I believe transparency in government is key to restoring our

Host: The Capitol dome glowed faintly in the late evening light, its marble skin tinted by the setting sun — that strange hour when the city looked both noble and tired. The streets of D.C. buzzed softly below with the usual murmur of ambition: the clicking of heels on wet sidewalks, the whisper of aides on phone calls, the hum of engines carrying men and women who had long since confused purpose with position.

Jack sat on a bench across from the reflecting pool, his coat collar turned up, his expression distant, as if watching democracy shimmer and distort in the water’s trembling surface. Beside him, Jeeny appeared, a folder under her arm, her eyes sharp, reflecting both exhaustion and conviction — the look of someone who still believed, but at great cost.

Jeeny: “Kirsten Gillibrand once said, ‘I believe transparency in government is key to restoring our nation’s faith in its elected leaders.’”

Jack: dryly “Faith in leaders? That’s like faith in clean campaign money — a noble myth, buried under fine print.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Cynicism is easy when you’ve stopped expecting truth.”

Jack: “And naïveté is easy when you’ve never worked behind those walls.”

Host: The wind stirred the flags along the Mall, their fabric snapping like punctuation marks in a conversation too old to end. Jeeny sat beside him, crossing her legs, her voice calm, but edged with quiet fire.

Jeeny: “You talk like transparency’s impossible.”

Jack: “It is. Every government runs on half-truths and timing. Transparency sounds great until someone realizes sunlight shows the cracks in the marble.”

Jeeny: “So what? We let the marble rot in the dark?”

Jack: shrugs “People don’t want truth, Jeeny. They want comfort. They want a government that lies beautifully — with a smile, a slogan, and a well-lit podium.”

Jeeny: “You sound like one of them.”

Jack: bitter laugh “I was, once.”

Host: The sound of a protest drifted from a few blocks away — faint chants carried by the wind, rhythmic and raw. “Tell the truth!” they shouted, though the voices blurred together into a single note of yearning.

Jeeny: “You used to believe, didn’t you? In public service, in accountability.”

Jack: “I used to believe you could fix a machine by tightening bolts. Then I realized it’s not a machine — it’s a living beast. It feeds on image, not intention.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe transparency isn’t about fixing the beast. Maybe it’s about teaching people what it really looks like.”

Jack: “You mean lifting the curtain so they can see the circus?”

Jeeny: “Yes. At least then they’ll know who’s holding the strings.”

Host: A pause settled between them — filled with the echo of sirens, the glint of lights reflecting off the pool, and the weight of unspoken truth. Jack stared at the water, seeing his reflection ripple, a face both his and not his — blurred by consequence.

Jack: “You know what happens to people who preach transparency, Jeeny? They get fired. Or buried under nondisclosure agreements.”

Jeeny: “Or elected. Sometimes both.”

Jack: “Not for long.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But every light that goes out leaves a mark. And every truth revealed leaves a scar on the lie that tried to hide it.”

Host: The clouds parted briefly, the moonlight catching the top of the Capitol, turning it silver — a fleeting illusion of purity. Jeeny followed his gaze, her voice soft but unwavering.

Jeeny: “Gillibrand’s right. Faith isn’t restored by perfection. It’s restored by honesty. People don’t need saints in office — they just need humans willing to tell the truth, even when it hurts their polls.”

Jack: quietly “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s possible. We’ve just forgotten how to ask for it.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling, the steam of his breath visible in the cool night. His eyes softened, tracing the reflection of the dome trembling on the water — a symbol that looked steadier from a distance than it ever was up close.

Jack: “You think people still want to believe?”

Jeeny: “I think they’re desperate to. But belief has to be earned, not marketed.”

Jack: “And who earns it? Politicians? Journalists? Activists?”

Jeeny: “All of us. Transparency starts at the top, but accountability begins at the mirror.”

Host: The protesters’ voices grew louder, their chant carrying through the night. “No more lies!” echoed faintly, a demand half-hopeful, half-haunted.

Jack: watching the lights of police cars approach the crowd “You ever notice how truth always feels like disruption?”

Jeeny: “Because lies are comfortable. Truth rearranges the furniture.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And nobody likes redecorating.”

Jeeny: “Then they can keep tripping over the same chair in the dark.”

Host: A gust of wind lifted her hair, carrying the smell of rain, the storm still miles away but moving closer. The clouds swallowed the moonlight, leaving the Capitol in soft shadow.

Jack: “You know, when I was a staffer, I used to sit in those rooms and hear how they talked about the public. Like the people were children. Too fragile for full truth. Too emotional for the ugly details.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think now?”

Jack: “That it was projection. It wasn’t the people who were fragile. It was the men in those rooms.”

Jeeny: “And maybe still is.”

Host: A light drizzle began, the water scattering across the pool, breaking every reflection into fragments. Jeeny watched the ripples spread, her voice quiet, deliberate.

Jeeny: “Transparency isn’t about perfection. It’s about proximity. Letting the people see close enough to hold power accountable — and to remember it’s theirs.”

Jack: “And if the truth breaks their faith?”

Jeeny: “Then at least their faith will be real.”

Host: The rain thickened, and the Capitol lights blurred through it, glowing like an idea too stubborn to die. Jack stood, pulling up his collar, while Jeeny remained seated, staring into the broken mirror of the water — reflections multiplying like questions.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, the older I get, the more I think transparency isn’t about government. It’s about courage. The courage to be seen without the armor.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because faith doesn’t come from power’s performance. It comes from power’s humility.”

Host: The rain fell harder, washing the pavement clean. The protesters’ voices faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of water against stone.

Jeeny stood, her coat darkened by rain, and looked toward the dome, her face lit faintly by its distant light.

Jeeny: “Transparency isn’t the light we shine on others, Jack. It’s the window we clean in ourselves.”

Jack: softly “And maybe, if enough of us do that…”

Jeeny: “Then the whole city might finally see itself.”

Host: The storm passed, leaving only the sound of dripping gutters and the faint echo of footsteps walking away from the reflecting pool. The Capitol shimmered, clean for a moment, reflected imperfectly in the rippled water — flawed, human, but visible.

And in that fragile reflection lay the hope Gillibrand had meant all along:
that faith isn’t lost because of flaws —
only when those flaws hide behind walls of silence.

Transparency, then, is not perfection revealed.
It is truth — unguarded, imperfect, but finally seen.