Next, let’s discuss how lawyers approach the issue of representing "bad guys." Indeed, lawyers have the right to choose which cases and clients they take on—especially defense attorneys, who might feel personally disconnected or even emotionally opposed to a case or its当事人. In such situations, it’s easy to imagine how their level of commitment—and consequently, the effectiveness of their defense—could suffer. However, life is rarely black-and-white; it’s inherently complex and full of contradictions. At the heart of this debate lies the fundamental question: How do we determine the truth in a given case? After all, it’s not uncommon for key facts to unexpectedly shift or reverse. Then there’s the matter of ethics—how should we assess the moral dimensions of a case? And finally, how do we decide whether the central figure in the case truly qualifies as a "bad guy"? These questions, when viewed through the lens of different contexts, stages of development, and from the perspectives of various social classes and professional fields, often lead to vastly divergent conclusions.

From the perspective of "truth," no case has an absolute truth—only a relative truth, confirmed by evidence. When evidence becomes questionable, or when the information available to the public isn’t entirely comprehensive or objective, audiences often develop biased perceptions, sometimes even the opposite of reality. For instance, after hearing media reports or encountering unverified evidence, people may quickly form a judgment about how severe the crime is, or how deeply culpable the accused truly is. As members of society, lawyers, too, are frequently influenced by both truth and ethics, which ultimately shape their decisions on how to proceed with their cases.

According to modern principles of criminal procedure, any fact remains uncertain until proven by a court verdict, and anyone is presumed innocent until formally convicted. Given how challenging it already is to discern the truth, ethical judgments should be approached with even greater caution. Yet in reality, people often fall prey to surface-level appearances, quickly labeling someone not only as guilty of a crime but also as a moral "bad person"—leading to situations where judgment precedes a proper trial. This tendency holds true for both natural crimes—such as rape, murder, or assault—as well as statutory offenses like tax evasion, corruption, bribery, or official misconduct. As a result, the vast majority of individuals facing criminal charges that defense lawyers represent are typically seen by the public as "bad people." At this point, the conclusion becomes clear: lawyers have both the right—and, indeed, the duty—to defend "bad people." If defense attorneys were to limit themselves exclusively to representing the rare "good people" (those wrongly accused and championed by public opinion)—then the very existence of the legal profession would become untenable.

Therefore, uncovering the truth requires the joint efforts of lawyers, prosecutors, and judges—to do their utmost to reconstruct the facts and ensure that the law is applied accurately. This way, those wrongly accused "bad guys" can be cleared of wrongdoing, while those whose actions were understandable or excusable may have their responsibilities lightened, thus reducing negative public perception. At the end of the day, Legal professionals may have personal likes and dislikes, but There shouldn't be a legal concept of good or bad people, Instead, accusations, defenses, and judgments should be based solely on facts and the law. 。

Over the years, there have been numerous cases where individuals labeled as "bad guys" or "villains" were later revealed to be innocent—cases I’ll gradually discuss in later chapters. Yet, during the process of handling these cases, it’s become increasingly clear how public opinion and prosecutors’ preconceived notions about "bad people" can put significant pressure on ensuring a fair trial. For instance, during the trial of an intentional murder and arson case in Beijing, the prosecutor bluntly questioned me: "Do you really believe this wasn’t a murder? Why are you trying to exonerate someone who allegedly killed his wife?" Such emotional undertones—not to mention societal biases—can sometimes inadvertently undermine the impartial application of the law, potentially leading to subjective judgments and wrongful convictions.

There’s also a situation where you genuinely encounter someone who might be considered a "bad person"—someone whose behavior is emotionally difficult to accept. While I believe lawyers should have the right to refuse representation in such cases, there are times when exceptions arise. Even if it’s not about protecting a client with severe moral flaws, some lawyers will courageously step onto the defense stage—and fight for justice—simply to uphold procedural fairness and safeguard the integrity of the law.

At the beginning of 2008, a client from Henan approached me, claiming that a relative had been accused of raping two dozen or so underage students. The first-instance verdict handed down was the death penalty, and the client wanted me to serve as their defense lawyer in the second trial. Upon hearing the details of this case, my scalp immediately tingled with unease, and I quickly declined the request. However, the client turned out to be quite cultured and rational, understandingly respecting the emotional challenges lawyers face. Despite my refusal, they insisted on staying at the law firm, even expressing empathy for the lawyer’s situation. The client clarified that their primary goal wasn’t to pressure me into altering the outcome—it was instead to address the fundamental issue of procedural injustice in the case. They explained how local lawyers had been consistently denied access to case files throughout both the prosecution review and court proceedings. It wasn’t until the day of the actual trial that the defense team was finally granted limited, last-minute access to part of the dossier—just enough to glance through it while arguing their case. Yet even then, the verdict was delivered almost immediately after the hearing concluded. The family was deeply dissatisfied with this process, believing that at the very least, the defendant’s basic legal rights should have been upheld. They argued that the trial procedure must be thorough, meticulous, and entirely lawful—ensuring the defendant has ample opportunity to speak freely and allowing the lawyer to mount a robust defense. After all, even if the ultimate sentence is the death penalty, the defendant deserves to understand clearly why and how that decision was reached.

I was shocked to hear this, so I immediately agreed to take on the case. First, I headed to Henan to assess the situation firsthand—and made a point of meeting with the defense lawyer who had handled the case during the initial trial phase. This seasoned local attorney confirmed exactly what my client had described: both the defendant’s rights and the lawyer’s rights were severely violated in this case. As a result, many of the alleged facts remained unclear, leading to a hasty and confusing verdict.

Later, I officially stepped in during the second trial, dedicating considerable effort to this case. I managed to fill in most of the procedural gaps that had been overlooked in the first trial, ensuring that the defendant’s arguments and the lawyer’s concerns were properly addressed. I even used media platforms to clarify the situation and appeal for fairness. Although the final outcome—capital punishment—remained unchanged, my efforts nonetheless drew attention to the critical importance of procedural justice, giving society a platform to hear alternative perspectives on the case. This may, in turn, challenge the region’s judicial practices, which have historically placed an excessive emphasis on “substantive justice.”

Being a lawbreaker automatically labels someone as "bad," which not only mirrors the public’s instinctive judgment but also highlights a fundamental issue in the values of criminal justice. Regardless of how the public or even judicial officials may view the accused, as lawyers, there’s no room for debate: once we accept a client’s case, we must steadfastly stand by their side, becoming allies in their professional battle against the prosecution, investigation authorities, and the courts. Only then can we ensure that the scales of criminal proceedings don’t tilt endlessly toward the state’s power—and prevent defense attorneys from inadvertently becoming mere cogs in the state’s machinery designed to prosecute their clients.