A lawyer who does not know men is handicapped.

Host: The courthouse loomed in twilight — its columns stern, its steps slick with rain, the weight of a thousand unspoken truths pressing down from its stone face. Inside, the halls were quiet except for the slow drip of water from umbrellas and the distant click of heels on marble. The day’s trials had ended, but not the judgments. They lingered, echoing through the corridors like whispers that refused to rest.

In an empty courtroom, lit only by the soft glow of the exit signs, Jack sat on the defense bench, his tie loosened, his expression weary but alert — a man whose mind was never done with cross-examination. Across the aisle, Jeeny stood by the jury box, her hands resting on the polished wood, her eyes fixed on him with a mixture of curiosity and challenge.

On the judge’s bench, an old leather-bound book lay open to a single underlined sentence:

“A lawyer who does not know men is handicapped.”
— William Dunbar

Host: The words rested in the air like a gavel that had not yet struck — both a lesson and a warning.

Jack: “Dunbar wasn’t wrong,” he said, his voice low, measured. “The law might be written in logic, but it’s lived in people. And people aren’t logical.”

Jeeny: “That sounds almost human coming from you.”

Jack: “Don’t get used to it.”

Jeeny: “I wasn’t planning to. But he’s right — if a lawyer doesn’t understand people, he’s not arguing law. He’s arguing ghosts.”

Jack: “Or statistics. Which, honestly, isn’t much different.”

Jeeny: “You don’t really believe that.”

Jack: “I’ve spent half my life watching people swear oaths to truth and then lie through their teeth. If you don’t learn what drives them — fear, greed, love — you’ll lose every case worth winning.”

Host: A single light bulb flickered above them, humming faintly, its glow casting long shadows across the benches — shadows shaped like men and women who once believed the law could save them.

Jeeny: “So what’s your point? That empathy’s just another legal strategy?”

Jack: “Empathy’s a liability if you don’t know when to shut it off. You can’t represent someone and feel everything they feel — you’ll drown in it.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing empathy with compassion. Compassion saves you. Empathy teaches you what you’re fighting.”

Jack: “You think compassion wins trials?”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps you from winning the wrong ones.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but her words cut through the still air like a clean blade. Jack’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t used to losing arguments, especially ones that reached beneath his armor.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve never had to defend someone guilty.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like you’ve forgotten the difference between defending a person and defending their actions.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say until you’re standing next to them — watching a man’s life hang by a thread while a jury pretends to see justice instead of blood.”

Jeeny: “And that’s when you should remember Dunbar’s line most of all. If you don’t know people, really know them — their hunger, their hate, their hope — then you’re not defending them. You’re just managing their consequences.”

Host: The rain outside had turned heavier now, pattering against the tall windows in a syncopated rhythm — like the heartbeat of the city itself, weary but alive.

Jack: “You talk like knowing people is some kind of salvation. It’s not. It’s corrosion. The more you understand what people are capable of, the harder it is to believe in justice.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe justice isn’t about belief. Maybe it’s about endurance — holding onto the idea even when the evidence falls apart.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “No. A survivor.”

Host: The clock above the bench ticked softly, its hands frozen at 8:47 — a reminder that time moves differently in courtrooms, where truth can stretch or stall depending on who’s speaking.

Jeeny: “Dunbar said a lawyer who doesn’t know men is handicapped. You know what I think he meant?”

Jack: “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “That the law isn’t just a set of rules — it’s theater. You have to read people the way an actor reads a script. Know their pauses, their fears, their tells. The law gives you the lines; humanity gives you the delivery.”

Jack: “And what does morality give you?”

Jeeny: “The audience.”

Jack: “You really think the audience cares who’s right?”

Jeeny: “No. They care who’s real.”

Host: A faint echo traveled through the hall — the creak of a door far away, the sigh of a building that had heard too many versions of truth. The atmosphere felt charged, alive, almost sentient.

Jack: “You know, the first time I lost a case, I blamed the jury. Thought they were idiots. Then I realized I hadn’t lost because of the evidence. I’d lost because I didn’t see them — didn’t know what they feared, what they valued. I argued logic when they needed belief.”

Jeeny: “So you learned how to lie better.”

Jack: “I learned how to translate. The truth means nothing if you can’t make people feel it.”

Jeeny: “And what did that cost you?”

Jack: “Everything that used to feel honest.”

Host: His voice dropped to almost a whisper. For a moment, the courtroom seemed smaller — a box built not for verdicts, but for ghosts.

Jeeny: “You think knowing people made you worse?”

Jack: “It made me realistic. Which might be worse than cynical.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Knowing people should make you better — because it forces you to see yourself in them. Even the guilty ones.”

Jack: “That’s the problem. Once you do, it’s harder to judge them.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe judgment was never your job. Maybe it’s just to hold up the mirror.”

Jack: “And what if the reflection’s too ugly to face?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep holding it until someone’s brave enough to look.”

Host: The rain softened to a whisper. The courtroom lights dimmed further, until the only glow came from the faint reflection of the city through the high windows.

Jack: “You ever wonder why we do it? Why we stand here, defending what we barely believe in?”

Jeeny: “Because someone has to. Because if lawyers don’t try to know people — even the worst of them — then the law becomes a weapon, not a safeguard.”

Jack: “You think knowing people makes us moral.”

Jeeny: “No. It makes us responsible. There’s a difference.”

Host: The clock ticked again, louder this time, as if to punctuate her words. The air felt charged, electric — like the moment before a verdict that could change everything.

Jack: “You know, maybe Dunbar wasn’t just talking about lawyers. Maybe he meant everyone — politicians, judges, even citizens. Anyone who speaks for justice but forgets who justice is for.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The moment the law forgets its humanity, it stops being law. It becomes management of the broken.”

Jack: “And what are we, then?”

Jeeny: “Interpreters. Translators of pain into reason. It’s a miserable kind of art, but it’s the only one we have left.”

Host: Her voice softened, fading into the hum of the rain. Jack looked down at the old book again, his reflection blurred in the waxed wood of the table.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s the real handicap — not ignorance of people, but fear of them.”

Jeeny: “Fear of seeing yourself in them.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: Outside, the courthouse clock struck nine, its deep bell echoing through the empty halls like a benediction for the guilty and the righteous alike.

Jeeny moved toward the exit, her steps echoing softly. Before she reached the door, she turned back — her face half in light, half in shadow.

Jeeny: “Maybe Dunbar was warning us, Jack. Not just about lawyers, but about the danger of forgetting we’re human in the pursuit of being right.”

Jack: “And you think remembering saves us?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said gently. “But it keeps us honest — and that’s the closest thing to justice we’ll ever have.”

Host: She left, the door closing with a quiet thud that reverberated through the empty chamber.

Jack sat alone, staring at the quote still open before him, the ink glinting faintly under the dying light:

“A lawyer who does not know men is handicapped.”

Host: And as the rain outside faded into silence, the old walls seemed to whisper the truth Dunbar had left behind —

“To know the law is intellect.
To know people is mercy.
And without both, there is no justice.”