Dine's Ethos

I officially resigned from the Public Defender’s Office—a decision that comes with mixed emotions, deep reflection, and acceptance.

I honestly enjoyed my time as APD. I cherished the opportunity to guide people through a system that often felt overwhelming and unforgiving. I strived to show that a person is so much more than the mistakes they have made or the charges they face. It was deeply fulfilling to help my people—to speak the language, see the understanding light up in their faces, and witness the comfort that came when they learned a Samoan attorney would represent them.

But amid the rewarding moments, there was also frustration, sadness, and anger that I couldn’t ignore. Too many defendants sat in the correctional facility for months without meeting an attorney. Too many had no real grasp of the charges against them or the legal process meant to protect them. While stigma surrounds those accused of crimes, it should never strip them of their right to competent representation. And yet, the system repeatedly failed to meet even the most basic standard of advocacy.

How do you even begin to address this?

The Public Defender’s Office desperately needs more funding. When I started, there were only two attorneys. After my resignation, that number remains the same. Retention is another massive issue. Many lawyers who come from the mainland view this as a temporary stop. They don’t have the deep-rooted ties that foster true commitment to the community. And ASG’s own employment policies only make retention harder.

Beyond that, there is little to no government investment in encouraging local youth to pursue legal careers. The best long-term solution is homegrown attorneys—people with a personal stake in this community who will stay and fight for it. But that’s a long-term vision, and there’s no short-term plan to bridge the gap.

Despite the passion I had for my work, I eventually reached a point where I felt that I had to compromise the quality of legal representation I could offer. Ten- to twelve-hour days weren’t enough. There wasn’t enough time to dig as deeply as I wanted into each case—to investigate every angle, uncover new evidence, or find better alternatives for my clients. I didn’t want to settle for being a decent attorney when I knew I could be a great one.

Deciding to leave the PD’s office felt like being at war with myself—torn between choosing my own well-being and remaining committed to my community. I’ve met strangers who’ve thanked me for returning home and serving in the PD’s office. Those interactions add an entirely different layer of responsibility that I feel I’m supposed to take on. But how do I continue to do that when I am so torn? People remind me there’s a reason I moved back, suggesting that perhaps this is my life’s calling. I hate wrestling with these feelings – the uncertainty that refuses to settle.

When I decided to resign, I think, outwardly, it seemed like a quick decision—a decisive choice I made. But damn, I struggled with it so much. I went over it countless times in my head. I couldn’t help but think, Isn’t this the whole reason you moved across the ocean? And now you’re tossing in the towel?

These are clients I’ve worked with for months. We’ve developed a rapport. They say hi whenever they see me in public. Their family members come see me. They try to buy me food. They ask how I’m doing. I’ve sat with them as they shared some of the most personal details of their lives—their regrets, their fears, their hopes for a second chance. They placed their trust in me, believing I would fight for them with everything I had.

So how do you walk away from people who need you?

Even now, I wonder if it was the right decision. Not logically. Not professionally. But emotionally? Morally.

I’ve questioned: Am I taking the easy way out? Did my emotions cloud this decision? I don’t think so. Resigning was the only way to preserve the integrity of my work and my own sense of purpose.

Some have tried to guilt-trip me into staying, telling me to think about the harm my resignation will cause. But why should that burden fall solely on me? Why not examine why there is a high turnover rate in the PD’s office?

Someone told me, It’s not one person’s burden to carry—it’s the responsibility of our leaders. I am trying to believe that.

My resignation came as a surprise to many. It wasn’t a decision made lightly or in haste. Rather, it was the culmination of long hours, persistent challenges, and the realization that in order to continue growing and providing the best representation possible, I needed to step away from an environment that didn’t allow me to do that.

Despite the hardships, I will never forget my clients—the ones who shed tears when their cases ended, the ones who wished they could give me more than just words of thanks. This job was never just a job. It was people’s lives. It was their freedom.

I remain immensely grateful for the experiences I gained and the lives I touched during my time at the Public Defender’s Office. While this chapter has closed, my commitment to justice and advocacy remains. I will forever be in your corner.