3. The media exists to serve the case, not the lawyers.

This case offered quite a spectacle when it came to the lawyers' attire. During the pre-trial conference and the courtroom proceedings, everyone opted for casual wear—think T-shirts and relaxed tops—likely due to the sweltering heat. I was the only one who showed up in a smart, formal white shirt with a tie, though I skipped the suit jacket altogether. Yet, throughout this period, several other lawyers kept popping up in the media: some gave multiple interviews, while others shared videos on social media platforms—and remarkably, all of them were impeccably dressed in full, polished suits.

Dressing casually for court, but formally for the media—this is worth pondering. After all, such outward appearances are always backed by corresponding inner actions.

This time, let’s focus on the victim’s attorney. For convenience, we’ll tentatively refer to her as Attorney A.

The lawyer was highly active at the time, consistently appearing as an embodiment of justice from the moment the incident occurred. He spent every day on Weibo engaging in heated exchanges with the Li family's spokesperson, gaining massive exposure. Public interest in him was equally high—people viewed him as a steadfast guardian dedicated to upholding fairness and righteousness.

During the first pre-trial conference, I met with Lawyer A and conveyed the client’s willingness to apologize and offer compensation. We exchanged phone numbers afterward, agreeing to discuss the matter privately later. But every time I called after that, Lawyer A would say he’d get back to me tomorrow. And so it went—day after day—without ever actually returning my call. Frustrated, I eventually decided to send him a text message instead, ensuring I had a record of our communication. I sent over 10 texts in total, patiently waiting until just before the trial was set to begin—but still, there was no reply from Lawyer A.

The lawyer’s mysterious attitude, combined with the looming deadline, made it clear I couldn’t wait any longer—but at the same time, there was no direct way to reach the victim. Left with no other option, just before the trial, I asked both the client and their parents to draft formal written apology letters, which we submitted to the court to be forwarded to the victim. At the same time, we also handed over 100,000 yuan, explaining that since the victim had been hospitalized for psychiatric treatment and was therefore unable to appear in court as we’d originally planned, we decided to cover her hospitalization costs instead, as a sincere gesture toward reconciliation.

But after the court hearing began, Lawyer A gave a media interview and posted on Weibo, claiming that none of the five defendants had reached out to him regarding compensation—even up until the day of the trial. "I even made about 20 or 30 phone calls and sent numerous texts," he said, "yet you never responded when I tried to discuss this issue. So how can you now publicly lie?" To this, Lawyer A replied, "Well, it’s already been shared—let me clarify everything for you later." But I shot back, "Don’t think of yourself as Xinhua News Agency; I can handle clarifying this myself."

Lawyer A, preoccupied with maintaining a strong media presence, didn’t have time to properly prepare for the basic aspects of the case. For instance, A had filed a lawsuit against five defendants and aggressively promoted it, demanding 500,000 in compensation on the grounds that the victims suffered emotional distress requiring psychiatric treatment. However, to justify such a claim, A would need concrete evidence—like obtaining a diagnosis from a psychiatric hospital, undergoing treatment for a specific period, and then presenting the actual medical bills incurred during the process, along with projected future costs based on the doctor’s assessment. Only then could the 500,000-dollar claim potentially gain traction in court. Unfortunately, by the time the case went to trial, Lawyer A had brought forth absolutely no supporting documentation.

Later, under the court's guidance, my client and the victim reached a civil settlement, and criminal charges were withdrawn with mutual understanding. After signing the agreement, Lawyer A called me, asking, "Lawyer Zhao, did you reach a settlement? And how much did you compensate her?" Only then did I realize he had no idea—completely unaware that the case was already resolved, and even the victim had forgotten about him altogether.

The lawyer in question is hardly an isolated case—several other defense attorneys displayed similarly questionable behavior around the same time, while a couple more even chimed in from afar, tirelessly rallying support—and even criticizing their peers’ strategies publicly, all to either assert their own viewpoints or deflect responsibility. In fact, among these lawyers, there were plenty who openly traded insults and openly dismissed their colleagues’ defense approaches—sometimes even doing so in front of the media. That said, it’s worth noting that not all legal professionals involved in this case were as problematic. Some, like the second defendant’s attorney, stood out for their professionalism, dedication, and quiet commitment to their clients, working tirelessly behind the scenes with unwavering integrity.

The reason for this unusual situation may lie in the differing approaches lawyers take when defending their clients. Some argue that the public opinion arena is the real battleground—where the ultimate direction of a case is often decided—while the courtroom itself takes a backseat. In fact, I’ve always believed that lawyers should leave no stone unturned, as long as their tactics remain within legal and ethical boundaries. After all, hype itself isn’t inherently wrong, nor is leveraging public discourse. However, it’s undeniable that, regardless of the approach taken, whether the goal is to showcase the lawyer’s own image or to maximize the case’s outcome, the true purpose behind the publicity will ultimately become crystal clear—and this clarity will inevitably shape the final verdict, as well as how society, the legal community, and the client themselves perceive the lawyer. When professional advocacy isn’t prioritized first, and instead of investing deeply in crafting a robust defense strategy, lawyers choose to rely heavily on public opinion manipulation, they risk completely reversing the proper balance between legal expertise and media outreach. Worse still, those who position themselves as the central figures in the public narrative often end up facing far less-than-ideal outcomes—both professionally and personally.

4. Effective defense strategies aren’t limited to the courtroom and public opinion.

After deciding on the overall defense strategy—specifically, arguing for a lighter sentence—we and our client then finalized the specific defense objectives. At the time, we both agreed that securing a sentence of around four years, well below the five-year mark, would already be excellent. That’s because, under the law, criminal records for minors sentenced to less than five years are sealed and remain confidential, meaning the individual can resume normal schooling and employment after completing their sentence. My client expressed that a four-year term would be entirely satisfactory, eliminating the need for an appeal. However, I encouraged him to aim even higher—to strive for probation, even though the chances weren’t great. Still, I suggested making it our ultimate goal, as it’s always worth pursuing when possible.

Then I began to consider specific defense strategies, primarily organizing them into handling six key areas of relationship.

The first aspect concerns the client. As mentioned earlier, it means requiring the client to fully cooperate with my professional guidance from start to finish.

The second aspect concerns the public security authorities and the procuratorate. Several months after Yi was arrested, he fell ill and lost around 20 to 30 pounds. Initially, the detention center treated him as if he had a common cold. However, as his condition continued to worsen—manifesting in numerous unusual scars across his body and significant weight loss—the symptoms of fever and other cold-like signs persisted despite ongoing treatment. It wasn’t until nearly 40 days later that he was finally transferred to a hospital, at which point both his guardian and his lawyer were informed and granted permission to visit. At the hospital, doctors suspected he might be suffering from infectious mononucleosis, though they couldn’t confirm the diagnosis. Later, Yi was returned to the detention center, where he began receiving oral medication for treatment—but the family was never told exactly what drugs were administered.

When faced with this situation, I’ll naturally step in as a decisive factor. I’ve written letters to the leaders of the Public Security Bureau and the Procuratorate, urging them to intervene. Meanwhile, I’m encouraging the child’s guardians to continuously submit applications for bail pending trial, arguing that the minor is being denied even basic healthcare—could it be mere medical negligence at best, or perhaps something far more serious? And if the child’s condition remains untreated, the parents aren’t ruling out the possibility of eventually going public with the media.

We also brought to the attention of the public security authorities the issue of an accomplice inside secretly passing on information, which has created psychological pressure for my client, who now fears potential danger if they confess.

The third aspect involves the procuratorate and the court—the prosecution and the judiciary in this case. By fully leveraging the nascent Chinese-style plea bargaining rules at the time, we engaged in multiple rounds of proactive communication with both parties, presenting clear reasoning and negotiating specific conditions.

I presented eight reasons why I believe the defendant should receive a suspended sentence. I recall that when I asked the prosecution to submit a sentencing recommendation to the court for probation, the two prosecutors in the waiting room actually looked utterly astonished—almost incredulous—that I would even suggest such a thing. After all, in Beijing, no case of gang rape over the past several decades has ever resulted in a suspended sentence, regardless of whether the defendant was a minor or not. And this particular case had already sparked an enormous public outcry to begin with.

The eight aspects I’ve outlined are as follows: first, the defendant is a minor; second, the defendant acted as an accomplice; third, the defendant proactively compensated the victim (though forgiveness hadn’t yet been granted at the time); fourth, the victim bore some fault in the situation; fifth, the defendant attempted but failed to commit rape; sixth, the defendant demonstrated a sincere attitude of remorse during the trial; seventh, the defendant has consistently maintained excellent behavior—indeed, their academic performance was strong enough to qualify for admission to Peking or Tsinghua Universities, and their school even provided an official certificate highlighting both outstanding academic achievements and impeccable moral character; and finally, the defendant is currently ill, a factor that also ties directly to your responsibilities as public security and prosecutors. According to the Supreme Court’s sentencing guidelines and Beijing’s specific sentencing recommendations, each mitigating circumstance should theoretically reduce the base sentence by a certain percentage. For instance, if an accomplice status typically warrants a 30% reduction, I’ve conservatively calculated it at 15%. Applying this approach to every single factor, the total reduction ends up exceeding 100% of the base sentence, effectively resulting in a negative sentence. After hearing my argument, the prosecutor no longer seemed surprised. Instead, they acknowledged that there was some merit to my reasoning and indicated they’d be willing to report back to their superiors. Ultimately, though, they concluded that they couldn’t formally propose such a lenient sentence—but importantly, they didn’t object to the defense attorney making this exact request right there in court.

Regarding the prosecution's argument that in a joint crime, if one person achieves the intended outcome, the entire group is considered to have succeeded—as well as their view that gang rape cases should not distinguish between primary and secondary offenders, I gathered numerous case examples and presented them to the court in rebuttal. I also provided the court with many instances from courts in other regions where similar cases resulted in suspended sentences.

The fourth aspect concerns the families and lawyers involved in the same case. As previously discussed, parents were concerned that revealing their defense strategy too early might lead to unclear and potentially risky situations for both themselves and their children. Therefore, although I had already communicated with the prosecutor’s office and the court early on, preparing to argue for a lighter sentence, I chose to keep this intention confidential until just before the trial began.

The fifth aspect concerns the victim—already discussed earlier.

The sixth aspect concerns the media. At the time, lawyers from various firms were virtually waging daily battles—both public and psychological—in the media. Meanwhile, the spokesperson would occasionally step forward to publicly express the stance of all five defendants. My client himself sometimes grew eager to approach the media, hoping to leak information that might help protect his son, even urging me to speak out directly to the press. But I gently explained to him that such a "you're up, then it's my turn" strategy would be counterproductive—and more importantly, we needed to maintain strict confidentiality with the media. "If there’s ever a real need to engage with them later," I said, "I’ll let you know in advance, and we’ll carefully manage how much to reveal." As a result, many of my media friends didn’t even realize I was handling this case until the very first day of the trial, when they spotted me mingling quietly outside the courtroom alongside the lawyers and parents, waiting for developments. By that point, hundreds of media outlets had already descended on the courthouse, crowding the entrance so tightly by evening that it became impossible for anyone to leave—even me! Reporters clamored loudly, demanding I say something before they’d let me go. But I remained steadfast, refusing to give in. It was only thanks to my former military-trained driver, who bravely pushed through the sea of reporters to rescue me and get us both safely out of the chaos. It wasn’t until after the trial concluded—when both my client and I felt the moment was right and all the necessary conditions had aligned—that I finally made my first public appearance. That’s when I took the opportunity to openly address the unexpected twist: why, just days into the proceedings, three of the defendants suddenly changed course mid-trial, confessing their guilt on the spot, offering heartfelt apologies, and expressing their willingness to compensate the victims.

Handling these six aspects directly shapes the strategies and approaches—both inside and outside the courtroom—and ultimately determines the outcome of the case. Later, when the verdict was announced in court, everyone stood up as the presiding judge read out the decision. Even the prosecutor couldn’t hide their unmistakable look of surprise, since they hadn’t expected my client to actually receive a suspended sentence.