A new Chinese legal drama has prompted one of the country’s best-known law professors to reflect publicly on a question that goes to the heart of the rule of law: what happens when lawyers are punished, vilified or even prosecuted for defending people whom the public — or the authorities — already regard as guilty?
The drama, The Pillar (《重器》), has recently attracted wide attention in China. Produced by China Media Group, the country’s state broadcaster, together with the film and television centres of the Supreme People’s Procuratorate and the Supreme People’s Court — China’s highest procuratorial and judicial organs — the series revisits landmark and sometimes painful episodes in the rebuilding of China’s legal system between 1979 and 1997. Its eleven stories are adapted from real cases, including cases arising from the sweeping crime of “hooliganism” and from the 1980s “Stern Blows” campaign.
Some of those scenes moved Luo Xiang, professor at the China University of Political Science and Law and director of its Institute of Criminal Law, to write the essay translated below. Luo’s online lectures, which mix criminal-law analysis with humour and moral philosophy, have made legal ideas accessible far beyond the classroom; his Bilibili account, the Chinese equivalent to a YouTube channel, alone has more than 32 million followers.
What struck Luo most was a storyline based on a real 1984 case in which defence lawyers were themselves arrested after arguing that the evidence against their client was insufficient. From that episode, he turns to a broader argument: a society’s respect for lawyers — especially lawyers defending unpopular defendants — is a test of whether it genuinely accepts that criminal justice must restrain state power as well as punish wrongdoing.
The essay was first published on August 14, 2026, in the “Utopia of the Rule of Law” opinion column of Phoenix TV, a Hong Kong-based Chinese-language broadcaster.
《重器》：为什么律师制度如此重要？
The Pillar: Why the Legal Profession Matters So Much
A legal drama called The Pillar has been drawing a great deal of attention lately. After watching a few scenes, I found myself overwhelmed by emotion. Set against China’s efforts to build the rule of law between 1979 and 1997, the series tells eleven stories adapted from real cases. Together, they trace the country’s legal evolution from the abolition of the crime of “hooliganism” to the establishment of the principle that doubt must favour the accused.
These events belong to the past, but history never stops speaking to the living. It reminds us not to confuse the authoritarianism of the ancient Legalists with the restraints that modern rule of law places on power. Modern rule of law is more than a static body of statutes and institutions, or the dynamic practice of administration according to law. It is a more comprehensive order in which law is supreme. Officials and citizens alike need, above all, to be educated in the spirit of the rule of law, not merely taught the particulars of the law.
The series also revisits the crime of “hooliganism,” which at the time functioned as a catch-all offence. In one storyline, a person faces the death penalty simply for having had too many romantic relationships. If the sole objective is to crack down on crime, such a vaguely defined offence is undeniably effective: it allows the authorities to treat almost any socially disapproved conduct as an “other hooligan act.”
But fighting crime is not the rule of law’s only purpose. If it were, there would be no point in making written laws public. Codified law necessarily limits what the state may do in the name of fighting crime. After all, as the old saying goes, “When punishments are unknown, the reach of power is impossible to gauge.”
The rule of law therefore contains an inherent paradox: it must fight crime while also restraining the state power used to do so, lest that power itself become a force that undermines social order.
That understanding of the rule of law, however, did not truly take root with the abolition of the crime of hooliganism.
Many years ago, I spoke about the abolition of the offence of hooliganism during a lecture. Afterwards, a retired president of an intermediate people’s court approached me. In his view, the offence should never have been abolished: it was simply too useful to discard. He earnestly told me that, during his time as court president, he had used it to convict many people, and that without it the judicial authorities now had their hands tied.
I did not know how to answer him; changing someone’s mind can be extraordinarily difficult. But I was still young and headstrong, and I blurted out a question: “If you and your family were judged strictly by the standards used for hooliganism back then, might you not be found guilty as well?” He flew into a rage and stormed off.
What moved me even more from the series was the story of defence lawyer Li Xiang, who was arrested after arguing for the acquittal of Qiao Zhiliang, a man charged with rape and murder.
Qiao, a village schoolteacher, is having a consensual affair with Wei Sanmei, his wife’s niece. After the affair comes to light, Wei takes her own life by overdosing on medication, and Qiao is charged with rape and murder. At a mass trial rally, Qiao himself admits the charges and accepts his punishment. His lawyer, Li Xiang, nevertheless argues that he is innocent.
Li argues that law and morality must not be conflated. In court, he lays out Wei’s love letters to Qiao and her letter of remorse to her aunt, one by one. The affair has lasted three or four years. It is adultery, not rape. Adultery is immoral, but it is fundamentally different from rape and certainly did not amount to murder.
Li’s defence infuriates the spectators, who begin hurling whatever they can at him. The courtroom descends into chaos. To the crowd, anyone morally corrupt has forfeited the right to live. Speaking through a megaphone, Li shouts above the uproar:
“Every defendant has the right to be defended by counsel. That right is conferred, recognised, and protected by the laws of this country. Every single one of you here has the same right. I am a lawyer. It is my duty to defend the accused. If any of you should ever need my defence, I will not hesitate.”
The story takes place in 1984, in the midst of the nationwide “Stern Blows” campaign, when judicial policy demands that crime be punished both severely and swiftly. Qiao Zhiliang is sentenced to death and executed immediately.
Officials react with anger as well. In their view, a lawyer who argues that a criminal was innocent is shielding the offender and placing himself in opposition to the people. In the series, Li is charged with “shielding a criminal, resisting official authority, and leaking state secrets”.
Even Hong Zhansheng, head of the legal advisory office, is arrested merely for making a few remarks in Li’s favour. Chen Yizhong, the student who later takes on Li’s defence, is also arrested after arguing with the police when he is denied access to his client at the detention centre [police-run facilities in China that hold suspects and defendants during criminal proceedings]. Fear sweeps through the area. The case becomes taboo, and no one dares mention the arrested lawyer.
Chen’s classmates eventually invite Yuan Yifang, a prominent lawyer from Beijing, to take the case. In court, Yuan says:
“The legal profession exists to prevent wrongful convictions to the greatest extent possible. What if one day someone in this courtroom has the misfortune of becoming a defendant? Every one of us is powerless before the machinery of the state.
“Li Xiang became a defendant because he defended someone else. By the prosecutor’s logic, I too should be made a defendant. A defence lawyer has only two possible courses: concede guilt and seek leniency, or argue for acquittal. If the second amounts to shielding a criminal, then every defendant has only one fate: to confess and submit to punishment, even when falsely accused.
“That is absurd. Such a chain of reasoning poses the gravest threat to the legal system. We are here today not merely to defend the legal profession, but to defend every person.
“If I am placed in the dock today for doing my duty as counsel, someone else will surely stand up and defend my innocence. If that person is then placed in the dock for defending me, another will step forward. The cycle will continue.
“But one day it will stop, because by then China will have set out on the path of the rule of law, and everyone’s most basic lawful rights and interests will receive the protection they deserve, indeed, stronger protection still...”
Those words sent a chill through me and brought me to tears. In the end, the combined efforts of many people overturn the wrongful case. Li Xiang and Chen Yizhong are acquitted and released. Justice finally prevails, though painfully late.
Art draws on life, but it does not necessarily rise above it. This storyline was based on the “Three Lawyers Shielding a Criminal Case,” which occurred in Tai’an County, Liaoning Province, in May 1984.
With the approval of Wang Baiyi, head of their legal advisory office, lawyers Wang Licheng and Wang Zhishuang lawfully undertook the defence of Xu, a suspect accused of rape and murder. They found the evidence insufficient and therefore argued for his acquittal.
Xu was nevertheless sentenced to death and executed immediately. After the execution, the local procuratorate arrested all three defence lawyers for “shielding a criminal.” They would remain wrongfully implicated for four years.
Under the supervision of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress (NPC), the three were released on bail in 1985. Yet the local judicial authorities never fully admitted their error and arrested one of the lawyers a second time. Only after repeated intervention and coordination by the NPC Standing Committee was the case finally corrected and the lawyers exonerated.
Behind every small advance in the rule of law lies a story of immense weight.
Even today, many people still misunderstand the legal profession. They see lawyers who defend those condemned by public opinion as people who are speaking for the “bad guys.” Many remain deeply shaped by a moralistic mindset, believing that anyone who is morally corrupt should be severely punished by the criminal law.
The Qing-dynasty philosopher Dai Zhen once wrote: “Cruel officials kill people through the law; later Confucians kill people in the name of principle.” “Those who die under the law may still receive sympathy. But those condemned in the name of principle — who will mourn for them?”
The rule of law must guard against two dangers: the harshness of the ancient Legalists, who killed through strict laws and severe punishments, and the later Confucians’ use of “principle” as a weapon, imposing moral judgements to punish and destroy others.
How many of those who claim the moral high ground and clamour for punishment could themselves live by the standards they impose on others? Do not do to others what you would not want done to you. This does not mean that the rule of law severs law from morality. It means that each has its proper place.
In establishing guilt, the law must prevail and allow no room for sympathy; in finding a person not criminally liable, the law should still retain its human touch.
Law sets only the minimum moral standard for human conduct. If moral life encourages or tolerates certain behaviour, that behaviour should not be criminalised. But if everything condemned by morality were treated as a crime, even a sage might become a criminal.
Under the influence of moralistic thinking, “when in doubt, acquit” can easily give way to “when in doubt, convict on a lesser charge.” Faced with a morally flawed defendant, many judicial officers reason that even if the evidence is insufficient to support the more serious charge, a lesser offence can still serve as a fallback. After all, the defendant is not a good person, they think, so a conviction can hardly be unjust.
More than twenty years ago, I assisted in a case involving a young couple. Both treated their elders badly and were always trying to get money from relatives. Then the man’s eldest aunt was poisoned to death. The couple were accused of plotting together to kill her for financial gain.
According to the confessions presented by the prosecution, the two had spoken by phone around the time of the crime to discuss their murder plan. But I noticed that the prosecution’s own telephone records showed that the supposed call had lasted zero minutes and zero seconds.
I consulted a telecommunications employee, who explained that this meant the call had been placed but never answered. This cast doubt on the claim in the confessions that the two had discussed the murder by phone.
We later uncovered important evidence showing that the defendants had been elsewhere when the crime was committed. The head of our law firm told me that this evidence had saved both defendants’ lives. Instead of an immediate death sentence, they received a death sentence with a two-year reprieve.
I often wonder whether we won that case or lost it. If it were tried today, and if the principle that doubt must favour the accused were fully honoured, the defendants might well be acquitted.
Of course, what matters is not whether we won or lost an individual case. What matters is whether the rule of law truly advances.
In the series, Lawyer Yuan tells his students:
“The legal profession is indispensable to China’s legal system. Lawyers are not the adversaries or enemies of courts and procuratorates. Together with them, we are the people who make that system work.”
Respect for the legal profession is an essential part of building the rule of law. To respect lawyers is to respect the entire legal community. If lawyers are denied their rightful standing, no legal professional can truly retain dignity.
Jiang Ping, the beloved former president of the China University of Political Science and Law, once said: “When lawyers flourish, the rule of law flourishes; when the rule of law flourishes, the nation flourishes.” He is gone, but his words remain.
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