I trained as a writer before I became a lawyer. I was headed for

Host: The rain fell in slow, deliberate lines against the window, tracing the glass like sentences that would never quite be read. The office was dim — bookshelves groaning with volumes of both law and literature, their spines forming a kind of uneasy truce between logic and lyricism. A single lamp burned on the desk, casting a halo of amber light that turned paper into something sacred.

Jack sat behind the desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his tie loosened like an unspoken confession. He tapped a pen against a legal pad filled not with case notes, but half-finished fragments of something that looked suspiciously like poetry. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed, watching him with the quiet amusement of someone who had seen too many identities performed and shed.

The rain was the metronome of the room — slow, even, persistent.

Jeeny: “Scott Turow once said, ‘I trained as a writer before I became a lawyer. I was headed for a life as an English professor, but that just wasn’t me. I’m not a scholar; I didn’t have a scholar’s attitude toward literature.’”

Jack: (Smirking faintly.) “So, he traded metaphors for motions. Can’t say I blame him.”

Host: His tone was casual, but there was something in his eyes — a flicker of recognition, like a mirror catching light.

Jeeny: “You sound like you understand.”

Jack: “Maybe I do. I studied literature before I went into law too. But books don’t pay the bills, Jeeny. Justice does.”

Jeeny: “Does it?”

Jack: (Pauses.) “It’s supposed to.”

Host: The clock ticked softly, a reminder that even time demanded structure. Jeeny moved toward the desk, her hand brushing across the open notebook. Her fingertips came away smudged with ink — as if she’d touched something living.

Jeeny: “You ever think Turow didn’t really leave writing? Maybe he just changed its audience. The courtroom’s still a theater — just with higher stakes.”

Jack: “The courtroom’s not theater. It’s survival. Words don’t live there, they fight.”

Jeeny: “And isn’t that what writing is too? Fighting to make meaning survive?”

Host: The lamplight trembled as a gust of wind rattled the window. Jack looked at her — really looked — as if seeing not a friend but a witness to his private contradiction.

Jack: “You ever notice how lawyers and writers both live on words? But writers chase truth, and lawyers chase persuasion. One’s an act of faith, the other’s an act of strategy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re both faith — just in different gods. Writers believe in the human heart. Lawyers believe in the human system.”

Jack: “The system doesn’t deserve belief.”

Jeeny: “Neither does the heart, half the time. But we still keep writing about it.”

Host: She smiled faintly — that kind of smile that carries the weight of melancholy and admiration intertwined.

Jack leaned back, running a hand through his hair, the chair creaking like an old truth rediscovered.

Jack: “Turow said he wasn’t a scholar. Maybe that’s the point — the scholar studies stories, but the writer lives them. The lawyer, though… he edits them. Cuts the beauty out until only evidence remains.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you still write.”

Jack: (Looking down at his pad.) “Habit.”

Jeeny: “No. Hunger.”

Host: The rain picked up, hammering against the glass, its rhythm now quick, insistent — the sound of thought approaching revelation.

Jack: “When I was younger, I thought literature was where truth lived. That if you studied it long enough, you’d find answers. But all it gave me was empathy. Turns out, empathy doesn’t win cases.”

Jeeny: “No. But it makes them worth fighting.”

Jack: “You always make sentiment sound like philosophy.”

Jeeny: “And you always make cynicism sound like wisdom.”

Host: Their words collided softly, like two streams meeting — different directions, same source.

Jeeny walked to the bookshelf and pulled down a worn copy of Crime and Punishment. The spine was cracked, the margins filled with notes written in Jack’s cramped handwriting.

Jeeny: “You marked this line — ‘Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart.’”

Jack: “Yeah. Dostoevsky would’ve made a terrible lawyer.”

Jeeny: “Or a great one — if the law ever required understanding instead of judgment.”

Jack: “Understanding doesn’t change verdicts.”

Jeeny: “No. But it changes people.”

Host: She placed the book gently on the desk, next to his half-written notes. The rain softened, as if listening.

Jeeny: “You know, Turow didn’t reject literature. He just realized the world needed stories told in different rooms. Maybe the courtroom was his novel — and every case a chapter on human contradiction.”

Jack: “That’s romantic.”

Jeeny: “It’s true.”

Jack: (Quietly.) “You think I’m just like him?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you’re still deciding whether to be the writer who argues or the lawyer who feels.”

Host: The lamplight flickered once, briefly illuminating the rain-streaked window — where the city outside shimmered like a blurred poem. Jack stared at it for a long moment, then picked up his pen again.

Jack: “You know, I used to write about justice as an idea. Now I just write about it as an accident.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s neither. Maybe it’s an art — like literature. Both deal in interpretation.”

Jack: (Softly, almost to himself.) “The writer seeks truth. The lawyer defends it. Maybe I just never learned which side of the page I belong on.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer, her voice warm, her words deliberate.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s your story, Jack — not to choose, but to translate. To remind the law it still has a heart, and remind art it still needs structure.”

Jack: “You think the two can coexist?”

Jeeny: “They already do. In you.”

Host: The rain eased to a whisper, a fragile truce between sky and city. Jack’s pen touched the paper again — not in frustration this time, but in flow, his hand steady, deliberate. Jeeny watched, silent, as ink became motion, motion became language.

Jack looked up after a moment, his voice softer now — tired, but alive.

Jack: “Maybe Turow was right. Maybe I’m not a scholar either. But maybe that’s why I still write — to keep from turning the law into mere machinery.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re not just a lawyer, Jack. You’re a storyteller in a courtroom.”

Host: The last light from the lamp flickered against his face — the expression of a man caught between two worlds but finally realizing he never had to leave either.

Outside, the storm ended. The streets gleamed like new paragraphs waiting to be written.

And as the camera pulled away — through the window, past the rain-soaked glass — one truth lingered in the quiet of that room:

that some people study justice,
others fight for it,
but the rare few — like Turow, like Jack —
write it into existence,
line by line, case by case,
reminding the world that both art and law
begin in the same place:
a story about what should be human.