This post begins the “Representing Without Judgment” reflection and is Part I of a two-part series on bearing witness and staying spiritually anchored in the defense of difficult cases.
The Moment of Exposure
I thought I was prepared. The language in the indictment was clinical. The search warrant referenced “child pornography”—a phrase sanitized by repetition in criminal litigation. I braced myself for still images, maybe a couple grainy clips. I hadn’t eaten lunch, and thank God for that because it all would have come up. What I saw unraveled me.
Grown adults, mid-40s, engaging in sexual acts with children who couldn’t have been older than eight or nine. A dog and a little girl. A dog?!?!?!? WTH!!!! I wondered if the cops describing that video in the affidavit would’ve made it better. Nawww, nothing can make that better, nothing can make that ok. Children performing acts on one another while adults simply watched or positioned the private parts so the girl could be on top of the boy. And the adults looked happy to be there. Smiling. Participating. Some of the boys physically couldn’t meet the demands being placed on them, not for lack of trying, but because their bodies hadn’t developed. What could a child possibly do for a grown woman? I still don’t understand. I don’t ever want to. Multiple videos were stopped a few seconds in because I just couldn’t bear to look at anymore.
My gut twisted. My spirit screamed. There was no legal vocabulary strong enough to contain the revulsion.
Standing in the Gap
I am a criminal defense attorney, and I represent indigent clients accused of unthinkable crimes. My calling is rooted in Scripture, in advocacy, in honoring divine image even in those the world deems irredeemable. But this… this was evil.
When you view evidence like that, something inside you changes. It’s not just disgust. It’s grief. Spiritual grief. You feel the defilement like a fog you can’t scrub off. You carry it into the car, into the silence of your house, into your sleep. It’s a desecration of innocence so profound it borders on theological crisis.
And yet—here I am. Still called to stand in the gap.
Reconciling Duty with Judgment
So how do I represent my client without judgment?
The truth is, I don’t. I feel the judgment. I grieve through it. I let it scream in prayer. Then I show up anyway.
Zealous defense doesn’t mean I erase horror. It means I refuse to let evil dismantle justice. The law demands advocacy. God demands compassion. Both tell me not to look away.
In moments like this, I remember Micah 6:8—“To act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.” Justice is not permission to hate. Mercy is not permission to ignore. Humility is the only way through.
Grace in the Darkness
There is no comfortable way to hold this tension. I represent people charged with crimes that should make the whole world weep. I defend them not because they are innocent, but because justice must be preserved—even and especially for the guilty.
In these moments, I whisper a defender’s prayer:
Lord, help me see humanity where others see monsters.
Help me carry the weight of this work without losing my soul.
And when I’m asked to enter the dark again, remind me that even there—grace still flickers.
Even this, God. Even this.
Discernment in the Aftermath
I asked the forensic analyst how he does this every day. I needed to know—how do you make space for healing when your work requires immersion in horror? His answer was steady, but I wasn’t reassured. I found it interesting that he said he felt bad for defense attorneys coming in to view evidence. He said that because most of us don’t do it everyday, its simply too much. What I saw wasn’t something you get used to. It wasn’t an image—it was a rupture.
When a colleague asked if I’d take another child pornography case, I told him it’s too early for me to even think about that. I’m still shellshocked. My spirit isn’t ready to make promises my heart can’t keep. There’s a difference between professional obligation and spiritual capacity—and I need time to assess both.
But what haunts me most isn’t just what I saw—it’s the question I can’t shake: What happened to them? What broke inside someone to make this seem okay? No child asks for this. No soul is born this twisted. There are so many reports that say most abusers were abused themselves. Somewhere along the way, humanity was mangled. And I’m left holding the evidence and asking: how do I advocate without excusing? How do I grieve and still defend?
I think about calling my First Lady—because I’m not okay, and I need the kind of healing that understands both trauma and calling. That’s not a decision that I need to make right now, but I’ll definitely give it some thought.
Tonight, I am not okay. The courtroom demands strength. But my soul needs shelter.
On (In)justice 