Avoid lawsuits beyond all things; they pervert your conscience

Host: The courtroom hallway smelled of paper, old wood, and tension — the kind that lingers even after the gavel falls silent. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered slightly, casting a sterile glow on the marble floors that had seen too many footsteps of pride and defeat.

Outside, the rain tapped faintly on the courthouse steps — steady, restrained, like a metronome counting down to confession.

Jack sat on a narrow bench, his jaw tense, his hands clasped. Beside him, Jeeny leaned against the wall, her eyes calm but sorrowful. Between them, silence hung heavy — the silence of battles fought too long, for reasons neither quite believed in anymore.

A line from an old French philosopher was carved into the wood paneling above the clerk’s door, a relic of wisdom in a building built for war:
“Avoid lawsuits beyond all things; they pervert your conscience, impair your health, and dissipate your property.” — Jean de la Bruyère

The words looked less like advice and more like an epitaph.

Jeeny: Breaking the silence. “He was right, you know. Bruyère. These halls don’t heal. They drain.”

Jack: Without looking up. “You make it sound poetic. It’s not. It’s arithmetic — hours, fees, filings, and loss. Everything measured, nothing gained.”

Jeeny: Sighs softly. “You used to believe in justice, Jack. You said the law was reason above anger.”

Jack: Bitter laugh. “And then I met anger dressed in reason — lawyers who argue not for truth but for victory. The law isn’t about right; it’s about who endures the longest.”

Jeeny: Watching him closely. “Enduring isn’t the same as winning.”

Jack: “Tell that to the ones billing by the hour.”

Host: The courtroom doors opened briefly, spilling out a wave of voices and the faint rustle of documents. The sound of authority without peace. A bailiff passed by, nodding politely, the weight of routine in his step.

Jeeny looked down at the envelope in her hands — the settlement papers. The edges were creased, the ink smudged. It felt heavier than it should.

Jeeny: “Do you remember why we started this, Jack?”

Jack: Still staring at the floor. “Principle.”

Jeeny: “And what did principle cost us?”

Jack: After a long pause. “Health. Sleep. Kindness.” He looks up at her finally. “And maybe even ourselves.”

Jeeny: Nods slowly. “Lawsuits are like fire. You start them to purify, but they consume everything — even the hands that lit the match.”

Jack: His tone softening, regret edging his words. “We wanted accountability, Jeeny. Not ashes.”

Jeeny: “But the system doesn’t trade in accountability. It trades in exhaustion.”

Host: The rain picked up, a steady rhythm outside the tall windows, like an impatient witness tapping against the glass. The light in the hallway flickered again — brief moments of brightness swallowed by dull shadow.

Jack: Rubbing his temples. “You know what’s strange? When you first file a suit, it feels righteous. Like standing up for something. Then it just becomes paperwork — months of motions, appeals, delays. You start to forget what you were even fighting for.”

Jeeny: “That’s how conscience gets perverted. You begin chasing the win, not the truth.”

Jack: Quietly. “I thought justice would make me whole.”

Jeeny: “Justice doesn’t heal, Jack. It just balances ledgers.”

Jack: Smiling bitterly. “Then why do we still chase it?”

Jeeny: Looking toward the courtroom door. “Because fairness is the ghost we keep following — even when it never leads us home.”

Host: A janitor passed by with a cart, humming softly to himself. The faint smell of disinfectant followed him — the sterile scent of cleansing that never quite erases the stains.

Jeeny: Gently. “Do you ever wonder if there’s peace in just letting go?”

Jack: Leans back, exhaling. “Peace doesn’t pay damages.”

Jeeny: “No. But neither does pride.”

Jack: After a long silence. “You think walking away is strength?”

Jeeny: “I think sometimes surrender is the only honest form of victory left.”

Jack: Looking at her, eyes tired. “I don’t know if I can.”

Jeeny: “Then this building will finish what the lawsuit started — it’ll take the rest of you.”

Jack: Softly, almost to himself. “Maybe that’s what Bruyère meant — that the fight steals your soul long before the verdict.”

Host: The rain slowed, its echo now faint and mournful. The hallway lights steadied. A soft beam of daylight broke through the high window, landing across Jeeny’s face — fragile, but certain.

She handed him the envelope.

Jeeny: “Sign it, Jack. End it.”

Jack: Looking at her, voice trembling. “And then what?”

Jeeny: “Then we start over. Outside these walls, where breathing doesn’t feel like cross-examination.”

Jack: After a long pause, takes the pen. His hand shakes as he signs. When he finishes, he sets the pen down — like laying a weapon to rest.

Jack: “You think forgiveness comes after this?”

Jeeny: Quietly. “No. But health does.”

Host: The doors opened, a burst of cold air sweeping through the corridor as if the building itself exhaled. The faint smell of rain drifted in, clean and sharp — contrast to the stale bureaucracy lingering inside.

Jack stood, shoulders lighter but eyes still shadowed.

Jeeny slipped the envelope into her bag. They walked toward the exit in silence, their footsteps echoing in rhythm — two survivors leaving behind the wreckage of principle.

Outside, the rain had stopped, and a pale sunlight broke through the clouds. The courthouse loomed behind them, a monument to justice and exhaustion in equal measure.

Jeeny turned to look back one last time.

Jeeny: “Bruyère understood something timeless — the law can protect your rights, but it can also steal your rest.”

Jack: Nods. “And conscience, once cross-examined, never testifies the same way again.”

Host: The camera pulled back, rising above the courthouse steps, the city spread out beneath — both the innocent and the guilty breathing the same weary air. The clouds drifted apart slowly, like curtains closing on an act too long performed.

And as the light found its way back into the day, Jean de la Bruyère’s words lingered — quiet, relentless, true:

“In chasing justice, beware the cost — for even righteousness can corrupt the heart that refuses to rest.”