remanded in custody if the judge considers there’s a risk of flight or destruction of evidence,” Eunha said. “For now, you just need to focus on preventing that from happening. Something to prove otherwise. Anything…” Eunha paused and looked away. “Please.”