In a system that disproportionately harms poor people and people

Host: The night was humid, thick with the scent of asphalt and sirens. A streetlight flickered above the alley café, where the neon sign buzzed like a tired insect. The city outside was still awake — its veins glowing with traffic, its lungs filled with smoke and protest chants carried by the wind. Inside, the air hummed with static and anger, though only two voices waited to speak it.

Host: Jack sat at the counter, his coat draped across the back of his chair, grey eyes shadowed by the dim light. He had the look of a man who’d seen too much truth to still believe in it. Across from him, Jeeny sat with her hands clasped, her phone screen faintly glowing with the day’s news — another trial, another verdict, another broken promise of “justice.”

Host: The rain began again, soft but steady, like the city itself was weeping.

Jeeny: “Eric Schneiderman once said, ‘In a system that disproportionately harms poor people and people of color, too many Americans have lost faith in the essential American principle of equal justice under law.’”
(She paused, her voice catching.) “He was right, Jack. People have stopped believing that the law is for them.”

Jack: (He snorted, a short, bitter sound.) “Stopped believing? Jeeny, some people never could. The system wasn’t built for them — it was built to keep them out. You talk about losing faith like it was ever there to begin with.”

Jeeny: “That’s too easy. It’s cynical. The law was meant to be equal, even if people failed to make it so. It’s supposed to protect — not punish.”

Jack: “Supposed to.” (He leaned forward, voice low.) “Tell that to the man who can’t afford a lawyer. To the kid in the wrong neighborhood who gets stopped for the color of his skin. Tell it to the mother who watches her son disappear into a system that treats poverty as a crime. The principle’s a slogan, not a reality.”

Host: The lights flickered again. The bartender switched on a small radio — voices of commentators, their words filled with rhetoric, statistics, and distance. Outside, a police siren echoed, slicing through the night like a memory no one could escape.

Jeeny: “But without faith, what’s left, Jack? If people stop believing in justice, then what’s the point of law at all? It becomes just… punishment without purpose.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s all it ever was. The law isn’t about fairness — it’s about order. And order always serves whoever’s in power. The rich buy justice; the poor rent mercy.”

Jeeny: “Then why fight at all? Why march, why vote, why defend anyone if it’s all rigged?”

Jack: (He looked down, his jaw tightening.) “Because someone has to survive in the rigging. Someone has to keep the gears turning, even if they grind people up.”

Host: Steam rose from their cups, catching the light like small ghosts. The sound of the rain deepened, drowning the world beyond their booth. Jeeny’s fingers trembled slightly as she set her phone down.

Jeeny: “You sound like every cynic who gave up right before something changed. The Civil Rights Movement — they didn’t have power. They had faith. Martin Luther King Jr. stood in front of courts that hated him and said the law could still be redeemed.”

Jack: “And they killed him for it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But they couldn’t kill what he stood for. Every march, every act of nonviolence, every voice raised — that’s what forced the law to see itself. If people hadn’t believed justice was still possible, segregation would still be legal.”

Host: Her voice rose, like a storm breaking through the walls. Jack stared, his expression unreadable, the light flickering across his features, throwing half into shadow.

Jack: “Belief doesn’t fix a broken system, Jeeny. Laws are written in ink, not in hope. You think one more protest will undo centuries of inequality? People with money shape the system. The rest of us just live under it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why faith matters most to those who’ve lost everything else. When justice is denied, faith becomes justice. It’s the only thing left that keeps people human.”

Host: The room seemed to shrink, the walls drawing in closer. The radio shifted to a report — another case, another name on a long list. Jeeny’s eyes glistened, her breath trembling as she spoke again.

Jeeny: “A man named Kalief Browder spent three years in jail without trial, Jack. Three years. For something he didn’t do. He was just sixteen. The system crushed him until he couldn’t bear it anymore. That’s what Schneiderman meant — that people have stopped believing that justice even knows their name.”

Jack: (Quietly.) “I remember. And I remember no one paid for it.”

Jeeny: “That’s why faith isn’t naïve. It’s radical. It’s the belief that something broken can still be mended, even when the cracks are deep.”

Host: Jack rubbed his forehead, his eyes heavy, as if each word carried weight he could no longer deflect. A flash of lightning painted the café walls in white, then faded into darkness.

Jack: “You want to believe the system can heal. I want to believe people can survive it. Maybe that’s the difference.”

Jeeny: “Surviving isn’t enough. We were meant to live. To build. To demand that the words carved above the Supreme Court — ‘Equal Justice Under Law’ — actually mean something.”

Jack: “And what if they never do? What if they’re just a prayer carved in stone?”

Jeeny: (Her voice softened, her eyes lowering.) “Then let it be a prayer we keep saying — until someone listens.”

Host: The rain had slowed now, falling in rhythmic whispers. The window reflected the two of them — one framed by shadow, the other by light. They sat there, silent, as if the world outside had pressed pause.

Jack: “You ever wonder if justice is an illusion? A story we tell so we don’t revolt?”

Jeeny: “If it is, then it’s the most necessary illusion of all. Because it gives us something to reach for. Justice isn’t a promise, Jack. It’s a pursuit.”

Host: The words hung between them, heavy yet luminous. Jack’s eyes met hers — for the first time not with defiance, but with something closer to respect.

Jack: “Maybe we’ve both been wrong. Maybe faith and law aren’t enemies. Maybe one keeps the other honest.”

Jeeny: (Nods.) “Faith without law is chaos. Law without faith is cruelty. We need both — belief to guide the hand that holds the gavel.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The city outside breathed, its lights shimmering like distant hope on wet pavement. The radio faded into a jazz song, soft and melancholy, like the echo of something half-forgotten but still beautiful.

Jack: “You think people can ever believe again?”

Jeeny: “They will — when the law starts to believe in them.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, his reflection merging with hers in the window — two faces, divided by doubt, united by longing. The camera would have pulled back then, out into the street, where the rainwater shimmered beneath the streetlights, flowing quietly toward the gutter, carrying both dirt and light together.

Host: And in that stillness, the world seemed to whisper Schneiderman’s truth — that justice may be blind, but faith gives her sight.