At every juncture as Oklahoma's attorney general, Scott Pruitt

Host: The air in the small downtown café was heavy with the scent of espresso and rain. Outside, the storm rolled low over the city — slow, deliberate, the kind that turns streetlights into flickering halos. The window glass trembled softly as thunder moved across the skyline, and with each flash of lightning, the reflections of two figures appeared and vanished again like ghosts arguing inside a mirror.

Jack sat slouched in his chair, his grey eyes sharp but tired. He stirred his coffee mechanically, watching the swirl of cream like a storm in miniature. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her hands cupped around her mug as if holding something fragile — warmth, or faith, or both. The rain tapped on the glass behind her, a steady, patient percussion.

Host: Outside, the world was drowning quietly. Inside, the conversation was about those who let it.

Jeeny: “Amber Valletta said, ‘At every juncture as Oklahoma’s attorney general, Scott Pruitt has consistently chosen to undermine and attack environmental safeguards — not to defend them.’”
She shook her head, her voice low, steady. “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? Power without conscience. Someone trusted to protect the Earth using his position to dismantle its defenses.”

Jack: “Or maybe he just called the bluff,” he said flatly. “Maybe he saw the hypocrisy — politicians preaching green while swimming in oil money.”

Jeeny: “You think that excuses undoing decades of environmental progress?”

Jack: “No. But I understand the cynicism. The system’s built on contradiction. Everyone wants clean air until it costs them convenience.”

Jeeny: “That’s not cynicism, Jack. That’s surrender disguised as realism.”

Jack: “And idealism’s just denial dressed in poetry.”

Host: The light flickered as another thunderclap rolled through. For a moment, both of their faces were illuminated — hers alive with conviction, his drawn and distant, like someone who’s seen too much to believe easily anymore.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re defending him.”

Jack: “I’m not defending him. I’m defending complexity. You make it sound simple — villain and victim. But he’s just one man reflecting what the culture rewards: short-term gain, long-term amnesia.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why people like him are dangerous. Because they mistake destruction for pragmatism.”

Jack: “And you mistake outrage for action.”

Jeeny: “Outrage is action, Jack. It’s the heart refusing to go numb.”

Jack: “He didn’t act out of malice. He acted out of belief — a twisted one, sure, but belief nonetheless. He thought the economy mattered more than the atmosphere.”

Jeeny: “That’s not belief. That’s blindness wearing a flag.”

Host: The rain outside turned into sheets, streaking the glass until the world beyond blurred into watercolor. The café’s neon sign reflected on the window — the word OPEN flickering red and uncertain, like a warning trying to disguise itself as invitation.

Jeeny: “People like him think defending industry is defending the people,” she said softly. “They call it progress, but it’s just pollution with better PR.”

Jack: “And yet, the people he defends — they vote for him. They cheer him. They breathe the same poisoned air and call it freedom.”

Jeeny: “Because they’ve been taught to fear change more than collapse.”

Jack: “Fear’s more reliable than faith. That’s politics.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s manipulation. Fear keeps people small. Hope makes them dangerous.”

Jack: “Then maybe the world’s tired of being dangerous.”

Host: The light in the café dimmed as the storm swallowed the last of the evening. The rain sounded closer now, heavier — like the heartbeat of something struggling to breathe. Jack looked out the window, watching the city blur into streaks of motion.

Jack: “You know what bothers me?” he said. “Everyone acts shocked when politicians betray their oaths. But corruption’s not betrayal. It’s habit. The surprise should be when someone actually keeps their word.”

Jeeny: “That’s the most tragic thing you’ve ever said.”

Jack: “It’s the truest.”

Jeeny: “Truth without empathy is just another form of cruelty.”

Jack: “And empathy without action is just performance.”

Jeeny: “So what then? We just accept it? Watch them strip away the planet one regulation at a time?”

Jack: “No. We adapt. We find new ways to fight. You think Pruitt ended the environmental movement? He strengthened it. Every time a door closes, someone grows angry enough to build a new one.”

Jeeny: “That’s the difference between you and me, Jack. You see fire as inevitable. I see it as something still worth putting out.”

Host: A soft silence fell. The rain had slowed to a steady rhythm now — a heartbeat, a metronome. The café felt suspended in its own little bubble of time.

Jeeny: “You know, when Valletta said that quote, she wasn’t just condemning him. She was warning all of us. About what happens when we let apathy become policy.”

Jack: “Maybe. But sometimes I think we overestimate morality’s weight in politics. You can’t legislate compassion.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can legislate harm. And that’s what he did — quietly, efficiently, like a surgeon removing conscience from law.”

Jack: “You’re angry.”

Jeeny: “I’m heartbroken. Because we keep electing people who confuse power with purpose.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked. The sound was soft, steady, relentless — the sound of time measuring indifference.

Jack: “You think anger changes anything?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has. Every revolution began as heartbreak that learned how to speak.”

Jack: “You want revolution?”

Jeeny: “No. I want restoration. I want people in power who remember that defending the Earth is defending us. That policy isn’t paperwork — it’s breath.”

Jack: “And if they don’t remember?”

Jeeny: “Then we remind them. Again and again. Until they do.”

Host: The rain stopped. The air outside glowed faintly with the slick reflection of streetlights on wet pavement. The storm had passed, but its echo lingered — the smell of ozone, the heaviness of aftermath.

Jeeny rose, pulling on her coat, her eyes calm but bright. Jack stayed seated for a moment, watching her — the way conviction looked when it refused to yield.

Jack: “You really believe we can change them, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, turning to him with a faint smile. “But I believe we can outlast them.”

Jack: “And what keeps you believing that?”

Jeeny: “The planet. It keeps fighting, even when we don’t deserve it. Maybe we should start learning from our teacher.”

Host: They stepped outside into the quiet aftermath — the air thick, the city washed clean, at least for the moment. Puddles glimmered under streetlights, each one reflecting a fractured piece of the night sky.

Host: And as they walked, the echo of Amber Valletta’s warning lingered like a moral thunder in the distance:

That when those in power choose profit over protection,
when guardians become saboteurs,
the duty of care does not vanish —
it simply returns to those who still remember
that the Earth is not an asset,
but an inheritance,
and that to defend it
is not politics —
it is conscience itself.