Tenants don't have any right to court-appointed attorneys in

Host: The city was wrapped in the hum of neon lights and sirens. A cold wind moved through the narrow streets, carrying with it the smell of fried food, wet concrete, and something else — tension, maybe, or fear. The kind you can feel but not quite name.

Inside a small diner near the courthouse, Jack sat hunched over a cup of black coffee, his suit jacket damp from the rain. Across from him, Jeeny looked out the window, watching a man in a cheap coat argue with a security guard by the entrance. Her eyes, deep and brown, carried that kind of sadness born not from one story, but from many.

The lights above them flickered faintly. The radio on the counter murmured the end of a news segment about rising evictions.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Tenants don’t have any right to court-appointed attorneys in civil court, so they’re either facing their landlord — or his or her attorney — alone. Or they just don’t show up.”

Jack: (glances up) Matthew Desmond. Evicted, right?

Jeeny: (nods) Yes. That line always hits me. It’s not just about housing, Jack. It’s about power, and the way justice bends toward whoever can afford it.

Jack: (sips his coffee) That’s one way to see it. But you could also say — that’s how the system was designed. Civil court isn’t criminal. You don’t go to jail if you lose your apartment.

Jeeny: (turns to him) But you lose your home. Sometimes your children’s safety, your future. Tell me that’s not a kind of prison.

Host: Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled as she wrapped them around her cup. Jack watched her, his expression cool, but a shadow of thought crossed his eyes — a flicker of memory, maybe.

Jack: I get your point, Jeeny, but look — the courts can’t afford to give every tenant an attorney. The system would collapse under the weight. Someone always gets the shorter end.

Jeeny: (sharply) Then maybe we’re measuring the wrong things. If a society can afford to build luxury condos that sit empty but can’t afford to give a tenant a lawyer, what does that say about what we value?

Jack: It says people value ownership. Risk and reward. Landlords take on risk — mortgages, maintenance, liability — so they get protection. Tenants rent. It’s a trade.

Jeeny: No, it’s a hierarchy. You think that because the law says it’s fair, it is? Jack, the law isn’t neutral — it reflects whoever wrote it.

Host: The rain outside had started again, smearing the lights into rivers of color across the window. A homeless man shuffled past, pulling a cart with a broken wheel. His shadow moved like a ghost across their table.

Jeeny: You remember that case in New York? 2017? The city finally passed a right-to-counsel law for tenants. Evictions dropped by nearly 40% in the first two years. That’s what happens when people can actually fight back.

Jack: Sure, but that’s New York. Billions in tax revenue. Try doing that in smaller cities — or rural counties. It’s not scalable.

Jeeny: (leans forward) You always talk about what’s “scalable,” Jack. But not what’s humane. You talk like a man who’s never had to choose between rent and dinner.

Jack: (his tone hardens) And you talk like a woman who believes compassion fixes everything. It doesn’t. The world runs on incentives. If every tenant had free legal aid, maybe landlords would just stop renting to anyone without perfect credit.

Jeeny: (coldly) So your solution is to keep the system cruel — because kindness might make it inconvenient?

Host: The din of the diner grew softer. Even the waitress wiping down the counter seemed to pause, as though the air between them had shifted.

Jack: (after a pause) Look, Jeeny. I’m not heartless. I’ve seen people lose everything. My mother — after my father died — she almost lost our house. The landlord was polite about it, but polite doesn’t mean merciful.

Jeeny: (softly) What saved her?

Jack: (hesitates) She… found a friend who loaned her the money. No lawyers. No court. Just luck and kindness.

Jeeny: (nodding) Exactly. Luck shouldn’t be what separates someone with a roof from someone sleeping in a car. That’s what Desmond meant. There’s a severe imbalance — one side plays chess with attorneys, and the other plays checkers with their lives.

Host: The word “imbalance” seemed to hang in the air like a verdict. Outside, the streetlight blinked, casting their faces into alternating bands of light and shadow — as if the city itself couldn’t decide which side it was on.

Jack: You want justice. I get that. But you can’t legislate equality of outcome.

Jeeny: No, but we can legislate equality of access. You can’t call it “justice” if one person comes armed and the other comes alone.

Jack: (leans back) You sound like you want to rewrite the whole system.

Jeeny: Maybe it needs rewriting. Matthew Desmond called housing “the mirror where poverty hides in plain sight.” You can’t fix poverty if you keep blaming the poor for drowning in a flood they didn’t start.

Jack: (bitterly) You think landlords are villains? Some of them barely make it too.

Jeeny: I don’t think they’re villains. I think they’re players in a game where the rules were written by the winners.

Host: Her words struck something in Jack — his eyes narrowed, but his shoulders seemed to sink, as if some invisible weight had finally settled there.

Jack: (after a long silence) You know… I once represented a landlord in court. A single mother — three kids, behind on rent for two months. The judge didn’t even look up. Five minutes. Evicted. The mother cried, the landlord shrugged, and I — I just packed my briefcase and left.

Jeeny: (quietly) Did it feel like justice?

Jack: (looking down) It felt like procedure.

Jeeny: And that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? Justice becomes a ritual — empty, efficient, bloodless.

Host: The rain hammered harder now, like fingers on drums, drowning out the hum of the refrigerator and the clatter of dishes. A flash of lightning lit the room, whitening their faces, and for a moment, neither spoke.

Jeeny: (softly) Sometimes I wonder what the law would look like if it were written by the ones who fear it most.

Jack: (smiles faintly) Probably a lot messier.

Jeeny: Maybe. But maybe fairer.

Jack: (sighs) I used to believe the law was a kind of armor — something that protected us from chaos. But now… I see it’s also a weapon. Depends on who’s holding it.

Jeeny: (nods) That’s all Desmond was saying. The imbalance isn’t just legal — it’s moral. It’s the imbalance between those who are heard and those who aren’t even invited to speak.

Host: The storm outside began to ease, the rain turning to a soft mist. Jack’s hand brushed against his coffee cup, the steam long gone, leaving only the cold taste of something that once gave warmth.

Jack: (quietly) So what do you think balances it, Jeeny? Lawyers for everyone? Free housing?

Jeeny: (shakes her head) No. Empathy. The kind that turns into policy. The kind that says: “Your struggle isn’t yours alone.”

Jack: (half-smiling) You make empathy sound like a revolution.

Jeeny: Maybe it is. Every revolution starts when someone decides another person’s pain matters.

Host: The neon sign outside buzzed, then flickered out, leaving only the soft light of the streetlamps filtering through the mist. For a moment, the diner felt like a sanctuary — two people against the whole architecture of indifference.

Jack: (after a long silence) Maybe I’ll take a tenant’s case someday. Pro bono. Just to see what it feels like on the other side of the aisle.

Jeeny: (smiling) Maybe then you’ll understand what Desmond meant — that justice isn’t about who wins, but who can afford to show up.

Host: The rain finally stopped. Outside, the pavement gleamed under the streetlights, a mirror to the city’s wounds and dreams. Jack and Jeeny stood, buttoning their coats, their faces reflected faintly in the glass — two figures caught between law and mercy, order and empathy.

As they stepped out, the door swung shut behind them, chiming softly — like the echo of a verdict yet to be written.