The law is a blade. In the wrong hands, it can serve justice or become violence. Prosecutors are among those who wield it, and their core duty is not to serve power but to restrain it. When the blade turns on the public, the state weakens; when it points at power, the rule of law holds.
A recent essay by prosecutor Jeong Jae-in and a special counsel’s request for a 20-year prison term for Park Seong-jae, a former justice minister, are not simply about the length of a sentence. They raise questions about why Korea’s prosecution exists and where the rule of law is headed. This does not prejudge the court’s decision.
Still, the special counsel’s sentencing request, circumstances described in court and the prosecution’s past record invite a renewed look at what prosecutors are meant to do.
The special counsel indicted Park on the grounds that, during a period involving discussion of martial law, he not only failed to carry out a constitutional check but also used the Justice Ministry organization to prepare related steps, and sought a 20-year sentence. When a state considers an extreme use of power such as martial law, what is demanded of lawyers is not technique but conscience. Those who know the law best are expected to guard its boundaries. If legal knowledge is used to make the exercise of power more precise, the law is left with form but loses its spirit.
Martial law is not merely a military measure; it is a last-resort safeguard for the constitutional order. That is why every step must be subject to strict constitutional control. If, as the special counsel alleged, there were reviews of dispatching prosecutors to a joint investigation headquarters, preparations for travel bans and checks on correctional facilities’ capacity, those steps could be read not as routine administration but as advance preparation for exercising power. The concern is that the law may have functioned as a tool to execute power rather than to restrain it.
In the era of military dictatorship, soldiers stood in front and lawyers often handled the cleanup behind them. Today, lawyers can be more than supporting players; at times they help design the structure of power. When illegality is rationalized in legal language, violence can be disguised as order and repression as administration. That is the role often described as a “legal technician” — someone who relies on technique over principle and designs outcomes rather than pursuing justice.
Jeong’s essay drew attention because it targeted that problem. It called for self-reflection not only about individual misconduct but about the legal profession as a whole. He described abuse of authority as the use of public power for private benefit and framed aiding an insurrection not as passive fault but as an issue of active responsibility. His warning about “destroying the law in the name of the law” was presented as more than rhetoric — a caution to Korea’s legal community.
The article also invoked the figures sometimes referred to as the “three stars” of Korea’s legal world — not the job categories of prosecutor, judge and lawyer, but three senior legal leaders after liberation: Gain Kim Byeong-ro, Hwagang Choe Dae-gyo and Paolo Kim Hong-seop. Kim is remembered for building judicial independence, Choe for holding to the principle that prosecutors must not become servants of power, and Kim for rulings that upheld human dignity.
What they shared, the article said, was a refusal to treat law as mere technique. For them, law existed for people, not for power — a matter of conscience rather than a tool for advancement.
The article argued that today’s reality is different. Prosecutors have gained formidable authority, and with it stronger temptations. It cited the pull of political power, ties to capital through the market for former officials, and a tendency to treat cases as career management — factors it said have eroded the profession’s purpose.
It pointed to past cases as examples. The case of former senior prosecutor Kim Gwang-jun involved charges of taking money and valuables from a person linked to an investigation target, exposing ethical problems inside the prosecution. The case of former senior prosecutor Kim Hyeong-jun, described as a “sponsor prosecutor” scandal, also drew controversy and highlighted networks of connections and solicitations. The case of former prosecutor general Jin Gyeong-jun showed how the intersection of capital and power can cloud judgment among legal elites; while some charges were found not guilty, a prison sentence was finalized for other crimes, leaving a deep wound to public trust.
The article said the core issue in such cases is not individual deviation but structural weakness. When prosecutors stand at the crossroads of power and capital and fail to hold the center, the law itself wavers. When the law wavers, people stop believing in justice, and a society that does not believe in justice is ultimately ruled by force.
It also recalled attorney Han Seung-heon, describing him as someone who lived the full arc of a legal career — prosecutor, lawyer, law school professor and defendant. The article said he stood with people rather than power and tried to protect the spirit of the law rather than legal technique, arguing that lawyers are a last line of defense for human dignity.
The article ended with questions: Who do prosecutors exist for — power or the public, money or conscience? It urged prosecutors to return to basics and to the spirit associated with Kim Byeong-ro, Choe Dae-gyo, Kim Hong-seop and Han Seung-heon. It concluded that law is not technique but conscience, and that prosecutors are public servants, not enforcers for those in power.
A recent essay by prosecutor Jeong Jae-in and a special counsel’s request for a 20-year prison term for Park Seong-jae, a former justice minister, are not simply about the length of a sentence. They raise questions about why Korea’s prosecution exists and where the rule of law is headed. This does not prejudge the court’s decision.
Still, the special counsel’s sentencing request, circumstances described in court and the prosecution’s past record invite a renewed look at what prosecutors are meant to do.
The special counsel indicted Park on the grounds that, during a period involving discussion of martial law, he not only failed to carry out a constitutional check but also used the Justice Ministry organization to prepare related steps, and sought a 20-year sentence. When a state considers an extreme use of power such as martial law, what is demanded of lawyers is not technique but conscience. Those who know the law best are expected to guard its boundaries. If legal knowledge is used to make the exercise of power more precise, the law is left with form but loses its spirit.
Martial law is not merely a military measure; it is a last-resort safeguard for the constitutional order. That is why every step must be subject to strict constitutional control. If, as the special counsel alleged, there were reviews of dispatching prosecutors to a joint investigation headquarters, preparations for travel bans and checks on correctional facilities’ capacity, those steps could be read not as routine administration but as advance preparation for exercising power. The concern is that the law may have functioned as a tool to execute power rather than to restrain it.
In the era of military dictatorship, soldiers stood in front and lawyers often handled the cleanup behind them. Today, lawyers can be more than supporting players; at times they help design the structure of power. When illegality is rationalized in legal language, violence can be disguised as order and repression as administration. That is the role often described as a “legal technician” — someone who relies on technique over principle and designs outcomes rather than pursuing justice.
Jeong’s essay drew attention because it targeted that problem. It called for self-reflection not only about individual misconduct but about the legal profession as a whole. He described abuse of authority as the use of public power for private benefit and framed aiding an insurrection not as passive fault but as an issue of active responsibility. His warning about “destroying the law in the name of the law” was presented as more than rhetoric — a caution to Korea’s legal community.
The article also invoked the figures sometimes referred to as the “three stars” of Korea’s legal world — not the job categories of prosecutor, judge and lawyer, but three senior legal leaders after liberation: Gain Kim Byeong-ro, Hwagang Choe Dae-gyo and Paolo Kim Hong-seop. Kim is remembered for building judicial independence, Choe for holding to the principle that prosecutors must not become servants of power, and Kim for rulings that upheld human dignity.
What they shared, the article said, was a refusal to treat law as mere technique. For them, law existed for people, not for power — a matter of conscience rather than a tool for advancement.
The article argued that today’s reality is different. Prosecutors have gained formidable authority, and with it stronger temptations. It cited the pull of political power, ties to capital through the market for former officials, and a tendency to treat cases as career management — factors it said have eroded the profession’s purpose.
It pointed to past cases as examples. The case of former senior prosecutor Kim Gwang-jun involved charges of taking money and valuables from a person linked to an investigation target, exposing ethical problems inside the prosecution. The case of former senior prosecutor Kim Hyeong-jun, described as a “sponsor prosecutor” scandal, also drew controversy and highlighted networks of connections and solicitations. The case of former prosecutor general Jin Gyeong-jun showed how the intersection of capital and power can cloud judgment among legal elites; while some charges were found not guilty, a prison sentence was finalized for other crimes, leaving a deep wound to public trust.
The article said the core issue in such cases is not individual deviation but structural weakness. When prosecutors stand at the crossroads of power and capital and fail to hold the center, the law itself wavers. When the law wavers, people stop believing in justice, and a society that does not believe in justice is ultimately ruled by force.
It also recalled attorney Han Seung-heon, describing him as someone who lived the full arc of a legal career — prosecutor, lawyer, law school professor and defendant. The article said he stood with people rather than power and tried to protect the spirit of the law rather than legal technique, arguing that lawyers are a last line of defense for human dignity.
The article ended with questions: Who do prosecutors exist for — power or the public, money or conscience? It urged prosecutors to return to basics and to the spirit associated with Kim Byeong-ro, Choe Dae-gyo, Kim Hong-seop and Han Seung-heon. It concluded that law is not technique but conscience, and that prosecutors are public servants, not enforcers for those in power.
* This article has been translated by AI.
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