The court makes an amazing amount of decisions that ought to be

Host: The city courthouse loomed like a fortress against the late afternoon sky, its marble columns catching the last orange light of day. The air was heavy with rain, the kind that teases before it falls — restless, electric, waiting for a reason to break. Inside, in a small coffee stand tucked near the courthouse steps, two figures sat across from each other: Jack and Jeeny.

Jack’s tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up, a folder of legal documents spread across the table. His grey eyes were cold steel, fixed on the headlines flashing across the muted TV above the counter — another controversial Supreme Court decision. Jeeny, sitting opposite him, stirred her tea slowly, her dark eyes deep with thought, watching the light flicker over his face.

The rain began to fall.

Jack: “There it is again. Nine people in robes making decisions for three hundred million. Tell me that doesn’t bother you.”

Jeeny: softly “It depends what the decision is.”

Jack: “That’s not the point. Antonin Scalia had it right — ‘The court makes an amazing amount of decisions that ought to be made by the people.’ Democracy isn’t supposed to be filtered through philosophy professors in black robes.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s supposed to protect people from the tyranny of the majority. Isn’t that the point of a Constitution? To keep our passions from burning down our own house?”

Jack: snorts “That’s the textbook answer. But look around — courts aren’t guarding the Constitution anymore. They’re writing it.”

Host: A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the windows, followed by the grumble of thunder that seemed to underscore Jack’s frustration. The coffee cups trembled slightly on the table. Jeeny’s voice was calm, but her eyes glimmered with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “You think the people always know better?”

Jack: “Not always. But that’s the risk you take in a democracy. The people should have the right to be wrong. When power moves too far from the people, freedom becomes performance art.”

Jeeny: “But what happens when the people’s will violates another’s rights? History’s full of moments when popular opinion was cruel. Jim Crow laws. The internment of Japanese-Americans. Sometimes the court has to rise above the crowd.”

Jack: leans forward “And who decides when it’s ‘rising above’ and when it’s overreaching? You trust nine unelected officials to define morality for a nation of millions?”

Jeeny: “I trust that law, at its best, should be conscience in action. And conscience sometimes needs guardians.”

Host: The rain intensified, beating against the glass with a rhythm that mirrored their argument — firm, insistent, unresolved. Jack’s jaw tightened, his hands clasping his coffee as if anchoring himself to something solid.

Jack: “Guardians become rulers. That’s how republics die — not from invasion, but from delegation. When people stop believing their vote matters, they stop caring. And when they stop caring, power consolidates. Always.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve memorized every Federalist Paper ever written.”

Jack: half-smiling “Maybe I have.”

Jeeny: “Then you know that Madison also said democracy alone can’t survive without virtue. And virtue doesn’t come from the crowd; it comes from moral clarity — from people willing to stand against the majority when the majority’s wrong.”

Jack: “Moral clarity? Or moral arrogance?”

Jeeny: “Moral courage.”

Host: Her words cut through the air like a blade wrapped in silk. Jack’s eyes flickered, not in anger, but in something like recognition — the sting of truth you don’t want to admit.

Jack: “So you’re saying we need philosopher-kings in robes?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying we need people who remember that justice isn’t a popularity contest.”

Jack: “And yet justice can’t survive if it’s detached from the will of the people. Law should reflect life — not hover above it.”

Jeeny: “But life changes faster than law. If we waited for every moral advance to win a vote, we’d still have segregated schools and child labor. Sometimes progress needs courage before consensus.”

Host: A pause. The rain softened, becoming a whisper against the window. In that quiet, the weight of her words lingered. Jack looked down at the legal briefs scattered before him — a stack of arguments written in sterile language about living lives, real people, real consequences.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what scares me, Jeeny. The more power we give to the court, the less responsibility we take ourselves. People stop fighting for justice because they think someone else will do it for them.”

Jeeny: “And maybe they fight because of the court — because someone had the courage to say, ‘This is wrong,’ when the crowd stayed silent.”

Jack: sharply “Courage without consent isn’t justice; it’s control.”

Jeeny: “And consent without conscience isn’t democracy; it’s chaos.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving behind a deep, resonant silence — the kind that feels heavier than sound. The neon signs outside flickered to life, reflecting on the wet pavement like blurred constellations.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was in college, I visited Selma. They still have the bridge where the marchers were beaten. Those protestors weren’t fighting the people — they were fighting the system the people created. Without courts to uphold what’s right, their courage might have died there.”

Jack: “And if the courts decide too much, courage never needs to exist at all. If everything’s settled from above, who stands up below?”

Jeeny: “Maybe we both want the same thing, Jack — accountability. You want it in the people; I want it in the principle.”

Jack: “Principles are only noble when people believe in them. Otherwise, they’re just ink on parchment.”

Host: A slow smile crossed Jeeny’s face, tender and sad, like someone hearing a melody they’ve always known but forgotten the words to. The sound of distant thunder rumbled softly, far enough to feel safe, close enough to remind them it still existed.

Jeeny: “Maybe the court and the people are like that thunder and rain — one warns, one nourishes. Both can destroy if they forget what they’re for.”

Jack: sighs “You always find poetry in places I only find arguments.”

Jeeny: “Because poetry is what remains when the arguments are over.”

Jack: quietly, after a long pause “Scalia said too many decisions belong to the people. Maybe he was right. But maybe he forgot something too.”

Jeeny: “What’s that?”

Jack: “That sometimes, the people are the court — just spread out over time. Every ruling starts as someone’s dream, someone’s protest, someone’s pain. Maybe it’s not them or us. Maybe it’s both.”

Host: The light from the street spilled across the table, catching the faint steam from their cups. Jeeny reached for her coat, her movements slow, deliberate.

Jeeny: “So maybe the balance isn’t in who decides — the court or the people — but in how much each remembers the other.”

Jack: nodding “Yeah. Judges need to remember they serve the people. And the people need to remember justice isn’t just an opinion.”

Jeeny: “And democracy isn’t just noise.”

Host: They both stood, the rain-slicked world outside glowing beneath streetlights. Jack closed his folder, the sharp snap of paper echoing like a final gavel.

For a moment, neither spoke. They simply watched the courthouse across the street — its columns towering, solemn, ancient — and yet, somehow, alive.

Jeeny: softly “You know, maybe that’s the miracle of this messy system. The court, the people — we’re all just trying to hold the line between order and freedom.”

Jack: “And hoping neither side forgets the other exists.”

Host: They stepped out into the night together. The air smelled of rain and stone. The courthouse lights shimmered behind them like the watchful eyes of history — neither condemning nor forgiving, only witnessing.

As they walked away, their reflections merged briefly in a puddle — two halves of a single argument, one heart divided by reason and faith, law and life.

And somewhere in the distance, the rain began again — steady, patient, democratic — falling equally on everyone.