The best way to make money is to have more economic freedom

Host: The sun had slipped behind the steel skyline, leaving the city in a glow of amber reflections. Through the glass wall of the office tower, the streets below looked like veins of light, alive with the hum of commerce and human ambition. The air inside smelled faintly of paper, coffee, and expensive exhaustion.

Jack stood by the window, his hands in his pockets, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie hanging loose like a flag of defeat. Jeeny sat across a mahogany table, surrounded by spreadsheets, charts, and the faint buzz of a computer screen that hadn’t gone to sleep in hours.

On the wall behind her, a plaque read: “Innovation Through Freedom.”

The clock ticked softly.

Jeeny: “Charles Koch said it best — ‘The best way to make money is to have more economic freedom.’”
She glanced up, her eyes steady, her voice calm. “He’s right, Jack. The freer the market, the more people thrive. That’s how progress happens.”

Jack: “Progress for who?” He turned from the window, his grey eyes catching the city lights. “For the ones already standing on the high ground, maybe. Freedom means something different when you’re not chained to debt.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair. Economic freedom doesn’t belong to the rich. It’s about opportunity — about removing barriers so everyone can rise.”

Jack: “You talk like barriers are accidents. They’re not. They’re design.”

Host: The room’s light shifted as the sun fully vanished, the city now a sea of neon veins and mirrored towers. The air between them tightened, charged not by anger, but by the slow electricity of conviction.

Jeeny: “Come on, Jack. Look at history. Every time markets opened up, people prospered — Hong Kong in the 60s, Eastern Europe after the fall of the Wall. Economic freedom creates wealth, and wealth creates dignity.”

Jack: “Tell that to the miners in Appalachia, or the factory workers in Dhaka. They have freedom, alright — freedom to starve if they stop working. You call that dignity?”

Jeeny: “No system is perfect. But the alternative — control, regulation, bureaucracy — that kills innovation. Look at what happened to Venezuela, to the Soviet Union.”

Jack: “And look at what happened to 2008 — to Lehman Brothers, to millions who lost their homes while the ‘free’ market devoured itself. Don’t quote collapse as freedom.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her pen, the metal click echoing in the room. Jack’s voice was low, but every word carried weight, like the sound of chains breaking — or forging.

Jeeny: “You can’t build prosperity on resentment, Jack. People need the chance to act, to create, to risk. Koch was right — freedom is fuel. It’s how we build industries, art, progress.”

Jack: “Freedom isn’t fuel, Jeeny. It’s fire. And fire consumes if no one controls it. Unchecked, it burns forests — not just warms homes.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather cage the fire than teach people how to use it?”

Jack: “No. I’d rather stop pretending the cage doesn’t exist. Economic freedom sounds noble — until it’s your lungs filling with smoke from someone else’s factory.”

Host: The wind outside pressed against the glass, a deep, low moan like the breath of the city itself. Jeeny stood, crossing her arms, her reflection in the window merging with Jack’s — two shadows, overlapping yet separate.

Jeeny: “You sound like you don’t believe in progress.”

Jack: “I believe in people, not profit margins.”

Jeeny: “That’s idealistic. Without profit, there’s no growth, no investment, no jobs.”

Jack: “And without restraint, there’s no conscience. You think Koch fights for freedom because he loves humanity? No — because freedom makes him richer. And he’s smart enough to dress it up as virtue.”

Jeeny: “You’re twisting it. He’s arguing for a principle — that people, not governments, should choose how they live, spend, and work.”

Jack: “But not all choices are equal, Jeeny. When one person’s freedom means another’s servitude, that’s not liberty. That’s hierarchy with better marketing.”

Host: The room had grown darker, lit now only by the city outside. Each tower shimmered like a monument to ambition — glass spires in a landscape of invisible hands. A helicopter’s shadow drifted across the window, a fleeting symbol of movement — upward, unreachable.

Jeeny: “You think I don’t see the flaws? I do. But control kills spirit. Give people freedom, and you give them responsibility — the chance to fail and to rise again. My father built his business from nothing. No subsidies, no favors, just risk and grit.”

Jack: “And how many fathers lost everything trying the same? The system praises winners, buries losers, and calls it meritocracy.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the alternative, Jack? Government planning? Redistribution? Someone deciding who deserves what? That’s not fairness — that’s dependency.”

Jack: “No. That’s balance. Because without balance, freedom just becomes another word for permission to take more.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer, her eyes fierce, reflecting the lights of the city — tiny fires burning inside them. Jack didn’t move, but his expression softened, the cynicism in his eyes giving way to weariness, the kind that comes from knowing the truth but wishing it weren’t true.

Jeeny: “You think freedom is the problem. I think it’s the solution. Look at us — sitting in this office, debating without fear. That’s freedom, Jack. That’s wealth too — just not in dollars.”

Jack: “You’re right. But you know why we can afford to debate? Because someone else is out there cleaning the glass, making the coffee, taking the late shift at the warehouse. Their freedom doesn’t look like this room.”

Jeeny: “Then our job is to widen the room — not shrink it.”

Jack: “Maybe. But sometimes, to widen it, you have to change the architecture — not just build more windows.”

Host: A silence settled — thick, reflective, human. The clock ticked, and in its sound was a strange peace. Outside, the lights of the city flickered, one by one, like stars surrendering to dawn.

Jeeny: “You know, when Koch said that, I don’t think he meant greed. He meant possibility — that freedom is the soil where creation grows.”

Jack: “And I don’t think you’re wrong. But soil also needs care — or it turns to dust. Freedom without fairness doesn’t grow; it erodes.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not about choosing between freedom and fairness. Maybe it’s about remembering they can’t live without each other.”

Jack: (quietly) “Like oxygen and flame.”

Host: The first light of morning broke through the skyline, gold and thin, falling across their faces. Jeeny closed her laptop, smiled faintly, and looked out at the city below — the endless movement, the silent prayers of millions chasing one fragile idea: a better life.

Jack watched her, then nodded slowly, his eyes softening into something like understanding.

Jeeny: “Maybe economic freedom is just another word for hope — dangerous, imperfect, but necessary.”

Jack: “And maybe hope, like the market, only survives when someone’s willing to question it.”

Host: The office filled with the quiet hum of daybreak. The city below stirred, its engines and hearts igniting. Between them, the sunlight cut a clean line across the table — dividing and uniting, like all human things.

And in that light, freedom no longer looked like a slogan, but a living paradox — both risk and redemption, both flame and fuel, still burning, still beating, still ours to define.