I Hear Your Voice

by Young-Ha Kim

  31

  Though it wasn’t Independence Movement Day yet, flags were everywhere, hanging lifelessly as if spent from the heat. Seungtae climbed into Officer Pyo’s modest Hyundai Accent. When Seungtae had said he would take his Harley there, the captain, unofficial head of the task force, said, “If you come rumbling up, you think the kids will stay put and say, ‘Please, come get me’? ”

  Seungtae was already well known among the motorcycle crews, who called him “the Harley cop.” Since he’d only fine the kids for misdemeanors, they hadn’t been so guarded around him. Some were even pleased to see him. They viewed him as someone who understood biking culture and “at least speaks our language.” But the past few months had changed that. Articles criticizing the motorcycle gangs popped up daily. The officer in a coma died, his organs donated. This didn’t stop the gangs from racing every weekend, so the papers attacked the authorities as incompetent and the online comments criticized the gangs: send them to the slammer or to military service, get them with a net, use guns on them; even send them to North Korea. The motorcycle gangs were one of the few groups that the entire public could loathe together. In the day, people complained if their Chinese food was delivered a few minutes late, and at night, they cursed the bikers for ignoring the laws and creating chaos.

  Seungtae often used his spies to arrest the kids during motorcycle rallies, but public opinion was so low that the sacrifice of a few victims wouldn’t be enough. The higher-ups in the federal court and the police force wanted to hand over real numbers to the press. No one cared what happened to the kids post-arrest. As crackdowns continued, the gangs began keeping their distance from Seungtae; it had been a long time since they had eaten instant ramen together and swapped jokes. The climax of it all would be Independence Movement Day.

  That day Jae’s name became famous in the biking world. Taeju was in Seungtae’s grip and relatively tame on the bike, but Jae’s group came storming out. The police defense line around the Mapo and Yongsan districts collapsed. The riding that had started at midnight kept on until dawn; callers flooded the 112 emergency hotline with complaints.

  Seungtae had first seen Jae the night before Independence Movement Day. Seungtae had been driving the Accent, disguised as one of the cars that followed the motorcycle rallies. He cut into their ranks, but he didn’t make it to the front, so at first he failed to catch sight of Jae. But as soon as he radioed in and ordered patrol cars to block the group, Jae reversed direction. The leader’s yellow baton and long hair were an immediate tip-off.

  “That one must be Jae,” Seungtae muttered.

  As Taeju promised, he had recognized him right away.

  He could tell Jae was tall even on his motorcycle, and with his hair flying behind him he looked like a general on a horse. He skillfully handled the 125cc Honda one-handed and his gaze swept over the area. Officer Pyo took dozens of photos with a zoom lens, but it was too dark and the riders were moving quickly; the images looked like blurry phantoms. Still, Jae made a deep impression on Seungtae. He knew that if they met again, he would immediately recognize the kid. As Taeju had promised, Jae was different from the others. He seemed to float calmly in the saddle. His emaciated body, tattered coat, and messy hair suited the motorcycle, and his way of leading the group was cool-headed and intelligent.

  “So the celebrity’s shown up on a bike,” said Officer Pyo. “The little piece of shit.”

  Seungtae regretted not pursuing and busting Jae earlier. Messages from his spies continued coming in. “They say he showed up in the Seodaemun district last night” and “Jae’s said to have wiped out the whole Wangsimni neighborhood.”

  When tip-offs arrived in the morning, the information was useless—too late and lacking credibility. It was hard not to laugh at a report from a second-generation CEO’s kid rebelling by riding with motorcycle crews. In any case when Seungtae added up the information, it looked like Jae didn’t have an official job anywhere, so it wasn’t going to be easy to find him. And even if Seungtae did, what could he pin on him? He had no choice but to catch Jae red-handed.

  Seungtae had searched online forums for a few days, but he didn’t find much. A forum would pop up right before a motorcycle rally but get taken down just after, and most were written in indecipherable slang and code. His spies said that the most essential information, such as time and place, was communicated by text on the day of the rally.

  He made little progress in tracking down Jae before Liberation Day, August 15, until trouble broke out at an unexpected location. Around the end of June, local police from Suwon had hauled in a gang of teenagers who had been fighting. The few officers present in the cramped local station struggled to subdue the two groups, who were punching each other. Once peace was established and the kids were called in and threatened into writing reports, the police heard an uproar outside. They stepped out, assuming they’d find a car accident, then fled back, but it was too late. Some motorcycle gang members carrying lumber and steel pipes forced their way into the station. While the frightened police scrambled to get away, the perpetrators escaped on their bikes, along with the original group in custody.

  The next day the press printed articles with headlines like TEENAGERS SCORN AUTHORITY ALL THE WAY UP TO THE LOCAL POLICE STATION, borrowing from movies with titles such as Assault on Precinct 13. Based on information they had already collected on the gang’s whereabouts, the police managed to round up some of the aggressors.

  All of them said the same thing: “Talk to Jae.”

  Seungtae examined a security camera file of the attack collected through the police computer network. It was definitely Jae from Independence Movement Day. He hadn’t entered the station, but had silently watched as his guys created havoc, and casually slipped away as soon as the assault ended.

  Watching the screen, Pyo remarked, “We could probably get him on a preliminary warrant.”

  “But we don’t know where he is right now.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Now we can even get him for obstructing official duty, down to committing violent crime.”

  “Not we can get him, but we will get him. I mean, he’s a total psychopath. They’re not an activist group demonstrating, like in ’88. They had the nerve to hit up a police station.”

  It was simple math that taught them that the group was usually active in Suwon, so more resources were allocated to the satellite city after the attack. It looked as if they would catch their target. But the case wasn’t wrapped up as easily as Seungtae had expected. First, Jae himself was difficult to track down. No one knew where he’d turn up, outside of the large motorcycle rallies. The fact that he had even appeared in Suwon meant that he could be anywhere on the outskirts of Seoul—from Euijeongbu to Ilsan. Worse, after the attack, Jae became a legend. Rumors that he had planned the police station raid spread like wildfire within motorcycle circles. Jae had first started gaining a reputation on Independence Movement Day, and now essentially acquired a brilliant halo.

  Still, each kid they caught said the same thing about Jae: “I said I don’t know! Everyone just calls him Jae.”

  They raided Jae’s former sleeping quarters (discovered through the kids’ tip-offs), but they only managed to terrify a bunch of sleeping girls and boys.

  Officer Pyo, who’d listened to Seungtae’s complaints, said casually, “Maybe the asshole’s a spy.” How about sending a notice out on the police intranet system? Who knows? Someone could have once put him in reform school or something. It’s not like we have to prove ourselves by catching him, as long as we stop the big rally on Liberation Day.”

  Few organizations guard their information or are as uncooperative with each other as the police. It’s common for police station A to pursue a criminal, and for station B to catch and release him, so when Captain Lee said that he would summarize the file they had on Jae and upload it onto the intranet system, Seungtae didn’t expect much. But soon enough someone called Seungtae’s office phone.

  A
man said, “I know a little about this Jae kid.”

  From his tone, Seungtae guessed that the man was an old hand in their field. Seungtae said, “Would you mind telling me which division you’re from?”

  After telling Seungtae which station he was based at, and his position, he said, “Sir, I’ll come to you.”

  Seungtae added politely, “No, I’ve got business around Seoul Station. Will you be in this afternoon?”

  32

  Officer Pyo stirred in his seat. “Will we have a helicopter today? They said no, didn’t they?”

  It was a sweltering day and the sewers stank.

  Seungtae sighed. “The answer’s no. They just don’t get it. No matter how many times you tell them you can’t follow the rally’s path without a helicopter, guys at headquarters smirk and say, ‘You want to send a helicopter late at night chasing after a bunch of bitches on motorcycles? You think this is Los Angeles?’ Assholes.”

  Seungtae had guessed they’d respond that way. But today’s motorcycle rally was different from previous ones. You got an idea of how big it would be from watching the numbers rise and fall on the rally’s online forums. Even Seungtae’s spies seemed excited. Like soccer fans anticipating the World Cup every four years, the motorcycle gangs eagerly awaited the rally. The difference was that no one knew when a “genuine” gigantic motorcycle rally would happen. But word was quickly spreading that the upcoming Liberation Day might be the big day that all the gangs had been waiting for.

  “How many do you think will show up?” Pyo fiddled with a camera.

  “How many do you think?” Seungtae asked back.

  “I’m guessing around five hundred?” Pyo looked as if he might have overshot.

  “Multiply that by ten.”

  “Five thousand? Hey, that’s taking it too far.”

  “Just watch. You’ll know why I said we absolutely need a helicopter.”

  What would five thousand motorcycles sound like? Seungtae had never seen such a sight. And what if the motorcycles were customized to be even more deafening during the rally? The thought excited him as someone who rode a bike, even if he had to maneuver through them to arrest the leader and disband the ranks. The motorcycle was inferior to the automobile—no matter how classy your bike, it was a second-class citizen on the road. You could say that the only time this order was reversed was during a major motorcycle rally, but each time it was Seungtae’s fate to be opposing it. As soon as he thought this, he could hardly bear the stocky detectives’ stifling Hyundai Accent. Their breath smelled of cigarettes and spicy beef soup; and the air conditioner couldn’t handle the midsummer heat, the four men’s body heat, and the boiling asphalt.

  Seungtae grabbed his walkie-talkie and checked on the progress. It was nine in the evening and there was no sign of movement yet. In the alleys he saw kids smoking by their motorcycles, and though he knew what they were waiting for, he couldn’t do anything about it—not yet. He felt his powerlessness, and for him this emotion inevitably grew into self-hatred. He struggled to escape the sordid muddiness of his feelings. Only violence could expel the inner darkness.

  Seungtae reassured everyone. “It’s going to be an incredible night.”

  He rolled down the window and let in the humid heat, which flicked across his cheek like a cow’s tongue.

  “I can’t take it anymore,” he said, and lurched out of the car. “I’ll go on my own. It’s too suffocating in here.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’ll get my Harley from the station.”

  Pyo, annoyed that the cool air was seeping from the car, slammed the door shut.

  33

  August 14, 10 p.m. Traffic had thinned, and downtown Seoul was quiet, but moving. Most traffic cops, even those who were off duty, had been mobilized. After they set up barricades at checkpoints on the Han River’s bridges, they began inspections. The crews that came on the state roads from the cities of Suwon, Anyang, Uijongbu, Gunpo, Uiwang, Pyeongtaek, Yangpyeong, and Paju were on standby in Yongsan, Mapo, Gangnam, Seocho, Guro, Ttukseom, and Wangsimni. There was no sign of the press; they made a fuss only after a motorcycle rally ended. Though they knew the rally was an annual event, the media didn’t assign reporters to cover it and instead sent them to police headquarters the next morning for a briefing—and then they wrote up short articles. The night before Liberation Day, a few junior reporters chose to write about the tense preparations as well as about their buddies in the force, but that was voluntary.

  If as many as fifty students or citizens gathered, cameras crowded in. These people stayed in the same spot—their main interest to get the attention of the middle class—and they were photogenic with their picket signs, and candles. They chanted slogans together. In contrast, the motorcycle crews were hard to keep up with. It wasn’t easy to take a shot of a motorcycle racing by late at night, since the photographer had to also sit precariously on a motorcycle and somehow take photos with the appropriate exposure and shutter speed. The night before Liberation Day, the motorcycle crews and the police felt the tension building, but the general public had no clue about what was going on.

  Seungtae was at a gas station, waiting for a green light, when heavy engine sounds from behind startled him. Over a hundred deluxe motorcycles were slowing down at a pelican crossing. Their riders were over forty years old and wore expensive leather jackets, boots, and knee guards. Seungtae was familiar with this kind of motorcycle club, which usually assembled on weekend mornings and went for drives nearby to Yangpyeong or Chungju. They rarely gathered at night, generally stayed in one lane, obeyed traffic lights, and were careful drivers.

  Their engines revved up as soon as the light turned green. Seungtae kept up with them as he rode, his Harley blending in with theirs. Though he knew where they were headed, he followed quietly. They passed the Gongdeok neighborhood, where the Hankyoreh newspaper building stood on a hill, then raced toward Seoul Station. The police waiting at the roadside didn’t attempt to restrain them, and some of them even waved. The bikers stopped in front of the War Memorial Museum in the Yongsan district and parked. Some smoked, others got instant coffee from a vending machine. Seungtae recognized a few of them when they took off their helmets.

  “So we meet here,” he said as he approached a young dermatologist who worked in the Apkujeong neighborhood.

  “Ah, Lieutenant Pak, when did you arrive? I didn’t see you when we took off.”

  “Yes, well . . . that . . .”

  “This is the life, riding in the city at night. How have you been these days?”

  “You know, the same as always,” he replied.

  The leader soon approached the group, carrying coffee and talking on his cell phone. When he saw Seungtae, the businessman who owned a golf gear store near Nambu Bus Terminal looked pleased. He slipped the cell phone into his pocket and said, “You came! We were just going to handle it on our own.”

  “I happened to be passing by and . . .”

  “Sure, just passing by.” The leader continued. “The text I got a while back said we’re going to start around midnight. We’ll head over as soon as we get the location. We’ll stick close to them from the back, then cut through them like bamboo, force our way into the center of the rally, and divide them in half. Those shits’ll be freaked out just hearing our engines from behind.”

  He added that the police had to consider human rights and all that, so their speed and mobility suffered and they couldn’t get to the rallies on time. If they didn’t do it, it just wouldn’t happen. This time they had to correct the kids’ bad habits once and for all.

  The other club members were nearly frothing at the mouth. Seungtae had always known that they were the teenage motorcycle gangs’ greatest enemies. To them, the gangs were evil—they habitually ruined any clean-cut image of biking culture. For years these older bikers had lobbied for touring motorcycles with greater horsepower to legally ride on highways—common in Europe and the United States—but they hadn’t gotten it pas
t the front door of the National Assembly precisely because of the motorcycle gangs. National Assembly members didn’t even consider passing the bill because the press on bikers was so bad.

  If you wanted to change the law, you had to make that change possible.

  The motorcycle club members understood the media message. These overeducated Jekylls started riding motorcycles precisely because it was dangerous, but now they had to prove their law-abiding spirit and awareness of safety. To do that, they had to kill the Hyde dormant within them. Most of these middle-aged fans of motorcycles converted because they hated the comfort of the automobile. They set themselves apart by treating their peers as snobs who sank into plush leather car seats and valued their seat belts and airbags. When these bikers wrapped bandanas around their heads and went for a drive in the suburbs, they looked down at those in cars. For they believed themselves to be real men, wild at heart. Their nagging wives, saying, You’ve got to stop, it’s too dangerous! only boosted their macho pride. Their narcissism was as solid as a wall until they encountered a bunch of helmetless teenagers in cheap slippers zooming through the city. So they became enraged each time the motorcycle gangs made headlines because the gangs’ very existence made these older bikers look like the conservative snobs. One could say they had assembled the night before Liberation Day in order to restore their image. But now, faced with a massive motorcycle rally, they were as excited as the teenage crews. Behind the pretense of guiding the teenagers and establishing a healthy motorcycling culture, they were actually thrilled to use their “babies” as weapons while the police looked the other way.

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