It's never appropriate for a judge to impose that judge's

Host: The evening sun fell low over the courthouse plaza, washing everything in a deep amber hue that glowed against the tall columns and polished stone. The faint sound of city traffic hummed in the distance, but here, in the courtyard’s fading light, the world seemed hushed—held still by the gravity of marble and time.

Inside, the hallways were quiet. The echo of footsteps faded into whispers. Jack sat on a wooden bench outside courtroom number three, his suit jacket folded beside him. A faint tremor of fatigue played in his hands, but his eyes—steel grey and alert—were the eyes of someone thinking hard, too hard, about right and wrong.

Across from him, Jeeny paced slowly near the tall window, her silhouette cut against the dying light. Her hair shimmered faintly as she turned, holding a file against her chest, her expression pensive, soft but firm.

The faint chime of a clock marked six o’clock. Another day of justice—or something close to it—was done.

Jeeny: “Amy Coney Barrett once said, ‘It’s never appropriate for a judge to impose that judge’s personal convictions—whether they derive from faith or anywhere else—on the law.’”
She paused, her voice thoughtful. “Do you believe that, Jack?”

Jack: leans forward, elbows on knees, his voice low and gritty “In theory, yeah. But in practice? No one’s a blank slate. Every judgment comes from somewhere—from faith, upbringing, fear, experience. The law’s written by humans, interpreted by humans. Conviction bleeds in whether we admit it or not.”

Host: The light from the window struck his face, revealing the exhaustion carved there—not from the day, but from years of wrestling with a world that refused to fit into clean definitions.

Jeeny: gently “But that’s why restraint matters. The law is supposed to be a mirror—reflecting the Constitution, not the conscience of the person holding the gavel.”

Jack: “A mirror, huh?” He lets out a dry laugh. “Mirrors reflect differently depending on the light. Judges are human. You can’t tell a person to leave their heart outside the courtroom. That’s like asking them to see without eyes.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s asking them to see clearly—without distortion. That’s the difference.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but underneath it, a flicker of conviction burned like a steady flame. Outside, a siren wailed, distant and fading. The sky turned violet, heavy with approaching night.

Jack: stands, begins pacing the opposite side of the hall “You’re talking like purity’s possible. It isn’t. Every decision comes with bias. Every interpretation hides belief. When Barrett talks about not imposing convictions, what she’s really saying is that she’ll try—but the trying doesn’t erase the influence.”

Jeeny: “Then isn’t the trying what matters most?”

Jack: stops, turns sharply to her “Is it enough? Tell me—if a judge’s ‘trying’ still ends with a decision born of private belief, does that absolve them? The robe doesn’t make you divine, Jeeny. It just hides the human underneath.”

Host: The air grew heavy, like the stillness before rain. The distant hum of fluorescent lights buzzed faintly. The hall felt smaller now, more intimate—like a courtroom without an audience.

Jeeny: “I don’t think she meant divinity. I think she meant discipline. The courage to separate what you feel from what’s fair. That’s what justice is supposed to be—blind not to truth, but to preference.”

Jack: crosses his arms, his tone hardening “Blind justice is a myth. Ask anyone who’s ever stood on the wrong side of power. Ask the poor. The accused. The voiceless. The law doesn’t close its eyes; it just chooses where to look.”

Jeeny: quietly, but fiercely “Then maybe that’s why people like Barrett say things like that—to remind themselves not to be swallowed by their own certainty. Because when conviction becomes law, tyranny follows.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp. The clock ticked once, twice. A drop of rain hit the window, then another, tracing crooked silver lines down the glass.

Jack: sighs, softer now “You sound like you still believe in the system.”

Jeeny: “I believe in the people who try. Even when the system fails.”

Jack: “You think belief can fix bias?”

Jeeny: “No. But humility can. Knowing your judgment might be flawed—that’s the first step toward justice. Faith in the law should never eclipse fear of being wrong.”

Host: Her words fell like quiet thunder—gentle but impossible to ignore. Jack stared at her for a long moment, then looked down at his hands.

Jack: almost whispering “When I was younger, I thought being right was the same as being just. That if you argued well enough, you’d win truth. But standing in court all these years… I’ve seen truth lose to procedure, and justice bow to politics.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why judges—and lawyers—need to remember what they’re serving. Not ego, not ideology, but law. The law is what keeps us from turning every conviction into a crusade.”

Jack: nods faintly “And yet every crusade in history started with someone who thought they were defending truth.”

Jeeny: steps closer, her tone softening “Then maybe the real test is knowing when to stop defending and start listening.”

Host: The lights above flickered once, as if agreeing. A security guard passed by the end of the hall, his keys jingling softly—a mundane sound cutting through the weight of philosophy.

Jack: half-smiling “You’d make a good judge.”

Jeeny: “No. I care too much. I’d cry in the first sentencing.”

Jack: “That’s exactly why you’d be good. You’d feel the weight of it.”

Jeeny: shakes her head “Feeling isn’t enough, Jack. That’s what she meant. It’s never appropriate to impose yourself on the law—not your faith, not your pain, not even your compassion. You can be moved by all of it, but in the end, you have to return to principle.”

Host: Her words echoed faintly in the marble chamber. Outside, the rain began to pour harder, the rhythm of it steady, relentless—like the ticking of moral clocks.

Jack: after a long silence “Do you think it’s possible? To truly separate who you are from what you decide?”

Jeeny: “No. But we can learn to recognize when we’re crossing that line. That’s the discipline of justice—the awareness of our own fallibility.”

Jack: “So the robe isn’t about authority. It’s about restraint.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The robe isn’t armor; it’s reminder.”

Host: The camera would close in now—on the soft light of the hallway, the two of them standing opposite each other like night and day, tension and peace.

The rain outside slowed to a drizzle. The last light of dusk brushed against Jeeny’s face, making her eyes gleam with quiet conviction. Jack stared at her, the corners of his mouth lifting in reluctant admiration.

Jack: quietly “Maybe you’re right. Maybe justice isn’t blind—it’s disciplined.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “And maybe faith isn’t the enemy of reason—it’s the test of it.”

Host: The scene lingered as they walked toward the exit together, their reflections trailing long across the polished floor.

Beyond the doors, the city lights flickered awake—cold, human, imperfect. And somewhere amid that imperfection, the courthouse stood—silent and still—a fragile monument to the endless balance between conviction and restraint.

The rain had stopped. The world, washed clean for a moment, waited.