Carrie* remembers the exact sound of the recording. “You have a call from the county jail…” In the beat before her son’s voice came through, a thousand fears crowded in—car wrecks, a fight, the kinds of emergencies parents brace for but hope never arrive. What followed was worse than anything she had imagined: her 21-year-old son, Michael*, was in custody, facing accusations that could end his future before it truly began.
In those first hours, Carrie and her husband were stunned into motion—calling, praying, repeating practical steps just to keep the bottom from falling out. Michael was studying a few hours away from home. Distance made the helplessness sharper. “We’d never been through anything like this,” Carrie said. “Our son wasn’t a kid who got into trouble. We didn’t even know what to do first.”
They did know one name. Ryan Pacyga was the number Carrie never wanted to call—and the one she was grateful to have. Their families knew each other from the community and sports fields years earlier, but this was different. This was their youngest boy.
Carrie dialed. She and Ryan spoke briefly. Then, without a retainer, without conditions, Ryan got in his car and drove to Michael so he could “lay eyes on him” in jail. He texted Carrie on the way: I need to see him. I need to make sure he’s okay. Afterward, he called again to tell her Michael was safe.
“That was the first breath I took,” Carrie recalled. “My mind had gone to every dark place. Hearing that someone we trusted had seen him—it mattered more than I can say.”
In the days that followed, the reality grew heavier. More charges were added. Headlines multiplied across the internet, each echo making their son smaller in his own life. At a bail hearing, Carrie felt a gut-punch she will never forget. “We kept thinking, this can’t be right—this isn’t what happened. But it’s like the system had already decided the ending.”
Money was a concern. They’re a family of average means, and serious charges mean serious costs. Ryan did not pressure them. He laid out options, including the public defender route, and reassured them that many public defenders are excellent. Carrie and her husband even began the application. But within days, the wait felt too risky. Evidence can disappear—security video can be overwritten, memories can shift. Ryan, already thinking ahead, had urged them to secure certain footage. That nudge—practical, urgent, patient—tilted the balance. Carrie hired him.
From their first visit to Ryan’s office, Carrie felt something she did not expect: dignity. Shame and fear had crept in—those emotions that cling to families even when they’ve done nothing wrong. But Tom and Pam at the front desk, investigator Hannah, and Ryan and Marie themselves met the family with warmth and steadiness. No theatrics. No judgment. Just care. “Every time I walked in, my stomach was in knots,” Carrie said. “And every time, I was greeted with kindness and gentleness. It calmed me. It calmed Michael.”
Ryan’s promise was simple: I can’t promise outcomes. I can promise to treat Michael like my own son. It was the only guarantee that mattered.
Behind the scenes, Ryan and his team moved fast. Investigators went out immediately. Evidence was preserved. And then there was the work few clients expect from a defense lawyer: psychodrama and scene work—exercises that help surface the truth beneath the facts, revealing motivations, fears, and the human story a jury will feel. Ryan brought in a psychodramatist to work with Michael, with Carrie, and with a small group of lawyers serving as a mock jury, doubling as characters in key moments. The process was rigorous and emotionally raw. It also brought clarity. They could see which scenes connected. They could tell that Michael could testify with credibility. And they saw something else: the strength and steadiness of a mother who believed her son—and how that would land with jurors.
“It was cathartic,” Carrie said. “As his mom, I was carrying fear and grief and anger. That day helped us all see the story underneath the story—and it showed us Ryan wasn’t just preparing a case. He was caring for a family.”
Armed with deeper insight, Ryan asked the prosecution to sit down again. He did not attack the accuser; he acknowledged her likely struggles while explaining—in detail—why the State’s case had serious problems and how a jury would understand Michael’s story. He listened, too. The posture wasn’t combative; it was steady and humane. Shortly thereafter, there was a change on the State’s side. A new prosecutor reviewed the file, heard Ryan out, and took a hard look.
On July 30, all counts were dismissed.
Carrie remembers the sound of relief: her own voice, her husband’s, Michael’s—tears spilling, breath returning. She remembers hugging her son. “We were not surprised by his innocence,” she said, “but the path to justice was not guaranteed. Ryan made the difference.”
Dismissal is an ending. It is also a beginning. The internet does not grant erasers easily; rumors and links linger. The circle of people who knew about the case—at school, at home, across social media—had expanded overnight. It would not contract as quickly. “His world got really small,” Carrie said softly. Healing takes time.
Ryan and his team understood that, too. After the dismissal, they did something else Carrie never expected from a law firm. They took the family to dinner and, in a quiet, thoughtful moment, invited everyone—attorneys, staff, mom, dad, son—to share hopes for Michael’s future. It wasn’t a ritual of victory; it was a blessing for the road ahead.
Throughout the case, Ryan had encouraged Michael to lean on his faith. He gave Carrie a devotional book he sometimes shares with clients. She still reads it every morning. “He cared how we were doing spiritually and emotionally,” she said. “Not just about the case.”
If you ask Carrie what she would tell other parents, she does not offer legal advice. She talks about survival. Eat when you can. Sleep when you can. Stay in the present. Stay together. Refuse the temptation to aim blame at each other just to have somewhere to put the fear. Pray—whatever your faith looks like. Do more family time than feels convenient. Keep your child safe.
And call someone who will move fast, think deeply, and treat your child like their own.
“Ryan is the number I never wanted to call,” Carrie said. “I’m so grateful I had it. He and his team gave our son his future back.”
* Names have been changed to protect the identity of those involved.