People ask me this all the time: “Isn’t it dishonest to say ‘not guilty’ when you know the person did it?”
On the surface, I get why it feels shady. You imagine someone standing in court, saying “not guilty,” while everyone thinks, but wait… we know what happened.
But here’s the truth: in a courtroom, “not guilty” doesn’t mean I swear I’m innocent. It means something far more important. It’s not a lie. It’s one of the most critical protections we have — and without it, the criminal system would be a nightmare.
When someone pleads not guilty, they aren’t making a factual claim about what happened in the real world. They’re making a legal demand.
They’re saying: “Prove it.”
The burden of proof sits squarely on the state. The government must prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Until that happens, the presumption of innocence applies.
That’s why I often tell people: not guilty doesn’t mean innocent. It means not proven.
Think of it like sports. The score is zero–zero until a team actually puts points on the board. You don’t start assuming one side is already losing.
Or think of poker. You don’t fold just because someone claims they’re holding a royal flush. You make them show their hand. “Not guilty” is the legal way of saying: show me your cards.
Accusations are cheap.
It doesn’t take much to be accused of a crime — a single officer’s report, a neighbor with a grudge, or simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But conviction? That should be hard. Very hard. Because the stakes are enormous: your money, your reputation, your freedom, your family’s future.
I’ve seen accusations destroy lives even when the person was ultimately acquitted. The charge alone — the arrest alone — can cost a job, ruin a marriage, and brand someone forever. That’s why the system makes the government clear so many hurdles before it can convict.
Some people think defense lawyers must feel conflicted — like we’re hiding the truth. I don’t feel conflicted at all.
My role is clear: I protect my client’s confidences, and I make sure the state follows the rules. That’s how the system is designed.
I once had a case where the prosecution gave me surveillance video with no audio. I built my trial strategy around it. In the middle of trial, they suddenly revealed a version with sound. The judge ruled they couldn’t play it unless my client lied on the stand.
That night, I listened to the audio and my heart sank. Something my client had already testified to didn’t match what was on the recording. If the jury heard it, the case could collapse.
The next day, I had to adjust everything — questions, strategy, testimony — to make sure the rules were enforced and that late evidence didn’t unfairly torpedo the case.
Some might call that “playing games.” I call it protecting rights. The prosecution doesn’t get to break disclosure rules and ambush the defense. My job is to stop that.
Critics love to say: “If you know your client did it, aren’t you just helping them get away with it?”
Here’s my answer: accountability isn’t my job. It’s the prosecutor’s.
If the state can’t prove its case, that failure isn’t on me. It’s on them. I did my job. They didn’t do theirs.
If you want to point fingers, don’t point them at the defense lawyer who demands the rules be followed. Point them at the side that couldn’t meet the burden of proof.
People like to believe the criminal system is about truth, or “justice.” That’s a comforting story. But it’s not reality.
The system is about balance. Society wants order. Individuals want freedom. The rules — due process — are the balancing act.
If the government wants to strip you of liberty, it has to clear hurdles. If it can’t, you walk. That’s not dishonesty. That’s the system functioning the way it was designed.
In other countries, accusation is conviction. A police officer points a finger, and you disappear. Our Constitution was built to prevent that.
Years ago, I represented someone accused of shoplifting. The evidence looked damning: unpaid items in a bag. The store manager swore it was intentional.
But when we dug deeper, we discovered the self-checkout scanner had glitched. My client was rushing to pick up her child with special needs and thought everything had rung up.
She was still arrested. Still humiliated in handcuffs. Still forced to live under suspicion for months until the case was dismissed.
Was it dishonest for her to plead “not guilty”? Of course not. It was the only way to make sure the truth came out.
Accusations are easy. Convictions must be hard.
“Not guilty” isn’t pretending. It’s demanding accountability from the government, forcing proof, and protecting individual rights.
It’s not a lie. It’s the safeguard that keeps the criminal system from turning into a machine of unchecked power.
Your rights matter. Protect them.
