The career path of a lawyer is often fraught with challenges—transitioning from an unstable young attorney to a seasoned, steady "senior lawyer" typically comes at a steep price. For some, the costs go far beyond mere financial or emotional losses, delivering lessons that are deeply etched into their memories, impossible to forget throughout their future practice—and in some cases, even leaving lasting psychological scars that linger as a source of persistent unease.

I chose to share this story—not so much to remind others, but rather to continually keep myself on guard. Like doctors, lawyers bear the life-and-death responsibility of their clients, and that inner vigilance is essential at all times.

The first case is a story of how a civil enforcement matter eventually turned into a criminal offense—and it happened before the first case I mentioned earlier, the one that gave me a real sense of accomplishment. When I was working as an intern lawyer, my primary focus was assisting the team with securities-related legal work. Occasionally, though, I’d get to shadow fully licensed attorneys as they handled a small number of civil and even criminal cases. One day, a client involved in a civil dispute entrusted me with their case. After obtaining approval from the head of the lawyer team, I took over the case under the name of another attorney who already held a valid practicing license. Here’s the gist of the situation: A flour mill in Tongzhou District, Beijing, had taken out loans during its operations but struggled financially for years. To repay those debts, the owner resorted to a risky strategy—borrowing from one source to pay off another. Specifically, the owner purchased large quantities of grain from local farmers at inflated prices. Some of this grain was used to settle existing loan obligations, while the rest was kept in the mill to keep operations running, in hopes of turning things around and eventually repaying the loans. However, because the mill couldn’t afford to pay the farmers promptly for their grain, it ended up being sued in Tongzhou District Court. The court ruled in favor of the farmers, ordering the mill to reimburse the purchase costs—and enforcement proceedings were initiated. Since the flour mill had no funds available to make the payment, the enforcement court proceeded to detain the owner according to legal procedures. At the same time, the court informed the owner’s family that if the outstanding debt wasn’t settled soon, the next step would be to prosecute the owner for the crime of refusing to comply with the court’s judgment.

After the boss was taken into judicial custody, the client reached out to a lawyer, expressing deep frustration and believing the situation was unjust. They hoped the case wouldn’t escalate further. After hearing the details, I also agreed that the boss’s acquisition appeared entirely legitimate—though whether it involved overpaying remains unclear. Crucially, though, the boss didn’t resell the grain for illegal profit, nor did he flee to evade creditors. Instead, he continued using the grain directly in the flour mill’s operations and production. I believe that by staying committed to business as usual, he’ll eventually manage to repay the loans and settle the purchase payments. From both a legal and humanitarian standpoint, he deserves another chance.

I rushed to the court as soon as I heard about the case and met with the chief judge of the enforcement division handling this matter. While submitting my written application, I also shared my perspective and made a heartfelt request: The defendant and the creditor have maintained a normal buyer-seller or borrower-lender relationship—there’s been no suspicious behavior—and the defendant is simply facing temporary financial difficulties. I urged the court to allow him to return home and continue running his flour mill, giving him breathing room to repay the debt once his business stabilizes. After all, keeping him in custody indefinitely would likely lead to the collapse of his business, further jeopardizing not only the creditor’s interests but also leaving countless farmers unable to recover their grain payments. However, the judge didn’t seem willing to listen carefully; he quickly interrupted me, bluntly stating that failure to repay on time automatically constitutes a crime. He added that if the defendant refuses to comply, the case won’t just be treated as a simple failure to fulfill obligations—it’ll be escalated immediately to criminal charges under fraud statutes. But I disagreed, arguing that if fraud charges are indeed warranted, they should be pursued during the trial phase rather than being retroactively applied at the enforcement stage. I expressed skepticism about the judge’s approach, sensing that he might be casually tossing around legal terms without fully considering the broader implications. I urged him instead to weigh the mutual benefits for both parties involved in the case, as well as the potential societal impact of such a decision.

After I returned, eager to help, I pointed out the chief judge’s simplistic approach to law enforcement through various channels, hoping the court would carefully consider the specifics of the case. Whether within or beyond the bounds of the law, the court must avoid handling this case in isolation—especially since the goal should be to protect the farmers’ immediate interests, not to treat the flour mill owner as a criminal simply because of the situation.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before the Public Security Bureau received a referral letter from the court, and the boss was formally charged with fraud. Although I later fought hard to defend him through numerous challenges, in the end, I couldn’t turn the tide—resulting in the flour factory owner being sentenced to a heavy prison term.

The boss doesn’t have the money to repay, but now it seems he might only face criminal charges for refusing to comply with the court’s ruling—yet somehow, this has escalated into fraud. Where did things go wrong? What started as an attempt to mitigate liability has ended up backfiring, compounding the consequences instead of easing them. This has left me deeply puzzled and torn, profoundly impacting how I approach my future practice.

What I reflected on at the time was, first, that civil cases—even those already in the enforcement phase—can unexpectedly shift in nature. This poses a significant challenge for lawyers when assessing the case’s inherent characteristics and identifying potential risks of transformation, requiring them to develop effective analytical strategies and preventive measures. Second, while it’s important to empathize with the pressures courts face when dealing with cases involving large numbers of parties, we must also avoid underestimating the "arbitrariness" that judicial staff might exhibit—especially when they cling to even the tiniest legal basis or rationale. After all, these officials hold considerable power—and their ability to wield it wisely demands greater patience and constructive, goodwill-driven communication. We should never recklessly confront such authority with sheer stubbornness or emotional impulsiveness. Finally, we should proactively propose more practical and realistic solutions. For instance, persuading both the parties involved and their families to make sacrifices, like selling off assets if necessary, to repay at least part of the owed amount. This not only demonstrates sincerity but also helps de-escalate tensions. Under no circumstances should we exacerbate existing conflicts further, risking their escalation into situations that ultimately spiral out of legal bounds.

This lesson was profoundly impactful. Later, in several criminal cases I handled—such as illegal fundraising and fraud—I applied the reflections mentioned above by recommending solutions like debt-to-equity swaps and installment repayment plans. These approaches helped resolve conflicts, fostered mutual understanding, and ultimately eased tensions across all aspects of the cases.

The second case is the story of a young man who, unexpectedly thrust into a situation where he had no choice but to defend himself, was sentenced to death. It happened shortly after I’d successfully rescued a college student named Ma—but just as I was preparing to take on another high-stakes case that could very well lead to the death penalty. This young man was a chef in his early twenties from Zhejiang province, working at an upscale restaurant in Beijing. His culinary credentials highlighted him as a talented individual with immense potential for growth and advancement. While juggling his job, he met a girl and soon began pursuing her romantically. However, unbeknownst to him, this same girl already had another suitor—a fellow migrant worker also in Beijing, striving to make a living in the capital. Tensions between the two suitors quickly escalated, and the girl found herself caught in the middle, trying desperately to mediate the conflict. One fateful evening, the three agreed to meet at the restaurant where the young chef worked. But once they arrived, things took a dark turn: first, the chef and the other young man downed several bottles of beer, creating an increasingly volatile atmosphere. As the night wore on and the alcohol flowed freely, the tension between them spiraled out of control. By the end of the meal, tempers flared, and a heated argument erupted—leading directly to physical violence. The male rival, significantly taller and stronger, launched the first attack, brutally assaulting the chef. Despite being physically smaller and weaker, the young chef managed to flee outside the restaurant in a desperate bid to escape. But his pursuer relentlessly gave chase, continuing the assault even as the chef tried to run away. Cornered and overwhelmed, the chef, realizing he had nowhere left to hide, instinctively reached for a small kitchen knife he always carried with him—and used it in self-defense. In a panic, he swung wildly at his attacker, striking indiscriminately. Tragically, one of those fatal blows pierced the man’s artery, and despite immediate medical efforts, he ultimately succumbed to his injuries. After the incident, the chef turned himself in, and the prosecutor’s office charged him with intentional homicide.

After accepting the case, through reviewing the evidence and interviewing witnesses, I discovered that the testimonies of eyewitnesses—including the girl—and the defendant’s own confession all corroborate each other. This confirms that the victim not only initiated the physical altercation but also relentlessly pursued the defendant, who was trying to escape. It was only when the defendant could no longer evade the attack and had lost the ability to defend himself that he pulled out a small knife—a tool he normally used for carving cauliflower during his daily work—to fight back. I’m fully confident that the chef’s actions clearly constitute excessive self-defense, amounting at most to the charge of intentional injury. Moreover, I believe the prosecution’s failure to acknowledge the victim’s alleged fault, as well as their decision not to charge him with intentional homicide but instead pursue charges of intentional injury, is unequivocally wrong. As a result, there’s little cause for concern regarding the chef’s safety or freedom.

Following standard practice, I proactively reached out to the prosecutor, hoping to gain her acceptance of the defense attorney's arguments—and at the very least, persuade her to drop the recommendation for the death penalty. Unfortunately, the prosecutor remained unmoved, firmly maintaining that this was a case of mutual assault, constituting intentional homicide through reckless indifference. I then tried again, contacting the victim’s family through the court, in hopes of securing their forgiveness by offering compensation. However, the victim’s relatives declined to cooperate. With the trial now imminent, I remain confident that, given the overwhelming clarity of the evidence, the court will ultimately acknowledge the victim’s own culpability and rule that the defendant did not commit intentional murder.

To the slight surprise of everyone present, during the trial, the prosecutor not only firmly stood by his own arguments but also adopted an exceptionally stern and confrontational demeanor, emphatically demanding the death penalty with unwavering resolve. The more I countered his claims, the more rigid and unyielding the young prosecutor became.

Soon after, the verdict was delivered. As expected, the prosecutor’s request was granted: the charge of intentional homicide was upheld, and the defendant was sentenced to death with immediate execution. I can only imagine how shocked I felt at that moment.

The defendant and the family continued to place their trust in me, entrusting me with the task of defending them in the second trial. I, too, pinned my last hope on the appellate court, believing it would deliver a verdict that truly reflected the facts. However, the second-instance court upheld the original sentence. At that very moment, the power to review death sentences still resided at the provincial and municipal levels—meaning the high court’s decision effectively served as the final review. Tragically, the young chef was swiftly executed shortly thereafter.

I remember how I felt at the time—stunned, heartbroken, and filled with self-blame. For a while afterward, I even started having frequent nightmares, reliving the vivid image of that handsome young chef smiling warmly at me, someone I’d encountered dozens of times. Years later, I still tried my best to avoid recalling those moments—but no matter how hard I resisted, my mind kept drifting back to his youthful face, and to the hopeful sparkle in his eyes as he talked about the case’s promising future.

In my second year of independent practice, I successfully defended a case of intentional homicide by Ma—a triumph that was quickly followed by a crushing defeat in an intentional injury case involving a chef. That roller-coaster-like emotional journey remains vividly etched in my memory even two or three decades later. The sheer weight of the psychological burden made me hesitate for over a decade afterward—during which time I never again took on a single case that carried the grim possibility of an immediate death sentence.

I’ve repeatedly reflected on my performance in this case and realized I made several critical mistakes. First, I was overly confident, placing blind faith in the prosecution and judiciary—mistakenly failing to anticipate that they would so readily accept such a flimsy conclusion, dismissing a young person’s life with such callous disregard. Second, the victim’s family refused to accept compensation or offer forgiveness. Was their refusal genuine, or did I simply fail to effectively communicate my efforts to reach out and engage with them personally? Why didn’t I exhaust every possible avenue to establish contact and initiate direct dialogue? Even if face-to-face communication proved impossible, couldn’t I have rallied resources instead, depositing the funds directly into the court’s escrow account, ready at any moment to compensate the victim and perhaps gain a glimmer of understanding? Finally, I fell short in taking more proactive steps to influence the prosecutors and judges, challenging their flawed perspectives. This could have included promptly escalating the issue of wrongful accusations to higher-ranking officials within the prosecution and judiciary, as well as to relevant oversight bodies. Additionally, I should have encouraged the defendant’s parents to make heartfelt, plea-based statements during court proceedings—and after the initial verdict, I could have even appealed to the media, urging a more cautious approach to capital punishment and emphasizing the value of sparing young lives that aren’t inherently irredeemable.

Failure is the mother of success. These reflections have undoubtedly shaped every subsequent case I’ve handled as a lawyer. When confronted with uncontrollable judicial factors, no matter how professionally justified your arguments may be, never let your confidence become overblown—instead, remain deeply skeptical and always prepare for the worst-case scenario. In cases involving victims, if the victim or their family refuses to accept compensation or reach a civil settlement, proactively seek opportunities to engage in open dialogue. This is especially crucial as time passes and the victim’s family begins to heal from their emotional wounds—perseverance in communication becomes even more vital during these moments. If you can’t locate contact information, explore every possible avenue to arrange a face-to-face meeting. And when direct communication proves impossible, consider persuading the family to entrust whatever compensation they’re able to offer to the court, allowing the judge to convey both an apology and an offer of restitution on their behalf. This approach proved particularly effective in the later case involving Li Moumou and four others accused of rape. Moreover, when it comes to influencing the preconceived opinions of prosecutors and judges through legitimate and constructive channels, I’ve exhausted every available strategy. I carefully consider their age, gender, educational background, professional experience, and even their personal aspirations, tailoring my defense tactics to resonate with their individual perspectives and potentially sway their subjective attitudes.

Times have changed—today, the rule-of-law environment has improved significantly, and the power to review death sentences was actually taken back by the Supreme Court more than a decade ago. As a result, the principle of "fewer executions, greater caution" has deeply resonated with both the legal community and the public, leading to a steady decline in capital punishment cases. Yet, whenever I reflect on the early days of my practice, I can’t help but feel a mix of awe and humility. Criminal cases are fundamentally different from civil ones; there’s no chance for retrial or reversal to save a life or freedom once a sentence has been handed down. Take high-profile cases like that of university student Ma or the young chef—it’s clear that if their families had the financial means, they’d likely turn to more established, seasoned lawyers rather than someone just starting out like me. But unfortunately, many clients simply can’t afford top-tier legal representation. And it’s not just these two families who face such challenges. Today, legal aid systems across the country rightly stipulate that only lawyers with at least three or five years of experience can take on death penalty cases. For younger attorneys—even those with three to five years under their belts—I still advise against readily accepting such high-stakes cases. The responsibility is immense, and the defense process is incredibly complex. Of course, there may be unavoidable situations where you’re confronted with a death penalty case despite your lack of experience. If that happens—and perhaps mirroring my own struggles back then—you’ll need to strike a delicate balance: stay fiercely committed to your client’s rights while maintaining an exceptionally cautious approach. After all, this isn’t just about winning a case; it’s about safeguarding a human life. So, alongside your tireless efforts, make sure to seek guidance from experts, thoroughly assess every possible angle, and craft the most comprehensive defense strategy possible.