“Delayed Justice” is a punchy, big-hearted legal drama where a scrappy lawyer and a stubborn reporter turn wrongful convictions into second chances
Introduction
Have you ever watched the news, clenched your jaw, and whispered, “Someone has to fix this”? “Delayed Justice” answers that wish with calloused hands and stubborn hope. I fell for its odd-couple energy right away: a high-school-grad public defender who refuses to give up on people, and a street-smart reporter whose pen is equal parts scalpel and megaphone. Their cases are ripped from headlines, but the show doesn’t chase shock value—it listens to the small voices that get drowned out. Courtrooms, pressrooms, and cramped offices become arenas where dignity is reclaimed one document, one interview, one apology at a time. If you crave a legal drama that makes your pulse race and your heart ache for the right reasons, this one feels like a hand on your shoulder saying, “Let’s go again.”
Overview
Title: Delayed Justice (날아라 개천용)
Year: 2020–2021
Genre: Legal Drama, Crime, Human
Main Cast: Kwon Sang-woo, Bae Sung-woo, Jung Woo-sung, Kim Joo-hyun, Jung Woong-in
Episodes: 20
Runtime: ~60 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Viki
Overall Story
Park Tae-yong is the kind of public defender who brings his whole self to work: a quick smile, a short fuse for injustice, and a hometown stubbornness that refuses to bow to pedigrees. When a notorious case hints that the wrong people paid the price, he doesn’t see headlines—he sees families eating dinner with empty chairs. Beside him tumbles Park Sam-soo, a dogged reporter who knows which doors to knock on and which quiet rooms hold the real story. Their first big collaboration feels like fate disguised as paperwork: a retrial no one wants to hear and a victim the system has labeled inconvenient. The show builds tension from small things—missing timestamps, misfiled evidence, a witness who finally sleeps after telling the truth—and lets us sit in the human weather around them. Every step asks what justice should feel like, not just how it looks in a verdict.
The cases sprawl across Korea’s map and social fabric: rural towns where gossip can bury a fact, city precincts where speed outruns care, and courthouse steps that turn into press scrums. We watch how power moves—politely in boardrooms, brutally in interrogation rooms—and how ordinary people get squeezed between. Sam-soo’s notebooks are full of names the public forgot; Tae-yong’s briefcase is full of letters from mothers who never will. The supporting players aren’t props but pressures: a senior prosecutor with a smile that never reaches his eyes; a junior reporter learning the cost of telling the whole truth. Each investigation becomes a mirror, asking who benefits when silence wins. That question keeps echoing long after the credits.
Work details matter here. We see the grind of subpoena requests, the ritual of sealing evidence bags, the etiquette of interviews in diners where the coffee is always burnt. Tae-yong haggles with clerks and comforts clients in the same breath; Sam-soo trades jokes for quotes and then writes until the sun argues with the blinds. Those textures keep the romance of “truth” honest: it’s not a trumpet blast but a chorus of small, disciplined choices. When the show pauses for a breath, it isn’t filler—it’s the series honoring the people who carry heavy stories without breaking them. And when a breakthrough lands, it feels earned because we walked every hallway to get there.
The drama also dares to count the cost. Families who survive a wrongful conviction still have to pay rent; men who lose years to prison don’t magically restart at zero. A tearful reunion can’t repair a résumé, and a judge’s apology—on the rare day you get one—won’t erase a child’s memory of visiting day. That’s why the series never treats victory as a montage; it treats it as maintenance. I kept thinking about how courage needs infrastructure: clinics, community centers, and outlets brave enough to print the uncool truth. Watching the leads build that scaffolding is as satisfying as any “gotcha” in court.
Because the show lives at the crossroads of law and media, it makes space for real-world terms without turning preachy. A desperate father asks about hiring a criminal defense lawyer for a retrial even though the family’s savings are gone. A whistleblower wonders if a civil rights attorney can protect her job while she exposes doctored reports. And when a public official calls off the record with receipts, Sam-soo jokes about finding a good whistleblower attorney before he clicks “publish.” These aren’t ads; they’re the unglamorous realities that trail behind justice like shadows. The series uses them to show that truth needs both courage and counsel.
Inside the newsroom, the drama sketches the politics no one admits out loud: the click-through economy, the way corporate interests loosen or tighten a headline, the quiet punishment for reporters who won’t “play nice.” Lee Yoo-kyung, a junior reporter with a spine of tempered steel, learns when to hold the line and when to plant a story where it can’t be buried. Her arc intersects with the cases until she becomes a kind of third advocate—chasing interviews that law can’t compel and compassion can’t leave alone. The newsroom scenes hum with fluorescent exhaustion, and yet they’re where the show’s softest grace lives: coworkers sharing snacks after rough calls, an editor who apologizes without making it about himself.
On the other side, prosecutors and power-brokers are drawn with layered precision. Some are cynics; some are true believers; most are simply busy, which may be the scariest category of all. The series never lets us forget that institutions are made of people who go home to families and still make choices that warp strangers’ lives. A senior official weighs his legacy against a kid’s chance at a future; a judge flinches when a past decision comes back with teeth. Even antagonists get the courtesy of motive, which makes their defeats feel like moral arguments, not just plot devices. The result is a thriller that believes people can change, but also insists they should be held to it.
As the wins pile up, so do the scars. Success breeds enemies; truth costs friends. Tae-yong learns to apologize faster and roar less; Sam-soo learns to aim his jokes like a shield, not a weapon. Yoo-kyung discovers that bravery isn’t screaming in a meeting—it’s staying in the story after the meeting ends. They fight, make up, and keep going, because the work doesn’t care if you slept. By the time the team faces its most dangerous case, the show has taught us that justice isn’t a destination but a daily verb. That’s why the title lands so beautifully: it’s not about dragons at all; it’s about people who decide to fly anyway.
And through everything, the tone stays human. Humor sneaks in like oxygen—nicknames in group chats, noodles slurped between drafts, a courthouse guard who pretends not to see a late-night favor. Grief arrives without spectacle: a mother’s hand shaking as she signs a statement, a freed man staring too long at a bus schedule, a reporter choosing not to publish a detail that would hurt more than help. The show knows that kindness is a strategy, not a luxury. That’s why the final stretch lands with such warmth: even when the system stalls, people don’t.
Highlight Moments / Key Episodes
Episode 1: A retrial case finds its way to Tae-yong’s cluttered office, and the building’s fancy lawyers sneer at his “30,000-won clients.” He buys lunch for the waiting crowd and fires back with pride, setting the series’ thesis in one scene. Sam-soo circles the story with wary respect, and their first uneasy alliance sparks. It matters because we understand exactly who these men are before the plot speeds up—stubborn, broke, and allergic to giving up.
Episode 2: The duo’s first field trip turns chaotic: a reluctant witness, a missing record, and a family that’s learned to lower its voice. Yoo-kyung makes a choice that costs her comfort at work but earns her conscience back. The hour shows how journalism and law can braid into one rope when neither is strong enough alone. Stakes rise not with gunfights but with signatures.
Episode 6: A case involving a truck-driver murder reopens an old wound for Sam-soo, and his empathy becomes the key the law couldn’t find. Tae-yong wants to walk away from helping a gangster’s son, but the show reframes “undeserving” into “still human.” Their hallway argument hurts, then heals, sharpening their partnership into something braver. The episode turns backstory into fuel instead of baggage.
Episode 12: An elite official’s past ruling collides with fresh evidence, and suddenly “untouchable” starts to look like “overdue.” Yoo-kyung learns the price of printing inconvenient facts, while Sam-soo teaches her how to outlast pressure without losing herself. In court, Tae-yong threads humility through fire and lands a blow that changes the room temperature. You feel the series pivot from underdog tale to blueprint.
Episode 18: A late-game substitution tests the team’s rhythm, but the mission refuses to wobble. Old enemies resurface with prettier suits, and a witness finds her voice in a quiet office rather than a dramatic stand. The hour insists that justice isn’t one hero’s job—it’s a relay. No ending spoiled, but the handoff is gorgeous.
Memorable Lines
"We’re short on money, not on pride." – Park Tae-yong, Episode 1 A rallying cry born in a hallway full of people who can’t afford fancy counsel. He says it after buying lunch for the folks other lawyers sneered at, turning generosity into defiance. The line defines his ethic: dignity first, even when the wallet is thin. It’s also the moment Sam-soo realizes this lawyer fights the right way.
"My fee is thirty thousand won—are these people worth only thirty thousand to you?" – Park Tae-yong, Episode 2 Said to a colleague who reduces clients to price tags, it’s both rebuke and shield. The sentence reframes value in human terms and dares the room to look ashamed. The confrontation wins him enemies upstairs and a small army downstairs. From here, his office becomes a refuge with a waiting list.
"I killed my pride to get here." – Park Sam-soo, Episode 2 He admits it after being mocked for his unimpressive résumé. The confession explains his grit and his particular mercy for people who’ve been laughed at. It also sketches the class divide inside newsrooms and why he keeps pushing even when it costs him. The line turns a clown into a craftsman.
"We do it because it’s hard. Easy things don’t need us." – Park Tae-yong, Episode 2 A vow delivered when an ally warns him off a politically dangerous retrial. He isn’t grandstanding; he’s reminding himself why he picked this life. The words rally Sam-soo and Yoo-kyung to keep digging when doors slam. It becomes the team’s quiet motto in later cases.
"Is ‘I’m sorry’ really that hard to say?" – Park Tae-yong, Episode 11 He demands it after a wrongful-conviction verdict exposes years of institutional failure. The question lands heavier than a shout because it names what victims rarely receive: acknowledgment. It pushes officials toward accountability and gives families a sliver of peace. The series treats the apology not as optics but as justice’s first step.
Why It’s Special
“Delayed Justice” understands that courtroom victories are only half the story. The show zooms in on the unglamorous labor that gets overlooked—late-night interviews, dog-eared case files, and the courage it takes to say, “We got this wrong.” It treats truth like a team sport, where a stubborn lawyer and a relentless reporter pull in the same direction and let the dignity of ordinary people set the pace. That human scale is why every breakthrough lands like a sunrise after a long shift.
The drama’s heartbeat is its belief in second chances. It doesn’t pretend that a verdict erases lost time or mends scar tissue; instead, it sits with families as they rebuild routines and relearn trust. Those quiet, post-trial scenes—bus stops, kitchen tables, walk-in clinics—are where the show proves its soul. By honoring aftermath, it makes the wins feel responsible rather than triumphant.
I love how it balances grit with humor. Between depositions and deadlines, someone always shows up with noodles, a bad pun, or a warm jacket. That warmth isn’t sugarcoating; it’s survival. The series suggests that kindness is a strategy that keeps advocates from burning out and keeps clients from giving up. In a world of heavy stories, a little levity is oxygen.
Workplace texture adds heft. We see how an editor’s hesitation can bury a headline, how a clerk’s small kindness speeds a filing, and how a junior reporter learns to protect sources without losing herself. The drama turns offices, hallways, and courthouse steps into moral landscapes where tiny decisions steer the fate of strangers. Because the process is specific, the emotions feel earned.
Crucially, “Delayed Justice” treats the law and the press as imperfect tools that get sharper in the right hands. Conflicts aren’t solved by a single hero but by coordination: a call to a witness who finally feels safe, a motion drafted at 2 a.m., a story that refuses to soften the truth. The show respects procedure without worshiping it, reminding us that systems bend when people insist.
Its compassion extends to the gray areas. Antagonists aren’t cartoon villains; they’re busy people making harmful choices, and that nuance makes accountability matter more, not less. When apologies arrive, they land with weight because the series has shown us why they were hard to say—and why they still aren’t enough.
Most of all, the drama argues that justice is a daily verb. You feel it every time the leads choose another long drive, another door knock, another chance to listen. That repetition builds a rhythm of hope you can live by, long after the credits roll.
Popularity & Reception
Viewers gravitated to the show’s underdog honesty—its focus on wrongful convictions, ordinary courage, and the messy logistics of setting things right. Word of mouth highlighted how watchable it is even when the subject matter is heavy: brisk pacing, crackling banter, and cases that unfold with the patience of real work rather than the convenience of TV miracles.
The series also drew attention for its unusual pairing of law and journalism as true partners. Fans praised the way each episode lets the professions cross-pollinate—court filings strengthened by shoe-leather reporting, articles sharpened by legal insight—turning victories into communal efforts instead of solo spotlights.
Over time, it’s become a recommendation staple for viewers who want catharsis without cynicism. Rewatchers return for the humane tone and the way the show insists that systems can change when people keep receipts, keep going, and keep each other honest.
Cast & Fun Facts
Kwon Sang-woo grounds Park Tae-yong with a mix of scrappy charm and righteous heat. He makes hallway apologies feel as heroic as courtroom fireworks, and he sells the idea that stubbornness, when tethered to empathy, can move institutions an inch at a time. It’s a performance that’s big when anger is called for and exquisitely small when a client needs quiet respect.
Kwon Sang-woo’s long frame for romantic comedy and action pays off here in a different register: kinetic when chasing leads, unshowy when listening to pain. He lets fatigue live in the shoulders and hope live in the eyes, building a public defender who feels like someone you could meet—and trust—on any courthouse bench.
Bae Sung-woo initially sketches Park Sam-soo as a reporter who hides sharp instincts behind self-deprecating humor. He captures the profession’s strange alchemy—softening strangers with a joke, then asking the hard question without flinching. The early arc shows how compassion and persistence can pry open doors that credentials can’t.
Bae Sung-woo’s Sam-soo has a gift for making sources feel safe without making the story soft. He plays a man who knows the cost of printing the truth and who prints it anyway, turning a cluttered desk and a battered notebook into tools of quiet revolution.
Jung Woo-sung steps in later with a calibrated shift in temperature—same job title, new rhythm. He threads calm authority through the newsroom chaos, and the baton pass becomes part of the narrative: cases outlive bylines, missions outlive the people who start them. His presence steadies the back half without dimming the scrappy spark that defines the show.
Jung Woo-sung’s interpretation emphasizes restraint and resolve. He lets silence do work in interviews and lets precision do work on the page, reminding us that journalism isn’t volume; it’s verification. The contrast between methods—never the mission—keeps the partnership dynamic alive.
Kim Joo-hyun gives Lee Yoo-kyung a spine of tempered steel beneath a rookie’s nerves. She learns to protect sources, push back against soft edits, and stay in the room when power wants her gone. The performance is full of small, decisive choices that turn a junior reporter into an indispensable third advocate.
Kim Joo-hyun’s best scenes are the ones where she chooses professional courage over personal comfort—calling a source back after midnight, correcting a headline, sitting with a victim who needs time more than quotes. She becomes the show’s quiet proof that integrity scales with practice.
Jung Woong-in inhabits a polished antagonist who believes he’s guarding order even as he obstructs justice. He favors stillness over sneers, letting clipped politeness carry menace into meetings and court corridors alike. That restraint makes accountability feel like a moral argument rather than a takedown.
Jung Woong-in keeps the character human by letting doubt leak through the cracks—an extra blink, a swallowed word—so that when consequences arrive, they read as the end of a long road, not a sudden fall. It’s a veteran turn that deepens the stakes without stealing the show’s hope.
The creative team orchestrates law, media, and community with clear, confident storytelling. Direction keeps geography legible and emotions close; writing favors procedures that make sense and dialogue that sounds like it was said after too little sleep. Together they build a world where tiny choices add up to structural change—and where compassion is treated as a professional skill.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
“Delayed Justice” is for the days you need proof that persistence moves the needle. It also nods to real-life tools that keep people safe while they fight: families consulting a trusted criminal defense lawyer before signing anything, whistleblowers seeking a seasoned civil rights attorney or whistleblower attorney to shield their jobs, neighbors documenting what they see so truth doesn’t get lost. The show’s message is simple and stubborn: keep going, keep receipts, and keep each other in the light.
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