Early in their careers, many young lawyers find themselves grappling with a common dilemma: Is it relationships—or rather, professional expertise—that truly matters most in the legal profession? Even some veteran lawyers who’ve been practicing for years often remain uncertain, struggling to fully grasp the answer. To this day, a significant number of attorneys still prioritize finding connections and leveraging personal networks when tackling cases.
   

I’ve observed an interesting phenomenon among the hundreds, even thousands, of colleagues and peers around me: lawyers whose primary focus is criminal defense—or who specialize exclusively in it—tend to pay less attention to personal resources, placing greater trust in the power of their professional expertise. In contrast, lawyers who occasionally handle criminal cases but primarily rely on other areas of law often take the opposite approach, placing more emphasis on the strength of their network and resource-based strategies.
   

Relying on resources to win lawsuits was a necessity dictated by the specific judicial environment of the past—and we can’t solely blame our lawyers for that. After years of hard work studying law, and enduring countless challenges to pass the bar exam and earn our legal licenses, who wouldn’t want to leverage our professional expertise and secure victories through skilled advocacy? Yet, having to bow down and beg for help—or even compromise part of our own interests to benefit others—can feel deeply humiliating. For most people, such a loss of dignity is simply unacceptable.
  

Having practiced law for two decades, I’ve experienced a lot. When I first ventured into entrepreneurship, I didn’t know anyone in the industry—but thanks to my previous years in public security, I still had some old colleagues and friends from that world. Sometimes, when close relatives, friends, or even coworkers faced stressful or urgent situations, I couldn’t help but step in to lend a hand. For instance, if a friend of a friend got caught up in a brawl, they’d turn to me to coordinate with the local police station. More often than not, this led to a resolution—usually through compensation and mutual agreement. But there was also the more delicate case of someone involved in prostitution or solicitation. Back then, under Beijing’s strict enforcement of the compulsory education system, such individuals typically faced 15 days of administrative detention followed by six months of mandatory education. For small business owners, this meant certain ruin; as for civil servants, it often resulted in immediate dismissal. Frustrated by these harsh consequences, I’d approach my superiors, arguing that this system was devastating—not just to the individuals involved, but to their entire lives. I’d plead: “This is worse than a court-imposed prison sentence! Can we at least avoid the compulsory education phase after detention, especially when the offense is clearly minor?” Surprisingly, on occasion, my bosses would grant me a favor, allowing the individual to avoid the education component altogether—provided their employer issued a formal letter of guarantee. Yet as I found myself helping more and more people in similar situations, I quickly realized something unsettling: my friends and former classmates were increasingly turning to me whenever they needed someone to pull strings or mediate behind the scenes. Before long, I’d earned an oddly ironic “people-saver” label—a title that, while well-intentioned, threatened to overshadow my true identity as a lawyer and professional. After all, being known primarily as someone who relies on connections rather than expertise risks completely obscuring my actual role as a legal expert. And frankly, relying on personal networks to solve problems isn’t sustainable—it certainly can’t support a family or sustain a career in law.
   

Just at that moment, an awkward situation arose: it was a hastily arranged, obligatory gathering brought together by people from various backgrounds, with nearly twenty attendees. Leading the table was none other than the director of the local Public Security Bureau. As the meal kicked off and everyone began introducing themselves, after I mentioned I was a lawyer, the bureau chief warmly encouraged me—almost dismissively—saying, "These days, winning a lawsuit is all about who you know. Lawyers don’t really matter. If you ever need help, just give me a call anytime." Hearing this, I was taken aback. To hear such a high-ranking official—at the deputy-bureau-level—so openly dismissing the role of lawyers and the justice system was both shocking and disheartening. It made me realize that perhaps we lawyers ourselves haven’t done enough to earn the respect we deserve. Without hesitation, I stood up, raised my glass in a toast to everyone present, thanking the bureau chief and all the leaders seated around the table. But then I added a pointed remark: "Please remember, not all lawyers are the same." With that, I excused myself and left the table without even touching my food. Though I’m sure the bureau chief didn’t mean it maliciously, I can’t help but wonder if a leader who views lawyers—and perhaps even the legal system—in such a narrow, dismissive light could truly guide his public security team toward building a robust rule-of-law culture. And frankly, I’d rather avoid any interaction with him under the image of what he seems to hold as the ideal lawyer.
   

After this small incident, I began firmly refusing any and all similar requests from friends, family, and colleagues—now, if they want my help, it has to be through formal case referrals, for legitimate defense representation only. Though I’ve lost a few friendships and even some well-meaning compliments along the way, the old labels are slowly fading away, while a new, professional identity is becoming increasingly clear and prominent.
  

There are many experiences that leave one deeply moved—each of them later becoming invaluable lessons I apply to handling cases, as well as guiding friends and clients. For instance, when someone is wrongly arrested due to a personal dispute, I advise them not to bother reaching out to influential connections. History has shown that once people start leveraging such relationships, they often end up "preying on those who know them best." In the end, the authorities usually settle the matter by handing down a half-hearted compromise, giving both sides equal blame. But if you firmly believe you’ve been wrongfully accused, it’s often far more effective—and cleaner—to directly engage in negotiations or file a formal complaint.
   

A few years ago, when our criminal defense team was traveling across the country to promote the importance of specialized legal practice in criminal defense, we repeatedly emphasized how crucial a professional identity is for practicing lawyers. At these events—and even afterward—we often encountered skeptics, whose main concern boiled down to this: Clients immediately ask during the first meeting if we have connections. If we don’t, it seems like the conversation quickly stalls. But if I refuse to play the "connections game," how can I compete with other lawyers who clearly do? After all, in terms of securing cases, I’d inevitably lose out. Moreover, here’s another dilemma: If I truly focus on professionalism—pointing out flaws in cases or insisting on viewpoints and demands that might upset investigators and prosecutors—I risk alienating key stakeholders in smaller cities like ours. In third- and fourth-tier cities, where resources are already limited, offending public security, prosecution, or judicial authorities could lead to serious repercussions. What if they decide to make things difficult for me down the line? Is it possible that outsiders—like lawyers based in Beijing—are better positioned to uphold their professional principles without fear of retaliation? After all, being from the capital gives them the confidence and leverage to stand firm, unafraid of crossing paths with local law enforcement or judicial systems. That’s precisely why they can thrive while maintaining high standards of expertise—even when operating outside their home turf.
   

When faced with these common challenges, we often engage in candid and heartfelt discussions, sharing our own firsthand experiences as well as highlighting successful, transformation-minded lawyers from our network. Over time, this approach has gradually inspired a growing number of attorneys to let go of their initial hesitations and confidently embrace the path toward professional specialization.

When it comes to clients’ need for connections, there are two key approaches: first, understanding their mindset; and second, guiding them toward the right path. After an incident occurs, it’s natural for people to immediately think about whether they can rely on “influential contacts” to smooth things over. This reflects a deeply ingrained societal mindset—and perhaps even a practical approach they’ve developed through their own experiences in work and life. For instance, people often turn to connections when enrolling children in school or seeking medical treatment for elderly relatives. But does that mean you shouldn’t consider reaching out to someone when dealing with legal disputes? During client consultations, it’s crucial to distinguish between the judicial nature of criminal proceedings and the private, informal methods typically used in situations like schooling or healthcare. By providing clear, informed advice, lawyers can help clients analyze the root causes of their cases, anticipate potential consequences, explore viable solutions, and outline effective strategies for representation. Special emphasis should be placed on evaluating the case from a broader perspective—considering not only its implications under criminal policy but also its unique local context, heightened sensitivity, and the intricate web of underlying factors at play. In many cases, attempting to resolve issues by leveraging personal connections may backfire, potentially creating new complications rather than resolving the problem. Instead, lawyers should focus on crafting precise, well-reasoned defense and litigation strategies that allow the case to move forward openly and transparently. Moreover, lawyers must carefully assess the information provided by their clients to uncover the deeper conflicts driving the dispute—and then recommend solutions that address these issues at their core. For example, if the case stems from shareholder disagreements, contract disputes, intellectual property conflicts, or other civil economic disputes that have escalated into criminal matters, the priority should be to tackle the root causes of the conflict head-on. Clients shouldn’t engage in a costly and counterproductive battle of who can secure better connections—it’s far more productive to focus on resolving the underlying issues. Similarly, when criminal cases arise from broader societal concerns—such as tax-related offenses, environmental violations, labor disputes, fundraising scams, or government acquisitions of private-sector shares—lawyers must dig beneath the surface to identify the primary sources of tension. Only by addressing these core contradictions can meaningful progress be made. Often, this involves fostering open communication and collaboration, ultimately helping clients navigate their legal challenges while avoiding unnecessary risks. To put it simply: If your actions in a dispute result in someone sustaining minor injuries, pursuing compensation to reach a settlement is usually enough to avoid criminal liability. So why waste time and money trying to outdo others by relying on personal connections? Doing so could escalate tensions further, making the situation even more challenging—and ultimately detrimental to your case. Finally, in high-profile or politically sensitive cases that attract significant public or governmental attention, it’s especially important to steer clear of seeking assistance through unofficial channels. After all, when everyone is watching, efforts to bypass established legal processes—or worse, involve questionable intermediaries—can quickly undermine even the strongest arguments. Such actions might inadvertently make legitimate claims appear unreasonable, causing investigators or decision-makers to hesitate, doubt your credibility, or even deliberately avoid taking a stand in your favor. This caution is particularly critical in cases involving official misconduct or organized crime, where law enforcement officials are acutely aware of the risks associated with tampering with justice systems or engaging in unethical practices.
   

Of course, after a lawyer actively guides them, some clients come to understand the logic and stakes involved—and agree to proceed. Others, however, stubbornly insist on relying primarily on personal connections, insisting that a fixed outcome must be guaranteed as part of the engagement. In such cases, accepting the case would not only be unethical but also highly risky. A wise lawyer should resist the temptation and firmly decline—without hesitation. Ironically, sometimes clients who’ve gone through considerable trouble, even ending up duped or deceived, eventually realize their mistake days—or perhaps weeks—later. And it’s at that moment they reach out again, precisely because you didn’t try to deceive them in the first place. After all, it’s your well-thought-out approach and genuine expertise that ultimately earn their trust.
   

Lawyers who don’t delve deeply into their profession or bother to mount proper professional defenses—but instead excel at cultivating personal connections—are often mistakenly convinced that because they can “buy” their way out of trouble through illicit deals, everyone respects them—including prosecutors, law enforcement, and the judiciary. If they happen to hold flashy titles or public accolades, they may even become further entrenched in this delusional belief. Unfortunately, this kind of behavior sets a harmful "role model" for younger lawyers around them, leaving them either confused or disillusioned. Moreover, these transactional lawyers fail to embody the integrity and authority of the law when dealing directly with clients, let alone showcasing true professional dedication. Even if they manage to win a few high-profile cases, their lack of ethical rigor ultimately undermines their credibility—and, more importantly, prevents them from earning genuine respect from those they serve. Meanwhile, as more case-handling professionals emerge from formal legal training programs, there’s a growing cultural emphasis on expertise and competence. In this environment, such opportunistic lawyers are unlikely to earn the real admiration of their peers or the institutions they interact with.

So, how can lawyers act without worrying about upsetting the public prosecution and judicial authorities—or even facing professional retaliation—and instead earn genuine respect? Is it only when handling cases in other regions, beyond local oversight, that they can stand their ground firmly, free from any lingering fears or concerns?
   

In 2007, I took on a case in the investigation phase—namely, the alleged intentional homicide and arson case involving Chang, the former Deputy Editor-in-Chief of China Electronics News. The defense effort lasted six full years, culminating in an acquittal verdict delivered in 2013. Over those six years, I encountered numerous challenges related to forensic evidence, the admissibility of illegally obtained evidence, and ensuring equal treatment for both prosecution and defense—issues that will be explored in greater detail in a separate article. Some of my defense strategies, particularly when questioning allegations of torture or illegal evidence gathering, inadvertently upset investigators and their superiors, who would sometimes confront me directly after court sessions, accusing me of being overly aggressive and unreasonable. Meanwhile, during forensic testimony, the expert witness happened to be an old friend of mine—a relationship that didn’t stop me from rigorously cross-examining and challenging his findings, leaving the witness visibly uncomfortable under scrutiny. Throughout the trial, whether fiercely debating with the prosecutor or protesting against procedural flaws by the presiding judge and handling magistrate, I often sensed growing frustration among the judges, even prompting occasional forced recesses. Yet given the gravity of the case—after all, it involved a capital crime where human life was at stake—I couldn’t afford to overlook even the smallest legal loophole. While outwardly maintaining unwavering resolve at every step, deep down I couldn’t help but feel anxious: Had I alienated so many key figures in law enforcement, prosecution, and the judiciary? Would they coldly ignore me altogether if we ever crossed paths again? In the end, however, my worries proved unfounded. Investigators continued to engage me openly in professional discussions about legal matters. My forensic expert friend even began reaching out more frequently, seeking my advice on complex issues from other cases. Meanwhile, after closely following the case, prosecutors at all levels across the city arranged for their teams to attend the courtroom proceedings as observers. Later, this same prosecutor even invited me—uniquely—to participate as the sole defense attorney—in an exclusive internal seminar organized by the city’s entire public prosecution system. As for the court’s final decision, it initially handed down a suspended death sentence, leaving room for appeal. But after the second trial reversed the ruling entirely, the case was sent back for retrial. Ultimately, the retrial resulted in a complete acquittal. This outcome, without a doubt, represented the judges’ most respectful acknowledgment of my efforts throughout the process.
   

In Beijing alone, I’ve had numerous experiences like these: in one trial, the presiding judge’s behavior inadvertently turned me into a de facto second prosecutor, prompting me to slam the table and immediately request the judge’s recusal right there in court. In another case, I persistently raised concerns after uncovering clear procedural violations—and even evidence of collusion between officials and business interests—though the outcome ultimately favored us. Importantly, despite these high-stakes confrontations, I never faced retaliation from the authorities, nor did “personal connections” lead to any form of harassment or unfair treatment by the relevant departments. On the contrary, in some instances, after heated debates, I actually received recognition from the very agencies involved. For example, during a rape case in Beijing, we noticed that the forensic expert hadn’t properly documented the specific areas where samples were collected during the swabbing process. The defendant only admitted that material had been taken from the glans of his penis but denied that any samples were gathered from the main shaft or coronal sulcus. Seizing on this critical detail, we demanded that the forensic expert appear in court to clarify the situation. Ultimately, the expert couldn’t provide convincing evidence to counter our claims, so the court was left with no choice but to rule the case as attempted rape, rejecting the prosecution’s original argument for a completed offense. Later, during the second-instance review, the prosecutor assigned to the case specifically mentioned to me that their office had handled countless other rape cases without ever noticing this same oversight. As a result, they convened an internal meeting dedicated solely to scrutinizing the forensic procedures involved—and even issued a formal prosecutorial recommendation to the police department, urging them to refine their investigative protocols moving forward. Another instance occurred in Beijing during a corruption-related criminal case. By the time the case reached the court stage, we realized the defendant happened to be a grassroots-level People’s Congress representative. Yet, throughout the entire investigation process, not a single agency had bothered to verify whether the defendant held this official position. After we highlighted both the procedural flaws and the underlying substantive issues at play, the case took a dramatic turn. Not only did the handling agency promptly address the oversight, but they also implemented immediate corrective measures to ensure future investigations adhered more closely to proper legal standards.
   

I’ve encountered this situation several times before—clients in new cases have told me they chose you because a friend from the legal community, who previously appeared in court with you, recommended you. Interestingly, this person wasn’t personally familiar with you and even asked not to reveal their organization or full name. I suppose this must be the highest form of recognition within the legal profession.

Returning to the earlier question: Why do lawyers who don’t specialize in criminal defense—those who rely more heavily on external resources and place greater emphasis on them—often end up trusting only their own professional expertise, while lawyers who practice criminal defense daily tend to stick firmly to their specialized skills? There are likely many factors at play here, but at the core of the issue lies the disparity in professional specialization. Non-specialized criminal defense lawyers often lack thorough research into the latest criminal policies, legal amendments, judicial interpretations, and guiding cases. They may also lack experience with similar cases, underestimate potential challenges, and fail to develop practical contingency plans. This can lead to several problematic scenarios: First, they might fail to set realistic expectations for their clients, making unfounded promises about case outcomes—or even boldly vouching for impossible judicial results—in exchange for hefty fees. Only after stepping into the case do they realize how daunting the situation truly is, prompting them to scramble for connections and influence behind the scenes. Second, when confronted with complex cases that demand rigorous, specialized advocacy, these lawyers may opt for shortcuts. Rather than investing time in meaningful tasks like client meetings, document review, evidence gathering, or exploring legal strategies, they bypass these essential steps altogether. Instead, they turn directly to influential figures, hoping to secure quick wins—and pocket substantial payouts along the way. If their efforts fall short, they either refund the client outright or delay refunds under flimsy pretenses, ultimately leading to disputes or even criminal charges for fraud. Third, when faced with systemic obstacles such as unlawful restrictions on client visits, denial of access to case files, refusal to summon witnesses, or attempts to suppress exculpatory evidence, these lawyers often fail to leverage appropriate legal remedies. They simply assume there’s no hope left and immediately start reaching out to personal contacts or networks. If their efforts still hit roadblocks, they may abandon their duty to defend altogether, effectively handing over control of the case to the authorities. To illustrate, consider two recent examples from my immediate circle, both involving seemingly straightforward lawyer-client interactions during criminal case visits. One was a civil and commercial law PhD who frequently moonlighted as a criminal defense attorney. In a public WeChat group, he openly declared that handling criminal cases ultimately depends on building the right relationships. His reasoning? “Nowadays, most criminal cases are assigned to dedicated task forces,” he explained. “When you try to visit your client, you find yourself unable to even pinpoint the specific unit or officer in charge. How else are you supposed to navigate this without pulling strings?” Clearly, this esteemed scholar was unfamiliar with the wealth of relevant regulations and established protocols designed to resolve such issues efficiently. Moreover, he hadn’t made any genuine attempt to address the problem proactively. In contrast, when we handled similar cases, we’d simply dial 110 or lodge formal complaints with the prison administration, and in most instances, the issues would be swiftly resolved. The other example involved an experienced senior lawyer I know well. After accepting a commission to visit a suspect in a detention center far from home, he encountered immediate resistance. Rather than persistently advocating for his client’s rights, he promptly called a familiar contact at the superior authority overseeing the case. The response? “This appears to be a straightforward fraud case on the surface,” the contact advised, “but it’s actually quite intricate. For now, we’ll have to postpone the meeting. Please wait for further instructions.” Unsurprisingly, the suspect’s family members were far more astute. They recognized that denying lawyers access to their clients was clearly illegal—and viewed the lawyer’s hasty decision to trust the insider’s word without further inquiry as nothing short of reckless negligence. At the very least, they argued, the lawyer should have reached out directly to the head of the investigating agency or escalated the matter to the appropriate legal oversight body. Instead, they grew increasingly dissatisfied with the lawyer’s approach and, within days, terminated their representation altogether. Finally, some lawyers—even those handling high-profile or particularly challenging cases—may hesitate to push back against authorities out of fear of alienating key stakeholders, including investigators or judges. Yet paradoxically, it’s precisely in these complex, high-stakes situations that professionals are most needed. Even in adversarial contexts, expert legal counsel serves as invaluable support, helping officials challenge preconceived notions, encourage open dialogue, and prevent miscarriages of justice caused by external pressures or misguided political agendas.
   

In summary, objectively speaking, even in today’s significantly improved judicial environment, resources still have their place. The deeply ingrained social culture of "connections make things easier" persists, and sometimes, maintaining face can still matter—though the key lies in using these resources wisely, ensuring they don’t cross ethical or legal boundaries. For instance, when you’re unable to reach the case handler directly, it’s perfectly acceptable to tap into your network of acquaintances for their contact information—or even leverage such connections to facilitate a legitimate exchange of legal insights with the person in charge. Similarly, if you need to raise concerns about issues within the handling agency, reaching out to a trusted contact at the higher-level oversight body to urge them to prioritize and expedite the resolution process can help prevent the situation from escalating further. However, there are two critical red lines: First, never engage in quid-pro-quo exchanges of power or money, as this not only endangers both yourself and your contacts but also jeopardizes the fair outcome of the case itself. Second, never allow these resources to overshadow—or worse, replace—the expertise required to handle the case effectively. Instead, they should serve merely as a supplementary tool, enhancing rather than dominating the legal process. Otherwise, we risk losing sight of what truly matters: professional growth and integrity. Over time, lawyers who become overly reliant on such shortcuts may lose their motivation to refine their skills, ultimately trapping themselves in a cycle of dependency that stifles both their personal careers and the quality of justice delivered in individual cases. That said, in the context of the new era, I’d prefer to view so-called “resources” not as traditional personal connections, but rather as the influence lawyers gain through their adept use of diverse advocacy strategies—and even their own public reputation. This perspective shifts the focus away from interpersonal relationships and places greater emphasis on a lawyer’s ability to navigate the legal system effectively while upholding their professional standards.