If the system is broken, my inclination is to fix it rather than

Host: The courthouse clock struck six as the last rays of sunlight spilled across the marble floor, painting long shadows that stretched toward the exit doors. The halls were almost empty, save for the faint echo of footsteps and the distant murmur of a janitor’s radio. Jack stood near a bench, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, eyes cold and tired from another day of arguments that felt more like wars than justice.

Across from him, Jeeny sat by the window, the city lights just beginning to flicker below her, the papers in her hands crumpled, not from anger — but from weariness.

Host: Outside, the rain had started to fall, gentle at first, then steadier, as though the sky were shedding its own quiet verdict.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know what Justice Sonia Sotomayor once said? ‘If the system is broken, my inclination is to fix it rather than to fight it. I have faith in the process of the law, and if it is carried out fairly, I can live with the results, whatever they may be.’”
(pausing) “I keep thinking about that. About faith in the law. Do you still believe in that, Jack?”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “Faith in the law? I believe in gravity more than I believe in the law. At least gravity’s consistent. The law bends to whoever can afford the better lawyer.”

Host: The light from the streetlamps caught the faint lines on his face, the wear of a man who had spent too many years in rooms where truth was an inconvenience.

Jeeny: “That’s cynical — even for you. The law isn’t perfect, but it’s what stands between us and chaos. If we lose faith in it, what do we have left?”

Jack: “Reality. The kind where innocent men rot in prison because a prosecutor needs a win. The kind where corporations settle with money instead of guilt. You call that justice? That’s theater — the kind that destroys lives.”

Host: He walked to the window, watching the rain trace crooked lines down the glass, each drop a small, falling verdict. Jeeny followed his gaze, her eyes soft with that familiar stubborn compassion.

Jeeny: “You can’t just give up on the system because it’s broken, Jack. You fix it — or at least you try. That’s what Sotomayor meant. You fight not against it, but through it. You believe in the process — even when people fail it.”

Jack: “That sounds noble on paper, but in the courtroom, ideals bleed fast. Remember the Ramirez case? The one we worked on? The jury was biased from day one. They saw a poor Latino kid and assumed guilt. The process didn’t save him, Jeeny. The process buried him.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you kept defending him. You still believed you could change something.”

Jack: “I believed in him, not the system.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the windows, a kind of rhythm that made their voices sound smaller — yet sharper, as if every word were a stone thrown into a deep well.

Jeeny: “But he needed the system to change — not you alone. If every decent person walks away, who’s left to fix it? The corrupt don’t quit; only the good ones do.”

Jack: (turning toward her) “Fixing a system built on power is like fixing a house while it’s on fire. You can patch a wall, but the flames will still eat it from the inside.”

Jeeny: “Then you fight the fire. You don’t abandon the house.”

Host: Her voice rose slightly, trembling not with anger, but with conviction. Jack studied her, his expression torn between admiration and fatigue.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in heroes. You really think fairness can survive politics? That justice isn’t just another commodity?”

Jeeny: “I think justice is fragile — but real. And faith in the process is the only thing that keeps it alive. Look at the Civil Rights Movement, Jack. They didn’t overthrow the Constitution; they used it. They forced the law to look at itself and become better.”

Jack: “And how long did that take? How many had to die first?”

Jeeny: “Too many. But they still chose to believe in the process. Because fighting against it would’ve meant burning down the very tool that could set them free.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders sagged, his eyes closing for a brief moment, as if the weight of her words had found their mark. The rainlight glimmered against the wet glass, turning their reflections into a blurred, ghostly pair — a man of logic, and a woman of faith.

Jack: “You make it sound simple — like faith is just a choice.”

Jeeny: “It is. The hardest one. Especially when everything tells you not to have it.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t rewrite verdicts, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps you trying. It’s what makes one judge stay up late reviewing evidence instead of rubber-stamping a sentence. It’s what makes one lawyer take a pro bono case instead of another corporate paycheck. Faith doesn’t change the system overnight — it keeps it from collapsing.”

Host: The clock ticked again, its hands gliding toward seven. Outside, a few pedestrians hurried past with umbrellas, their footsteps echoing through the wet silence of the city.

Jack: (quietly) “You ever think maybe the system was never meant to be fair? Maybe it was designed to look fair — so people like us keep believing it can be fixed?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that illusion is the seed of change. Illusions can still lead to revolutions — as long as someone insists on making them real.”

Host: The tension between them had softened into something else — not agreement, but recognition. They both carried the same wound, only in different ways. Jack sat down, his hands clasped together, the sound of rain still steady above the distant hum of the city.

Jack: “You really think Sotomayor’s right? That if the law’s carried out fairly — whatever happens, we should accept it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because fairness is all we have. Justice isn’t about winning, Jack. It’s about the integrity of how we lose.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Integrity. I used to think that word was enough.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it still is. Maybe it’s not the system that decides who we are — it’s how we behave inside it.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed by a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the walls. Jack smiled faintly, his face caught between light and shadow.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny — you’d make a damn good judge.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And you’d make a better believer.”

Host: The rain began to ease, the sound softening into a steady whisper against the windowpanes. The city below gleamed, washed clean for a moment, like something freshly sworn.

Host: In the echo of that quiet evening, their conversation lingered — not as a verdict, but as a vow. That even in a broken system, the choice to repair it was a kind of faith — one that didn’t demand certainty, only courage.

Host: And as the last drops of rain slid down the glass, Jack and Jeeny sat in stillness, two believers in different kinds of truth, both waiting for the same impossible thing — a world where the law was not just written, but felt.