Carol D. is the on-again off-again public defender blawger at  PD Revolution has apparently been busy writing a book, an except of which appears at Jamison Koehler’s blog.  It appears to be quite cathartic, if nothing else.

Surprisingly, Kelly came to my office on the day of his appointment. He wore clean black jeans, a neat, black button-down shirt, and newish looking tennis shoes. He still had cat whiskers painted on his face. He told me that he was opening a camp for disabled children, and that his charitable work should help convince the prosecutor to reduce his charges.  As it stood, he was facing about five years in prison.

“Who can I call to verify your participation in the camp?” I asked, ready to write a name on my notepad.

“I don’t have her name memorized.”

“Of course, not,” I said.  “Perhaps you could give me the names of some of the people who help you run your camp.”

“I do it all on my own.”

“Naturally,” I said.  “Some names of the children participating in your camp, then?”

“I can’t release those records.  They’re contagious.”

“If we are going to try to use your camp to impress the prosecutor, I need something other than your say-so.  A letter from the director, even one of the kids.”

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

“No, but the prosecutor will.”

“The lady at the First Bank of Puget Sound can tell you about the arrangements.”

“Good,” I said, even though the bank was not known for its charitable efforts.  “What’s her name?”

“She has long, black hair, and she works at the one on Jefferson.  I’m not sure which shift.”

“If you want to use her as a reference, you’ll have to get me her name—first and last—and phone number.”

“What?  I’m not going to do your work for you.  That’s your job.”

“Kelly, my job is to give you legal advice and help you with your case, not to run around hunting for bank ladies with long, black hair. If you have someone that can help verify your camp for disabled children, you are in a better position to do this than I am. So, if you want to use this lady, you need to get me her name.”

“What kind of lawyer are you?  I bet you really work for the prosecutor. You’re supposed to help me, but you’re really working to hurt me—it’s like a Catch-24 situation.”

While I’m hoping this is a bit of hyperbole for fun, every criminal defense lawyers has had this conversation to some degree. The difference for a PD is that they can’t decline the representation.

But what if a variation on this theme comes after the initial meeting, after you’ve signed on to the case?  The underlying issue is client expectations.  The sophisticated client, the good, solid, hard-working criminal, is more likely to understand the system and have a better grasp of a lawyer’s functions and limits. They are a pleasure to work with, and they often get the best results because of their cooperation and assistance.

Unfortunately, we aren’t always able to represent sophisticated clients, and the ones who start out appearing reasonable and helpful don’t always remain that way as the case doesn’t progress the way they hope.  Often, they become increasingly disenchanted as the case progresses, when it hasn’t been tried and won within a month, or you haven’t overwhelmed the prosecutor by loudly announcing in court that you’ve been denied your Due Process, the judge gasping with shock and proclaiming innocence.

There’s a negative to all those TV shows where lawyers do three minute summations of platitudes strung together without a shred of evidence needed, imploring the jury to engage in reckless speculation about humanity’s frailties.  The problem is that the unsophisticated client thinks this is how it happens. When you suggest that maybe it isn’t that quick, easy and painless, they think you must be a terrible lawyer.  They may not say it to you, but that’s what they’re thinking.  That and “I wasted all this money on this terrible lawyer who isn’t doing anything to help me.”

Should you eventually win the case, or obtain a favorable disposition (which means favorable in the defendant’s eyes, not yours), much will be forgiven.  Not all, but much.  It still took too long and cost too much, and too many sleepless nights were lost to the lawyer’s failure to magically make the case disappear within an hour.  But at least you finally got it right.

The unsophisticated client never quite accepts the premise that guilt, as overwhelmingly demonstrated by this ugly stuff called evidence, usually comes back to bite them in the butt.  It’s our job, as lawyers, to make evidence go away.  Why?  Because we’re the lawyer. We’re endowed with magical powers that make these things happen. After all, if we can’t, then why are they paying us?

Before I take on a matter for an unsophisticated client (and in criminal law, we usually don’t enjoy the luxury of being able to limit our representation to only those clients who have a clear, firm grasp on the nature and process of the criminal justice system), I try to explain what I do, what they’re paying for, and that there is no magic involved.  They listen and nod in agreement. Sometimes, they even understand, at least to a point.

In the back of their head, however, remains that voice that says, “but he’s the lawyer; he’s supposed to just make all these bad things go away.”  The voice is always there, no matter how well you manage client expectations.  Get used to it, as this is the life we’ve chosen.