Humanizing the Accused: An Interview with Lawyer Thomas Mesereau on Criminal Defense in America

In courtrooms from Birmingham, Alabama, to Santa Maria, California, Thomas Mesereau has faced some of the highest stakes in American criminal law. Renowned for his landmark criminal defense of pop icon Michael Jackson and over two decades representing clients on death row in the Deep South, Mesereau speaks with JURIST’s Senior Editor for Long-Form Content, Pitasanna Shanmugathas, to reflect on a career shaped by both high-profile cases and his unwavering commitment to defending the most marginalized and vulnerable in society.

From his early days searching for purpose—taking acting classes in Hollywood while honing the skills that would later serve him in court—to navigating racial bias in jury selection, challenging structural inequities, and humanizing clients society often overlooks, Mesereau offers an unfiltered view of the law in practice. He discusses the psychology of the courtroom, the art of bending conventional trial rules, and the moral imperative to treat every client as a full human being.

Beyond wins and losses, Mesereau urges law students and practitioners to ask a deeper question in every case: Did you make a difference in preserving human dignity where it might otherwise have been lost?

This interview has been edited for clarity and concision.

Pitasanna Shanmugathas: Mr. Mesereau, your educational background is quite interesting. Like myself, after completing your undergraduate degree, you didn’t immediately go to law school. You worked as a legislative assistant and speechwriter for a U.S. congressman from New York, then pursued a master’s degree at the London School of Economics. What ultimately made you decide to attend law school and become a lawyer—and more specifically, what led you to criminal defense? Many law students, including perhaps our writers at JURIST, often reach their final year of law school still unsure about what area of law they want to pursue. What advice would you give to those who haven’t yet found their calling?

Thomas Mesereau:  My father, a West Point graduate, wasn’t a lawyer, but he took some law courses and often told me, “If you don’t know what you want to do in life, go to law school.” He said a law degree was the most flexible degree—it could open doors in government, business, or just about anything. He was absolutely right. I went to law school because I could still hear his voice encouraging me, believing it would give me options.

Even after law school, I wasn’t sure where I truly belonged. I had this idealistic belief that “if you love what you do, you’ll never work another day in your life.” But as I entered the professional world, I realized how many people didn’t love what they did. I’d grown up around people in the restaurant business—my grandfather came to New York as an Italian immigrant and built one of the best-known restaurant families in the world through passion and hard work. They loved what they did, and I wanted to feel that same way about my own career

I moved through different paths—a big litigation firm, a district attorney’s office, corporate work, and finally a small civil firm. Along the way, I volunteered at free legal clinics and started handling criminal matters. But it wasn’t until my mid-30s, during a personal crisis—my father was dying of cancer, my grandfather was having strokes, I was going through a divorce, living on a friend’s couch—that I began to truly look inward. I knew I had to figure out who I really was.

One night at a sports club, I met someone who mentioned a sitcom acting class in Hollywood. I thought, “You need this. You need to get out of your shell.” I took the class and was terrified—everyone was quick, funny, spontaneous. I asked the teacher if I could just observe another session. He said, “No, you’re either going to jump in or you’re not.” So, I did. For weeks I felt lost, but one night I finally had everyone laughing, and that felt like a breakthrough.

Later, in a used bookstore, I stumbled upon a set of tapes called The Craft of Acting by Eric Morris. His approach was completely different—he focused on honesty, emotion, and authenticity. I called him and asked if I could audit his class, and he said yes. During my first session, he stopped me midway through my introduction and said, “Okay, I’ve heard enough. You need this class.”

He told me, “The purpose here is to figure out who you are and be comfortable with it. There’s no greater gift in life than to know who you are and be at peace with it.” Then he added something that stuck with me forever: “You protect yourself with intellect and articulation. Those things shield you from your emotions and your heart. I’m going to make you do exercises that will be very difficult, because you’re not used to sharing this stuff.”

He was right. For months I’d be in that old studio until two in the morning, watching others expose their deepest feelings. Through that process, I started to understand myself—my compassion, my anger at injustice, my empathy for people who’ve been looked down upon. I realized I had the presence and voice for the courtroom, but more importantly, the emotional grounding to connect with people.

As I started doing more trial work and pro bono defense cases, everything came together. I discovered that standing up for the underdog, fighting injustice, and giving people a voice—that’s where I belonged. Criminal defense became my passion.

Shanmugathas: Thank you for sharing that personal experience. Now that I think about it, it makes a lot of sense—since you’re a trial lawyer, the acting and improvisation work you did clearly helped you. I hadn’t considered it that way before, but I can see how that training proved essential to being effective in the courtroom.

Mesereau: Acting and improvisation aren’t shallow or artificial. These classes teach you to truly be yourself in a role. If you’re supposed to be depressed, you’re genuinely depressed—not faking or manipulating it. You’re tapping into emotions that are authentically yours.

One exercise was lying on the floor, eyes closed, recalling moments of deep depression. At first, I resisted—thinking, “I don’t want to remember that.” But it was about cultivating the ability to access real emotions as a talent and an advantage. Another exercise involved imagining an empty chair as your father, expressing everything you love and admire about him, then everything you hate—digging deep into authentic emotion before stepping into a role.

It’s not about acting artificially; it’s about connecting to who you are—your compassion, your sense of justice, your dislike of arrogance, and your empathy for those who never had support. You meet people who’ve faced extreme hardships—kids on the street, foster children, those drawn into gangs—and you learn how they feel and what shaped them. That insight not only makes you a better human being, it also makes you a better criminal defense lawyer.

Shanmugathas: Judge Lloyd M. Nash once called you “one of the finest lawyers I have ever seen” after witnessing your cross-examination in the Robert Blake case, in which the actor was charged with murdering his wife. Can you walk us through your preparation process for a high-stakes cross-examination?

Mesereau: I got into the case pretty late, and the judge wasn’t going to continue the preliminary hearing. A preliminary hearing is a screening before a judge, not a jury, where the burden of proof of the prosecution is reasonable suspicion or probable cause, not proof beyond a reasonable doubt which you would have in trial. Typically, defense cross-examination is minimal, so as not to give the prosecution a roadmap.

I decided to take the opposite approach. The media had treated Robert Blake as guilty from day one, and the prosecution wouldn’t expect extensive cross-examination. I aimed to surprise them and weaken their witnesses for trial. I prepared every police report, newspaper article, witness statement, every note, and transcript in chronological order in witness books. I cross-examined witnesses thoroughly, sometimes for days, nailing them down to positions that seriously damaged their case and eventually Blake was acquitted.

At the same time, I was laying the groundwork for bail. Murder with special circumstances in California was thought to be unbailable at the time. I studied statutes and case law pertaining to bail at a murder with special circumstances case and carved out an argument that I thought would provide some flexibility and room for the argument he deserves bail. I coupled that with thorough cross-examination demolishing their witnesses, really whittling their case down to a lot of confusion and possibilities, but not real proof. And in the end, it worked. For the first time in California history, for the first time ever, a criminal defendant charged with murder with special circumstances and facing possible death penalty was granted bail.

It was a landmark moment—for my client and for me.

Shanmugathas: What advice would you give to law students here at JURIST about developing cross-examination skills that go beyond what is typically taught in trial advocacy courses?

Mesereau: The courtroom is a laboratory of living—complicated as life itself. Every trial is unique: the judge, jury, lawyers, bailiff, witnesses—all create a unique chemistry that never repeats.

Many lawyers, being bright and wanting security, revel in mastering a specialty—tax, corporate, securities law—and feel they’ve mastered it all. A trial lawyer is the opposite. We never have it all figured out. We learn from wins, losses, and all angles of a trial. Some of the least effective lawyers look impeccable in transcripts, but in court, they’re not effective. Some of the best lawyers seem choppy on paper, but they are highly effective in the courtroom.

What made the better lawyers stand out? They were not imprisoned by fundamentals. Fundamentals are important—you must learn them. Don’t ask “why” or “how” questions indiscriminately, for example. But when you face a terrible witness, someone who thinks they’re good but is awful, the strategy changes. You let them hang themselves. That happened with a witness in the Michael Jackson case. She loved to talk. I just let her. The prosecution, the judge, and my co-counsel were shocked wondering when I was going to stop her, but I let her talk and she offended everyone. I used psychology, intuition, and strategy—not what you’re taught in a cross-examination seminar.

Better trial lawyers are creative. They look deeply at the psychology of the courtroom, at their strategy, and decide if something fits or doesn’t. Sometimes you call a witness knowing they may say damaging things, but you weigh the benefit against the risk. Better criminal defense lawyers make these value judgments better than others. They break rules when needed, trust intuition, and even pick jurors for reasons others wouldn’t, all to sell a certain reality.

I hope that makes sense.

Shanmugathas: I think what you’re getting at is, as a trial lawyer, knowing when to trust your instincts over formal training. In your article, Random Thoughts on Trial Practice, you talk about breaking conventional rules—like asking “why” questions on cross-examination or refraining from mentioning reasonable doubt until closing arguments. How do you navigate that balance between instinct over formal training, especially as law students learning the black-letter law?

Mesereau: Well, you need experience. Losses teach you far more than wins. When you lose, you replay every decision: “Should I have called that witness? Asked that question?” Over time, this reflection sharpens your instincts and deepens your understanding of the courtroom.

If trial work is your calling, you’ll find a way to master it. Jurors want the truth—they’re not law students or lawyers, yet they know they’re judging a life. Even if they’re told not to consider punishment, they will.

So, in openings, I avoid sounding like I’m hiding behind technicalities. Saying, “The prosecution must prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt” can seem shallow, artificial, and technical. Instead, I frame it: “They have the burden of proof, they must prove it, and my client is presumed innocent. I will show this man did not do it. He wasn’t even there. He is not guilty.”

Then, in closing, after Judge Pitasanna instructs the jury, I say: “You’ve been instructed on the burden of proof. Here’s what that really means in this case. Look at the evidence, follow the law, and apply it to the facts you see.” By integrating reasonable doubt naturally into the story I’m telling, jurors understand both the law and the reality of the case—they aren’t just being told a rule, they’re seeing how it applies. This way, I don’t shield myself with legal jargon, and jurors see I’m confident and honest.

You’ll still see criminal defense lawyers give openings without emphasizing reasonable doubt, and some pundit judging the case on the other coast—New York or Los Angeles—will ask, “Why didn’t he mention reasonable doubt? He doesn’t have the burden.” The reason is simple: you want the jury to understand they are the bearers of truth, and you’re not afraid of it. You come out and say, “I’m going to prove it.” Most of the time, this approach helps rather than hurts.

It took years and countless mistakes to reach this point, but that’s the balance: respect the law, trust your instincts, and communicate in a way that makes jurors feel empowered to do their job.

Shanmugathas: In 2005, you successfully represented pop star Michael Jackson in his criminal trial. For our readers—particularly those at JURIST who might be unfamiliar—could you explain what charges Mr. Jackson faced and the core legal strategy behind his defense?

Tom Mesereau: He was charged with allegedly molesting a particular boy, conspiracy to abduct children, falsely imprisoning a family, and committing extortion. He was also charged with allegedly giving an underage child alcohol to prepare them to be molested. These were very ugly charges, and they were not true at all. As you know, the jury acquitted him on every single charge—ten felonies and four misdemeanours—a clean sweep.

To be accused of this kind of thing is very unsettling. Many people think it’s more unsettling than being charged with murder. The press was very much against him and didn’t properly reflect what was happening in the courtroom. But again, ten felonies, four misdemeanours, not guilty on every count because he wasn’t guilty.

In terms of strategy, this was the highest-profile case in my lifetime. Michael Jackson was the most famous person in the world, and negative publicity outside the courtroom threatened a fair trial. I had to adjust what I did accordingly. When we were picking a jury, I challenged potential jurors: Do you have what it takes to avoid media influence, to look at the facts and witnesses, and follow the law? If they couldn’t withstand the media and unfair attacks, they didn’t belong here.

Many criminal defense attorneys think a hung jury is a victory, and in some sense, it is—but only briefly. During a retrial, the prosecution can review transcripts and prepare more effectively. Statistically, a retrial after a hung jury usually leads to conviction. In the Michael Jackson case, I cross-examined the prosecution’s witnesses so effectively that there was tremendous pressure to rest and not put on a defense. I felt we could have had a hung jury, so I decided we had to go for broke in trying to get acquittals. That meant putting on a defense and a counter narrative.

I believe that in sexual assault cases, despite the prosecution’s burden to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, the defense must also prove innocence.  Now when I say prove your innocence, do I mean proof beyond a reasonable doubt? No, I think you have to present a solid counter narrative. In the Jackson case, I called witnesses who were alleged victims but testified they hadn’t been molested, each contributing to the chain of the story I needed to establish. I was criticized in the media for not resting when the going was good, but each witness had a purpose in showing there was a solid counter narrative and exposing what the prosecution was trying to hide.

After the acquittals, I appeared on a talk show, Larry King Live, and a jury foreperson contacted me, saying five jurors wanted to speak with me. When I met them, they confirmed that without presenting a defense, there would have been a hung jury. You had to present your story, your witnesses, and a clear counter narrative to get twelve people to vote not guilty. Fortunately, it worked, even though I was repeatedly criticized for not resting when the going was good.

Shanmugathas: In the Michael Jackson trial, you previously mentioned letting one of the witnesses run their mouth and essentially hang themselves. That also shows how you deal with witnesses, even when they’re hostile. I’m curious—what happens when the difficult person isn’t a witness, but your own client? Have you had clients who refused to cooperate with your defense strategy, and how do you balance what you believe is best for the case with what the client insists on doing?

Tom Mesereau: I once defended a woman charged with murdering her ex-husband—traveling from another county into Los Angeles County and shooting him to death. Like many clients I’ve had, she was in jail listening to other prisoners tell her how to defend herself. I call them “jailhouse geniuses”—they think they know more law than the lawyers and don’t trust lawyers because of bad experiences.

I’ll never forget, when the jury wasn’t in the courtroom, she spoke out loud to the judge: “Your Honor, I want to tell you all the things Mr. Mesereau should have done.” I stopped her and said, “Don’t do that. That’s hurting your case.” She stopped, and she was acquitted. Lawyers are not always trusted, especially by people in jail with no money. I did the case pro bono.

About six months after her acquittal, she called me on the phone. In a meek voice, she said, “Do you know who this is?” I said, “Yeah, you’re the one who busted my balls.” We both laughed. She admitted she’d been influenced by others in jail who thought they knew better than the lawyers. I had put her on the witness stand and called family members. She was very effective. I was up against one of the best prosecutors in the LA County District Attorney’s Office—the largest and one of the finest in the country.

I put her on the stand to explain who she was, the hard life she’d had, and what her ex-husband was doing to her. One of their witnesses was the woman the ex-husband was now living with—who had a real grudge against my client. I cross-examined her, showing she had a motive to stage the whole thing.

This is an example where the client isn’t trusted or supported. When you break the rules a lot, like I do—by “rules,” I mean the fundamentals of trial practice we’ve been discussing, not ethical rules or court orders—deviating from convention makes you more of a target. A few years ago, I spoke to elite criminal defense lawyers about putting clients on the stand. I said 90% of the time, the jury wants to hear from the client. They have something to add that helps the defense, or it’s not enough to be confident in the verdict.

For example, I was trained to believe that if a client has convictions, especially felonies, you don’t put them on the stand. I don’t think that’s true. I remember a woman calling me about her brother, a homeless man with a lifelong drug problem and multiple arrests. She offered $200 for me to handle the case. I went to meet him in jail. I believed him.

This looked like a case where the prosecution thought he was trash. He’d been arrested seven times. Two white cops showed up, people ran, and a piece of crack cocaine ended up near him. They said it was his, but he swore he didn’t throw it. I thought of the old fundamental: don’t put your client on the stand. I thought, baloney.

I put him on the stand. He went through all his prior convictions: “Every time I deserved what I got, I was guilty of that. I deserved it. But I didn’t do this. This is not right.” He explained his life—foster care, drug problems, prison—but insisted this charge was false. The jury hung, and the prosecution decided not to retry it.

So, here’s an example where first, I put the defendant on the stand, which most people wouldn’t do, and second, I let him explain his life and past convictions. He told his story, and it worked.

Shanmugathas: You’ve spent over 23 years defending death penalty cases in the Deep South, in states like Alabama and Mississippi, often without compensation, where racial disparities and capital sentencing are well documented. What patterns of racial bias have you observed in jury selection, charging decisions, and sentencing—and how do you work to combat them as a defense attorney?

Mesereau: Early in my career, I considered being a journalist. I majored in government in college with a focus on international relations, and my master’s degree from the London School of Economics was in international relations. I was fascinated by international relations, still am, and had visions of being a foreign correspondent, dropping into war zones, making my own observations, and understanding complex realities. Reality is much more complex than people think it is.

My first death penalty case in Alabama involved a high-profile case in Birmingham: a homeless Black man charged with killing a white girl in a trendy area. I was introduced to two local defense lawyers—who were receiving death threats—through a mutual contact. I flew to Birmingham, met them, and agreed to take the case. Spending time there taught me that Birmingham is far more nuanced than outsiders imagine. There’s a rich civil rights history, Black people hold important positions in government, and many jurors and judges are exceptionally fair. Not everything is about racism, even though remnants and extremists remain.

In that first case, I convinced my co-counsel that we need to put our client on the stand. They said, “We don’t put defendants on the stand.” I said, “We got to, we have to, with the way this case is going, and I like the way he comes across.” They warned, “He’ll get butchered on cross-examination. They’ll twist his words; maneuver him into positions he doesn’t understand.” I said, “I hope they do. I hope they tie him in knots, beat on him, manipulate him—because the jury’s not going to like that.” And you know what? Watching him testify in the courtroom, seeing him, hearing him, reading his eyes and hands, I felt he did very well. The jury acquitted him, though death threats continued afterward.

Racial bias exists, but not everyone in the Deep South is extremist. I also tried a high-profile murder case in Bessemer, Alabama—a Black alleged gang member accused of shooting a white Iraqi war veteran. Racial overtones were everywhere, and the community made racist comments. I put my client on the stand. He explained his life: no father, no family, how gang initiation worked, and that he had no weapon and didn’t know a gun would fire. The jury, almost evenly divided between Black and white members, deliberated, initially divided along racial lines. In closing statements, I reminded the jury: “Don’t devalue this person. He walks into this courtroom with the same rights I would have if I were on trial.” After instructions to deliberate, the jury returned a verdict of not guilty of murder and guilty of a lesser charge, which only carried a maximum of probation.

The next morning, 300 homes surrounding the courthouse had Ku Klux Klan leaflets on their porch saying, “The N-word got off. Whities rise up.”

Life in the Deep South is complex. There is classic, horrifying racism, but there are also judges, prosecutors, defense attorneys, and jurors who act with fairness, understanding, and insight. The Birmingham Police Department was exposed to racist practices over the years, but the LAPD at that time was actually as racist—or more so—than police departments in the South, yet they didn’t get the press or scrutiny. Birmingham has had Black mayors, Black police chiefs, and Black officials in prominent positions, often more so than other cities outside the Deep South. You learn to navigate both extremes: bias and prejudice on one side, fairness and advanced understanding on the other.

Shanmugathas: In the Deep South, where the legacy of racial terrorism and lynching is strong, how do you navigate the tension of when—or whether—to incorporate that history into your defense strategy? I know there’s often a taboo about making race an issue. For example, in the Michael Jackson case, you avoided making race an issue, whereas in the O.J. Simpson case, race was overwhelmingly present.

Mesereau: Life is complicated. Culture is complicated. History is complicated. When you pick a jury in Birmingham, Alabama, you rely on your instincts and questioning to uncover potential racial bias. But context matters. For instance, in Los Angeles, prosecutors routinely tried to remove Black jurors, assuming they would favor Black defendants—a flawed assumption, especially in gang-related cases. In the South, you don’t see that same pattern.

Racism exists both consciously and unconsciously. People can devalue someone based on race without realizing it. But it’s more nuanced than outsiders assume. In cases I’ve won in the South, juries with white majorities have acquitted Black defendants, even in cases with white victims—like the homeless Black man accused of killing a young woman in Birmingham.

You have to understand the community and the terrain. Jury selection isn’t just about numbers; it’s about people, context, and how the community perceives the case. For Michael Jackson, for example, there were no African Americans on the jury, only an African American alternate.

But Michael brought people together rather than dividing them. In one of his famous songs, he sang, “it don’t matter if you are black or white.” His persona and his music emphasized unity across races, and that influence extended to the community. Even his children, who did not appear black, reflected this idea—showing that his family, like his music, transcended racial divisions. That visibility helped reinforce a sense of inclusivity and fairness in how people perceived him locally, which was important in the context of his trial.

When preparing for the Michael Jackson trial, I even spent time informally in the area—Santa Maria, California—just observing and talking to people. Most of the people who spoke to me were white or Hispanic; not a single African American approached, which suggested to me that the community viewed him primarily as a local resident and neighbor, rather than through the lens of race or celebrity scandal. They seemed genuinely proud of him and familiar with him, which gave me confidence that the jury would be able to consider the case based on the facts, rather than stereotypes or assumptions. I also made the strategic decision to avoid having the Nation of Islam prominently visible as Jackson’s security detail, as it could have created unnecessary tension or alienation. Despite pressure to move the trial to another location, I insisted on staying local, believing that keeping it in Santa Maria allowed the jury and community to judge him fairly, based on what they knew and felt, rather than preconceived notions about race.

In short, I avoid making race an issue unless it naturally supports the narrative of unity or fairness. I rely on observing the community, understanding the dynamics, and knowing when and how to address the realities of race without letting it dominate the trial.

Shanmugathas: Beyond individual pro bono efforts, many of which you’ve undertaken, what structural changes to the legal profession do you believe could create real access to justice for communities of colour and the economically disadvantaged? And what role should criminal defense lawyers play in pushing for these changes?

Mesereau: When you say structural changes, I think first of all about public defender offices—the lawyers assigned to defend indigent clients. Our country provides many advantages other countries don’t, but public defenders can be overworked, underfunded, and underappreciated. That said, some of the finest criminal defense lawyers in America work in public defender offices. Even when conflicts arise and outside counsel are appointed, those panels include highly skilled attorneys. So structurally, more funding, smaller caseloads, and better support would be an important step.

Beyond that, I’ve often wondered about the contrast between the civil and criminal justice systems in America. The civil system is primarily concerned with money and property, while the criminal system is concerned with reputation and personal freedom. Yet in civil cases, we have much more discovery—depositions, pretrial investigation, sworn testimony outside the courtroom—while in criminal cases, these tools are rarely available. Florida is an exception, allowing depositions in criminal cases, but most states don’t.

Why does the civil system allow more structural mechanisms to uncover the truth than the criminal system, which is arguably more important because it deals with human life and liberty? My guess is that the criminal system values the right to a speedy trial highly, which limits some of these processes. But it does make you wonder: could access to pretrial discovery, depositions, and more thorough investigation make the criminal justice system fairer?

I don’t have a definitive answer, but these structural imbalances—why the system is so focused on property and money rather than liberty and reputation—are worth examining. That’s where criminal defense lawyers can advocate not only for their clients, but also for broader reforms that ensure fairness for the most vulnerable.

Shanmugathas: You’ve frequently spoken at law schools ranging from Harvard to HBCUs. How should legal education better prepare students to recognize and combat racial and economic bias in the criminal justice system?

Mesereau: Essentially, you’re asking how law students can become more open-minded and fair—to people of different races, ethnicities, and religions—and bring that understanding emotionally and intellectually into practice. Law schools do very little to teach about human psychology or empathy. Clinics help, but a bar exam isn’t going to question you on race or on how to find the good in people whom society or stereotypes have devalued. To represent clients effectively, you have to go into their environment, engage with them, and care about them—not just visit them in jail or drive past a crime scene.

For character defenses, especially with alleged gang members, many lawyers never dig into the human side. They fail to ask: Who have you loved? What good have you done? What shaped you? Prosecutors often use gang experts to depict a client as nothing more than a criminal statistic—emphasizing violence, initiation rituals, and drug offenses to strip humanity. Without countering that narrative, you can’t defend effectively. Law schools could help by encouraging students to spend sustained time in communities different from their own, to learn how people live, struggle, and survive.

Professor Donald Marvin Jones’s book The Presumption: Race and Injustice in the United States does a brilliant, masterful job of explaining, on both a conscious and unconscious level, where these attitudes come from. It’s an invaluable resource for understanding racism and offers a personal checklist for lawyers—what to watch for when dealing with bias in court. But how do you dig into the subconscious? How do you navigate the dehumanizing and racist systems in the courtroom and turn them into the opposite? Prosecutors never refer to the defendant by their first name—they call them “the defendant,” sometimes even precluding the defense from using it. Courtrooms are stark, intimidating, and sterile; that fosters racism on multiple levels. To counter it, you must create a defense, embrace your client, and embrace their troubled background.

Somebody once described three levels of criminal defense. The first ignores difficult evidence. The second finds a clever, sleazy excuse for it. The third—the highest level—takes difficult evidence and turns it to the client’s advantage, strategically and tactically. This is how you transform dehumanizing circumstances—gang evidence, poverty, or bias—into a narrative that humanizes your client, shows their complexity, and persuades the jury.

For example, in my Alabama murder case, my client admitted gang membership. I didn’t try to hide it. I explained the reality: kids navigate gangs daily just to survive; tattoos or monikers don’t automatically make them criminals. Prosecutors from privileged backgrounds often stereotype them, which can unfairly link them to crimes they didn’t commit. By understanding and showing the human side, the jury can see the person behind the label.

To instill empathy and fairness, law students need sustained exposure to different neighborhoods and communities. Only then can they truly understand the human side of those they represent and the systemic forces that shaped their lives.

Shanmugathas: In 2016, comedian Bill Cosby was charged in Pennsylvania with three counts of aggravated indecent assault. At one point, you were part of his legal defense team. We’ve been discussing the intersection of race and the law, and within that context, it’s worth noting the significance of The Cosby Show, the groundbreaking sitcom Cosby co-created in 1984.

In his scholarly article, Professor Timothy Havens asserted: “The Cosby Show changed the face of American television and set a new standard for representing African American families in non-stereotyped roles.” It was among the first prime-time American sitcoms to depict an upper-middle-class Black family, with a husband as a doctor and a wife as a lawyer, directly countering decades of media portrayals of Black families as impoverished or criminal. Those negative portrayals, of course, have influenced how the criminal justice system treats Black defendants.

Turning back to Bill Cosby’s criminal case, the three counts of aggravated assault stemmed from allegations that in 2004 he drugged and sexually assaulted Andrea Constand. Even before criminal charges were filed, media outlets had published allegations spanning more than five decades, involving over 60 women—both Black and white—including high-profile figures like supermodel Beverly Johnson and Janice Dickinson—claiming that Cosby had drugged and/or sexually assaulted them.

Could you share your thoughts on the merits of the prosecution’s case, at what stage you joined the defense team, and your experience working for Mr. Cosby?

Mesereau: I don’t want to go into all the complexities of the defense here. Bill Cosby has always maintained that he was not guilty. Our defense considered many factors, including the social context of American society 30–40 years ago—where drugs were commonly handed out at parties, both men and women were giving each other drugs, and cocaine was often seen as a social, rather than a dangerous, illegal substance.

One witness, for example, admitted she had slept with Bill Cosby and once spoke of it almost like bragging rights. She said it took her decades to realize she considered herself a victim, and that she wasn’t responsible for what happened. From my perspective, this reflects the impact of the #MeToo movement—it has given many victims a voice, which is valuable, but it also opens the door for people to reconstruct past events and portray themselves as victims where that may not have been the case.

When preparing for the trial, you also have to consider whether jurors might be more likely to convict him because he was Black, as opposed to if he had been white. The answer is yes—stereotypes, societal precepts, and unconscious biases make it easier to devalue a Black person. Do I think race played a role in the prosecution? Absolutely.

I won’t go into the details of this discussion, but Bill Cosby was adamant he was not guilty. I think all of the prosecution’s witnesses had problems that the jury did not fully confront the way they should have, and he should have been acquitted. Thank God, the Pennsylvania Supreme Court ultimately recognized that the case lacked fundamental constitutional fairness. I genuinely believe his race influenced how the prosecution handled the case—some corners were cut in ways that likely wouldn’t have happened with a white defendant.

Shanmugathas: And you just touched on the Pennsylvania Supreme Court case. After a mistrial in 2017 and a 2018 conviction resulting in a three-to-ten-year prison sentence for Mr. Cosby, the criminal case against Bill Cosby reached the Pennsylvania Supreme Court. In 2021, the Court reversed the conviction, vacated the sentence, and barred retrial. The Pennsylvania Supreme Court ruled that District Attorney Bruce Castor’s public statement of non-prosecution, coupled with Mr. Cosby’s detrimental reliance and waiver of his Fifth Amendment privilege, created an enforceable due process bar to prosecution. Justice Dougherty even described it as a “coercive bait-and-switch” by the prosecutors.

In other words, had the court not ruled in Cosby’s favor, wouldn’t it have set a dangerous precedent—allowing prosecutors to induce self-incriminating testimony through promises of non-prosecution, only to later use that same testimony to convict defendants who relied on those assurances in good faith?

I remember reading the Pennsylvania Supreme Court’s decision even before I went to law school. And, although I personally believe that Mr. Cosby is guilty of what he was accused of, I found the court’s legal reasoning so compelling that it became difficult to argue that the court shouldn’t rule in his favor—that his due process rights had, in fact, been violated.

Mesereau: Well, look—what basically happened was this: a prosecutor, not just any prosecutor, but the District Attorney of the county, told the defense, “We’re not going to prosecute him if he gives a deposition in the pending civil case.”

So, what do you expect the defense attorney to tell the client? And what do you expect the client to do—refuse to participate in a civil action just to risk criminal prosecution, even though the charges are unjust? Believe me, I know the evidence. The prosecutor essentially used the criminal process as leverage to force participation in a parallel civil proceeding.

That, I believe, deeply offended the Pennsylvania Supreme Court. And the fact that the state later turned around—not only charged him but also used the very deposition they had induced through that promise—made it even worse. It was a horrific bait and switch. The Pennsylvania Supreme Court got it right.

Mr. Cosby should never have been put through this ordeal—the criminal trial, the years in prison while this was being sorted out—none of it should have happened.

Now, more broadly speaking, any powerful social movement tends to begin with some excesses, in my opinion. You have women who didn’t view themselves as victims years ago but believe they are victims now. Some may be sincere, others may not. Some may genuinely believe they are seeking justice; others may have convinced themselves of that.

The #MeToo movement has given many victims of rape and sexual assault a vital voice—but it has also opened the door to people reconstructing past events and portraying themselves as victims where they may not have been.

When accusations surface decades later, how do you investigate? How do you find witnesses, forensic evidence, or contemporaneous statements? Human psychology is complex. People can convince themselves of almost anything—especially with the passage of time.

It’s unfair for the defense to be forced to piece together evidence from 30 or 40 years ago because someone suddenly claims victimization. Again, I want to emphasize—the #MeToo movement is valuable and important. But it’s being manipulated and misused in certain quarters. Lawyers are encouraging people to come forward decades later, saying, “I deserve compensation; I was victimized.”

That opens up a new area of unfairness in the justice system, where the defense is at a serious disadvantage. In my opinion, Bill Cosby was a victim of that. Many of the people accusing him knew exactly what they were doing at the time. And yes—I do believe his race made him an easier target.

Shanmugathas: In quiet moments away from the courtroom, what case or client has taught you the most about justice? And what lesson from that experience do you believe every law student should carry forward?

Mesereau: Well, remember this — to a criminal defendant, the most important case in the world is their case. So, when people ask me, “What’s the most important case you’ve ever defended?” my response is that every person’s case is the most important case in their life. I don’t judge one person as more valuable than another when it comes to providing a defense.

That said, some cases do stand out because they reveal deeper truths. I’ll never forget defending a homeless Black man in Birmingham, Alabama, who was facing the death penalty for allegedly murdering a young white woman from a prominent family. Despite the racism, the death threats, and all the pressures, a largely white jury acquitted him. That experience will always stay with me.

I went into Birmingham with my own stereotypes, but what I found was a terrific judge, a fair-minded jury, strong prosecutors, and excellent defense attorneys — if I may say so myself. It reminded me not to make assumptions about people, even in places burdened by painful histories.

Of course, the Michael Jackson case also left deep impressions — watching the global media attempt to convict him before he even stepped into the courtroom was an extraordinary experience. But I’ve also defended people in obscure, unpublicized cases, where no cameras were present, and the stakes were just as high — sometimes their entire lives were on the line.

I’ve done pro bono murder cases where clients, after being acquitted, have looked at me and said, “Who are you? Why did you do this for me?” Those moments stay with me. They mean something because they remind me that I might have helped show the profession in a better light — that not every lawyer is “sleazy” or “slimy,” as the stereotype goes.

Every person’s life matters. Every case matters. And as a lawyer, you must never devalue people — you must fight racism constantly, even within yourself. Anyone who says, “I’m not racist; I treat everyone equally,” should be careful, because beneath that confidence there may be unconscious biases they haven’t yet faced.

But if you wake up every day reminding yourself to treat others with fairness and equality, you’re already ahead of the game.

Have you ever read Clarence Darrow’s closing argument in the Ossian Sweet case? You must read it.

It was a murder trial in racist Detroit in the early 1920s. Dr. Ossian Sweet, a Black physician, tried to move his family into a lower middle-class white neighborhood. White mobs gathered around the house, throwing rocks and trying to drive them out. A shot rang out—a white man was killed—and the prosecutor charged the entire Black family with murder.

The NAACP asked Clarence Darrow to defend them. Detroit was deeply racist at the time—they’d even elected a Ku Klux Klan member as mayor, though that election was set aside for other reasons. The jury was twelve white men from Detroit.

In his closing argument, Darrow looked straight at the jury and said, “You’re racist, and so am I. We all are. You know it, and I know it. But I hope we can rise above it in this trial.” He went through the history of racism in America—from the slave ships onward—and told the jury that when children play together, they don’t care about color until adults teach them to.

He challenged the jury to be fair, to see Dr. Sweet’s family for what they were—hardworking people trying to give their children a better life — and to see the white mob for what it was: a violent, racist crowd. Darrow completely turned the tables on the prosecution.

The case—The Ossian Sweet Trial—is one every law student should study.

Shanmugathas: After defending clients ranging from Michael Jackson to unnamed individuals facing execution in Alabama, how do you personally define success? In a legal career, what measures matter most beyond wins and losses?

Mesereau: Well, I’m 75 years old now, so I look at things differently than I did when I was 40. Ultimately, what matters most is how you feel about yourself. It’s not about awards, publicity, recognition, or people patting you on the back and congratulating you for being a great lawyer. What truly counts is what you think of yourself—and what your family thinks of you.

You see, even well-known lawyers are forgotten very quickly. It’s amazing how many law students today don’t know who Johnny Cochran was, or even Clarence Darrow. Because I lived during their time, I know who they were and what great teachers they were to me—even if only in the abstract.

And I’ll say this: books about trial lawyers, books teaching fundamentals, books by trial lawyers—read them, reread them, and reread them again. As you grow, you’ll focus on different lessons each time. Books have been absolutely fundamental to my career.

But to return to your question—success, to me, means being able to look back and feel good about what you did with your profession. Did you try to understand people, value them, and bring that value into the courtroom? Did you humanize those you defended and fight injustice where you found it?

People still ask the perennial question: “Could you defend someone you think is guilty?” I’ve watched lawyers dance around that question my whole career. I don’t. The answer is yes—because that’s how we make the system work.

Even if someone is guilty of something, say they slap someone and are guilty of misdemeanor assault, that doesn’t mean they should be charged with attempted murder. Too often, the system is misused to intimidate defendants into bad plea deals.

If police or prosecutors act improperly—whether out of bias, negligence, or pressure—and you expose that, you’re not just helping your client. You’re helping all of us preserve fairness in the justice system. Because if misconduct goes unchecked today, it’ll happen again tomorrow. But if it’s exposed, people think twice before repeating it.

And that’s important to remember: police officers have an extraordinarily difficult job and make enormous sacrifices. But they’re human—they make mistakes and they have biases, just like anyone else.

So, when you defend someone vigorously, you’re doing more than just responding to the question of guilt or innocence. You’re strengthening the integrity of the entire system.

If, at the end of your life, you can say, “I made a difference in the lives of others—I helped people maintain dignity and respect that might otherwise have been taken from them,” then you’ve had not only a good career, but a good life.

Because in the end, no matter how famous you are, you’ll be forgotten in the blink of an eye. What endures is the difference you made in the moment you had.