When you're a corporate lawyer you represent corporations. That's the gig for an attorney, believe you me. Why did Dillinger rob banks? Because that's where corporations put their money. If I could do it all over again, I'd stick with the law and represent hedge funds, get fat and sassy, be already on my third wife, hide my money in Panama.
But if you're a criminal lawyer, then the whole legal thing takes on a different cast. On the one hand, you're following in the noble footsteps of John Adams and Abraham Lincoln and Clarence Darrow and Thurgood Marshall, representing the individual in a battle against the state with everything on the line. It's a role where you become the guardian of the Fourth Amendment, the Fifth Amendment, the Sixth Amendment, the Eighth Amendment, as well as the very idea of Liberty and Justice for all. That's pretty heady stuff.
On the other hand, you're representing criminals. That's why they call it criminal law. And criminals are, like, CRIMINALS. They have great drugs, true, and their parties are smoking, but they also have guns and gangs and enemies, as well as cops and prosecutors working their damnedest to bring them, and their lawyers, down. If things go awry for a corporate lawyer, her fee is cut. Boo hoo. If things go awry for a criminal lawyer, the hounds of hell are unleashed.
Which brings us to THE FOUR-NIGHT RUN, and its ostensible hero J.D. Scrbacek, criminal lawyer extraordinaire. Things haven't quite worked out for J.D. After his latest trial victory -- a shocking acquittal of the worst kind of crime lord -- for no reason J.D. can fathom the hounds of hell are suddenly on his trail. Who's responsible? His client? His client's enemies? The cops? Does it even matter? The truth is, as a criminal lawyer, J.D. knew what side he was playing for. He rolled the bones, threw a snake-eyes, and for that he has to pay. What does a lawyer do when the law can't save him anymore?