A Civil War in South Korea’s Prosecutor’s Office

South Korean prosecutors are known for their loyalty to one another, whether in or out of office. As former chief prosecutor, South Korea’s President Yoon Suk-yeol still pulls strings with the prosecutor’s office. He packed his administration with career prosecutors, bulletproofing his own clique from investigation and making it easy to dig up dirt on his political foes.

The April general elections delivered a verdict on this practice, among many others. The ruling conservative People Power Party (PPP) won only 108 out of 300 National Assembly seats. In the next legislative session, the liberal camp is raring to curtail prosecutors’ political influence by depriving the prosecutor’s office of investigative authority, which is frequently abused to target political nemeses.

They also plan on passing – again, because Yoon vetoed it last year – a bill for a special counsel to look into First Lady Kim Keon-hee. She was implicated in a stock manipulation scheme; separately, Kim allegedly pocketed a pricey cosmetics set and a designer handbag from an acquaintance in return for political favors. With Yoon breathing down their necks, however, prosecutors didn’t dare to investigate her.

A special counsel could find fault not only with Kim but also with the negligent prosecutors, adding momentum to the need for prosecutorial reform.

Amid these developments, an existential crisis swept through the prosecutors’ ranks. They dread losing their omnipotent investigative power, which inspires terror among politicians.

Since 1987, when the dictatorship ended, prosecutors have been more powerful than elected presidents and politicians. They threaten and tweak investigations to make politicians malleable and guard their interests. Nobody dared to touch their dual power of investigation and indictment. (In most developed democracies, prosecutors either don’t have full authority for investigation or have limited capacity and personnel, prompting transparency and collaboration among different agencies.)

Now that prosecutors face being reduced to “the office of indictment,” some of them ganged up on Chief Prosecutor Lee Won-seok to stop shielding Kim. The prosecutor’s office couldn’t dally anymore.

The chief of Seoul District Prosecutor’s Office, Song Kyung-ho, notified the presidential office that they might eventually have to subpoena Kim for her involvement in the stock manipulation case. Then, Chief Prosecutor Lee assigned a team to investigate Kim’s Dior pouch controversy. He announced to the press that they “will investigate swiftly and impartially based solely on evidence and legal principles.”

Yoon bristled. On May 13, the Justice Ministry ordered an abrupt personnel reshuffling within the prosecutor’s office. (In South Korea, only the president can appoint and change prosecutors based on the justice minister’s recommendations.)

Song is being sent away to Busan, far from Seoul. All high-ranking prosecutors working under Song to investigate the first lady are being packed off to the countryside. To straightjacket Lee, the ministry also replaced his advising staff. Such unplanned, massive personnel changes are unheard of.

A great schism appeared in the prosecutorial establishment between those still attached to Yoon and those calling for sensible detachment. It’s a rare divide for South Korean prosecutors, a tight-knit pack bound by strict hierarchy and loyalty. Further tension lies ahead as the new chief of the Seoul District Prosecutor’s Office, Lee Chang-soo, used to be Yoon’s right hand when the president was chief prosecutor. Together, they will try to protect Kim at all costs.

Rather than accepting the public demand for equity, Yoon is merely bolstering his phalanx to fend off the liberal camp’s attempt at justice. He’s also forcing the prosecutors to make a choice: Protect the government or go to the countryside.

If the prosecutors can’t do their job properly, Kim will remain untouchable. Only a special counsel could move forward, but Yoon will veto any such bill again.

Still, the noose is tightening around his neck. With his approval rating at 24 percent, a record low for Yoon, some PPP legislators concerned about their political viability after Yoon’s term are willing to cast dissenting votes against the president. Even Yoon supporters and conservative newspapers are aghast at Yoon’s unvarnished abuse of presidential power to personalize the prosecutor’s office. At least before, he hadn’t been this obvious.

The liberal camp, with their 192 National Assembly seats, needs just eight PPP nonconformists to reverse Yoon’s veto, whether it be on the special counsel or prosecutorial reform or both. The irony is that the greatest impetus for prosecutorial reform came from Yoon himself. His untempered control and reliance on prosecutors for personal political reasons is fanning the public cry to end “prosecutorial dictatorship.”