I did not think that I was angry, but clearly anger was reflected

Host: The late-night newsroom was lit by the cold hum of computer monitors and the dim yellow of a desk lamp that refused to die.
Stacks of old case files and printed drafts littered the desk like the debris of unfinished thoughts. The air smelled of ink, coffee, and sleeplessness — the trinity of truth-seekers.

Outside, the city pulsed faintly beneath a bruised sky. The hour was too late for traffic, too early for rest.
Jack sat in front of his laptop, his fingers still hovering above the keys, unmoving. The screen glowed with words — raw, unfinished, confessional.
Jeeny stood behind him, holding two mugs of coffee. Her reflection, ghostlike, merged with his in the glass.

Jeeny: “Christopher Darden once said, ‘I did not think that I was angry, but clearly anger was reflected in my writing. I did not think that I had been affected emotionally, but it was clear from my writing that I was still very emotional about the trial some six months after it ended.’”

Jack: (without turning) “That’s what happens when you tell yourself you’ve moved on — and your words disagree.”

Jeeny: “Because writing is a mirror that doesn’t lie.”

Jack: “Or a confession you didn’t mean to make.”

Host: The cursor on Jack’s screen blinked, steady, impatient. A single paragraph stared back at him — too sharp, too personal, pulsing with something unacknowledged.

Jeeny: “He thought he’d left it behind — that the trial was over. But trauma doesn’t end with verdicts. It lingers. It waits until you start speaking again, then it bleeds through the syntax.”

Jack: “You think anger always hides in words?”

Jeeny: “Always. Even silence is a kind of anger — the kind that’s grown tired of language.”

Jack: (quietly) “I used to think objectivity was the writer’s greatest tool. Now I think it’s just camouflage for emotion.”

Jeeny: “It is. You can’t write about fire without smelling smoke.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked with the dull rhythm of exhaustion. Jack leaned back, rubbing his temples, the light from the monitor painting his face in shades of blue and doubt.

Jack: “Darden’s words hit too close. You can tell yourself you’re documenting, not feeling. But eventually, the truth leaks through the cracks.”

Jeeny: “Because emotion doesn’t need permission. It just finds a way — through tone, word choice, rhythm. Even punctuation carries pain.”

Jack: “You think he was angry at the system? Or at himself?”

Jeeny: “Both. Anger’s rarely single-pointed. It’s a web — every strand vibrates when one’s touched. He was angry at injustice, at loss, at the part of himself that still cared after pretending not to.”

Jack: “I get that. It’s easier to hide behind professionalism than to admit you’re human.”

Jeeny: “But writing remembers. That’s the curse and the gift.”

Host: Jeeny placed a mug beside him. The steam rose like a fragile prayer, briefly catching the lamplight. She sat on the edge of the desk, her voice softer now.

Jeeny: “When you write, your unconscious speaks first. Before intellect, before editing. It’s your emotional fingerprint.”

Jack: “So you’re saying our words know us better than we do.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Darden’s anger wasn’t deliberate — it was residue. You can wash the hands, but not the soul.”

Jack: “That’s what trials do, I think — they demand objectivity from people who are bleeding.”

Jeeny: “And they punish emotion like it’s unprofessional. But what’s more human than feeling broken by the weight of judgment?”

Jack: “He was expected to be composed, detached — the lawyer’s armor. But his writing betrayed him.”

Jeeny: “No — it revealed him. Betrayal implies shame. Revelation implies truth.”

Host: Jack stared at the blinking cursor again. His jaw tightened. Outside, a siren wailed far off — the sound of the city’s permanent unrest.

Jack: “You ever read something you wrote and realized you were angrier than you thought?”

Jeeny: “All the time. Sometimes I only understand my grief after I see it spelled out.”

Jack: “It’s like your hands know the truth before your mind does.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The act of writing bypasses denial.”

Host: She looked around the cluttered room — papers scattered, headlines half-written, memories still warm with adrenaline.

Jeeny: “You’re writing about the trial again, aren’t you?”

Jack: (pausing) “Yeah. I thought I could do it clinically. Just the facts.”

Jeeny: “But the facts are haunted.”

Jack: “By what?”

Jeeny: “By what they cost you.”

Host: He looked down. His hands trembled slightly — not with fear, but with the fatigue of holding back too much for too long.

Jack: “You think that’s what Darden realized? That justice doesn’t bring peace — it just shifts the pain?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And that anger isn’t the enemy — denial is.”

Jack: “He thought he was over it. But the writing betrayed that lie.”

Jeeny: “Writing always does. It’s memory’s rebellion.”

Host: Jeeny reached over and gently turned the laptop toward herself, reading what he’d written. Her eyes softened.

Jeeny: “You call it an article. But this — this is confession.”

Jack: “Yeah. Guess I’m not as detached as I thought.”

Jeeny: “Good. Detachment doesn’t heal. Honesty does.”

Jack: “But honesty ruins objectivity.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it saves the writer.”

Host: The silence between them deepened — not heavy, but alive, like an unspoken truth that had finally found a place to sit.

Jack: “So what do you do with anger once you see it?”

Jeeny: “You give it language. That’s all anger ever wants — acknowledgment. Once you name it, it stops poisoning you.”

Jack: “And what if the world doesn’t want to hear it?”

Jeeny: “Then you write anyway. The page doesn’t need permission.”

Host: Outside, the first threads of dawn began to rise over the skyline — soft gray light spilling between buildings, turning glass into silver.

Jeeny: “You see, Darden wasn’t confessing weakness. He was demonstrating strength — the courage to face the echo of his own heart.”

Jack: “Anger turned to ink.”

Jeeny: “And ink turned to truth.”

Host: Jack leaned forward again, hands on the keyboard. The cursor waited. But this time, when he began to type, his sentences came slower — deliberate, honest, unarmored.

His voice in writing had changed — no longer reporting, but reckoning.

And as the words filled the page, Christopher Darden’s insight seemed to linger in the room like the aftertaste of memory:

That anger denied becomes grief,
and grief denied becomes numbness.
That writing is how emotion sneaks past reason.
That the act of storytelling is not to escape pain,
but to translate it —
to turn what breaks us into what names us.

Host: Jeeny watched quietly, her expression soft with respect.

Jeeny: “Feels different now, doesn’t it?”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. Like I’m not hiding from myself anymore.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s your verdict.”

Host: Outside, the city woke slowly,
its noise returning, its light growing.
And inside the small, cluttered newsroom,
two souls sat amid the ghosts of their own honesty —
writing, not to be read,
but to be free.