I didn’t choose criminal defense because it was easy. I chose it because something deeper demanded it of me—something holy. Before any law school lecture or courtroom appearance, I was already being prepared for this work through the Word. Proverbs 31:8–9 is not a side note in my theology—it’s the mission statement: “Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves… defend the rights of the poor and needy.”
I tremble at the thought of public speaking. I am the quiet one, more comfortable listening than leading with my words. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been drawn to people who are hurting—like their pain echoed something inside of me. Over time, I came to understand that this wasn’t just a personality trait; it was a spiritual gift. Mercy. The kind that sees the brokenness in others and says, “I’ll stand with you.”
Luke 4:18–19 reminds us that freedom—especially for the imprisoned—is part of the gospel itself. So, when I walk into a courtroom, I’m not just defending a client; I’m stewarding a calling. I speak up because the silenced can’t. I fight because oppression wears a thousand disguises—poverty, trauma, addiction, race.
People ask how I can do this work and still sleep at night. The truth is, I sleep better because I do this work. The courtroom may be adversarial, but my posture is spiritual. I begin each day in prayer and worship, grounding myself in the Word or a song—whatever speaks to my spirit in that moment—before stepping into the courtroom. Before every plea deal, I seek divine guidance, knowing that justice without mercy is just punishment dressed up in legalese.
Grace in the Trenches
One of my clients was a seventy-year-old man charged with DWI Second. He was fragile—so many health complications that he was in and out of hospitals constantly. His court attendance was erratic, and I could see the judge’s patience thinning. But I had reviewed the evidence. I didn’t believe he was guilty.
Then one weekend, he had a beer. That small act—so human, so imperfect—got his bond revoked. He landed in jail and later, in the infirmary. When I spoke with the prosecutor, even she felt it wasn’t a strong case. Still, he wanted to plead guilty—not because he was, but because jail was wearing him down. I felt helpless.
Then one day, I got stuck in another county and couldn’t make court. I told a colleague what I knew—that even the State questioned their case. She spoke to the prosecutor. The charges were dismissed.
I cried. Right there, I cried. Not because I had won, but because mercy had found its way through the cracks of a rigid system. Because this man—tired, ill, and unheard—finally got a moment of relief. That dismissal was nothing short of grace.
Sacred Tensions
This work hurts sometimes. You stand between a flawed system and people who’ve already been broken by it. You absorb pain, confusion, injustice. You witness despair disguised as defiance, and exhaustion mistaken for guilt.
There’s a particular tension I carry as a Black female attorney representing indigent clients. Too often, court-appointed lawyers are written off—as overburdened, underprepared, or indifferent. The stigma is deep and often unfair. But when I stand beside a client who’s been told they
It says: You’re worth defending.
It says: Your poverty doesn’t make you guilty.
It says: Someone who looks like you, who understands you, is in your corner.
To be a Black woman in this space is to challenge history. It’s to defy expectation and embody what justice should look like—not just procedural, but personal. That’s why I stay.
I return to the scriptures—not as decoration, but as lifelines. Luke 4 reminds me that Jesus didn’t just preach freedom; He practiced it. There’s a cost to showing up in these spaces. But there’s also resurrection. There’s always a story buried under the charge sheet. Sometimes it’s tragic. Sometimes it’s infuriating. But every now and then, it’s redemptive.
Benediction for the Called
To every defender walking in divine design—
Speak even when your voice trembles.
Stand even when the weight tries to buckle you.
Remember that justice isn’t just a verdict; it’s a vision.
And when the burden feels too heavy, remember: You don’t carry it alone.
This is holy work. This is sacred ground. It’s a reminder that advocacy doesn’t always roar; sometimes, it whispers. And even whispers can move mountains.
On (In)justice 