Chapter 6 | Do Lawyers Have the Right to Choose Cases and Clients?-Starrise Law Firm

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This case certainly came as a small shock to me—I realized I’d been overly trusting of the当事人, deeply immersed in the situation, and perhaps lacked the self-awareness needed to protect myself. But more than anything, this experience reminded me of an old saying: "Even an honest judge finds it hard to settle family disputes." When it comes to domestic conflicts or marital relationships, it’s often impossible to clearly determine who’s right and who’s wrong—and even harder to predict how those feelings might ultimately unfold. After all, at the end of the day, they’re still family. By stepping in as a lawyer, one might inadvertently become the "bad guy"—or perhaps even find themselves torn and confused, struggling to fully grasp what’s right or wrong.

If judged according to the provisions of the Lawyers Law and globally accepted legal ethics, the answer is clear: everyone has the right to hire a lawyer to advocate for their own interests. And once a lawyer accepts the mandate, they are obligated to wholeheartedly protect the client’s interests—even if those interests conflict with the lawyer’s personal values.

However, when it comes to individual cases, lawyers, like prosecutors and law enforcement officials, each have their own personal ethical principles and naturally develop preferences—or even aversions—toward certain matters. If a lawyer inevitably ends up handling a case but feels strongly反感 toward the client involved, it’s easy to imagine how challenging that situation might become for both parties. From this perspective, we could argue that while, in general, the law should protect all individuals entitled to its safeguards—including "bad actors"—those who enforce the law, administer justice, or practice law should ideally establish systems that allow, or even mandate, avoidance of conflicts of interest. This would ensure that decision-makers don’t let personal feelings influence their judgments, potentially skewing objective assessments. And specifically regarding lawyers, we must recognize and respect their "right to recuse"—meaning they are fully entitled to decline representing a case if they feel uncomfortable doing so. Such a refusal doesn’t conflict with their professional ethics at all.

Let me share a bit about the civil cases I handled during my own career transition.

In my second year of practice, I encountered two divorce dispute cases. The first involved an executive from a state-owned enterprise suing his wife for divorce—but without making any claims regarding the division of assets. The reason? His wife had been bedridden and paralyzed for eight years due to illness, completely dependent on him for daily care. Over the past eight years, she’d been unable to perform even basic functions like eating, drinking, or personal hygiene, relying entirely on her husband for assistance. As a result, the plaintiff felt he had ceased to be a husband in any meaningful sense; he no longer fulfilled the traditional roles or rights associated with marriage. Instead, he had essentially become nothing more than a full-time caregiver, left only with the obligation to look after his wife—leaving him overwhelmed by the emotional and physical toll, which severely impacted both his work and his ability to maintain a normal life.

After the case was filed in court, the wife, unable to appear due to her medical condition, appointed an attorney to represent her in the proceedings. She expressed that she still has feelings for her husband and believes they remain obligated to care for each other as spouses, firmly opposing the divorce. Her attorney also reached out to a women’s rights organization, which subsequently contacted a media outlet. During the legal battle, the media published a strongly critical report condemning the husband’s decision to abandon his ill wife, labeling it as an ethically and morally unacceptable act.

After the first court hearing, the judge hesitated to immediately issue a verdict, as it was difficult to determine whether the legal requirement of "irreparable breakdown of the marital relationship" had been met. Meanwhile, media coverage further escalated the situation. In an effort to resolve the dispute, the judge once again attempted mediation, hoping to reach a settlement that both parties could accept. During the mediation process, the plaintiff voluntarily proposed that, in addition to transferring all jointly owned marital assets to the defendant, the plaintiff would also provide an extra financial compensation of several hundred thousand yuan—payable annually over time—to the defendant. In response, the defendant’s attorney presented a handwritten note from the wife, essentially stating that if the plaintiff were willing to increase the amount of compensation beyond the joint assets, she might consider agreeing to the divorce.

As the acting lawyer, I would naturally seize this opportunity presented by the note and immediately present it to the judge, arguing that the document clearly demonstrates the marital relationship has irretrievably broken down—and that the wife’s refusal to agree to the divorce is merely a ploy to secure higher financial compensation. The judge agreed with my argument and swiftly issued a divorce decree, which also dismissed the wife’s additional demands for further compensation.

During the two months I represented this case, I found myself caught in a profound emotional conflict. On one hand, I sympathized with the man, believing that such a marriage and family arrangement were simply too cruel for him—and that divorce was the right choice. I felt it was the government’s and society’s responsibility to support the woman, not something a husband should be expected to bear indefinitely. Yet, as the legal proceedings unfolded, I also began to empathize with her, understanding her deep sense of helplessness and despair about the future, despite the substantial assets she stood to gain. In court, I used my skills and logical reasoning to win the case. But even after the victory, those tangled, unresolved thoughts continued to weigh heavily on me—leaving me unsure whether I had done a good deed or, perhaps, an unintended harm.

The second case is the reverse: a young woman is suing the man, claiming they fight daily and demanding a divorce as well as a share of the property. She has hired me and paid a lawyer's fee of 4,000 yuan.

Because the case involved a discrepancy between the actual ownership of the house and its nominal ownership, I visited several government departments to gather evidence in order to prepare thoroughly for the lawsuit and protect the woman’s interests. I even reached out to friends for help, and together we managed to secure critical evidence that strongly favored her side—evidence that was later submitted to the court. On the day of the trial, just as I was about to enter the courtroom, I received a call from the plaintiff. She expressed concern that the proceedings might escalate tensions between both parties, suggesting it would be better if my lawyer wasn’t present and she handled the situation herself. She also asked me to leave the area around the courthouse immediately, warning that if the man spotted me, it could trigger a conflict. Considering her reasoning valid, I decided to step aside and didn’t attend the hearing.

A few days later, the firm’s leadership called me, informing me that a woman had complained because I hadn’t attended the court hearing on time—and now she was demanding a full refund. I immediately reached out to the plaintiff, who explained that my wife and I had already reconciled, blaming me entirely for encouraging her to pursue the lawsuit in the first place, which had ultimately caused their marital rift. Hearing this, I was stunned into silence. It suddenly dawned on me that the woman must have leveraged the evidence I’d provided to turn the tables in her favor, successfully resolving the issue. But there was nothing I could do at that point—after all, I hadn’t even bothered to keep any proof of my side of the story. So, I reported the situation back to the firm and reluctantly agreed to process the full refund of four thousand yuan.

This case was certainly a small shock to me—I realized I’d been overly trusting of the当事人, too deeply immersed in the situation, and perhaps lacked sufficient self-awareness to protect myself. But more than anything, this experience reminded me of an old saying: "Even an honest judge finds it hard to settle family disputes." When it comes to domestic conflicts or marital relationships, it’s often impossible to clearly determine who’s right and who’s wrong, and even harder to predict how those feelings might ultimately evolve. After all, at the end of the day, they’re still family. By stepping in as a lawyer, one might inadvertently become the "bad guy"—or perhaps even feel torn and confused themselves, unable to fully grasp what’s right or wrong.

These two divorce cases represent the entirety of family dispute cases I’ve handled throughout my career. To avoid further confusion, I’ve never accepted similar mandates since then—no matter how substantial the divorce assets were, or how emotionally distraught the parties may have been pleading their cases.

When discussing these two cases, my intention isn’t to judge whether the individuals involved are good or bad—but rather to emphasize that, as lawyers, we should have the professional discretion to choose our cases and clients based on certain subjective criteria.

Now, let’s revisit the issue of representing “bad actors.” Over the years in my practice, I’ve encountered numerous clients who tried to manipulate lawyers into helping them concoct false evidence, evade debts, or even strip their spouses of jointly owned assets. Of course, when faced with such truly unethical individuals, I’ve always firmly refused—even declining to offer any advice—let alone become complicit in their morally reprehensible actions. However, there are also situations where distinguishing between right and wrong isn’t as straightforward as in the examples above. These cases can stir up internal conflict during decision-making—for instance, when the victim explicitly demands the death penalty for the defendant.

Around 2005, I received a commission from a man who was a relative of the victim in an intentional homicide case. His request was straightforward: he wanted me to act as his lawyer and help persuade the court to sentence the killer to death.

Here’s the translated story: The story goes like this: A man and his wife jointly ran a pharmaceutical business. Thanks to its strong performance, they decided to open another enterprise in a different province. As a result, the husband frequently traveled away from home to oversee the new venture. Over time, however, his wife discovered that he’d started an affair with another woman in the out-of-province location. Furious and deeply upset, she decided to take matters into her own hands—and turned her anger toward the mistress. She hired someone to teach the mistress a lesson. After much searching, she finally tracked down a man named Jia, who claimed to be connected to organized crime. Jia demanded 200,000 yuan from her, promising to personally visit the other province and brutally punish the mistress—perhaps by breaking a leg or even slashing her face. But months passed, and despite repeated reminders from the frustrated businesswoman, Jia remained conspicuously inactive. Realizing she’d been duped by a fake gangster, she insisted on getting her money back. One evening, Jia arranged to meet her at a secluded spot, claiming he had the cash ready for her. When she arrived and got into his car, he seized the opportunity, strangling her to death while she was off guard. Afterward, Jia drove the vehicle hundreds of kilometers away to another province, pulling over on a remote rural road. There, he doused the car with gasoline, set it ablaze, and incinerated both the body and the wreckage—all in an attempt to erase any evidence of the crime.

After discovering his wife had gone missing, the male client reported the case to Beijing’s public security authorities—but more than a year later, there was still no progress. Undeterred, he took matters into his own hands, working tirelessly as a private investigator to gather clues on his own. Eventually, his relentless efforts led to a crucial breakthrough: Beijing police successfully coordinated with law enforcement agencies in another province, enabling them to piece together vital information. It turned out the burnt-out car had been deliberately stripped of its license plate, and even the engine number had been tampered with to erase any trace. Meanwhile, the victim’s body was so severely damaged by fire that identification became nearly impossible. Combined with the lack of any identifying documents or other leads, this had previously hindered effective information sharing between provinces.

The man was devastated and filled with remorse, burning with hatred toward the killer. He wanted to hire a lawyer to represent him in court, demanding that the defendant face the ultimate punishment—death—without accepting any compensation. After hearing the details of the case, I, too, was outraged by the severity of the crime. Not only did the defendant act utterly untrustworthy, but he also betrayed his client. Determined to see justice served, I agreed to take on the case.

The outcome of this case was anything but straightforward—let’s just say it took several unexpected twists and turns. What I want to emphasize is that back then, I held my own independent convictions. Representing a case like this was, of course, about upholding justice and standing up for my male client’s cause. But as I’ve grown older and gained more life experience—especially as my views on the death penalty have evolved—I’ve chosen not to take on any similar cases since. In fact, I’ve even declined mandates involving cases where the defendant’s criminal responsibility is significantly heightened. After all, isn’t it enough that the law already provides for retribution in such situations? Why would we, as lawyers, further fuel this vicious cycle of bloody, revenge-driven justice—even if the defendant truly deserves punishment?

When selecting clients, we inevitably end up reflecting our own "preferences." First, we assess whether the two parties click and can work together seamlessly for smooth collaboration. Second, we evaluate whether the other party is honest and trustworthy—someone you can rely on without fear of being exploited maliciously. Finally, we consider the specific nature of the alleged criminal behavior, ensuring it doesn’t create an emotional conflict that might put us at odds with the client. In cases where clients clearly lie, make unreasonable or even illegal demands, or represent defendants whose crimes severely violate basic human values, I usually decline to take on the case altogether.

In 2013, Beijing was rocked by a highly publicized child-abuse case, in which the defendant was initially sentenced to death in the first trial. The family reached out, asking us to take on the second-instance defense. However, I firmly refused, unable to represent someone who had callously caused the death of an innocent child without provocation. Despite my initial refusal, the relatives persistently came back, repeatedly pleading that their loved one wasn’t as guilty as portrayed in the media—that he’d actually been wronged and urged me to carefully review the case before making a decision. Moved by their heartfelt appeals, my colleague Zhang Dawei and I from the criminal defense team decided to accept the case after all, figuring we’d at least gather all the facts first. But once we began reviewing the court files and later visited the defendant in custody, things took an unexpected turn. On our way back to the law firm after the meeting, both Zhang and I immediately informed the client that we would terminate our representation—right then and there. Neither of us felt comfortable continuing to defend him anymore. The reason? During our meeting, the defendant not only failed to acknowledge the gravity of his actions or seek legal advice—he didn’t even inquire about the dire situation of his elderly, vulnerable parents back home. Instead, the very first thing he said was that we should urgently relay his request to his parents: sell their house immediately to raise the funds needed to bail him out. To make matters worse, during the conversation, he unexpectedly reversed his earlier courtroom confession, offering no explanation for this dramatic shift. After careful consideration, Zhang and I concluded that we simply couldn’t go on. We no longer had the motivation—or the ability—to fight for this client.

Fast forward to 2018, when a rabies vaccine scandal erupted in Northeast China, sparking nationwide outrage. People across the country voiced their condemnation of the toxic vaccine manufacturers that had endangered young children and teenagers. In a WeChat group of 500 members under our Criminal Committee, many urged colleagues not to accept cases involving individuals linked to this scandal—arguing that defending such perpetrators, who posed a grave threat to every family, would only compound the harm. Yet others insisted that a lawyer’s primary duty is to uphold the rights of their clients through vigorous defense, emphasizing that lawyers must set aside personal opinions and fulfill this professional obligation without hesitation. This sparked a heated debate among group members. After some time discussing the issue, most participants eventually reached a consensus: Every criminal suspect or defendant has the fundamental right to defend themselves—and equally, the right to seek legal representation from a qualified professional. These rights must never be stripped away or interfered with. At the same time, however, if a lawyer personally struggles to reconcile their own beliefs or emotions with taking on such a case, they should respect their right as an individual to make that choice. After all, no one can force a lawyer to provide competent legal services while harboring conflicting views, deeply held values, or even feelings of resentment and disdain toward their client.

Chapter 9 | Should We Defend "Bad Guys"?

Chapter 13 | From Criminal Defense to Criminal Compliance