I have been committed to carrying out my duties... in accordance

Host: The chambers were almost silent — only the faint rustle of papers, the ticking of a polished mantel clock, and the whisper of rain against the tall windows. Heavy curtains hung like red velvet verdicts. The air smelled of old wood, ink, and the faint trace of authority that lingers where power often sits too long.

At the far end of a mahogany table, Jack leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, eyes fixed on a printed statement lying before him. Jeeny stood near the window, her hands clasped, her gaze distant, watching the rain distort the city lights below.

The words on the page between them glowed like polished glass — unbreakable in form, fragile in meaning:

“I have been committed to carrying out my duties... in accordance with both the letter and spirit of all applicable rules of ethics and canons of conduct.”
— Samuel Alito

Host: The sentence was calm, orderly — the kind of sentence that sounds like truth even when spoken to doubt. The kind that belongs to institutions, not people.

Jeeny: “It sounds so… clean, doesn’t it?” she said finally. “Letter and spirit. Ethics and canons. You could carve it on marble and it would still sound like law, even if no one believed it.”

Jack: “That’s the point,” he said, without looking up. “The law doesn’t need belief. It just needs obedience.”

Jeeny: “And when obedience becomes an alibi?”

Jack: “Then you get a system that runs perfectly — and a conscience that doesn’t.”

Host: The lamp beside him flickered faintly, its light trembling on the silver of his watch. A faint echo of thunder rolled outside, as though heaven itself were clearing its throat.

Jeeny: “You used to believe in this stuff, Jack. Ethics. Duty. The idea that the law could mean something beyond politics.”

Jack: “I still do,” he said. “That’s why this line bothers me. The way it hides behind words like ‘letter’ and ‘spirit.’ You know what that really means? It means — I did nothing wrong that you can prove.”

Jeeny: “That’s harsh.”

Jack: “It’s accurate. Every man who’s ever fallen from grace has said the same thing: I followed the rules. But that’s the problem — the rules were never enough.”

Host: She turned from the window, her reflection caught in the glass — a ghost of conviction surrounded by lightning. The rain streaked her image, blurring the line between belief and doubt.

Jeeny: “You think he’s lying?”

Jack: “No. Worse. I think he’s telling the truth. The letter of it, anyway. The spirit died somewhere between the oath and the opportunity.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like ethics are optional.”

Jack: “They are, when you have enough power. Ethics are the rules that govern everyone else.”

Jeeny: “And what governs the powerful?”

Jack: “Tradition. Applause. Fear of exposure. Everything but morality.”

Host: His words hung heavy in the air, the kind that make silence feel like judgment.

Jeeny: “You’re too cynical.”

Jack: “No, I’m just tired of pretending that titles make men moral.”

Jeeny: “So what’s the alternative? Chaos? You throw out ethics because someone abused them?”

Jack: “No. I throw out the illusion that they protect us.”

Jeeny: “Then what protects us?”

Jack: “Memory.”

Jeeny: “Of what?”

Jack: “Of what happens when we stop asking these questions.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now, as if it agreed. Somewhere, a drop of rain found a crack in the window frame, trailing down the pane like a single tear on glass.

Jeeny: “You talk about justice like it’s a ghost. But ghosts haunt because something matters. This line — maybe he meant it. Maybe he really does believe he’s done his duty.”

Jack: “Belief isn’t the same as truth, Jeeny. The road to hell has a legal department.”

Jeeny: “That’s cold.”

Jack: “That’s constitutional.”

Jeeny: “You’ve forgotten what the spirit part means, haven’t you?”

Jack: “No. I remember too well. The spirit’s the part they quote when the letter gets in the way.”

Host: She walked toward him then, her heels clicking softly on the marble — not with anger, but with conviction sharpened by years of watching men hide behind procedure.

Jeeny: “You think ethics can’t live in the same room as power. But maybe that’s where they belong most. Maybe that’s where they’re tested.”

Jack: “And who grades the test? The judge grading himself? The Senate nodding along? The newspapers waiting for blood?”

Jeeny: “The people, Jack. That’s who. The ones who still care enough to ask whether a man’s spirit matches his signature.”

Jack: “The people only care after the damage is done.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s when truth becomes visible — when it’s too late to hide it.”

Host: The thunder cracked outside, quick and sharp, shaking dust from the ceiling. For a moment, the light flickered — and in that flicker, Jack’s face softened, the cynicism giving way to something older.

Jack: “You know, I used to admire statements like this. The solemnity of them. The structure. Like every word was a brick in the architecture of duty. But now I read them, and all I see is fear disguised as formality.”

Jeeny: “Fear of what?”

Jack: “Of being remembered for the wrong reasons. So you wrap yourself in procedure. You call it ethics. You pray the world confuses your restraint for virtue.”

Jeeny: “And you think you wouldn’t do the same?”

Jack: “I think I already have.”

Host: Her expression softened then — not pity, but understanding. The kind of understanding that only comes from recognizing another person’s ruin as a reflection of your own.

Jeeny: “Maybe we expect too much from the law. It was never meant to be holy.”

Jack: “No, but it was meant to be human. And humans don’t need canons of conduct to know when they’ve crossed the line.”

Jeeny: “Then why do they keep crossing it?”

Jack: “Because the letter lets them. The spirit doesn’t, but the letter’s what keeps the lights on.”

Host: Outside, the storm deepened. Lightning flashed — white, sterile, judicial. For a moment, the whole room glowed like a photograph of truth caught in motion.

Jeeny: “So what would you write instead, if you were him? If it were your name under that quote?”

Jack: “I’ve done my duty,” he said quietly. “But I’m still learning what duty means.”

Jeeny: “That’s humility.”

Jack: “That’s honesty.”

Jeeny: “And the difference?”

Jack: “Humility is what you say before you fall. Honesty is what you say after.”

Host: The rain slowed, easing into a soft drizzle. The clock ticked once more, then stopped — the room frozen in a moment of suspended accountability.

Jeeny gathered the statement from the table and folded it carefully, as though it were a fragile document from another time.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe Alito meant it sincerely. Maybe the tragedy isn’t hypocrisy — it’s that sincerity isn’t enough anymore. We don’t want integrity. We want proof.”

Jack: “Proof fades. Spirit doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s where justice begins — not in rules, but in remembering that spirit can’t be legislated.”

Jack: “You think we can save it?”

Jeeny: “No. But we can stop pretending it doesn’t matter.”

Host: The storm outside cleared, leaving behind the faint glow of dawn against the marble columns. The courthouse — that temple of human contradiction — stood silent again, as if holding its breath.

And on the table, the quote lay open, its ink glistening faintly in the new light:

“I have been committed to carrying out my duties... in accordance with both the letter and spirit of all applicable rules of ethics and canons of conduct.”

Host: But as the light touched those words, something shifted — not in the ink, but in the air itself — as though the world were whispering a gentle correction:

“The letter is easy.
The spirit is the part that bleeds.”