The function of the law is not to provide justice or to preserve

Host: The courtroom was long abandoned now — its benches covered in dust, its windows cracked with time. The smell of old wood and memory hung in the air, a faint echo of arguments long concluded, of verdicts already forgotten. Outside, the rain poured steadily, streaking the windows like tears that had outlived the eyes that shed them.

The American flag still stood in the corner — faded, frayed at the edges. The scales of justice, mounted above the judge’s bench, leaned ever so slightly to one side, as if time itself had declared a bias.

Jack stood near the defense table, his coat collar up, his hands shoved into his pockets. He stared at the empty chair where witnesses once sat — where lies had dressed themselves as truth.

Jeeny was seated at the plaintiff’s table, papers scattered before her though there was no trial left to fight. Her eyes, deep and steady, carried that rare kind of faith that even disappointment can’t extinguish.

Between them, scrawled on an old legal pad in a sharp, tired hand, were the words of Gerry Spence:

“The function of the law is not to provide justice or to preserve freedom. The function of the law is to keep those who hold power, in power.”

Jeeny: (softly, reading the words aloud) “So that’s it, then. The law isn’t a guardian — it’s a gatekeeper.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Exactly. People like to think justice is blind. Truth is, she’s not blind — she just doesn’t look down. She sees the ones at the top clearly enough.”

Host: His voice reverberated off the marble walls, low and cutting. The rain outside grew heavier, hammering the roof like a gavel from above.

Jeeny: “You really believe that? That law — all of it — is just a puppet for power?”

Jack: (turns toward her) “You ever seen a poor man win against a corporation? Or a protester get acquitted while a senator walks free? Law doesn’t serve the people; it manages them. It’s the leash disguised as liberty.”

Jeeny: (rising, with quiet fire) “That’s cynical, Jack. Yes, law can be twisted. Yes, it’s built by those who already have power. But it’s also what stops chaos. It’s what lets us speak, march, protest — even criticize it.”

Jack: (mocking smile) “Until they decide it doesn’t. You think the law protects you because you obey it. But it only protects you as long as you’re useful. Step out of line, and you’ll see whose justice it really is.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the room. The shadows of the two stretched long across the floor — opposing, intersecting, inseparable.

Jeeny: “Then what’s the alternative? Anarchy? Mob rule? You talk like power is permanent, but every empire that wrote its own laws eventually fell under them.”

Jack: “And every revolution became the next tyrant. You think the French Revolution ended power? It just changed the faces wearing the crowns. The guillotine didn’t free the people — it just got new owners.”

Jeeny: (her voice soft but fierce) “Maybe. But for a moment — for a moment — it gave them hope. Isn’t that something?”

Jack: “Hope’s the first drug they feed you before control. It keeps you obedient while they sharpen the knives.”

Host: The clock above the bench ticked faintly, though no one had wound it in years. It was the kind of sound that mocked time itself — the illusion of progress, repeating endlessly in the same circle.

Jeeny: “You don’t think law ever serves justice?”

Jack: “Justice isn’t law, Jeeny. Justice is a feeling. A fire. Law is the brick wall they build around it to keep it from spreading.”

Jeeny: “But without law, that fire burns everything.”

Jack: “Better ash than chains.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And what of those who burn with it? The innocent? The children? Would you sacrifice them too, just to see the walls fall?”

Jack: (pauses — voice low) “I’d rather see the truth, no matter how much it costs.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’ve forgotten what the cost means.”

Host: The rain subsided to a whisper. The room was heavy with the silence of all that had been said and all that never could be. Jeeny walked toward the witness stand, tracing her fingers along the polished wood.

Jeeny: “You know, my mother used to say that laws are like rivers. They’re not always clean, and they don’t always run straight, but they carry the world forward. Without them, everything dries up.”

Jack: (approaching her) “And what happens when the river’s poisoned at the source? Do you keep drinking it because you’re afraid of thirst?”

Jeeny: (turns to face him) “No. You clean it. You fight for it. You make it better — drop by drop.”

Jack: “That’s idealism.”

Jeeny: “That’s survival.”

Host: The light from the broken skylight fell across her face — sharp, unwavering, like the flame of belief that refuses to go out.

Jack stopped a few feet from her, his expression softening, not from defeat but from the ache of understanding.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe I envy you.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because you still believe the system can be redeemed.”

Jeeny: “And you don’t?”

Jack: (after a pause) “No. I believe people can. Just not systems. Power always rewrites morality in its own handwriting.”

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) “Then maybe the trick is to keep rewriting it back.”

Host: The storm had passed. Through the cracked skylight, a pale beam of moonlight cut through the darkness, landing perfectly on the old scales of justice above the judge’s bench.

The two stood beneath it — their silhouettes framed by the faint shimmer of balance long lost, yet still symbolically standing.

Jeeny: (softly, as if to herself) “Maybe law was never meant to deliver justice. Maybe it was meant to remind us that we must.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “And maybe knowing that — is the only justice we’ll ever get.”

Host: Outside, the rain began again, softer this time — not like judgment, but like renewal.

The courtroom seemed to breathe once more, its old air moving gently through the rafters, as if listening, as if remembering.

Jeeny: “You think power always wins, Jack?”

Jack: (glances at her, almost smiling) “Power always wins — until it sleeps. Then people like you wake it up.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the law isn’t a wall after all. Maybe it’s a mirror. It shows us who’s really holding the pen.”

Jack: (nods) “And who dares to take it back.”

Host: The camera would linger now, drifting upward through the cracked ceiling toward the night sky — where the moon, silver and defiant, shone through the storm clouds.

Below, two small figures stood in the ruins of a courtroom, surrounded by echoes of verdicts and vows.

And for a fleeting moment, it was unclear which was stronger —
the law that preserved power,
or the human spirit still daring to question it.

The light dimmed, the sound of rain softened — and somewhere, beneath the quiet, a gavel fell once more.

Not in judgment,
but in reminder.