In university they don't tell you that the greater part of the

Host:
The courtroom had emptied hours ago. The last echoes of footsteps had faded, leaving behind the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights and the smell of paper, dust, and old arguments.

Outside, rain fell steadily against the tall glass windows, the kind that blurred the world into watercolor — streetlights bleeding into reflections, umbrellas blooming like dark flowers.

At the defense table sat Jack, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, a mountain of files open before him. His grey eyes, sharp as ever, now held the dull sheen of exhaustion — the look of a man who’d spent too long fighting battles of logic in rooms filled with egos.

Across from him, perched on the witness bench, Jeeny was half-smiling, watching him with that particular mix of affection and mischief that made her voice sound like music even when it carried truth he didn’t want to hear.

Jeeny:
“Doris Lessing once said, ‘In university they don’t tell you that the greater part of the law is learning to tolerate fools.’”

She tilted her head, her tone playful. “You look like you’ve just had a full day of post-graduate study.”

Jack:
He let out a low, humorless laugh, rubbing his temples. “Tolerate? She was being generous. Half my job feels like interpreting fools. The other half’s explaining to them that they’re not as clever as they think.”

Host:
The rain tapped harder against the window. A flickering streetlight outside threw shadows across the room — long, angular shapes that looked like the ghosts of past debates.

Jeeny:
“Maybe that’s why Lessing called it learning, Jack. Not suffering, not enduring — learning. There’s a kind of wisdom in patience, even when it’s wasted on fools.”

Jack:
He looked up at her, arching an eyebrow. “You ever try patience on a man who quotes his neighbor’s blog in court as precedent?”

Jeeny:
She laughed, the sound soft and genuine. “I’ll take your word for it. But maybe that’s the hidden lesson — that law isn’t about brilliance. It’s about understanding people, even the ones who make no sense.”

Jack:
He leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking under him. “Understanding? I can barely stand them. The loud ones who think outrage is argument. The ones who confuse conviction with evidence.”

Jeeny:
“And yet,” she said, her smile fading into something gentler, “you keep doing it. You listen, you argue, you explain. You could’ve chosen silence, Jack — but you chose to stay in the noise. Maybe because you still believe truth can survive it.”

Host:
The lamp on the desk flickered as if her words had weight. Jack’s hand froze halfway to his glass of water. For a moment, the only sound was the rain — relentless, impartial, the kind that doesn’t stop for the world’s fatigue.

Jack:
“You always give people too much credit,” he said quietly. “Most of them don’t want truth. They want to win. They want applause. The law’s just a stage where the clever pretend to be righteous and the fools pretend to be wise.”

Jeeny:
Her eyes softened, but there was a spark in them still. “And yet you play your part every day.”

Jack:
“Because someone has to remind them what the script was meant to be.”

Host:
A flash of lightning illuminated the room — brief, blinding. For a second, their faces looked carved in contrast: his, shadowed and sharp; hers, lit and unafraid.

Jeeny:
“Maybe Lessing meant more than law. Maybe she meant life. Every discipline, every job, every relationship — it all requires learning to tolerate foolishness. Ours, and everyone else’s.”

Jack:
He gave a faint smile. “That’s poetic. But you ever notice how fools never seem to learn tolerance? It’s always the rest of us doing the heavy lifting.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe that’s what wisdom is — the ability to stay kind in the presence of stupidity.”

Host:
Her words cut through the air, gentle but sure. Jack looked at her for a long moment, and then, unexpectedly, laughed — a real laugh this time, low and tired but warm.

Jack:
“You make it sound like sainthood.”

Jeeny:
“Not sainthood,” she said. “Self-defense.”

Host:
The laughter lingered in the empty courtroom, blending with the sound of the rain. It felt almost sacred — two voices refusing to let cynicism have the last word.

Jack:
“I remember my first case,” he said, after a moment. “I thought logic would win. That if I just built the perfect argument, the truth would walk free. But it doesn’t work that way, does it? Half the time, the truth drowns in noise. The other half, it gets mocked for being inconvenient.”

Jeeny:
“And still,” she said softly, “you argue for it.”

Jack:
He looked up at her again. “You think that makes me noble?”

Jeeny:
“No,” she said with a faint smile. “Human.”

Host:
The clock on the wall struck midnight, its sound slow and resonant, echoing through the empty hall like a gavel falling on eternity.

Jack stood, gathering his papers, tucking them neatly into his worn leather briefcase. Jeeny rose too, her coat draped over her arm.

Jeeny:
“Maybe Lessing was right — maybe the law really is about tolerating fools. But maybe the secret is this: if you can learn to tolerate them long enough, you start learning something about yourself too.”

Jack:
He smiled as he turned off the lamp. “That’s the cruel part, isn’t it? The fools teach us patience, humility, sometimes mercy. But we never get to teach them a damn thing.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe they’re teaching us how to lead quietly,” she said, pausing at the door. “How to keep learning — even when it feels hopeless.”

Host:
They stood in the doorway for a moment, listening to the rain. Jack looked back once at the dark courtroom — the empty benches, the stillness, the weight of unspoken verdicts. Then he smiled faintly, as though forgiving the day for its nonsense.

He turned to her.

Jack:
“You know what’s funny?”

Jeeny:
“What?”

Jack:
“The older I get, the more I realize — the fools were the syllabus.”

Host:
She laughed, quiet and bright, and together they stepped out into the rain. The camera followed them down the courthouse steps, their umbrellas opening in unison, their reflections shimmering on the wet pavement.

And as they disappeared into the city night, Doris Lessing’s words lingered, like the final line of a lesson still being written:

That the greatest part of wisdom is not brilliance,
but tolerance —
the grace to learn from the fools,
the humility to bear their noise,
and the courage to keep learning,
even when the classroom is the world itself.