HOW CAN YOU REPRESENT THOSE PEOPLE? How can you be a public defender?" Jane (not her real name), a former nurse, asked me both questions. The daughter of a California police officer, she is young, pretty and white. Jane was charged with, and pleaded guilty to, stealing from a disabled patient. Taken aback, I stared at her: "But I am representing you!"
This "us/them" philosophy lies at the heart of such questions. There are some defendants, white and middle class, who do not see themselves as criminals. They believe it is "them"--the poor and minorities--who violate the law.
I represent those individuals that the Janes of society presume to be guilty. When I graduated from Stanford Law School, I chose to work as a public defender rather than as a corporate lawyer or prosecutor. This was hard for my family and friends to understand. Intellectually, they agreed that everyone should have a lawyer; they just didn't want me to be that person. "How could you represent a murderer? How could you sleep at night knowing that you let a dangerous person loose on the streets?" demanded my Aunt Heather at a family gathering.
As a beginning public defender, I litigate mostly misdemeanors. Their maximum jail sentence cannot exceed one year. My clients have been accused of such heinous crimes as possessing a spiny lobster out of season (a case that actually went to a jury trial), surfing in a swim zone and collecting trash without a permit (a homeless man was cited for taking cans from the garbage for recycling). Of course, I've also handled more serious offenses: rape, child molestation and vehicular manslaughter.
Once I get over my initial reaction to a case, it becomes like a chess game. I comb the police report looking for weaknesses, foraging out problems with the prosecution's case. It is a rational, analytic, creative process. None of this intellectual endeavor makes me forget the gravity of the situation when my client is accused of a terrible crime. I'm distressed at the idea of a rapist or child molester being released back on the street.
When I first started my job, I thought like a social worker. I justified representing those who were guilty because I believe I could help them. Although I couldn't reverse their wrongdoing, I felt I could enable them to avoid crime by getting them into drug rehabilitation or job-training programs.
After two years, my conscience no longer requires such justification. It doesn't matter to me whether my client really committed a crime. My job is to advocate, and that means I must present the evidence in the way most beneficial to my client. With that in mind, I employ investigators to find witnesses who may undermine the prosecutor's case. During trial, I cross-examine police officers to uncover possible inconsistencies. My goal is to expose reasonable doubt. When I succeed, jurors sometimes say, "We thought he probably did it, but we just had too many questions to convict."
This end result makes many people uncomfortable. They expect something more from a trial; they want truth. Their vision of justice is fostered by a Perry Mason sense that what happened will become glaringly clear. Trials are rarely like this. It's not until someone sits on a jury that they really understand the phrase "has been proved guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."
As a philosophy major and the daughter of two empirically minded economists, I find it unsettling that we rarely know the truth. I was brought up believing in the value of truth, whether it is pursued through quantitative or qualitative means. At times I've gone to trial convinced that my client was guilty but a piece of evidence or a witness's words have changed my mind during testimony. But whatever I think, as the voice of my client, I must ensure that the prosecution proves its case.
In effect, I've accepted the presumption of innocence. If the prosecutor cannot prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, the defendant is set free. Beyond a reasonable doubt is a demanding standard; it means that jurors must make a decision they can sleep with not just today, but every day after that. And it is irreversible; if, years later, they have doubts about their verdict, they cannot change it.
Working as a public defender offers more excitement than the drudgery that most young lawyers endure. Every day brings a new kind of adventure: the man accused of stealing a blue-sequined dress who yelled "Liar!" and "Whisky!" throughout his jury trial, the 30-year-old woman who removed her dentures to demonstrate the ravages of methamphetamine and the prostitute who showed me her track marks and then said I could make good money as a call girl.
Sometimes the work can be unpleasant. The days are long and stressful. I spend a good deal of time in jail, which reeks of stale food and body odor. My clients often think that because I'm court-appointed, I must be incompetent. In jailhouse parlance, I am just a "dump truck," a person who wants nothing more than to plead them guilty.
Most trying is dealing with prosecutors who aren't sympathetic to the tribulations of lives unlike their own. In one memorable case, a city attorney argued that a homeless client should get 60 days behind bars for illegal possession of a shopping cart because he had prior convictions for the same offense and didn't seem to be "learning his lesson."
Despite the frustrations, I've never regretted becoming a public defender. If I had gone to a law firm or become a prosecutor, I would have been surrounded by people like me. This would have given me little opportunity--and indeed, in the case of a prosecutor, little reason--to challenge my own prejudices. As a public defender, I must bridge the divide between us and them, myself and my client, proving that everyone is equal before the law. Doing so requires empathy and patience, two characteristics that everyone, particularly the Janes of society, could use.
LAVE IS A DEPUTY PUBLIC DEFENDER IN SAN DIEGO, CALIF.