Significant officials at publicly traded companies are casually

Host: The skyline shimmered with the cold silver of late evening. From the 42nd floor of a glass tower, the city stretched below — a labyrinth of light and deceit, alive and humming with invisible transactions. The rain had stopped, but its ghost still clung to the windows, blurring the view of neon signs that pulsed like mechanical hearts.

Inside the office, the world was made of glass and silence. Every surface reflected — the table, the windows, even the souls of those inside. Jack sat at one end, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, the look of a man both tired and restless. His grey eyes burned with that particular fire reserved for those who have seen too much of human ambition.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned on the edge of the polished conference table, her arms crossed, her eyes dark and steady, her hair falling loosely across her shoulder. The clock ticked — deliberate, accusing.

A single quote lingered between them, written in black ink on the whiteboard behind them:
“Significant officials at publicly traded companies are casually and cavalierly engaged in insider trading. Because insider trading has as one of its elements communication, it doesn't take rocket science to realize it's nice to have the communication on tape.”
— Preet Bharara.

Jeeny: “It’s almost funny, isn’t it? How easily corruption hides behind sophistication. A suit, a smile, a boardroom—and no one calls it theft.”

Jack: smirking, voice low “Funny’s not the word I’d use. It’s inevitable. You build a system on greed, and you get people who learn to play it better than others. That’s all insider trading is — evolution.”

Host: The rainlight reflected off Jack’s watch, drawing a cold glint across his wrist. His tone was calm, detached, almost clinical, but the bitterness in his voice had teeth.

Jeeny: “You call it evolution, I call it rot. The moment profit outweighs principle, something dies — not just ethics, but trust. And without trust, markets collapse. Remember 2008?”

Jack: scoffs “Oh, I remember. But 2008 didn’t happen because of a few bad apples. It happened because people believed the system had a soul. It doesn’t. It’s a machine built to feed itself. And machines don’t feel guilt.”

Jeeny: “Machines don’t, no. But humans do — or at least they should. You make it sound like morality’s optional in the pursuit of efficiency.”

Jack: “In business, it is. Tell me, Jeeny, do you really think those CEOs on Wall Street lose sleep? They make millions by breaking rules written by people who break rules for a living. It’s a closed loop.”

Jeeny: “So you excuse them because everyone’s guilty?”

Jack: “No. I understand them because everyone’s tempted.”

Host: A faint hum filled the room — the sound of the city’s arteries beneath them. Cars. Voices. The echo of unseen trades, unseen compromises. The air conditioner whispered softly, cold and constant, like a reminder of order in a place built on chaos.

Jeeny: “Temptation doesn’t absolve responsibility, Jack. Preet Bharara was right—communication is the key. Every time someone whispers a tip, a secret, a number over a phone, they commit a crime that echoes. And those echoes cost livelihoods.”

Jack: “And what do you propose? A world where no one talks? Where every call is recorded, every word monitored? That’s not justice, that’s surveillance. Freedom dies there.”

Jeeny: “Freedom without accountability becomes corruption. Transparency isn’t the enemy of freedom—it’s its guardrail.”

Host: Jack stood and walked toward the window, his reflection merging with the city lights below. His jaw tightened, and his breath fogged the glass as he stared down at the streets, where men in suits crossed intersections under umbrellas, each one chasing invisible empires.

Jack: “I used to believe in transparency. Until I saw how it’s used. You record someone’s voice, you dissect it, twist it, feed it to headlines. Suddenly the truth’s just another product for public outrage. Everyone’s guilty when the mob’s hungry enough.”

Jeeny: “You think exposure is worse than deceit?”

Jack: turning, sharply “No. I think we mistake exposure for justice. One man caught on tape while a hundred more learn to hide better.”

Host: The tension in the room tightened—like the thin string of a violin drawn too far. Jeeny’s eyes flickered with fire, but her voice stayed calm.

Jeeny: “And yet without exposure, corruption thrives in darkness. History repeats itself because people like you rationalize it. Look at Enron. Look at Martha Stewart. Each time, someone thought they were too clever to be caught.”

Jack: “And what did catching them change? The system adapted. The players changed names, not tactics. You can’t police greed—you can only redirect it.”

Jeeny: quietly “You sound like someone who’s stopped believing in redemption.”

Host: Jack’s laughter was short, bitter — like glass cracking under pressure.

Jack: “Redemption’s a story for people who haven’t seen the books. You ever look at the line between profit and morality in a quarterly report? It’s invisible.”

Jeeny: “Then draw it. Someone has to. Or we all become accomplices.”

Host: The stormlight flashed faintly outside. The city flickered like a circuit about to overload. Jack leaned on the table now, his voice dropping low, almost confessional.

Jack: “You know what scares me, Jeeny? It’s not the corruption. It’s the indifference. People don’t even care anymore. You tell them some executive made a billion off insider tips, they shrug. Because deep down, they’d do the same if they could.”

Jeeny: “That’s the sickness. The normalization of betrayal. When the public starts admiring criminals because they’re rich, the soul of a nation erodes.”

Jack: “Maybe the soul was a myth to begin with.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s just quieter now. Drowned by noise and numbers.”

Host: A long silence settled between them. The clock ticked. A drop of rain ran down the window, carving a trail through its reflection like a tear. The world below kept moving, indifferent.

Jeeny’s voice softened, carrying something heavier now — not argument, but ache.

Jeeny: “You know, my brother lost his job because of a stock manipulation scheme. Five years of saving wiped out overnight. People like him—people with nothing but hope—are the ones who pay for insider whispers. For someone’s ‘casual and cavalier’ moment of greed.”

Jack: quietly, almost guilty “I didn’t know.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s easy not to know. That’s how the system survives. Indifference is the oxygen of corruption.”

Host: Jack’s eyes fell, shadowed. His fingers tapped the table once, twice, before stilling completely. When he spoke, his voice had lost its edge.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the only difference between the guilty and the silent is a microphone.”

Jeeny: gently “Or a conscience.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly, motion sensors reacting to stillness. The world seemed to hold its breath. The flicker of city lights from below painted them in alternating bands of gold and grey — illumination and shadow, honesty and deceit.

Jack: “You know, I’ve been in those rooms. Deals over dinner. Secrets shared like currency. Nobody thinks of it as crime—it’s culture. You play the game, or you get left behind.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time someone changes the game. Because if integrity becomes optional, humanity becomes obsolete.”

Host: A faint rumble of thunder rolled in the distance — soft, warning, echoing the storm that had passed but not forgotten. Jack met her gaze, and something in his face — the cynicism, the cool calculation — began to thaw.

Jack: “You really think we can fix it?”

Jeeny: “No. But we can stop pretending we’re powerless.”

Jack: after a pause “And if it costs us everything?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we’ll lose honestly.”

Host: Outside, a single light blinked out on a nearby skyscraper, then another, until the horizon shimmered in a slower, quieter rhythm. Jack turned back to the window, his reflection looking older, but strangely lighter.

Jack: “You’re not wrong, you know. It’s not rocket science. Every whisper leaves a trace. Every lie leaves an echo. Maybe justice starts with listening to the echoes.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Or with the courage to record them.”

Host: The office fell into a fragile peace. The storm had passed, but its memory lingered — in the dripping of the gutters, in the quiet hum of fluorescent light, in the two souls who had found truth not in the system, but in each other’s defiance.

Jack exhaled, slow, steady.

Jack: “You think anyone would put this conversation on tape?”

Jeeny: “Only if they believed it mattered.”

Host: The camera of the night pulled back through the window, the rain-blurred skyline stretching beneath them — a city built on secrets, its heart still beating beneath glass.

And somewhere, in the rhythm of the storm, honesty whispered — not loudly, but enough to be heard.