I was taught that a lawyer was supposed to be a custodian of the

Host: The sun had already fallen behind the courthouse, leaving only the faint glow of streetlights spilling across the empty steps. The columns stood solemnly, their shadows long and deliberate on the marble floor — monuments to the idea of law itself: noble, flawed, enduring.

Inside, the last light burned in a small chamber tucked at the end of the hall — the judge’s lounge, now used as a retiring room for late-night counsel. Files lay open like wounded things, the smell of paper and dust mixed with the faint scent of coffee gone cold.

Jack sat by the window, his jacket draped over the back of a chair, his tie loose, his gray eyes reflecting the pale orange light of the streetlamps outside. Across from him, Jeeny was perched on the edge of the desk, her hands clasped around a cup, her dark hair catching the faint shimmer of lamplight.

On the table between them lay a quote, scribbled on the back of an old notepad — words they’d both been discussing all evening:

“I was taught that a lawyer was supposed to be a custodian of the community's legal and ethical sense.”
— Joe Jamail

Host: The room was quiet except for the low murmur of rain tapping against the glass — each drop like a metronome counting out the rhythm of a fading ideal.

Jeeny: “A custodian,” she said softly, turning the word over like a coin in her mouth. “That’s beautiful. Old-fashioned, maybe, but beautiful.”

Jack: “Old-fashioned, yes,” he said, without looking up. “Because no one wants to be a custodian anymore. They want to be a gladiator. A winner. A closer.”

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “Realistic,” he corrected. “The law stopped being about ethics the moment it started being about victory.”

Host: His voice was low — not angry, but tired, like a man still standing in a courtroom long after the jury had left. The rain grew heavier outside, running down the windows like tears too disciplined to fall.

Jeeny: “I don’t believe that. There are still lawyers who care. Who fight because they believe in something, not just for a paycheck.”

Jack: “And where do they end up? Burned out. Broken. Disbarred, maybe. The system doesn’t reward conscience, Jeeny — it punishes it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe conscience doesn’t need a reward.”

Jack: “Then it dies from starvation.”

Host: The tension between them was old — familiar — a recurring argument they never quite finished. Her voice was still warm, hopeful. His was sharp, heavy, carved by disillusionment.

Jeeny: “You’re missing what Jamail meant. Custodian isn’t about winning or losing. It’s about holding the line — protecting the community’s moral compass when no one else will.”

Jack: “That’s a nice sentiment, but it’s naïve. You can’t hold a line that keeps moving. What’s moral today is illegal tomorrow. What’s right for one man is ruin for another.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the point! The law isn’t static — it’s human. It’s meant to bend and stretch, but the custodian is there to make sure it doesn’t break.”

Jack: “You say that like the law’s a living thing. It’s not. It’s ink on paper — and whoever controls the pen decides what’s ethical.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windows, making the lamp flame quiver. It threw their shadows large and uneven against the wall — like two conflicting interpretations of the same truth.

Jeeny: “You used to believe, you know. I remember when you told me once — the first case we ever argued together — you said, ‘We’re not just representing a client, we’re representing the idea of fairness itself.’”

Jack: “And then the client lied to us,” he said flatly.

Jeeny: “That doesn’t mean you stop being a custodian.”

Jack: “No, it means you stop being a fool. It means you grow up.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It means you forget. You forget what the law was meant to be.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but they hit him with the weight of memory. He looked away, toward the window, where the city lights blurred in the rain. His reflection stared back at him — pale, tired, almost unrecognizable.

Jack: “You talk about the law like it’s holy.”

Jeeny: “Not holy — human. The law is the closest thing we have to collective conscience. A custodian doesn’t worship it. They protect it — from corruption, from cynicism, from people like you who think it’s already lost.”

Jack: “You really believe in redemption?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Jack: “Even for the law?”

Jeeny: “Especially for the law.”

Host: The sound of thunder rolled distantly, shaking the air just enough to make the windowpane tremble. A strand of Jeeny’s hair slipped forward; she brushed it back absentmindedly, her gaze never leaving him.

Jack: “You know what’s ironic? We call ourselves custodians, but we’re really janitors. We sweep up after the mess — we don’t stop it from happening.”

Jeeny: “Then sweep with purpose.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It is.”

Jack: “No. It’s survival. You keep the machine running, even when it’s rusted through.”

Jeeny: “You keep it running so people don’t forget it can still move.”

Host: There was a quietness to her voice now — the kind that feels like faith. He envied it. He didn’t trust it, but he envied it.

Jack: “You ever wonder what would happen if all the good ones walked away? If every honest lawyer just dropped their bar card and said, enough?”

Jeeny: “Then the word justice would belong only to those who know how to twist it.”

Jack: “Maybe it already does.”

Jeeny: “Then all the more reason to stay.”

Host: Her eyes caught the lamplight — deep, unwavering, lit from within by a kind of moral stubbornness that refused to die. It reminded him of something he’d lost long ago — not belief, but belonging.

Jack: “You know, Jamail said that fifty years ago. Back when the law still had a heartbeat. Back when lawyers argued cases with principles, not press releases.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the heartbeat didn’t die. Maybe it just changed rhythm.”

Jack: “Or maybe it flatlined and we’re all pretending it didn’t.”

Jeeny: “No. The law is still alive — but only if we keep listening for it.”

Host: She reached across the desk and placed her hand gently on the notepad — the one with Jamail’s quote written in his restless scrawl. Her fingers rested there, firm, deliberate.

Jeeny: “A custodian doesn’t give up because the house is messy, Jack. They clean it again, and again, and again. Because the mess — the corruption, the greed, the hypocrisy — that’s the proof the house is still being lived in.”

Jack: “And you’ll keep cleaning until your hands bleed?”

Jeeny: “Until I can’t anymore.”

Jack: “You think it’ll make a difference?”

Jeeny: “It already has. You’re still here.”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked. For a brief moment, the cynicism cracked, and behind it flickered something older: memory, maybe hope.

He exhaled slowly.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe being a lawyer isn’t about winning, or fixing the system. Maybe it’s just about… holding the line.”

Jeeny: “That’s what a custodian does.”

Jack: “Even when the people behind it don’t deserve protection?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The rain eased. The lamp dimmed. The courthouse felt like it was listening — its old walls absorbing the weight of the words, the ghosts of every verdict ever spoken within them.

Jack: “You know, I used to think the law was a weapon. Now I think it’s a mirror. The question is — what do we see when we look into it?”

Jeeny: “Ourselves. And whether we’re still worth defending.”

Host: She smiled — not triumphant, but tender, the way truth sometimes smiles when it knows it has finally been heard.

Jack nodded once, eyes on the quote.

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. The streetlights glowed faintly through the mist, and the city — bruised but breathing — began to hum again.

In the quiet, the words of Joe Jamail lingered like a vow whispered to time itself:

“A lawyer is a custodian of the community’s legal and ethical sense.”

And somewhere deep within the courthouse — beneath the marble, beneath the history, beneath the cynicism — that idea stirred again, fragile but alive.

Host: Because in every generation, someone must guard the conscience of the law — even when the world forgets it has one.