Staying Zealous: Why I chose to return to public defense after it nearly killed me
Back at the hospital, dozens of medical professionals worked on me for over six hours. The most alarming news was that my skull was fractured. I also had a concussion, and the tips of my top right molars were sheared off.
Eric Atria: “Recovered and reinvigorated, I decided to act. I started with those who gave so much of themselves to lift me through my recovery. I began to focus on how I could be a better father, husband, and friend. I began finding ways to reinvest and volunteer in my community. Most importantly, I became more committed to my profession than ever before. I am always aware that I must approach each case with my best efforts. I have accepted that I can protect my clients’ constitutional rights while acknowledging and respecting a victim’s struggle.”
Why am I on the floor? It felt like I had been struck by lightning. I could see the judge, assistant state attorney, and bailiff all looking down at me in horror. I knew I was supposed to be in trial, but how long ago was that? And again, why was I on the floor? The last thing I could remember was a witness taking the stand and the judge saying, “Raise your right hand and face the clerk.” Then everything went black. “What happened?” I managed to ask through a jaw that no longer worked. “Your client hit you,” said the bailiff. Not one to miss a joke, I said, “Judge, I move to withdraw.” No one laughed.
As I tried to sit up, I could feel pieces of teeth in my mouth. Someone asked me who the president was. “Barack Obama,” I grunted, although I immediately knew this was wrong. The room started spinning and I fell back to the ground, laughing at my presidential error. No one else was laughing. I heard a voice say, “An ambulance is on the way,” and I began to realize that nothing about this was funny. I was in trouble.
I was taken to UF Health, a hospital known just as much for its skilled practitioners as for its long waits. On the way, the paramedic noticed blood coming out of my ear. “We might have a brain bleed,” he said into his radio. He told me I would be seen immediately because a brain bleed is life-threatening. “That’s good,” I thought. “At least I won’t have to wait.” I wasn’t joking this time; I was in shock. I couldn’t process the severity of the situation.
As I lay there, I struggled to comprehend what had just happened. I started pondering the karmic justice that brought this upon me. Did I do something to deserve this? Why did my client do this? The only words I could find to describe his actions were “senseless” and “short sighted.” I realized these same words could be used to explain the behavior of the thousands of clients I’ve represented over the years. I didn’t deserve this, just as no victim deserves what happens to them. Continuing to digest my new existential crisis, another thought popped into my head: “Maybe I’ll be okay. Maybe that’s my karma.”
To fully understand the whole story, we must go back to 2018 when the defendant in question was arrested for numerous violent crimes. The state had an overwhelming amount of evidence, and he was looking at life in prison. The cases ended up lingering for four years, as the defendant tried every imaginable method of delaying the inevitable. He went through multiple court-appointed attorneys and even represented himself for a while. I was appointed by the court in August of 2022, and a trial date was set for November. I worked as hard as I could to craft a defense and managed to put something together that I believed would give us a fighting chance. As we approached trial, the defendant continued to disrupt the court proceedings and began to obstruct my attempts to defend him. He was eventually given an ultimatum by the court: He would be removed from the courtroom if he was disruptive with a jury present, and I would continue the trial without him. Now the only way for him to stop the trial was to remove me.
Back at the hospital, dozens of medical professionals worked on me for over six hours. The most alarming news was that my skull was fractured. I also had a concussion, and the tips of my top right molars were sheared off. As the day went on, however, each specialist cleared me to be discharged. The skull fracture would heal without surgery. Dental work was unlikely. I had no brain bleed, sinus damage, or chest trauma. My jaw wasn’t broken. The doctor’s parting words linger with me to this day: “You are very lucky. You could have been killed.” I couldn’t help returning to my karmic thought in the ambulance: “Maybe I’ll be okay.”
But as the next few weeks went by, it was clear that I wasn’t completely okay. I couldn’t eat solid foods. I was constantly dizzy. I couldn’t lay down or sit up in bed without the room spinning for several minutes. I had three large bloody scars on my face. The next month and a half were spent following up with every specialist imaginable. Incredibly, every one of them cleared me from any future medical concerns. After a miracle worker at UF’s Fixel Institute for Neurological Diseases fixed the spinning in my head, it started to become clear that I was in fact going to be okay.
I suddenly found myself at a crossroads. Was this experience a wakeup call? Should I find a safer job that pays a better salary, or should I return to public defense? I chose to return. Little did I know my decision would be tested immediately. My first day back included a four-hour sentencing hearing for the worst serial child molester in Gainesville history. I sat through the saddest, most heart wrenching victim-impact statements of my career as the victims described their struggle to understand my client’s senseless and shortsighted acts. This struggle was now intimately familiar to me. As I listened to the judge impose seven consecutive life sentences, I held back tears for the victims and decided I would quit.
I began to explore other fields of law to find one that would fit. After some time, I realized that, while they might have less complicated clients, these other areas of practice were not going to nourish the drive that led me to public defense in the first place. I chose this career for a reason. Over the next few months, the desire to quit began to fade. Instead, I chose to dig deeper into my craft. To me, work without a greater purpose was just work. It paid the bills, but it didn’t fill the soul.
My introduction to public defense started with my father. He spent his entire career as an assistant public defender in Broward County. Instead of going for the fast and easy money that was flying around South Florida in that era, he dedicated his professional life to public service. It took me years to fully appreciate the significance of his choice. My grandfather, on the other hand, was not impressed with his son’s decision. A Depression-era son of Italian immigrants, Grandpa would frequently criticize my dad. “You’re just putting crooks back on the street,” I remember him saying. More importantly, I can still hear my father’s response. “I’m fighting for those who can’t fight for themselves.” Even as a child, I understood this. When I graduated law school 15 years later, there was no question as to my career path.
Fast forward to 2023, I knew that without the skull fracture, my former client would only be facing a misdemeanor for attacking me. In fact, he knew it as well, as the state intercepted jail calls where he was laughing and gloating about his act, claiming it was no big deal for him because it was just a misdemeanor. I couldn’t help wondering why there was no law increasing the possible penalty for a defendant who battered their own defense attorney. If it had happened to any other person in the courtroom, from the bailiff to the prosecutor to the judge, existing Florida law would have automatically made the attack a felony. This had to change.
After successful lobbying by my boss, Candice Brower, the Florida Legislature began working on a bill addressing the disparity. I found myself meeting with legislators and speaking before numerous committees in the Florida House and Senate. The culmination of the whole experience was attending the final Senate vote with my father where we were publicly acknowledged by the bill’s sponsoring senator. Sharing that moment with him, as the face of a new law that would extend protections to all defense attorneys statewide, was one of the highlights of my life.
As the legislative experience wrapped up, I found my eyes suddenly opened to the fact that I had so much more to do with my life. I realized how fortunate I was. I could have left the house for work on November 15, 2022, and never returned. I would have never known it was the last time I would say goodbye to my wife and children. My life’s accomplishments and achievements would have been measured as of that date. What had I done to make the world a better place? What had I given back to my community?
Recovered and reinvigorated, I decided to act. I started with those who gave so much of themselves to lift me through my recovery. I began to focus on how I could be a better father, husband, and friend. I began finding ways to reinvest and volunteer in my community. Most importantly, I became more committed to my profession than ever before. I am always aware that I must approach each case with my best efforts. I have accepted that I can protect my clients’ constitutional rights while acknowledging and respecting a victim’s struggle.
I, like all other attorneys, swore an oath to be zealous, but sometimes it’s easy to lose sight of what that entails. Being zealous means showing great energy or enthusiasm in pursuit of a cause or objective. So, how can I implement it? It’s actually quite simple. Energy is a resource I know I can generate. Enthusiasm is a choice I know I can make. And, to me, there is no cause more noble than fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves.
Eric Atria is a second-generation public defender. He began his career as an assistant public defender in Ocala from 2005-2009. He has done conflict public defense from 2009 to the present in Gainesville.
