Mr. Gonzales' failure to respond to questions legitimately posed

Host: The corridor of the old courthouse smelled of dust, paper, and the faint, electric scent of anger suppressed. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, steady and cold, as if the building itself were trying to stay impartial. Beyond the tall windows, Washington rain drummed against the marble ledges, leaving streaks that looked like tears the city refused to acknowledge.

At the far end of the hall, Jack leaned against a wooden pillar, coat collar turned up, a copy of the Washington Post folded under his arm. His grey eyes scanned the headlines with that familiar blend of cynicism and weariness. Jeeny stood opposite him, her notebook pressed to her chest, her dark hair slightly damp, her face illuminated by the sterile light above.

On the page of her notebook, written in firm ink, was the quote by Senator Daniel Inouye:

“Mr. Gonzales’ failure to respond to questions legitimately posed to him by the Senate raises grave doubts in my mind as to his fitness to serve the people of the United States as their Attorney General.”

Host: The words hung between them, like a sentence carved into the stone walls of the Republic itself.

Jack: (dryly, his voice echoing slightly)
“‘Grave doubts.’ That’s the Senate’s way of saying, ‘We caught you lying, but we’re too polite to say it.’”

Jeeny: (looking up at him)
“It’s more than politeness. It’s restraint. It’s the sound of democracy trying not to tear itself apart. Inouye didn’t accuse; he questioned. That’s faith — not in the man, but in the process.”

Host: Jack unfolded the newspaper, the crinkling sound like thunder in the quiet hall. His jaw tightened, his eyes scanning the article as though it were written in betrayal.

Jack:
“Faith in the process doesn’t clean the rot, Jeeny. You can’t hold power accountable with politeness. When someone refuses to answer legitimate questions, that’s not oversight — that’s theater. And the people in the seats forget the show’s about them.”

Jeeny: (walking closer, her tone sharp)
“Accountability isn’t vengeance, Jack. It’s patience. Inouye lived through the internment camps, remember? He saw what happens when anger replaces law. His strength was in restraint — not in shouting, but in standing firm.”

Host: The rain pounded harder against the glass, the sound rising like applause for their tension. Jack turned toward the window, his reflection fractured in the panes.

Jack:
“Restraint? Or paralysis? You think power listens to calm reason? Gonzales dodged, danced, and deflected — and yet he sat there, untouchable. That’s the tragedy of democracy. The guilty learn to smile under oath.”

Jeeny: (her voice steady but her eyes burning)
“And yet the moment they stop being questioned — even by calm men like Inouye — is the moment democracy dies. The point isn’t to make them confess; it’s to keep asking until truth can’t breathe without revealing itself.”

Host: The hallway clock ticked, slow and deliberate, like the heartbeat of something ancient trying to remember its purpose.

Jack:
“Questions are useless if they don’t have consequences. You think truth matters in politics? It doesn’t. Power rewrites its own record. Look at every scandal from Watergate to Iraq — outrage burns hot, then dies cold. The machine keeps turning.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe. But someone has to keep lighting matches. Even if the wind keeps blowing them out.”

Host: Jack turned, his eyes narrowing, voice lowering to a rasp that carried both exhaustion and defiance.

Jack:
“So that’s enough for you? Asking? Writing statements while corruption smiles on live television?”

Jeeny: (with quiet conviction)
“Yes, Jack. Because asking is resistance. Inouye didn’t have to shout — his words had weight because he’d earned integrity. He fought for a country that once labeled him the enemy. He bled for it. So when he said he had ‘grave doubts,’ that wasn’t rhetoric — that was moral judgment.”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened, just slightly, as if memory had tugged at something buried deep. The fire in his tone dimmed, replaced by reflection.

Jack:
“I read that he lost his arm in Italy — World War II. Came home, wasn’t allowed to get a haircut in some towns because of his race. And yet he still served, still believed. I don’t get that kind of faith, Jeeny. I just… don’t.”

Jeeny: (softly)
“Because it wasn’t blind faith. It was chosen faith. The kind that costs something.”

Host: The lights above flickered, briefly dimming, as though the building were weary of holding so many ghosts.

Jack:
“I wish more people understood that democracy isn’t self-cleaning. You can’t rely on polite men in suits to guard it. You need fury sometimes — real, focused, uncompromising fury.”

Jeeny:
“Fury without discipline is just fire. It burns what it can’t change. That’s why Inouye’s words matter — because they balance outrage with responsibility. He didn’t call for blood. He called for standards.”

Host: A janitor pushed a cart down the corridor, the soft squeak of its wheels a reminder of ordinary life still humming beneath the grand ideals. Jack and Jeeny stood silent until the sound faded.

Jack: (after a pause)
“You think restraint still works in this world? The loudest lie travels faster than the calmest truth.”

Jeeny:
“Then we slow it down. We keep telling the truth anyway. We plant it where it can’t be erased — in history, in conscience, in conversation like this. That’s the long game.”

Host: The clock struck ten, each chime heavy with time itself.

Jack:
“I envy that hope, Jeeny. I do. But sometimes I think the system’s too elegant for its own good — it gives villains time to polish their defense while heroes drown in procedure.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe. But procedure is the thin line between justice and revenge. Inouye knew that. He’d seen what unchecked power can do. His calm wasn’t cowardice; it was control. The kind of control that frightens the guilty more than anger ever could.”

Host: Jack exhaled, slow, thoughtful — the cigarette between his fingers burning to a small red echo.

Jack: (quietly)
“Maybe restraint is a weapon. Just one that takes longer to kill.”

Jeeny: (meeting his eyes)
“Not to kill, Jack. To heal.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a quiet drizzle, like applause fading into reflection. Through the window, the Capitol dome glowed faintly — majestic yet distant, like a promise still trying to keep itself.

Jack folded his newspaper, tucking it under his arm. The look on his face had changed — not converted, but softened, like a man realizing that cynicism, too, demands belief to survive.

Jack:
“So, faith in the process, huh?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly)
“Yes. Faith in the asking. Faith that truth, even when ignored, leaves a mark.”

Host: They began to walk down the empty hall, their footsteps echoing against the marble. The last of the lights flickered, then steadied — warm, almost forgiving.

And as they reached the end of the corridor, the quote lingered behind them, etched into the still air like a verdict yet to be fulfilled:

“Grave doubts.”

Host: But perhaps, the scene suggested, doubt was not the end of faith —
it was the beginning of responsibility.

And somewhere beyond the marble walls, beyond the echo of power and pretense, the rain kept falling — washing the city clean, if only for a moment.