Policymakers have to make judgments based on the best

Host:
The night was a quiet maze of rain and reflection. In the heart of Washington D.C., the Capitol dome loomed like a ghost of conscience, its light muted behind a veil of fog. The city streets gleamed — black marble slick with water — and the only sound was the steady hum of cars passing, each carrying someone with secrets, or someone pretending not to have any.

Inside a narrow Georgetown bar, the air was heavy with the scent of bourbon, paper, and unspoken regret. The television above the counter flashed headlines no one was really watching. Behind the hum of conversation, a quote on the news ticker slipped by, almost unseen —

“Policymakers have to make judgments based on the best intelligence they get.”
— Frank Carlucci

At a corner booth, Jack sat, his sleeves rolled, a glass of whiskey in front of him. His grey eyes were steady, though something behind them — a glint of fatigue, or truth — made them look older than the rest of him.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. The rain traced silver streaks down the window behind her, blurring the world outside — as if even the city itself didn’t want to be seen too clearly.

Jeeny: softly “Carlucci said that, didn’t he? The idea that policymakers act on the best intelligence they have.”

Jack: half-smiling, half-tired “Yeah. The key word being ‘best.’ Which usually means ‘limited.’ Or ‘politically filtered.’ Or ‘good enough to justify something you were going to do anyway.’”

Host:
The light from the hanging lamp above them cast long shadows across the table, making their faces look like two halves of the same dilemma — idealism and realism, forever wrestling in dim light.

Jeeny: “You don’t think people in power can make honest decisions?”

Jack: taking a sip of whiskey “They can. But honesty doesn’t mean clarity. ‘Best intelligence’ isn’t truth — it’s interpretation. Data dressed in confidence.”

Jeeny: “But what else do they have, Jack? They can’t wait for certainty. If they hesitate, people die. If they act too soon, people still die. You call it interpretation — I call it risk with a moral heartbeat.”

Jack: leaning back “You make it sound noble. But policy’s not about morality — it’s about math. Acceptable losses. Manageable truths. The word ‘intelligence’ makes it sound precise, but it’s just educated guessing in an expensive suit.”

Host:
The rain beat harder against the glass. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed — that endless song of urgency that every city seems to know by heart.

Jeeny: firmly “No, it’s not guessing. It’s trust — trust in people who dedicate their lives to finding those fragments of truth. Spies, analysts, researchers — they build the puzzle. Policymakers put the pieces together.”

Jack: sharply “But what if the picture’s wrong? What if the intelligence is skewed? History’s full of those mistakes — wrong wars, wrong enemies, wrong conclusions. We call it ‘policy failure,’ but it’s really just human blindness with better branding.”

Jeeny: quietly “So you’re saying ignorance should be an excuse for inaction?”

Jack: meeting her eyes “No. I’m saying humility should be. But you’ll never find that in a government memo.”

Host:
The silence that followed was sharp, but not cruel — the silence of two minds holding the same truth at opposite ends. The bartender passed by, wiping the counter, pretending not to overhear the kind of conversation that always ends with bitterness or beauty.

Jeeny: after a moment “You make it sound like there’s no such thing as a right decision.”

Jack: gazing into his glass “Maybe there isn’t. Maybe there’s just the least wrong one.”

Jeeny: softly, with conviction “That’s defeat talking.”

Jack: quietly “No, that’s experience talking.”

Host:
The lamp flickered, briefly plunging their faces into shadow before steadying again. The flicker of light made Jeeny’s eyes glisten — full of compassion and defiance.

Jeeny: leaning forward “But isn’t that the whole point of leadership — to decide in the dark, trusting the light will follow? If we only act when we’re certain, we’d never act at all.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And if we act too often without certainty, we end up calling consequences ‘collateral.’”

Jeeny: softly “You don’t trust anyone in power, do you?”

Jack: smiling faintly “I trust them to be human. Which is to say — flawed, hopeful, and capable of both mercy and madness.”

Host:
Outside, the rain softened, the city sounds dulling to a low hum. The window’s reflection showed them both — two faces, separated by inches and by philosophy.

Jeeny: “So what would you do, if you were one of them? If you had to make that judgment call, knowing lives hung in the balance?”

Jack: after a long silence “I’d tell the truth. Even if it was incomplete. Even if it made me look weak.”

Jeeny: gently “And then?”

Jack: with a weary smile “And then I’d hope that was enough.”

Host:
The clock on the wall ticked. Somewhere nearby, a television anchor spoke the words ‘sources confirm,’ and the irony was almost unbearable.

Jeeny: quietly, after a pause “Maybe that’s what Carlucci meant. That intelligence isn’t just information — it’s courage. The courage to act, even when the map is still being drawn.”

Jack: softly “And the courage to admit when you drew it wrong.”

Host:
For a moment, neither spoke. The rain had stopped, leaving a faint mist over the windows. The light outside had softened to the gray-blue of reflection. Jeeny looked at Jack, her expression open, as if she wanted to believe there was still room for both faith and doubt in the same heart.

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe policymaking isn’t about having the right answers. Maybe it’s about keeping your humanity while pretending you do.”

Jack: smiling, almost sadly “Then God help the ones who forget which part was pretend.”

Host:
They sat in silence, listening to the city breathe again. The light from the streetlamps caught in the wet pavement, stretching into the horizon like a moral gray area you could almost walk across.

The camera of thought slowly pulled back, leaving the two of them in that pool of light and conversation — two silhouettes framed by the endless question of power and conscience.

And the narrator’s voice — calm, quiet, and full of weary truth — rose to meet the rain that was starting again outside:

That intelligence can guide us,
but it cannot absolve us.

That judgment is not the art of being right,
but the act of being responsible in uncertainty.

And perhaps Frank Carlucci’s words,
so plain and procedural,
carry within them the heaviest truth of all —

That the best intelligence we have
is never enough to ensure we are right,
only enough to remind us
that we must still choose.

And so, under the soft hum of D.C. rain,
Jack and Jeeny sat —
two voices balancing logic and faith,
proof that even in a world of systems and shadows,
the hardest decisions are still made
by the most fragile machinery of all —
the human heart.