Our failure to find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq thus far

Host: The rain drummed against the roof of the bar, relentless and rhythmic, like the echo of something unresolved. The television above the counter flickered with news footage — grainy images of desert sands, armored trucks, and faces half-hidden behind helmets and exhaustion.

The bartender had long stopped listening, but the two figures at the end of the counter hadn’t — Jack, his suit wrinkled, his eyes sharp, his voice quiet and cutting; and Jeeny, her coat damp, her expression earnest, her hands wrapped around a glass of water she hadn’t touched.

On the screen, a news anchor quoted:
“Our failure to find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq thus far has been deeply troubling, and our intelligence-gathering process needs thorough and unbiased investigation.” — Adam Schiff.

Jack: bitterly “Unbiased investigation. Two of the most overused words in history — right after ‘national interest.’”

Jeeny: “And yet, that’s what we should have had. Truth without agenda. Facts without blood on them.”

Host: The light from the television painted their faces in alternating shades of blue and gold, the rain outside muting the world into a confession booth of shadows.

Jack: “There’s no such thing as unbiased, Jeeny. Every question contains its own answer. Every investigation begins with guilt already assumed or innocence already forgotten.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point of justice, Jack? If everything’s bias, then there’s no truth — just narrative.”

Jack: “Exactly. And narrative wins wars, not truth.”

Jeeny: quietly “Tell that to the people who died believing the narrative.”

Host: A pause — the kind that feels like mourning disguised as argument. The bartender turned down the volume, but the ghost of the words still lingered, heavy in the air: weapons of mass destruction… deeply troubling…

Jack: “The failure wasn’t just in the intelligence. It was in the faith. We wanted the lie to be true. We needed the world to make sense in black and white.”

Jeeny: “No, we needed it to be safe. We needed to believe someone knew what they were doing. Even if it meant looking away from the cracks.”

Jack: “And those cracks became graves.”

Jeeny: “And silence became complicity.”

Host: The rain grew louder, thundering now, pounding against the windows as if the sky itself wanted to interrupt them. Jack glanced down, staring into his glass, watching the whiskey tremble.

Jack: “Do you remember the pictures? The grainy satellite shots? The briefings? They said they were certain. Certain. But certainty’s the most dangerous thing a government can sell.”

Jeeny: “And the easiest thing for frightened people to buy.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, worn by something older than anger — the ache of hindsight, the burden of knowing too late.

Jeeny: “You know what haunts me? It wasn’t the lie. It was how much we wanted to believe it. How quickly we traded doubt for comfort.”

Jack: “Because doubt doesn’t win elections. Fear does.”

Jeeny: “And yet, truth — even late — is the only thing that redeems us.”

Jack: “Redeems us? Or exposes us?”

Host: The lights flickered, the power struggling under the storm’s weight. Outside, a sirens’ wail cut briefly through the night, then vanished — another noise swallowed by rain.

Jeeny: “You think there’s no redemption in facing the truth?”

Jack: “Not when it costs thousands of lives to admit we were wrong.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s left? Cynicism? You think the world just breaks, and that’s it?”

Jack: “I think the world keeps pretending it’s not broken.”

Host: The television muted itself suddenly — the news cycle ending, replaced by an ad for a car commercial, its bright smiles absurd against the somber dark of the bar.

Jeeny turned away, exhaling, her eyes glinting under the dim light.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How easily we can turn away. From the footage. The numbers. The faces. We forget so we can move forward. But the earth remembers — it always remembers.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the only justice there is. The ground remembering what we bury.”

Jeeny: “That’s not justice, Jack. That’s decay.”

Host: Jack’s fist tightened around his glass, his knuckles pale. He looked at Jeeny then — really looked, as if her voice were something both dangerous and needed.

Jack: “You still think investigation leads to truth?”

Jeeny: “It leads to accountability. And without that, truth means nothing.”

Jack: “But who investigates the investigators?”

Jeeny: “Those who refuse to forget.”

Host: A silence settled, deep and human. The rain softened, turning from fury to drizzle, from accusation to lament.

Jack: “I used to think history was written by the victors. But it’s not. It’s written by the ones who can live with their shame.”

Jeeny: “And spoken by those who can’t.”

Host: The lights steadied, the bar’s glow returning, casting long, tired reflections across the countertop. Outside, the storm passed, leaving the streets slick and glittering, as if the city itself had been washed of illusion.

Jeeny: “We can’t change what happened, Jack. But we can stop calling the silence honorable.”

Jack: “And if no one listens?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we spoke.”

Host: She stood, putting on her coat, her movements slow, measured, like someone carrying both faith and fatigue. Jack watched, his expression unreadable, the faintest tremor in his voice as he spoke.

Jack: “Do you ever think truth just... comes too late?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it still comes. Even buried under propaganda, even soaked in guilt — it finds its way. That’s what storms do, Jack. They clear the air.”

Host: She walked to the door, the bells jingling softly as she opened it. The rain had stopped. The air was cold, clean, and quiet.

Jack sat alone for a moment, the words of Adam Schiff still lingering in the air like smoke — failure to find… deeply troubling… thorough and unbiased…

He finished his drink, set it down, and whispered, to no one and everyone:

Jack: “Maybe the investigation isn’t out there. Maybe it’s in us.”

Host: And as the door swung shut behind her, the light flickered one last time — not as warning, but as reminder —
that in the end, every storm, every truth, every reckoning,
still demands we walk through it —
together,
unarmed,
and awake.