The law is a blade. In the wrong hands, it can serve justice or become violence. Prosecutors are among those who wield it. Their core role is not to serve power but to restrain it. When the blade turns on the public, the state weakens; when it is directed at power, the rule of law holds.
A recent argument by prosecutor Jeong Jae-in and the special prosecutor’s request for a 20-year prison term for defendant Park Seong-jae, a former justice minister, is not simply about the length of a sentence. It raises questions about what Korea’s prosecution service is for and where the rule of law is headed. This does not prejudge the court’s decision.
Still, the special prosecutor’s sentencing request, circumstances aired in court and the prosecution’s track record invite a renewed look at what prosecutors are supposed to do.
The special prosecutor indicted Park on the grounds that during a period involving discussion of martial law, he not only failed to fulfill a constitutional oversight role but also used the Justice Ministry organization to prepare related measures, and sought a 20-year prison term. 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 instead to refine the execution of power, the law is left with form but loses its spirit.
Martial law is not, at its core, 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 prosecutor alleged, there were reviews of dispatching prosecutors to a joint investigation headquarters, preparations for travel bans and checks on correctional facilities’ capacity, such steps could be read not as routine administration but as advance preparation for exercising power. The concern is that the law may have functioned not as a check on power but as a tool to carry it out.
In past military dictatorships, soldiers stood in front and lawyers often handled the cleanup. Today, the structure can look different: lawyers may no longer be supporting players and can at times help design how power is exercised. When illegality is rationalized in legal language, violence can be disguised as order and repression as administration. That is the role the article describes as a “legal technician” — someone who relies on technique over the law’s purpose, and designs outcomes rather than pursuing justice.
Jeong’s argument resonated because it targeted that problem. It called for reflection not only on individual misconduct but on 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 responsibility but as an active one. 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 points to figures often cited as models in Korea’s legal history: Kim Byeong-ro, Choe Dae-gyo and Kim Hong-seop. Kim is remembered for establishing judicial independence, Choe for holding to the principle that prosecutors must not become servants of power, and Kim for rulings that upheld human dignity in court.
It argues that their common thread was a belief that law is not merely a technique. In that view, law exists for people, not for power, and is a matter of conscience rather than a tool for advancement.
By contrast, the article says, today’s prosecution service holds vast authority, and the temptations surrounding that authority have grown. It cites 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 says have damaged the profession’s purpose.
It points to past cases as examples: the case involving former senior prosecutor Kim Gwang-jun, indicted on allegations of taking money and valuables from a person connected to an investigation; the so-called “sponsor prosecutor” case involving former senior prosecutor Kim Hyeong-jun, which drew controversy and highlighted networks of ties and solicitation; and the case involving former prosecutor general Jin Gyeong-jun, which the article says showed how the intersection of capital and power can cloud judgment among legal elites. It notes that some charges in Jin’s case were found not guilty, but that a prison sentence was finalized for other crimes, leaving a deep blow to public trust.
The article argues these are not simply individual lapses but structural problems. When prosecutors stand at the intersection of power and capital and fail to hold the center, the law itself is shaken. When the law is shaken, the public loses faith in justice, and a society that does not believe in justice is ultimately ruled by force.
It also recalls attorney Han Seung-heon, describing him as someone who lived the full arc of a legal career as a lawyer, law school professor and defendant. It says he stood with people rather than power and sought 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 ends with questions it says prosecutors must face: Who do they exist for — power or the public? Money or conscience? It calls on prosecutors to return to fundamentals, arguing that law is conscience and that prosecutors are public servants, not enforcers for those in power.
A recent argument by prosecutor Jeong Jae-in and the special prosecutor’s request for a 20-year prison term for defendant Park Seong-jae, a former justice minister, is not simply about the length of a sentence. It raises questions about what Korea’s prosecution service is for and where the rule of law is headed. This does not prejudge the court’s decision.
Still, the special prosecutor’s sentencing request, circumstances aired in court and the prosecution’s track record invite a renewed look at what prosecutors are supposed to do.
The special prosecutor indicted Park on the grounds that during a period involving discussion of martial law, he not only failed to fulfill a constitutional oversight role but also used the Justice Ministry organization to prepare related measures, and sought a 20-year prison term. 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 instead to refine the execution of power, the law is left with form but loses its spirit.
Martial law is not, at its core, 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 prosecutor alleged, there were reviews of dispatching prosecutors to a joint investigation headquarters, preparations for travel bans and checks on correctional facilities’ capacity, such steps could be read not as routine administration but as advance preparation for exercising power. The concern is that the law may have functioned not as a check on power but as a tool to carry it out.
In past military dictatorships, soldiers stood in front and lawyers often handled the cleanup. Today, the structure can look different: lawyers may no longer be supporting players and can at times help design how power is exercised. When illegality is rationalized in legal language, violence can be disguised as order and repression as administration. That is the role the article describes as a “legal technician” — someone who relies on technique over the law’s purpose, and designs outcomes rather than pursuing justice.
Jeong’s argument resonated because it targeted that problem. It called for reflection not only on individual misconduct but on 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 responsibility but as an active one. 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 points to figures often cited as models in Korea’s legal history: Kim Byeong-ro, Choe Dae-gyo and Kim Hong-seop. Kim is remembered for establishing judicial independence, Choe for holding to the principle that prosecutors must not become servants of power, and Kim for rulings that upheld human dignity in court.
It argues that their common thread was a belief that law is not merely a technique. In that view, law exists for people, not for power, and is a matter of conscience rather than a tool for advancement.
By contrast, the article says, today’s prosecution service holds vast authority, and the temptations surrounding that authority have grown. It cites 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 says have damaged the profession’s purpose.
It points to past cases as examples: the case involving former senior prosecutor Kim Gwang-jun, indicted on allegations of taking money and valuables from a person connected to an investigation; the so-called “sponsor prosecutor” case involving former senior prosecutor Kim Hyeong-jun, which drew controversy and highlighted networks of ties and solicitation; and the case involving former prosecutor general Jin Gyeong-jun, which the article says showed how the intersection of capital and power can cloud judgment among legal elites. It notes that some charges in Jin’s case were found not guilty, but that a prison sentence was finalized for other crimes, leaving a deep blow to public trust.
The article argues these are not simply individual lapses but structural problems. When prosecutors stand at the intersection of power and capital and fail to hold the center, the law itself is shaken. When the law is shaken, the public loses faith in justice, and a society that does not believe in justice is ultimately ruled by force.
It also recalls attorney Han Seung-heon, describing him as someone who lived the full arc of a legal career as a lawyer, law school professor and defendant. It says he stood with people rather than power and sought 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 ends with questions it says prosecutors must face: Who do they exist for — power or the public? Money or conscience? It calls on prosecutors to return to fundamentals, arguing that law is conscience and that prosecutors are public servants, not enforcers for those in power.
* This article has been translated by AI.
Copyright ⓒ Aju Press All rights reserved.