I just— I gotta get this out. It’s eating at me. Every single day, every single day. I’m sitting here, 2:17 AM, phone glowin’ in my face, and all I can think about is this one thing. This one client. My brain won’t shut up. My mom’s sleepin’ down the hall, I checked on her twice already, and I just can’t… I can’t sleep. You know, you go into this job, public defender, and everyone thinks you’re just some bleeding heart, right? Or worse, that you’re just in it for the paycheck, shoveling dirt. But it’s not like that. Not really. I believe in the system. Or I used to. I gotta believe in it. I have to. Because if I don’t, what’s even the point? I mean, I put in my time. I do the work. I fight for people. The ones nobody else gives a damn about. The ones who mess up. We all mess up. Don't we? This guy. My client. He’s not a bad dude. Not really. He’s got that look, you know? Like life’s just kinda happened *to* him. Always. He’s in for petty theft. Like, really petty. Stole some stuff from a store, not even high value. Probably hungry. Probably desperate. I’ve seen it a million times. I sat with him, talked to him. He was nervous, twitchy. Kept looking at his hands. Wouldn’t meet my eyes. He’s got this rap sheet, though. Not violent. Never violent. Just… he keeps getting caught doing stupid stuff. Small stuff. Drugs, shoplifting, never hurt a soul. Just… existing, I guess. Barely. And then I found it. In the paperwork. A detail. A small thing. A receipt. A picture. Something he said that didn’t quite line up. And it hit me. Like a punch to the gut. He did it. He actually did it. Not a misunderstanding. Not a mix-up. Not the system being unfair *this time*. He just… he took it. He was guilty. Of this little thing. This stupid, tiny thing. And my stomach just dropped. Because of his past, because of the stupid previous charges— all the little things that piled up, you know? Like little bricks building a wall around him. Because of those, this little theft… it’s gonna trigger a mandatory. A HARSH mandatory. Years. He’s gonna get years for a couple hundred bucks worth of whatever. My kid made more than that mowin’ lawns last summer. Years. And I’m supposed to… what? I’m supposed to keep fighting. I'm supposed to do my job. My job means I gotta get him off. If I can. Even if I know. Even if I *know*. I’ve been trying to find a loophole. Every single day, every single day, I’m digging through statutes, case law, anything. My eyes are blurry from staring at screens. My parents call, asking if I ate, if I slept. My daughter calls, asking about college applications. My son asks for gas money. Everyone needs me. Everyone. And I just wanna scream. I just wanna throw my phone across the room. I’m so tired. What am I supposed to do? What’s the right thing here? Is it to let him go down for something so small just because he’s got a history of small things? Is that justice? Or is it to use every trick, every angle, every single word in the law to get him off, even though I know, deep down, he did this one specific thing? He’s not gonna hurt anyone. He’s just… lost. And he’s gonna lose years. Years of his life. For this. My dad used to say, “Always do what’s right, even when it’s hard.” But what *is* right here? My mom asks if I’m okay because I look pale. She says I’m running myself ragged. She doesn’t know what’s going on in my head. Nobody does. They just see me, doing my thing. Taking care of everything. Taking care of everyone. Every single day. And I’m just… stuck. Stuck here. Feeling like I’m lying no matter what I do. And the clock is ticking.