The law is a sword. However, depending on whose hand it is in, it can represent justice or violence. The prosecutor is the one wielding that sword. Therefore, the essence of a prosecutor's role is not to serve power but to control it. When the tip of that sword is directed at the people, the state becomes ill; when it is directed at power, the rule of law is revived.
The 20-year prison sentence sought by Special Prosecutor Jeong Jae-in for former Minister Park Sung-jae is not merely a matter of sentencing. It raises questions about the very existence of the South Korean prosecution and serves as a litmus test for the direction of the rule of law. This is not an attempt to predict the outcome of the trial.
Rather, through the special prosecutor's demands, the circumstances revealed in court, and the trajectory of the South Korean prosecution, we seek to revisit the essence of the prosecutor's role.
The special prosecutor charged former Minister Park with failing to fulfill his constitutional oversight role during a state of emergency and for preparing related measures through the Ministry of Justice, seeking a 20-year prison sentence. At a moment when the extreme exercise of state power, such as martial law, was being discussed, what is required of a legal professional is not technical skill but conscience. Those who know the law best must uphold its boundaries. If legal knowledge is instead used as a tool to refine the execution of power, then the law retains only its form while its spirit disappears.
The essence of martial law is not a military measure; it is the last safeguard of constitutional order. Therefore, all processes dealing with it must be subject to strict constitutional control. However, if the special prosecutor's claims are true—such as reviewing the dispatch of prosecutors to a joint investigation headquarters, preparing for travel bans, and assessing the capacity of correctional facilities—these actions could be interpreted not as mere administrative responses but as preemptive arrangements for the exercise of power. The issue is the possibility that the law functions not as a mechanism to check power but as a tool to execute it.
In the past, during military dictatorship, soldiers took the forefront while legal professionals played a supporting role. However, the dynamics of today's power structure may differ. Legal professionals are no longer mere supporting actors; they sometimes occupy positions that design the structure of power. The moment they rationalize illegality with the language of law, violence is disguised as order, and oppression as administration. This is when the so-called 'legal technicians' emerge—those who rely on technique rather than the spirit of the law, who design outcomes rather than justice.
The resonance of Prosecutor Jeong Jae-in's argument stems precisely from this point. His argument calls for self-reflection not just from individual deviations but from the entire legal community. He defined abuse of power as the exercise of public authority for private gain and elevated the issue of complicity in insurrection from passive to active responsibility. In particular, his warning against “the act of destroying the law in the name of the law” is not mere rhetoric but a wake-up call for the South Korean legal community.
Here, we cannot help but recall the archetype of the legal profession. The term 'legal trinity' we speak of is not merely the professions of prosecutor, judge, and lawyer. It refers to three figures who guided the South Korean legal profession toward righteousness after liberation: Kim Byeong-ro, Choi Gyeong-taek, and Kim Hong-seob. Kim Byeong-ro was a figure who embodied judicial independence, Choi Gyeong-taek upheld the principle that the prosecution should not be a servant of power, and Kim Hong-seob is remembered for his rulings that protected human dignity in the courtroom.
Their commonality is clear: they did not view the law as a technique. They believed that the law is for humanity, not for power. For them, the law was not a means to success but a form of conscience.
However, today's reality is far from this. The prosecution has gained immense power, but the temptations surrounding that power have also increased. The intertwining with political power, connections with capital through former officials, and viewing cases as tools for career management have all undermined the essence of the prosecutor's role.
Actual cases illustrate this. The case of former chief prosecutor Kim Gwang-jun, who was indicted for receiving money from individuals related to the investigation, revealed ethical issues within the prosecution. The so-called 'sponsor prosecutor' case involving former chief prosecutor Kim Hyung-jun also caused controversy, exposing the connections and solicitation structures within the prosecutor community. The case of former prosecutor Jin Gyeong-jun demonstrated how the combination of capital and power can cloud the judgment of legal elites, leaving deep scars on social trust, even as some charges were acquitted while others resulted in confirmed prison sentences for different crimes.
The essence of these cases is not individual deviation; it is a structural problem. When the profession of prosecutor stands at the intersection of power and capital, failing to maintain its center causes the law to waver. When the law wavers, the people lose faith in justice, and a society that does not believe in justice is ultimately governed by the logic of power.
Thus, we recall lawyer Han Seung-heon. He lived the full life of a legal professional as a prosecutor, lawyer, law school professor, and defendant. He stood with humanity rather than power and sought to uphold the spirit of the law rather than its technique. His life speaks to us: a legal professional is not a tool of power but the last line of defense for human dignity.
For whom do prosecutors exist? For power or for the people? For money or for conscience?
Prosecutors, return to the basics. Return to the spirit left by the legal trinity. We must return to the courage of Kim Byeong-ro, who did not bow before power; the restraint of Choi Gyeong-taek, who upheld the conscience of the prosecution; the warmth of Kim Hong-seob, who protected human dignity; and the human rights spirit of Han Seung-heon.
The law is not a technique. The law is conscience. Prosecutors are not the sword of power but the servants of the people. A prosecutor who loses this fundamental truth, no matter how high they rise, is not a legal professional. A prosecutor who upholds this truth, even in an unnamed position, is already at the center of the law.
The 20-year prison sentence sought by Special Prosecutor Jeong Jae-in for former Minister Park Sung-jae is not merely a matter of sentencing. It raises questions about the very existence of the South Korean prosecution and serves as a litmus test for the direction of the rule of law. This is not an attempt to predict the outcome of the trial.
Rather, through the special prosecutor's demands, the circumstances revealed in court, and the trajectory of the South Korean prosecution, we seek to revisit the essence of the prosecutor's role.
The special prosecutor charged former Minister Park with failing to fulfill his constitutional oversight role during a state of emergency and for preparing related measures through the Ministry of Justice, seeking a 20-year prison sentence. At a moment when the extreme exercise of state power, such as martial law, was being discussed, what is required of a legal professional is not technical skill but conscience. Those who know the law best must uphold its boundaries. If legal knowledge is instead used as a tool to refine the execution of power, then the law retains only its form while its spirit disappears.
The essence of martial law is not a military measure; it is the last safeguard of constitutional order. Therefore, all processes dealing with it must be subject to strict constitutional control. However, if the special prosecutor's claims are true—such as reviewing the dispatch of prosecutors to a joint investigation headquarters, preparing for travel bans, and assessing the capacity of correctional facilities—these actions could be interpreted not as mere administrative responses but as preemptive arrangements for the exercise of power. The issue is the possibility that the law functions not as a mechanism to check power but as a tool to execute it.
In the past, during military dictatorship, soldiers took the forefront while legal professionals played a supporting role. However, the dynamics of today's power structure may differ. Legal professionals are no longer mere supporting actors; they sometimes occupy positions that design the structure of power. The moment they rationalize illegality with the language of law, violence is disguised as order, and oppression as administration. This is when the so-called 'legal technicians' emerge—those who rely on technique rather than the spirit of the law, who design outcomes rather than justice.
The resonance of Prosecutor Jeong Jae-in's argument stems precisely from this point. His argument calls for self-reflection not just from individual deviations but from the entire legal community. He defined abuse of power as the exercise of public authority for private gain and elevated the issue of complicity in insurrection from passive to active responsibility. In particular, his warning against “the act of destroying the law in the name of the law” is not mere rhetoric but a wake-up call for the South Korean legal community.
Here, we cannot help but recall the archetype of the legal profession. The term 'legal trinity' we speak of is not merely the professions of prosecutor, judge, and lawyer. It refers to three figures who guided the South Korean legal profession toward righteousness after liberation: Kim Byeong-ro, Choi Gyeong-taek, and Kim Hong-seob. Kim Byeong-ro was a figure who embodied judicial independence, Choi Gyeong-taek upheld the principle that the prosecution should not be a servant of power, and Kim Hong-seob is remembered for his rulings that protected human dignity in the courtroom.
Their commonality is clear: they did not view the law as a technique. They believed that the law is for humanity, not for power. For them, the law was not a means to success but a form of conscience.
However, today's reality is far from this. The prosecution has gained immense power, but the temptations surrounding that power have also increased. The intertwining with political power, connections with capital through former officials, and viewing cases as tools for career management have all undermined the essence of the prosecutor's role.
Actual cases illustrate this. The case of former chief prosecutor Kim Gwang-jun, who was indicted for receiving money from individuals related to the investigation, revealed ethical issues within the prosecution. The so-called 'sponsor prosecutor' case involving former chief prosecutor Kim Hyung-jun also caused controversy, exposing the connections and solicitation structures within the prosecutor community. The case of former prosecutor Jin Gyeong-jun demonstrated how the combination of capital and power can cloud the judgment of legal elites, leaving deep scars on social trust, even as some charges were acquitted while others resulted in confirmed prison sentences for different crimes.
The essence of these cases is not individual deviation; it is a structural problem. When the profession of prosecutor stands at the intersection of power and capital, failing to maintain its center causes the law to waver. When the law wavers, the people lose faith in justice, and a society that does not believe in justice is ultimately governed by the logic of power.
Thus, we recall lawyer Han Seung-heon. He lived the full life of a legal professional as a prosecutor, lawyer, law school professor, and defendant. He stood with humanity rather than power and sought to uphold the spirit of the law rather than its technique. His life speaks to us: a legal professional is not a tool of power but the last line of defense for human dignity.
For whom do prosecutors exist? For power or for the people? For money or for conscience?
Prosecutors, return to the basics. Return to the spirit left by the legal trinity. We must return to the courage of Kim Byeong-ro, who did not bow before power; the restraint of Choi Gyeong-taek, who upheld the conscience of the prosecution; the warmth of Kim Hong-seob, who protected human dignity; and the human rights spirit of Han Seung-heon.
The law is not a technique. The law is conscience. Prosecutors are not the sword of power but the servants of the people. A prosecutor who loses this fundamental truth, no matter how high they rise, is not a legal professional. A prosecutor who upholds this truth, even in an unnamed position, is already at the center of the law.
※ This article was generated using generative AI and has been reviewed by an editor.
* This article has been translated by AI.
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