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If the title of this Thai crime-thriller-cum-courtroom-drama feels a little splashy, wait until you meet the scoundrel in question. Her name is Jittri and she is, at least at the show’s outset, a pantomime villain in a power suit, her hair even bigger than her ego. Known for getting murky clients off the hook by any dirty trick necessary, she stiletto-struts in slow motion, flashes a trademark crooked smirk after each victory, and (like all bona fide wrong ’uns) wears sunglasses inside. If she had a moustache, she would absolutely be twirling it.

But don’t be fooled; one boo-hiss baddie does not a pantomime make. Directed by Nottapon Boonprakob, whose 2025 drama Mad Unicorn won a clutch of awards, this eight-episode series may be tonally erratic and at times faintly ridiculous, but it also has confronting questions about power, corruption and systemic injustice plus a gripping, twisty plot.

We open with Jittri (Rhatha Phongam) successfully defending her guilty client’s theft of a stillborn baby by arguing (in the presence of its mother) that the child was never a person but a “scrap of flesh”, before getting a bucket of blood to the face from protesters outside the courthouse. It’s here that our other lead, lawyer Mek (Nat Kitcharit), first encounters Jittri, his shirt stained by the blood she nonchalantly shakes off, in a foreshadowing of things to come.

Very much not of the evil persuasion, Mek works on pro bono cases and sticks to a staunch ethical code but, after refusing to drop a case that has more than a whiff of the mob about it, he finds himself framed for the murder of the opposing lawyer, the son of corrupt police chief Anan, and facing the death penalty. In clacks Jittri to represent him for nothing, as long as he works on her other cases – all of which involve defending guilty parties in exchange for favours that will improve his own chances.

These cases, and Mek’s tussle between his morals and his survival, form the series’ through-line but, as he slides reluctantly towards the dark side, a tangle of intertwining plot lines opens up a wider exploration of societal inequality and the limits of justice. Mek’s search for the real killer exposes the abhorrent treatment of migrant workers; he is helped by his ex-girlfriend Ang, who is consulting for a powerful political party that may be working with Anan; Mek’s dad, a high-ranking judge, also has a history with the bent cop; and Jittri’s methods are revealed to be a result of the legal system failing her in the past. She manipulates the law, she argues, because the law doesn’t protect everyone equally.

Boonprakob’s script (written with five other screenwriters, no less) deftly holds together all the moving parts. The action is well paced and well shot, with fun flourishes such as time-freeze segments (usually flashbacks to crime scenes), which Jittri stalks through and adjusts to build her cases. The show’s Bangkok setting takes us from the city’s backstreets, fish markets and temple gardens, to fishing trawlers on the open ocean and a meticulous facsimile of the Criminal Court of Thailand.

Kitcharit is excellent as the increasingly desperate Mek, the supporting cast are equally strong, and even Phongam’s Jittri develops some layers as her backstory is revealed. Some of the best performances, though, are from the criminals and victims in Jittri’s cases – in particular Ploy Siriudomset, who delivers a heartbreaking testimony as a woman raped by a doctor Jittri is defending. It is one of many moments of real power and poignancy, and yet another uncomfortable invitation to consider to what extent Jittri’s methods can be justified.

But there is also tonal bumpiness. The soundtrack is one of the biggest offenders, with even relatively insignificant moments accompanied by a drum climax. And there is some excruciatingly pointed subtext: Anan menacingly snapping a toothpick as he threatens someone at a black-tie event is one such doozy. Some of the legal loopholes Jittri exploits also beggar belief – despite the creative team spending years visiting courts, consulting lawyers and having the fictional cases checked by legal experts for plausibility.

Rare moments of levity – largely provided by a pair of oafish twentysomething brothers who help Jittri with her cases – feel misplaced amid the grit and grimness. Although I cannot help but love the scene in which three witnesses, lying through their teeth to create an alibi for Jittri’s client, play out their fabricated evening in a ludicrously hammy flashback.

At the end of my allotted six episodes, do I think this is the most artfully made series ever to grace our screens? No I do not. Will I be streaming the last two episodes as soon as they drop? Absolutely – if only to find out whether, at its denouement, the titular evil lawyer is still the one with the fabulous perm.

• The Evil Lawyer is on Netflix now