People have a false understanding of what our legal system is

Host: The streetlights burned dimly through a thin veil of fog, their yellow halos dissolving into the slow breath of the midnight city. The courthouse, just across the street, stood like a tired monument, its marble steps slick with rain — a temple to law that had forgotten its own hymns.

Inside a small diner across from it, Jack and Jeeny sat in a booth by the window. The fluorescent lights buzzed above them, sharp and unkind, throwing a cold hue over the cracked red leather seats. On the counter, the television hummed faintly with the end credits of a rerun — Law & Order, the gavel sound still echoing like an afterthought of justice.

Jeeny turned off the sound, reached into her bag, and pulled out a printed quote, smoothing it flat on the table.

“People have a false understanding of what our legal system is like — how it works/operates — from shows like Law & Order, which suggest that lawyers appear on demand and do a tremendous amount of investigation and background research.” — Michelle Alexander

Jack: (grinning faintly) There it is — the myth of American justice, brought to you by prime-time television.

Jeeny: (softly) And consumed with popcorn and faith.

Jack: (dryly) Faith’s the part that always gets me. People still believe that the system is designed to save the innocent.

Jeeny: (stirring her coffee) Maybe because they need to. The alternative is unbearable — to think that it’s not broken, just built that way.

Host: The rain began again, soft and steady, streaking the glass with lines of silver. The reflection of the courthouse shimmered on the window, blurred — as though justice itself were dissolving under the drizzle.

Jack: (leaning forward) You know what shows like Law & Order do best? They make guilt look clean. A clear arc. A resolution in under an hour.

Jeeny: (nodding) And they make justice look inevitable — as if truth just waits patiently to be discovered, like a lost file in a drawer.

Jack: (smiling bitterly) Truth doesn’t wait. It hides. And sometimes, it’s buried by the people paid to find it.

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tightened slightly around her mug. The steam rose between them — fragile, translucent, like the illusion they were dissecting.

Jeeny: (quietly) Michelle Alexander was right. We’ve romanticized the machinery. People think the courtroom is about truth — but it’s about performance.

Jack: (nodding) Theatrics and time. Everything choreographed. Judges, lawyers, defendants — everyone has a script.

Jeeny: (softly) Except the poor. They’re not given lines — just a sentence.

Host: The clock above the counter ticked, a hollow sound in the empty diner. Somewhere, a car splashed through a puddle. Time moved, indifferent, like bureaucracy itself.

Jack: (after a pause) You ever notice how the lawyers on TV always care? They fight for truth, for moral order. In reality, half of them are fighting the clock.

Jeeny: (with quiet sadness) Because the clock wins every case.

Jack: (murmuring) And the poor don’t even make it to the second act.

Jeeny: (looking out the window) They don’t need to. The story ends before it starts — a plea deal, a bargain, a trade. Truth outsourced for efficiency.

Host: The rain hit harder now, its rhythm syncopated — a percussion of disillusionment against glass. The courthouse lights flickered once, then steadied again, like an exhausted sentinel.

Jack: (softly) You think people would still trust the system if they saw it up close?

Jeeny: (turning back to him) They wouldn’t understand it. Justice isn’t a story. It’s paperwork. A labyrinth made of language, where compassion dies of exhaustion.

Jack: (grimly) You make it sound like justice was never meant to be found.

Jeeny: (quietly) Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was meant to be performed — to keep the illusion alive. To make us believe in fairness, even when the script keeps changing.

Host: A waitress walked by, refilling their cups without asking. The clatter of ceramic against ceramic echoed softly, like the sound of empty promises.

Jack: (smiling faintly) You think that’s why people love Law & Order? The sound of the gavel — it’s like a lullaby. A way to fall asleep believing that justice still has a rhythm.

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) Maybe. Because real justice doesn’t make that sound. Real justice is quiet — almost invisible.

Jack: (thoughtful) Or loud and unheard.

Jeeny: (softly) Yes. Like a protest you change the channel on.

Host: The silence between them thickened — not awkward, but heavy with the truth that both already knew too well. Jack looked down at the quote again, tracing the line about “lawyers appearing on demand.”

Jack: (murmuring) We like to believe the law has heroes. But in reality, it just has employees.

Jeeny: (nodding) And people who can’t afford them.

Jack: (after a moment) Maybe that’s the real false understanding — that justice belongs to everyone.

Jeeny: (quietly) When really, it belongs to whoever can pay for it.

Host: Outside, the rain slowed, leaving small droplets clinging to the window like punctuation marks at the end of a long, unwritten confession.

Jack: (softly) You think there’s any hope left in it? The system?

Jeeny: (after a pause) Hope doesn’t live in the system. It lives in the people who keep fighting it.

Jack: (smiling faintly) You sound like one of those idealistic lawyers from TV.

Jeeny: (smiling back) Maybe they were written for the ones who never gave up.

Host: The neon from outside flickered across their faces — red, blue, white — the colors of justice refracted through exhaustion. The city, still breathing beyond the glass, carried on its quiet machinery of truth and consequence.

Jack: (finishing his coffee) You know what’s ironic? We make shows to escape corruption, but those shows are what make us accept it.

Jeeny: (whispering) Because as long as justice looks good on screen, we don’t have to see how broken it is in real life.

Host: The lights dimmed. The last customers left. The rain had stopped completely now, the streets slick and gleaming under the tired glow of law and illusion.

Jack and Jeeny stood, leaving the quote on the table. The ink bled slightly where a drop of water had fallen — the words "false understanding" smudged but still visible.

As they stepped out into the damp night, the courthouse loomed across the street — silent, immense, and full of echoes.

And somewhere in the distance, a gavel struck — not justice, but habit.

Host:
In the end, Michelle Alexander’s words hung like a verdict unspoken —
that the law we worship is not the law we live,
and that our greatest misunderstanding
is not how justice works,
but how easily we mistake its appearance for its truth.