Solomon’s Perjury—A student-led courtroom mystery that puts an entire school on trial
Introduction
The first time I watched Solomon’s Perjury, I felt like I’d been dropped into a snow globe where the flakes were secrets and every shake revealed a new shard of truth. Have you ever been in a room where the adults talk over you as if your pain were just background noise? That’s the hum these students fight against—until they literally build a courtroom to be heard. What begins as a campus tragedy turns into a collective awakening, as classmates learn how to speak, listen, and take responsibility. I kept asking myself: when did I first realize that telling the truth could be a kind of love? By the finale, I wasn’t just solving a case—I was rooting for a generation to write new rules.
Overview
Title: Solomon’s Perjury (솔로몬의 위증)
Year: 2016–2017
Genre: Mystery, Legal, Teen Drama, Crime
Main Cast: Kim Hyun‑soo, Jang Dong‑yoon, Seo Ji‑hoon, Seo Young‑joo, Cho Jae‑hyun, Shin Se‑hwi, Baek Cheol‑min, Ahn Nae‑sang, Kim Yeo‑jin
Episodes: 12
Runtime: Approximately 60–65 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: None currently; previously on Netflix and Viki (availability varies).
Overall Story
On a snowy Christmas morning, a male student, Lee So‑woo, is found dead on campus, and the school quickly labels it a suicide so the term can end without scandal. The hush feels rehearsed: teachers speak softly, administrators rush to “manage” the tragedy, and the police accept the tidy explanation. Inside the classrooms, however, grief doesn’t fit into a memo. Go Seo‑yeon, the principled class president, watches rumors multiply and classmates splinter into cliques of fear and blame. Have you ever felt a truth in your bones and been told to “let it go”? That’s the spark that lights her fuse.
A few days later, Seo‑yeon receives an anonymous “indictment” letter claiming So‑woo was murdered—by students. Suddenly whispers become sirens. Bae Joon‑young, the fragile boy who discovered the body, buckles under suspicion while quietly enduring chaos at home; he’s the kind of kid who apologizes for breathing too loudly. The school’s legal counsel, Han Kyung‑moon, insists on “stability,” which starts to feel like code for “silence.” In classrooms and hallways, the sociocultural context is painfully familiar: the Korean education treadmill that prizes rankings over nuance, a School Violence Committee more focused on optics than healing, and a foundation board that treats the school like a brand. As rumors spread online, the students realize the grown‑ups’ version of “identity theft protection” means protecting the institution’s identity, not theirs.
Seo‑yeon proposes something outlandish and simple: if adults won’t investigate, the students will hold a trial themselves. She recruits a savvy debate kid to act as judge, forms a student jury, and writes ground rules that value testimony over intimidation. Watching them divide into prosecution and defense, I felt that particular high school ache—when you want justice but fear losing friends. Into this charged circle walks Han Ji‑hoon, an intense boy from another school who volunteers as the student defense counsel. He seems to know more than he says, and when he looks at the rooftop, it’s as if he’s hunting a ghost only he can see. The courtroom they build in an empty clubroom isn’t just a stage; it’s a sanctuary where frightened teenagers become citizens.
The first hearing cracks open the past: witnesses describe So‑woo’s clash with a swaggering bully, Choi Woo‑hyuk, and a lab‑room fight that flipped victim and perpetrator. Testimonies wobble, then sharpen. Seo‑yeon insists on protecting even those she suspects, because due process is the only way to stop another witch hunt. Ji‑hoon, meanwhile, cross‑examines with a tenderness that feels like guilt wearing a suit. The teachers’ faces tell another story—their eyes dart to the back of the room where a local reporter takes notes. You can almost hear the foundation’s boardroom breathing down their necks.
Midway through, the trial stops being about a single night and starts exposing a system. A rumor surfaces about a VIP list: students from powerful families allegedly receiving falsified extracurriculars, leaked test answers, and gentle slaps on the wrist while other kids get hauled before committees. The more the students ask, the more the adults insist “those files don’t exist.” This is where Solomon’s Perjury stops being a teen whodunit and becomes a civic education, teaching its audience how structures incentivize silence. Have you ever noticed how corruption asks you to be “reasonable”? Seo‑yeon refuses, and the courtroom becomes the one place on campus where truth is allowed to be loud.
Beneath the procedural rhythms, the show nurtures a bruised friendship: Ji‑hoon and the deceased So‑woo were close, bound by music and a shared refusal to look away from injustice. Clues reveal that So‑woo posted as “The Sentinel,” an anonymous student watchdog who cataloged the school’s rot, and that Ji‑hoon made a string of phone calls on the night of the death—calls that mean more than alibis. The way Ji‑hoon flinches at the word “guilt” suggests he carries older scars, ones that predate the school’s scandal. The drama lets us sit with that ache, inviting questions about survivor’s guilt and what it costs a teenager to believe his love wasn’t enough. If you’ve ever wondered whether saying nothing can harm someone you care about, this is your mirror. In their world, “credit monitoring” isn’t about bank accounts—it’s watching the moral credit that adults spend in secret.
Bae Joon‑young’s arc quietly becomes the soul of the trial. The boy who found the body must learn to tell the truth about his own home, where fear has taught him to minimize himself. His soft‑spoken testimony doesn’t just clear his name; it exposes how violence at home rewires a child’s sense of safety at school. Seo‑yeon hears him without pity, only respect, and the room changes. Because when the most frightened person in the room finds his voice, everyone else can breathe. The series knows that justice without empathy is just another performance.
As the hearings intensify, Han Kyung‑moon’s influence looms. He’s the kind of adult who believes order is mercy and that kids need “structure” more than honesty. But every attempt to steer the narrative only tightens the knot, because the students are learning the habits of scrutiny—documenting timelines, checking inconsistencies, insisting on sources. It’s almost funny how their DIY legal education beats the school’s PR machine. For U.S. viewers, the echoes are clear: protecting a brand is not the same as protecting children, and “family health insurance” doesn’t cover the emotional hospitalizations that come from betrayal. The show becomes a primer on accountability that any parent committee would do well to stream during orientation.
In the penultimate stretch, Ji‑hoon does something radical: he puts himself in the defendant’s chair. He confesses not to murder but to a crushing, complicated responsibility—he had left So‑woo alone on the roof that night, and he can’t forgive himself. The room freezes; Seo‑yeon steadies it with methodical questions that separate remorse from legal culpability. Ji‑hoon finally shares the origin of his dread: as a child, he survived a family tragedy, was later adopted, and has been measuring every choice against that night ever since. His grief is not a twist; it’s a testimony about how trauma echoes through good intentions. When he says he may have “killed” So‑woo by failing him, you feel the collective intake of breath that happens when shame is mistaken for truth.
The final hearing turns the lens where it belongs. Han Kyung‑moon takes the stand and admits to perjury, acknowledging that he coerced outcomes, buried infractions, and tried to crush So‑woo’s refusal to “adapt.” The students don’t cheer; they listen. Their verdict acquits Ji‑hoon and, with moral precision, finds the school and its foundation responsible for creating the conditions that pushed So‑woo toward the edge. In the aftermath, arrests ripple through the administration, while the student court dissolves with dignity—it was never about power, only about truth. The series closes not with triumph but with relief, like exhaling a winter breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Three weeks later, life sneaks back in. Seo‑yeon studies for exams, Joon‑young fumbles a sweet attempt at a date, and Ji‑hoon learns to live with a verdict that does not erase love but redeems it. The school feels different; it’s not “fixed,” but it’s less afraid of the mirror. The students’ trial was always a rehearsal for adulthood—how to disagree without destroying, how to weigh evidence, how to apologize without excuses. Have you ever realized the bravest thing you can say is “I was wrong”? Solomon’s Perjury lets that sentence ring, and then it dares you to carry it into your own life.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 A Christmas morning discovery turns the campus into a crime scene, and the adults declare suicide before the snow has settled. Seo‑yeon’s shock curdles into resolve when an anonymous indictment arrives at her house, accusing fellow students of murder. Bae Joon‑young’s trembling call to the police and the cold silence of the quad set the show’s mood: grief sealed under glass. This opening doesn’t chase jump scares; it shows how denial can be scarier than any culprit. It’s the kind of pilot that makes you lean forward, not because you love gore, but because you recognize a cover‑up when you see one.
Episode 3 The first student assembly about the “school trial” feels like a revolution in a classroom. Seo‑yeon outlines rules, invites dissent, and insists on fairness even for the rumored bully. Watching teenagers draft due process with felt‑tip markers is unexpectedly moving; they’re building the civic muscles many adults forget to use. Ji‑hoon’s quiet entrance and offer to serve as defense counsel shifts the energy from outrage to rigor. The room’s hush says it all: anger is ready to become argument.
Episode 5 Day one of the hearing turns an unused clubroom into a courtroom, complete with a student judge and a jury of peers. Witnesses contradict each other, but instead of escalating theatrics, the series slows down to let questions breathe. A teacher’s slip about “protecting the school’s reputation” cracks open the larger theme. Ji‑hoon cross‑examines with empathy, which unsettles everyone more than aggression would have. You feel the trial beginning to sand the rough edges off rumor.
Episode 8 The rumored VIP list surfaces in testimony, detailing how certain students enjoyed falsified activities, leaked test answers, and immunity from discipline. The revelation doesn’t just reshape motives; it reframes the school as an ecosystem where corruption hides behind excellence. Seo‑yeon’s closing that day isn’t fiery—just precise, and that precision lands harder than shouting. Have you ever felt the ground tilt when you realize the rules were never neutral? That’s this episode in a sentence.
Episode 10 Bae Joon‑young finally names the fear that lives in his home, and the courtroom becomes a sanctuary instead of a spotlight. His testimony clears his name while teaching everyone the difference between guilt and grief. Seo‑yeon’s eyes fill—not with pity, but with respect—and suddenly the word “victim” feels too small for him. This is the show at its most human, the moment it argues that justice without compassion is just choreography. You can almost hear the room learn how to breathe again.
Episode 12 Ji‑hoon takes the stand as defendant and confesses to a devastating possibility: that he failed So‑woo when it mattered most. Then Han Kyung‑moon returns, admits perjury, and tells the truth about coercion and cover‑ups that poisoned the school. The jury acquits Ji‑hoon and assigns responsibility where the evidence points—on the institution that prized order over children. As police cars flash outside, the student court dissolves, its job done. Closure here doesn’t mean forgetting; it means choosing to remember accurately.
Memorable Lines
“If the adults won’t listen, we’ll hold court.” – Go Seo‑yeon, Episode 3 A thesis statement disguised as teenage defiance, it flips power without losing respect. She isn’t asking for chaos; she’s building a system so truth has somewhere to sit. The line redefines adolescence as agency, not antechamber. It’s also the moment you realize community can be a kind of law school—no online MBA required when courage is the curriculum.
“We are the ones who have to live with this verdict.” – Go Seo‑yeon, Episode 5 Said to steady a room buzzing with accusation, it moves the focus from spectacle to consequence. The sentence lands like an anchor: justice isn’t about applause, it’s about aftermath. You feel her asking everyone to protect the school’s children, not its logo. In a world obsessed with optics, she chooses outcomes.
“The person I couldn’t forgive was myself.” – Han Ji‑hoon, Episode 12 This line reframes guilt as grief misfiled. Ji‑hoon’s voice shakes, but his clarity doesn’t—he’s distinguishing legal responsibility from the ache of surviving a friend. It’s the turning point where shame stops dictating the narrative. And watching his classmates hold space for that truth feels like therapy that no family health insurance plan could have scripted.
“He didn’t hate living—he hated living like that.” – Bae Joon‑young, Episode 12 Offered after hearing So‑woo’s final days, it refuses to flatten the dead into a case file. The line honors complexity: a boy could love music, notice small kindnesses, and still break under systemic cruelty. It’s one of the show’s clearest moral compass points. Dramabeans’ recap preserves the way this realization ripples through the room.
“I committed perjury because I was afraid.” – Han Kyung‑moon, Episode 12 The confession is bare, ugly, and exactly what the students demanded—no euphemisms, just cause and effect. It turns the title into a plot and a warning: when adults protect institutions over children, truth pays the price. In that moment, the trial stops being symbolic and starts changing the school. Recaps confirm how this admission unlocks the final verdict and the arrests that follow.
Why It's Special
Snow falls on a quiet campus, a body is found, and the adults rush to seal the story with a single word: “suicide.” But in Solomon’s Perjury, the students refuse to be footnotes. They convene a school trial, put truth on the stand, and discover that justice is never simple. If you’re watching from the United States, note that availability shifts over time; as of January 2026, aggregation guides list no current U.S. subscription stream, while the show still appears on Netflix in select regions—so check your preferred platform before you press play.
What makes this drama special is how it treats teenage voices not as background noise but as the engine of the narrative. The “courtroom” is a gymnasium, the attorneys are classmates, and the stakes feel more intimate—and more terrifying—than any grand legal thriller. Have you ever felt that adults were speaking over you when the moment was yours? This show turns that ache into momentum.
The direction keeps the camera at student eye level, letting the school’s corridors feel both familiar and menacing. Long, unflinching takes let silences breathe; winter light washes scenes in grays and blues that echo the numbness of grief. The result is a mystery you feel in your bones before you solve it with your brain.
The writing is equally deliberate. The script isn’t interested in twist-for-twist’s-sake; it’s interested in how lies metastasize and how telling the truth demands a cost. Even the most stoic characters are allowed flashes of doubt and kindness, and the “trial” asks a question most courtroom dramas skip: can the truth heal the living without injuring them anew?
Solomon’s Perjury also threads genres with surprising grace. It’s a youth story that becomes a legal drama, a whodunit that becomes a why-we-did-it—each layer revealing the social physics of a pressurized school. Moments of friendship puncture the bleakness, reminding you that tenderness can coexist with terror.
Emotionally, the series stays close to guilt, complicity, and courage. There are no cartoon villains; there are teenagers carrying adult-sized secrets and adults who have forgotten what it feels like to be young. Have you ever done the right thing too late? The show understands—and forgives—without letting anyone off the hook.
Finally, the rewatch value is real. Once you know the verdict, you start noticing micro-gestures, exchanged glances, and hallway conversations that play differently in hindsight. The mystery lands; the morality lingers. For many viewers that’s the real reason this drama sticks.
Popularity & Reception
When Solomon’s Perjury premiered on JTBC in December 2016, it didn’t debut with splashy ratings. Early coverage noted a measured start and even a brief schedule delay for episodes five and six over the New Year period—an interruption that ironically amplified word-of-mouth as fans urged friends to catch up.
Critics and blogs at the time keyed in on the show’s chilly tone and student-led premise. Outlets like Soompi highlighted the immediate intrigue around the death at the story’s center and the drama’s willingness to show how institutions can fail teens—an angle that made the series feel urgent rather than merely clever.
Internationally, the fandom grew quietly but steadily. Episode-by-episode community ratings show a climb in enthusiasm, with later chapters often ranked among the best—a pattern you see when a “slow-burn” hooks viewers more deeply over time. It’s the definition of a cult favorite: modest live numbers, strong afterlife.
Availability has been cyclical, which keeps the conversation going. The series has surfaced on Netflix in several territories (sometimes disappearing and reappearing), while U.S. streaming catalogs can be in flux—something to double-check before a weekend binge. That on-again, off-again presence means new waves of viewers discover it every time a platform rotates it back in.
Awards weren’t the point here, and the show didn’t sweep major trophies. Instead, its legacy comes from influence: a proof-of-concept that a youth-centric courtroom frame can be gripping without sensationalism. In the years since, legal and school-set mysteries have found fertile ground on JTBC and beyond, and fans often cite this drama as an “underrated gem” they recommend to friends who love character-first thrillers.
Cast & Fun Facts
Kim Hyun-soo anchors the series as class representative Go Seo-yeon, the student-prosecutor whose moral clarity is tested as truth becomes messier than any statute. Her performance is all quiet resolve and trembling conviction; you can feel the weight in her shoulders each time she rises to question a friend.
For Kim Hyun-soo, the role marked a milestone—her first lead after memorable turns as younger versions of heroines in hits like My Love from the Star. She would go on to wider recognition as Bae Ro-na in The Penthouse, but you can see the seeds of that success here: a blend of steel and vulnerability that never feels manufactured.
Jang Dong-yoon plays Han Ji-hoon, the enigmatic “defense” whose secrets cut close to the case. He brings a musician’s sensitivity to the role—every pause calibrated, every glance loaded—so that even his silences argue a point. His sparring with Seo-yeon becomes the show’s moral duet.
After Solomon’s Perjury, Jang Dong-yoon bloomed into a leading man, most notably cross-dressing his way into hearts in The Tale of Nokdu, and headlining projects from military thrillers to period pieces. Watching him here is like catching an artist in the moment a voice finds its register.
Seo Ji-hoon is heartbreaking as Bae Joon-young, the student who discovers the body and then drowns in suspicion and family turmoil. His arc reminds you that trauma rarely arrives alone; it travels with shame, confusion, and the desperate urge to be believed.
Since then, Seo Ji-hoon has threaded a nimble career—popping up in Signal, joining School 2017’s ensemble, and later alternating between youth romances and darker turns. He’s one of those actors who make small roles feel lived-in; here, with more runway, he soars.
Seo Young-joo leaves a ghostly imprint as Lee So-woo, the boy at the center of the tragedy. Even in flashbacks, he communicates the heaviness of a life boxed in by rumor and adult indifference; you feel why his absence becomes the story’s loudest presence.
Beyond the series, Seo Young-joo is a decorated film actor—winning Best Actor at the Tokyo International Film Festival for Juvenile Offender at just 15. That early acclaim shows in the nuance he brings here; it’s a performance that haunts scenes he’s not even in.
Behind the camera, director Kang Il-soo and writer Kim Ho-soo keep the tone austere and the moral questions bracing. Official listings credit Kang’s steady hand and Kim’s adaptation of Miyuki Miyabe’s novel, while Netflix’s metadata also notes Han Hyun-hee in a creator capacity—an example of how credits can vary by platform but the vision on screen remains coherent and piercing.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you crave a mystery that respects your intelligence and your empathy, Solomon’s Perjury is the winter case worth reopening. Put it on your watchlist, and if it’s not currently in your region, set an alert and circle back—this one rewards patience. For the best experience, a stable fiber internet connection lets the snowbound palette and quiet sound design shine, and some viewers prefer privacy tools from the best VPN for streaming when traveling. If you end up renting or buying later, those little credit card rewards can make a thoughtful binge even sweeter.
Comments
Post a Comment