Equal Before The Law

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.