This guest post was written by 3L Alyssa Hatfield.
“Alyssa Hatfield on behalf of the Commonwealth.”
As introductions go, this one might be the most terrifying. What does it mean to represent the Commonwealth? To represent an entire group of people, the defendant included? It’s a heavy weight to bear, but it’s not meant to be borne alone.
This semester, I joined the Prosecution Clinic. As a part of the clinic, you learn a few things really fast. One: court moves really quickly. Like, really quickly. Two: how to swap stories like old-timers, because people commit some pretty odd crimes in some pretty odd ways that are ripe for class discussion. And three: to “do justice” might be the hardest and most unattainable mission to live by.
There’s a popular article by Georgetown Law professor Abbe Smith that is often circulated in criminal law classes: “Can you be a good person and a good prosecutor?” In a state like Massachusetts, the answer I often hear is a resounding “no.” Prosecutors are not seen as the heroes, but the bullies: heartless and aggressive with little thought to the circumstances of the defendants, ready to throw anyone in jail in order to win. We represent a broken and faulty system that puts people in cages and doesn’t care about true rehabilitation.
Unsurprisingly, that’s not why I want to become a prosecutor. And that’s not why any prosecutor I’ve met has become one. I’m here—and so are they—for a much simpler, but much harder reason: we want to see real justice done, and prosecutors get to look at the big picture. From my time as a 3:03 legal intern to now with the Prosecution Clinic, here’s what I’ve learned.
As a prosecutor, you take into account not just the defendant’s circumstances, but the victim’s too. You think about what it means to protect the community and the individuals involved in the crime. You use whatever evidence you have to make the decision that aligns with the law, with the facts, and with common sense. You lay it out before the judge and you lay it out before the defense attorney, and then you stand there and wait, ready to receive whatever decision the judge makes, and ready to change your recommendation at a moment’s notice if new evidence comes to light. It’s jazz and improv in a formal orchestra setting.
I’ve lugged my violin around to a fair share of orchestras and I’ve carried my briefcase into a number of courtrooms. I’ve found that as a prosecutor, you’re not always playing your instrument. You’re the conductor, listening to each section, trying to find a structure that allows everyone to succeed. You’re the audience, listening to it all at once, finding the meaning behind each decision. You’re the backstage crew, setting the whole thing up to be running smoothly in the first place. Because justice isn’t about getting the audience to listen to you; justice is about creating something true and right out of a bunch of noise and wrong notes.
Alright, enough with the metaphors. What does it actually mean to be a prosecutor? I think of one trial I had this semester as a part of the clinic. It should have been a plea, but instead, it became a two-day bench trial with a pro se defendant.
Although our justice system is built to be adversarial, this trial was a demonstration of the desire to see every defendant treated with dignity—and that an adversary is not always an enemy. The charge was simple trespass, where the defendant refused to leave a hospital after being asked to repeatedly. Without going into detail, let’s just say I found myself calling witnesses for the defendant on the day of the trial, choosing my objections carefully to allow the defendant to feel heard, and having to work through what it meant to cross-examine this defendant who kept changing the story after every question.
Throughout it all, I noticed the compassion of my colleagues and how everyone—although we just wanted it to be over—also wanted to make sure it was done right. The judge highlighted that although pro se defendants do not deserve special treatment, they are still entitled to a fair trial. It stuck with me. But what does that truly mean, a fair trial? At times I was faced with a sinking feeling that we were only there because the defendant didn’t understand the process. Based on the facts and evidence, I felt that a trial was not in this defendant’s best interest, and when the defendant was found guilty, I wished they could have understood that the plea they had been offered originally was a better deal and that they should have taken it.
Was the trial fair? It was full of grace and compassion and it followed the law, but it reminded me that as a prosecutor, our job goes beyond upholding the system. It really is about following the greater call to do justice, and that might mean re-evaluating the system that aims to do just that. Can justice be served with a pro se defendant who doesn’t really understand the law? After my experience, I’d certainly advise anyone with criminal charges to get an attorney. The system is not simple. It’s fast-paced (until it’s not), filled with legal jargon and complicated statutes and rules that might seem ridiculous or counterproductive to someone without legal experience.
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Back to the original question: can a good person be a prosecutor? I shudder to think what would happen if good people stopped being prosecutors. At our clinic, I don’t see students eager to win at all costs. I see students worried about the fate of defendants and victims alike. The clinic is a space to open up about the struggles and the realities of what it means to have discretion and what it means to recognize we are only one part of the system.
The term “progressive prosecutor” is often thrown about by defense attorneys, and sometimes by prosecutors as a shield to try to defend their career choice and try to get across that their mission isn’t to throw people in jail. We never talk about progressive defense attorneys—perhaps the idea is that the very work of defending someone absolves them of any role they might play in a broken system, or that by being a defense attorney, they are somehow standing up to the system and not perpetuating it. And perhaps that’s true. But a defense attorney, whether they like it or not, still works within the same system as a prosecutor, is bound by the same laws and open to the same kinds of creativity in solutions.
That said, a prosecutor does have enormous power in comparison to a defense attorney, and a prosecutor must recognize and respect their discretion. Unfortunately, they often misuse and abuse that power and let their biases and prejudices govern their actions instead of the pursuit of justice. And those of us wanting to use that power for good might find ourselves stymied by forces around us that we can’t control, while upholding a law that we didn’t write. Discretion is powerful, but it’s not the whole game, and a prosecutor is not the only player. Despite what a prosecutor is willing to do, there might be other forces—whether a judge or a defendant—keeping the prosecutor from playing their hand in the way they think is truly just.
Then there’s the workload. A prosecutor typically has charge of two hundred cases at once, and might stand on thirty or more cases in a single day. If the clinic has taught me anything, it’s that we have to make the best decision about somebody’s worst moments, and that balancing the protection and emotions of a victim and the community is never easy, but always necessary.
I’m not here to throw people in jail. I’m here because our world is messy and people get hurt. Justice can be a vague concept and it’s why I’m so grateful for an experience like the Prosecution Clinic where it can be discussed, dissected, and digested. I’ve made my arguments in court against a man while his family and newborn child sit right behind me. I’m acutely aware that when I paint the picture of a drunk driver, I’m doing it in front of his wife and loved ones. When I stand in front of the jury and ask them to find the defendant guilty? That’s serious. That’s powerful. I have never taken it lightly and I hope I never will. The system may be made of rules, but it’s made up by people, and each one of those people deserve justice. That’s why I want to be a prosecutor—and that’s why we have something like the Prosecution Clinic, to help cultivate and process what it means to represent the Commonwealth.
Alyssa Hatfield is a third-year student at BC Law. Contact her at leston@bc.edu.
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