By Mike Holley
First Assistant District Attorney in Montgomery County
My journey to prosecution has not been a straight path. I went to college on a military scholarship to be a chaplain, but the Army thought I should instead be a military police officer. After a few years of racing Humvees around and amongst tanks in Killeen, the Army sent me to law school in Lubbock, and they graciously paid the bill. They posted me to North Carolina to jump out of airplanes and prosecute field artillerymen. They assigned me to Seoul, Bangkok, and Tokyo to defend servicemembers charged with crimes. They flew me to Baghdad to prosecute military police, where I found myself in a makeshift courtroom surrounded by a figurative army of reporters and a literal brigade of soldiers. They then kindly arranged for me to teach criminal law and advocacy at the LL.M. level (Master of Laws) in Virginia.
After I left the Army in 2006, I had the rare privilege of working for W. Mark Lanier, who I believe is the best civil trial lawyer in the country. In 2012, I crossed paths with the late Carol Vance, the renowned and respected former District Attorney of Harris County. At the time, we were both doing prison ministry—he as an expert, I as an amateur. He gently suggested I apply to be a prosecutor at the Montgomery County District Attorney’s Office. He said that leadership mattered and that the leadership there was good. He was right on both counts, and I followed his advice. I have been there ever since, and I hope to remain there as a prosecutor for as long as I can.
I cannot say that the quality of my work in any of those previous positions has been particularly remarkable. I am more of a grinder than a natural talent. However, the experiences I have been afforded have been remarkable, giving me an unusual perspective on litigation jobs. My aim is not to denigrate those other jobs but rather to encourage current prosecutors and spark something in those considering the profession.
Civil work
Civil work was rewarding, not just because of the money. I suspect my civil experience was particularly gratifying because I had an excellent and genuinely exceptional boss. The work was often engaging. There were some opportunities to help others in powerful ways. I also saw how civil attorneys’ work allows our society’s great machinery to continue operating, and I saw how civil practice can change society for the better. There is a lot of good in civil practice.
Criminal defense work
I also valued my time in criminal defense and enjoyed that work immensely. Defense work was fascinating, fulfilling, and frequently fun. As a defense attorney, I—like defense attorneys everywhere—did my best to give of myself to those in times of dire need. Helping others was gratifying, and I felt like I was doing my part to keep the formidable powers of the government in their proper place. As a prosecutor now, I look for ways to encourage, honor, and uplift our colleagues in the defense bar. What they do matters and protects us all.
But not for me
In all of this, I learned that civil work can be rewarding and defense work is important, but prosecution is where I belong. When done right—and that’s an all-important caveat—prosecution offers a unique blend of benefits that, while present to some degree in both civil and defense work, are unmatched in their depth and combination by life as a prosecutor.
Those advantages are as follows:
Justice. By my light, justice is too often an indirect byproduct for other litigation jobs—if it is achieved at all. The main aim for other litigators is advancing the individual client’s interest. Sometimes that results in justice, and sometimes it does not. In contrast, the reason for a prosecutor’s existence is to see justice done. This entails:
1) clearing the innocent,
2) holding the guilty accountable, and
3) upholding the rule of law.
As a prosecutor, I can accomplish all three myself directly at any time. If someone is innocent, I dismiss the case. If someone is guilty, I seek accountability. And if anyone undermines the rule of law, I can confront that behavior head-on.
In all circumstances, the path to justice is direct. In contrast, as a civil practitioner or defense attorney, my sole, unwavering duty—first, last, and always—was to zealously fight for my client’s legal interests, no matter who or what stood in the way. I did so regardless of whether or not my client’s interests conflicted with the welfare of others and sometimes, frankly, even when the legal interest were not in my client’s ultimate interest. Occasionally, as a defense attorney, my efforts were in the vein of “clearing the innocent” when my client was wrongly charged or overcharged. Still, far more often, they were not. Instead, my efforts were to avoid all accountability if possible. Infringements of the law concerned me mainly to the extent they could be used in my client’s favor. A violation of the law committed by others that benefited my client was something I could readily set aside. Through my zealous representation, I knew I was serving the greater good by protecting the rights of all, and I knew that I was obtaining justice in my way. But while that was true, it often felt too indirect for me.
As a prosecutor, I can pursue justice directly without detours, distraction, or deviation—which is deeply satisfying because justice is vitally important to me. And I suspect it is important to you, too.
Mercy. Human behavior is complex. There is a great deal of gray in this world. Our legal system is a system of trade-offs and an imperfect mechanism for regulating the endless complexity of human life. Most criminal cases involve some degree of mitigation, extenuation, or defense. As a prosecutor, I have the great privilege of considering those factors, and I do so on a case-by-case basis. Happily, in some circumstances—though not as often as I would hope—defendants can be restored to their families and communities in a way that honors the law and respects victims. Very few things in the law are as satisfactory as those moments. This job reserves a sacred place for mercy, and mercy matters.
Purpose. Speaking for victims. Helping the hurting. Resolving cases with wisdom and humanity. Uncovering the truth. Guiding police officers. Protecting constitutional rights. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow public servants. Taking a stand for right against wrong. Not every litigation job provides such a deep sense of purpose, but this one does.
Safeguarding freedom. I care about people and want them to be free. Free to pursue peace, security, and fulfillment. Free to worship or not, free to raise children or not, free to enjoy the rewards of their hard work, and free to speak their minds. I want men, women, and children in my county, state, and country to live without fear of those who would exploit, harm, or steal from them. All of those freedoms depend, first and foremost, on safety and security. Prosecutors are the people who ultimately deliver both. They do so in collaboration with law enforcement, but make no mistake, without prosecutors, there is no safety or security and therefore, no freedom of any kind. I take pride in this role of ours.
Rooted in community. To be a prosecutor is, I hope, to be woven into the fabric of a community. At the end of life, I suspect that what truly matters isn’t money, fame, or power: It’s the people you knew, those who knew you, those you helped, and those who helped you along the way. In other words, it is to be a part of a community, and prosecution draws me cheerfully into a life of community.
Independence. We do not chase billable hours, nor do they rule us. The commands of individual clients don’t steer us, but rather we chart the course ourselves to the destination we believe to be right. We are not driven by profit. We are not subject to the tremendous gravitational pull of money, which can so easily cloud judgment, corrode integrity, and corrupt character. We are not beholden to anyone. We are charged with the moral, ethical, and legal duty to treat the rich and poor equally. When done correctly, those with influence and connections receive no more and no less than the protections and considerations afforded to everyone else. As my boss, District Attorney Brett Ligon, says, “There is a front door to our office, but there is no back door.” This kind of independence is not always easy to maintain, but it is rare, powerful, and liberating. And this independence is what sets prosecutors apart—or should.
Endlessly interesting work. The people we meet, the experts we collaborate with, and the disciplines we engage with—science, industry, psychology, medicine, technology, and law enforcement—all contribute to a constantly evolving and intellectually stimulating profession. The ever-evolving nature of criminal law—and our pursuit of mastering it—presents a dynamic and compelling journey. Every case offers new tests, fresh opportunities for growth, and a deeper appreciation of the complexity that is human life. We meet the most remarkable and fascinating people, people we would never have known otherwise. We see people go through the most painful experiences, and their perseverance in difficulty and triumph in adversity inspire and humble us. In short, unless you are deliberately incurious, the prosecutor’s work is intellectually demanding and endlessly interesting.
Camaraderie. As a prosecutor, I am privileged to work with good people trying to be good at doing good. They encourage me, challenge me, and hold me accountable. They push me to be better every day, not just as a lawyer but as a person. They pick me up when I am down, and litigation has many downs. They make me laugh. So much laughter! Some litigation jobs—much of defense work—is lonely. Prosecution is not. Some litigation jobs—many civil firms for example—are plagued by envy, infighting, and quiet (or not-so-quiet) backstabbing. But not this one, at least not in my office. The men and women I work with are more interested in fighting for justice than fighting each other. That matters. If I have a choice of who I want to be around when I’m not with my friends and my family—and I do—I choose these people.
Trial work. Criminal law offers significant trial opportunities, and state practice provides more frequent and diverse courtroom experience than federal practice (though the federal practice has its own distinct benefits, to be sure). With a few notable and noble exceptions, I found civil law to be more general litigation—depositions, discovery, and hearings—than advocacy before a jury. Resolving cases took years and frequently concluded with unsatisfying results, and actual jury trials were scarce.
If you wish to try cases before juries regularly and consistently with full-throated advocacy and clear, well-defined stakes, ours is the place to be. I understand that not every attorney wants to be in trial as an advocate, but for those of us who enjoy it, is there anything else like it in the law?
No bad facts. In every other litigation role, I had to contend with “bad” facts—facts that hurt my client’s case. When those surfaced, and they always did, I hoped the other side wouldn’t get wind of them. If the other side did hear about them, I hoped I could keep them from getting their hands on those facts. If they managed to get them, I then tried to convince jurors that those facts weren’t what they appeared to be (even if I secretly believed otherwise). This approach is quite common in other litigation jobs, but not so for the principled prosecutor.
For the principled prosecutor, there are no bad facts—just facts. I follow the evidence wherever it leads—again, liberating. This reality also protects me from becoming the kind of person who can “spin” any fact to serve his interests. The legal profession highly values and rewards the ability to cleverly spin reality, even if practitioners don’t always say it out loud. I have found that this “skill” can create (in some) a state of the soul in which nothing is true or false. It can also deprive one of the ability or willingness to tell the truth to others or even to oneself. In contrast, the prosecutor can be—and must be— a man or woman who believes the truth is a real thing that can be found. A prosecutor is also someone who tells the truth in all things, first to themselves and then to others. I want more truth in the world, not less. Don’t you?
Victory is always attainable. A prosecutor “wins” by presenting a case ethically and skillfully. Both are within our control. The outcomes belong to someone else. When a judge or jury decides a case, as Military Judge Colonel Patrick Parrish once told me, that decision is, by definition, “appropriate.” Because that’s how our system works, and this, too, is freeing. Do adverse outcomes still sting? Of course. Do things go wrong? Sometimes. Does the innate competitive nature of human beings threaten this standard? It absolutely does. With all that said, as a prosecutor, my ability to obtain “victory” is always within my grasp, and as long as I’m faithful in how I practice, I can never truly lose.
Final thoughts
Prosecution is not for everyone. It is a calling that requires grit, sacrifice, and deep empathy. It is a profession not for the faint-hearted, the hard-hearted, or the half-hearted. To enter into this work is to acknowledge that the criminal justice system is far from perfect and that we face many challenges. Yet, despite those challenges—or perhaps because of them—I remain a prosecutor. I believe in this work, in seeking truth, and in serving my community.
To my fellow prosecutors: if you can, stay the course. Our work matters.
And to those considering this path, I urge you to take it. Justice needs you. We all do.