by Young-Ha Kim
Seungtae hesitated but stuck to his story. “There’s the issue of jurisdiction, and even if I tail them, there’s nothing to gain.”
“That’s right, that’s what I meant. You have nothing to win, so my question is, why get caught up in the whole mess?”
Seungtae simply agreed. “Beats me.”
“So you’re going to stick to using the bike for commuting?”
“Yes.”
“If that’s so, it’s too bad.” The chief of security sat down in the swivel chair. “The situation’s changed.”
“What situation?”
“You haven’t heard yet? One of the traffic officers was chasing down a motorcycle crew and hurt his head when he rolled onto the concrete.”
“How bad is it?”
“Not good. Really bad, in fact. He’s still unconscious. He’s having brain surgery as we speak, but he might as well be dead. It seems he was holding on to a motorcycle that was getting away and lost his grip.”
The chief turned the computer monitor toward Seungtae, showing a photo of the injured officer and his personal information. The chief of security said, “You probably know him.”
He was right. Seungtae knew him well. He was a junior colleague of Seungtae’s by four years at the previous station where he had worked. He’d had a weakness for alcohol, but he’d been a responsible cop. Seungtae was invited to his wedding but a work emergency came up so he sent congratulatory money instead. It must have been a shotgun wedding; he heard that they had a baby boy soon after.
“I know him well,” Seungtae said. “He’s got a family too . . .”
“They’ll probably hold an official funeral for him. And if he dies, it will be from injuries sustained while on duty. But it’s terrible. He was only thirty.”
Seungtae rubbed his forehead. “He was a responsible guy.”
“An order came from headquarters. Apprehending the criminals responsible for this is a given, as are crackdowns on the motorcycle gangs.”
“They have to do something, with one of us ending up like this.”
“Headquarters asked for you. Since you were in a magazine, photos and all, they seem to think you’re some kind of expert in this area. They’re probably going to round up a task force.”
“Is this for real?”
“Don’t get too excited,” said the chief of security. “I said it before, but at most you’ll break even when cracking down on these motorcycle crews. The media’s talking about how the authority of the government has plummeted—even teens are laughing at the cops. But if we come on too strong, they’ll see it as abuse of power or reckless violence.”
“So when am I supposed to start?”
“An officer’s about to die and you ask when to start? Right away, you’ll head to this address first.” He slipped a memo to Seungtae. “Now it looks like you can ride that flashy motorcycle all you want.”
Seungtae didn’t respond.
“And get lots of press.”
“First we’ll have to find information on the suspect’s location.”
“How hard can that be? It’ll be Independence Movement Day soon, and if you can’t stop them before then, it’s going to be a real pain.” This day commemorated the national uprising on March 1, 1919, against the Japanese colonial government. But for the police, it was a day when hundreds of motorcycles gathered annually for a pain-in-the-ass wild motorcycle run. People called it the Independence Movement Day Grand Motorcycle Rally.
29
Large group motorcycle runs had existed before Jae showed up. The most well known were the Independence Movement Day and Liberation Day motorcycle rallies. No one knew why the runs happened the night before days related to Japanese colonial rule or who had begun this tradition. All the police cared about was that the runs had started in the early 1990s and had continued every year without fail.
No one welcomed the tradition except the motorcycle crews. They weren’t being secretly funded, and no one offered them any moral support either. Even the intellectuals who yearned for a world governed by “the people” didn’t think of the bikers as “the people.” And the nationalists who despised the Japanese disapproved of the young troublemakers.
The runs didn’t descend into full-blown violence—like rioting or arson, or murder or rape. They did sometimes threaten other drivers who complained, and they heckled pedestrians, but they rarely caused any real damage. The kids just raced all night long, and like guerrilla fighters, played hide-and-seek, trying to elude the sluggish police. They didn’t have a political aim or a slogan. They wanted something extremely simple. A midnight parade, that was all.
At one point the police debated legalizing the runs. They thought that the motorcycle gang’s leader could report upcoming rallies, and with a police escort, the bikers would be permitted to gather within a restricted area of the city and race as much as they wanted.
Even the chief commissioner of the National Police Agency supported this proposal before it came to a dead end. The problem was, no one could find this reputed leader.
At the task force meeting, Seungtae said, “Actually, they kind of have a leader.” He pulled up his PowerPoint slides.
“Have a look at this graph,” he said. “A group of kids called the front guard go out first and block the intersection so no other cars can pass. It’s similar to when our cars control traffic when we’re guarding a VIP. Then their leader shows up, usually swinging a light wand in the air, and heads the parade. The front guard controls traffic until the entire group passes, and then follows them from the back. So they become the rear guard. The leader gets instant updates on police movements while leading a large run, and makes decisions based on what he hears. That means he’s got to have a deep understanding of the city’s layout, not to mention leadership skills and courage.”
“So all we need to do is get this leader or boss, whatever they call it.”
Seungtae nodded at Senior Police Officer Pyo Seokwon. “The problem is, this leader’s incredibly hard to arrest at the actual site. Our patrol cars have to press through the front guard, push all the riders into the center of the road, and then start hunting for the leader within the group. He’ll be the one who rides the best. They’re about two to three times faster than us—and fearless. They act like it’s no big deal if they die. Didn’t they put one of our cops into a coma? And the motorcycle run he was after wasn’t even a big one.”
“It doesn’t look easy.”
“Another thing—the leader often changes. Whoever’s the craziest at the moment ends up being boss. For example, if Rider A leading the group isn’t riding too well, Rider B will show up and push him out. If Rider A’s pushed aside, he’ll retreat to the back without complaint. They’re like male lions in the animal kingdom. They don’t claw and fight each other to death. It’s ‘So you’re a better rider than me? Then you be boss,’ and Rider A will back off.”
“Then they’re not an actual group?”
“That’s right,” said Seungtae. “If they were a real group, we would squeeze from the top and catch them one after the other, but these guys aren’t like that. Meaning, they’re not real gangs. They’re more like a mob, and that makes them hard to bust.”
“So even if we did catch their leader, it’s no use because they won’t follow his orders. If they had a police-escorted parade, or were told they can ride on the Yongin motor racetrack, no one would show up.”
Seungtae carefully studied the other officers on the task force. If they didn’t understand the mindset of the motorcycle gangs now, they never would. Seungtae was used to the state of being physically present but mentally elsewhere. He was skillful enough to hide it, but still it disturbed him like a continual ringing in the ear. At least psychologically, he still had more in common with the motorcycle gangs. Riding motorcycles inspired bonding and kinship. Even if he rode a Harley-Davidson and the kids rode 125cc bikes that were made in China, they were the same people—they all risked their lives to fly through the air.
Those tucked in automobiles protected by seat belts and airbags couldn’t understand what this meant.
Seungtae continued. “That’s right. No one would come because the kids don’t just want to ride—they want to ride dangerously. Why do you think they don’t wear helmets? They’d lose street cred!”
“What if the police stop busting them? Wouldn’t they quit after it stopped being fun?”
Officer Pyo said, “The press would print headlines like LAWLESSNESS IN THE CITY: WHERE ARE THE POLICE?”
Everyone laughed politely.
Seungtae agreed. “You’re right, the kids are the leads and we’re the supporting actors. If we weren’t around, the kids would definitely get bored and stop. But we have to be present. The kids know we have no choice but to show up. When they start a big run, they assume we’ll come. If we pursue them, they escape, and it happens again and again. The only ones who suffer are the young drafted police doing their military service.”
Captain Lee, who had the highest rank on the task force—a supervisor for them all, in a way—sat silently in the corner and chuckled. “Sounds fun. I’d like to ride in a big motorcycle run too.”
He added, “So can’t we keep pace with them and just make sure there are no accidents? They’ll be the ones slammed in the press. We can pick up a reasonable number of them and turn them in right away for traffic violations, and the press can jot down the stats.”
Seungtae pushed back. “That’s what we’ve done till now, but the situation’s changed, as you all know.”
Officer Pyo muttered, “Can we tie them to a fake gang?”
Captain Lee smiled mysteriously and stood up. “Who knows? There could be an organization behind them. All you have to do is draw the right picture.”
The first meeting ended. It was windy when Seungtae stepped outside. As soon as the young drafted officers drinking coffee and smoking saw Seungtae, they retreated. Distraught people hovered with their cell phones in front of the patrol office, and police returning from the field came in one by one.
Seungtae had once briefly worked at the Seoul main office. The endless paperwork bored him and the building’s stale air suffocated him. What he disliked most was that the only people around him were police officers; he’d been no different from any other public servant. An officer fully knows his identity only by encountering the public. When Seungtae was first appointed, the chief of police said to him, “A police officer is the nation, and the phrase ‘police nation’ is a tautology. The nation is the police. We have a monopoly on violence, and with that violence we run the nation.”
No matter how complex the case, a well-trained judicial police officer had to be able to make a one-sentence report. Whether a person had murdered hundreds over decades, or set fire to Namdaemun Gate, Honginmun Gate, and the National Museum of Korea, the report boiled down to that one sentence. When Seungtae first learned how to write these reports at the police academy, no one taught him why a single sentence was important, but now he understood. The one lucid sentence actually told the person under investigation this:
We have no interest in hearing every word of your story or “why you had to do it.” The mess you made can be—and has to be—summarized in one sentence.
Even the police statements were steeped in the mentality of having a legal monopoly on violence. Though the totality of this violence increasingly made Seungtae uncomfortable, he couldn’t pinpoint why. Ironically, he finally and suddenly understood when he was surrounded by protesters at a violent demonstration. Even after the mayhem dissolves and everyone returns home, the police are still there. They might act remorseful for the public, but they don’t actually give in. That’s the nature of the force. At a demonstration rife with lampoonery and mockery, it’s easy to ridicule the police weighed down in riot gear. The police—the nation—is slow but it is also stubborn. It doesn’t forget. By using its collected photos and evidence, it slowly makes you realize who is the ultimate source of violence. So the police force is less like a vampire and more like a zombie. It doesn’t pay attention to what others think. It doesn’t need attention, and doesn’t rely on its charisma. Instead it creeps along tenaciously in pursuit of its goal. And when it goes in for the kill, it jumps in and breaks every bone.
Seungtae knew deep down that a part of him rejected this police mindset. He wanted his charisma to move others to action. But the magic was destroyed as soon as people knew he was a cop. He would brandish all his official power at them, as if getting revenge, then later feel disgusted with himself.
It happened exactly this way when he got Taeju. This kid was more disgusted by than afraid of Seungtae, as if he wasn’t even worth hating. He wasn’t even interested in Seungtae’s Harley. He was only interested in returning as quickly as possible to his friends and his girl. One day Seungtae took Taeju out of the station.
“You don’t want to go to reform school, do you?” asked Seungtae. “Well, it all depends on you.”
He took Taeju to his apartment and, just as his camp teacher had done to him long ago, he handcuffed Taeju from the back and pushed him down. Violence under the guise of legalized violence. Afterward, he gave him coupons—like the ones he’d given his spies. Taeju’s protests had been more muted than he’d expected.
Seungtae said, “I’ll get the theft charge cleared, don’t worry.”
They headed to a bar and ordered fried chicken. When the owner said he couldn’t serve alcohol to minors, Seungtae pulled out his badge. Taeju silently drank his beer and gnawed at a drumstick. Then Seungtae received a text message.
A police officer had confirmed the identity of a motorcycle gang member wanted in connection to the death of the police officer. Now all they had to focus on was Independence Movement Day. Seungtae put away his cell phone and asked Taeju, “Any chance you’ve heard about a guy named Jae?”
Taeju frowned and avoided Seungtae’s eyes. He stayed silent.
“Asshole, you think what a grownup says means nothing? You know him, or not?”
Taeju gazed blankly at him. That look stirred up the shame buried deep inside Seungtae. He bounded up and twisted Taeju’s arms behind his back, which shocked the other customers. Seungtae handcuffed him, and Taeju smirked.
“You’re laughing at me? You asshole, what . . .”
Taeju spit in Seungtae’s face and kicked the chairs over. As the bar erupted in anarchy, the bar owner motioned to call the police.
Seungtae yelled, “Hey, I said I’m a cop!”
The bar owner ignored him and dialed 112. Within minutes, a patrol car arrived. Once the uniformed officer saw the handcuffs on Taeju and Seungtae’s badge, he asked what had happened.
“I was arresting a wanted criminal. Let me finish up here,” he said, speaking informally to show how relaxed he was. But the cop didn’t back off and looked doubtful as he took in the scene. The cop said, “Since it was a 112 call, we have to file a report.”
“Write it the way it happened, that Lieutenant Pak Seungtae had to use force while arresting a wanted man.”
When Seungtae was dragging Taeju out, the bar owner blocked the way. “Sir, the bill . . .”
Seungtae’s face heated up. Taeju cackled mightily, and the departing officer left without saluting Seungtae. Only after he shook off the others did Seungtae swipe the spit off his face.
He said to Taeju, “You asshole. You’re a goner.”
30
Am I evil? Seungtae looked down at Taeju—at his bruised body, handcuffed and collapsed on its side—and stroked his own chest. Seungtae was well built and sculpted by exercise. He was young and fit, and could be with anyone he wanted. So why did it always end with him and a boy? He had been in a number of serious relationships, but he was always left feeling hollow. This emptiness subsided only when his darkest side emerged.
Then Taeju said, “Shit, give me some water. And do something about these handcuffs.”
Seungtae unlocked the cuffs and brought water back from the kitchen. Taeju gulped it down
.
“How are you?” Seungtae asked.
Taeju squinted as if guessing his intent.
“Are you okay?”
Taeju rubbed at his hurt wrist instead of answering.
“If you ever get caught running a light or something, call me. A burglary or attack is tougher.”
“Can I leave now?”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“What was it?”
“About that guy, Jae.”
“Do you know Mokran? The girl who rides a Kawasaki. She’s kind of famous . . . She’s my ex.”
Seungtae wasn’t really interested in the girls. “I don’t know her.”
“She’s dating him, I guess. His crew’s on fire these days.”
“More than yours?”
“They’re smaller in number, but different. You should meet him sometime.” The corners of his lips lifted meaningfully.
“Different? In what way?”
“The fucker’s different. Just one look and you know. Can I go now?”
“Yeah. Next time you get a text from this big brother, don’t ignore it. I’ll get you for that.”
Just before he stepped out of the doorway, Taeju bowed and said, “Thank you for the fucked-up experience. Drive carefully when you’re out at night, you perv.”
He banged the door shut and stomped down the stairs. Seungtae didn’t follow him. He grinned to himself. If Taeju acted like this, there would be no loose ends later. Boys like Taeju had mixed feelings about yielding to violence. They couldn’t separate accepting it as the defeated one, and morally rejecting it. He saw this in the most pathetic ones, who believed if they lost to someone stronger, they had to accept the consequences. It wasn’t that they didn’t want revenge, but they didn’t think they had the right to complain. This was probably why the sexual abuse of boys stayed hidden for so long, or even remained buried forever.
At the balcony, Seungtae saw the late spring snow falling outside. He slid open the glass door, extended his arm toward the chilly snowflakes.