Dine's Ethos

Since I’ve begun working in indigent defense, I’ve been asked these questions so many times: How do you deal with representing criminals? How do you sleep at night? To be honest, I haven’t experienced a moral conflict with representing those accused of heinous crimes—whether it’s rape, child molestation, sexual assault, unlawful possession of drugs, or other offenses here in American Samoa.

I’ve read and heard horrific accounts of alleged crimes. I’ve sat through heart-wrenching victim testimony, listening to their perspective of the accused. It’s impossible not to feel the weight of these moments. So, what gets me through it?

Ironically, it’s trust in the system. Hope in its design. Belief that it will work as it’s meant to. Because if I lose that trust, I undermine everything the Sixth Amendment stands for. If I let that hope falter, I fail my client, I break the oath I took as an attorney, and I chip away at the very foundation of justice. Without that trust, the system stops working altogether.

It’s a question as old as the system itself: Does the adversarial court system work? Is it truly the most just system? For me, the answer lies in my role—doing my part to ensure that every defendant gets a fair trial and every voice is heard. It’s not perfect, but it’s what we have.

To be a public defender for life, I believe you need an unshakable belief in the system—a deep faith in the Constitution and an unwavering commitment to the rights of the accused. I’m not sure if I’ll ever reach that level of resolve. This work demands a reservoir of hope and faith that feels beyond my capacity. It takes more patience and optimism than I know how to sustain.

In just a few months as an assistant public defender, I’ve already seen how thankless this job can be. It has a way of wearing you down if you let it. At times, it feels like the entire system is stacked against you. It’s disheartening to realize how easily the role of the public defender can become undervalued and misunderstood, even within the system itself.

Does the system work? I think the system works only as well as the public defender fighting within it. Without dedication and effort, justice risks becoming an empty promise. But the weight of that responsibility can be overwhelming.

This job forces you to find meaning in the struggle, to focus on the lives you’re able to impact, one client at a time. Whether that’s enough to sustain someone for a lifetime in this role—well, I’m still figuring that out.

I believe it is simultaneously one of the most frustrating and rewarding jobs you could ever have in the legal field. I start each day reminding myself that my job is to advocate and serve my clients, many of whom are particularly unable to advocate for themselves. I do my best to present them to the court as people, and not just file numbers. It’s not always easy; clients will let you down, are often ungrateful, and make promises they are not able to keep. In addition, being a public defender means you get first-hand experience with the injustices and inequities of the criminal justice system, and that can become very frustrating, sometimes overwhelmingly so.

As someone interested in systemic change, I sometimes find it frustrating to be involved in work that often amounts to triage – minimizing the damage to a person’s life, rather than dramatically improving it in most cases. That is probably why I will not end up a lifer.

But for now, I do this work because I believe it matters. It’s frustrating, rewarding, and humbling in equal measure. It challenges me to look past the surface of a crime and see the humanity of the person behind it.

I often find myself reflecting on the lives of my clients and wondering how different things might have been if they had access to the same resources, support, and stability that I’ve been fortunate to experience. It’s a sobering thought—one that stays with me long after the court hearings are over. While I pour my heart into every case, offering the best representation I can, there’s always a lingering ache, knowing that my role ends at the courtroom door.

Sometimes, I wonder if the system itself has grown jaded. The stories I hear day in and day out begin to blur together, and the reasons behind the conflicts can start to sound like excuses—until I remind myself that, for so many of my clients, these “reasons” are their reality.

Take the public peace disturbances and assault cases, for example. These often trace back to the stressors of financial struggles: couples clashing over how money should be spent, disputes about unequal sharing of responsibilities, siblings fighting over crossed boundaries. It’s all so deeply human—and painfully relatable. I understand where it comes from.

Yet, I can’t help but wish for more. I wish we, as a society, had better tools to cope. Better systems to support families before conflicts escalate. Better ways to teach emotional resilience and effective communication. Because while the law steps in after the damage is done, I dream of a world where fewer of these conflicts reach that breaking point.

If you’re considering a career in indigent defense, the most critical question you must ask yourself is this: Are you willing to represent individuals accused of crimes?

For many, this is a difficult concept to grapple with. The idea of defending someone charged with a serious offense can be jarring, especially for those who feel a deep sense of outrage or disapproval toward criminal behavior. And that’s completely natural—no one approves of crime.

But becoming a public defender does not mean you condone criminal behavior or believe that people shouldn’t be held accountable for their actions. The job of a public defender is to uphold one of the most fundamental principles of a just society: no one should be imprisoned unless the government proves their guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. This responsibility often includes defending those who are, in fact, guilty.

The real question, then, isn’t about your stance on crime itself. Instead, it’s about your ability to handle the realities of criminal defense. Can you confront criminal behavior without it consuming your emotional and intellectual capacity to advocate for the accused? If anger or frustration over crime leaves you unable to approach the work with the necessary detachment and resolve, it might be worth reconsidering whether indigent defense is the right path for you.

Public defense is not for everyone, and that’s okay. It requires a deep commitment to the principles of fairness and justice, even when the cases are challenging. But for those who can navigate the complexities of this work, it’s one of the most rewarding ways to serve both the law and the people who need it most.

Being a public defender requires more than just legal skill. It demands the ability to connect respectfully with clients whose life experiences may be vastly different from your own. It calls for empathy, compassion, and a commitment to understanding their stories—without judgment, no matter how shocking the accusations might be. That’s the true challenge: seeing past the surface of the crime to the humanity of the person behind it.

“How do you sleep at night defending criminals?” It’s a question I hear often. My answer is simple: What other job gives you the privilege of waking up every day with the opportunity to look for the best in people? Where else can you work so closely with individuals to uncover the humanity they may have forgotten in themselves?

For me, it’s about more than just the work. It’s a reflection of values—both mine and those of the society we strive to create. I believe that how we treat those accused of the worst acts says everything about who we are as individuals and as a community. To defend is to honor the principle that every person deserves dignity, fairness, and a voice, even when their actions challenge our sense of justice.

This work isn’t easy, but it’s deeply rewarding. The moments where you connect with a client, see their humanity, and help them feel seen and defended—those are the moments that make me believe this job is worthwhile.