There is danger from all men. The only maxim of a free government

Host: The rain had been falling since morning, a steady gray curtain that blurred the city’s edges. Outside, the Capitol dome loomed in the distance — majestic, solemn, but half-swallowed by mist. Inside the old bar, the air was thick with smoke, whiskey, and the tired hum of men who spoke too loudly of freedom.

It was the kind of place where secrets came to drink.

Jack sat in the corner booth, his coat hanging heavy with rain. His hands were clasped around a half-empty glass, the amber light catching in his eyes like sparks on iron. Across from him, Jeeny watched him — calm, unblinking, her dark hair damp from the walk, her voice quiet but alive with conviction.

Jeeny: “John Adams once said, ‘There is danger from all men. The only maxim of a free government ought to be to trust no man living with power to endanger the public liberty.’ I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.”

Jack: (snorts softly) “Of course you have. You’re still idealistic enough to think liberty needs saving.”

Host: A waiter passed by, the clatter of dishes breaking the stillness for a moment. The TV above the bar flickered with muted images — a politician shaking hands, smiling too wide. Jack didn’t look up.

Jeeny: “Liberty always needs saving, Jack. That’s the curse of it. The moment we think we’re safe, we hand the keys over to someone who isn’t.”

Jack: “You sound like Adams himself — suspicious of everyone. You think freedom survives on paranoia?”

Jeeny: “No. It survives on vigilance. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Vigilance is just a polite word for distrust. Adams didn’t say ‘watch men in power’; he said ‘trust none of them.’ That’s cynicism dressed as wisdom.”

Host: The light from the hanging bulb above their table flickered, casting their faces in gold and shadow — hers soft and burning with moral clarity, his carved from skepticism and tired logic.

Jeeny: “Maybe cynicism was the price of knowing too much about people. He’d seen revolutions turn on their own children, monarchs crowned as saviors. He wasn’t cynical — he was experienced.”

Jack: “Experience teaches you one thing: power corrupts. But fear of power corrupts, too. You build walls around your ideals, and one day, you can’t see the people outside them anymore.”

Jeeny: “And you? You’d rather trust the wolves because the fences make you uncomfortable?”

Jack: (smirks) “I’d rather live among wolves knowing what they are than among shepherds pretending to be saints.”

Host: The bartender turned up the radio, a burst of static cutting through the murmur of conversation. A voice spoke faintly of a new scandal — another man in office, another betrayal of the public trust. Jeeny’s gaze didn’t waver.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why Adams was right. Give anyone too much power, and liberty begins to rot from the inside. Every tyranny in history started with good intentions.”

Jack: “And every revolution started with someone claiming moral purity. Power corrupts, yes, but righteousness blinds. You can’t govern by distrust — it eats itself alive.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You govern by accountability. Distrust isn’t the absence of faith; it’s the structure that protects it. The founders didn’t trust each other — that’s why they built checks and balances. They understood human nature.”

Jack: “Human nature — that’s your problem. You talk about it like it’s a storm to be contained. But power isn’t always evil. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps chaos from swallowing order.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we shouldn’t build a system that relies on someone being good to keep it from falling apart.”

Host: Her voice cut through the smoke like a blade. A few men at the bar turned to glance their way, curious, half-listening. Jack leaned back, his jaw tight, his eyes glinting in the dim light.

Jack: “So, what — you want anarchy? No trust, no leaders, just suspicion in every direction? That’s not freedom, Jeeny. That’s exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s responsibility. Freedom without responsibility is just indulgence. A republic isn’t built on faith in men — it’s built on restraint of them.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, its rhythm steady, relentless, like the ticking of some invisible clock counting down. The windowpane trembled slightly with the wind.

Jack: “You really think that’s how we survive? By assuming the worst in everyone?”

Jeeny: “By remembering the worst is possible. Adams wasn’t telling us to fear men; he was telling us to remember what they’re capable of.”

Jack: “That kind of thinking turns governance into warfare.”

Jeeny: “And your kind of thinking turns it into worship.”

Host: Silence fell. Heavy. Honest. The kind of silence that draws breath between two people who love truth more than comfort.

Jack looked at her then — really looked. The faint glow of the bar light caught the rain still clinging to her hair, each drop a small, glinting truth.

Jack: (quietly) “You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

Jeeny: “I trust people to be human. And that’s enough.”

Jack: “You’d make a terrible politician.”

Jeeny: “Good. We’ve got enough of the other kind.”

Host: The bar door creaked open. A gust of cold air swept through, carrying with it the smell of wet pavement and the distant hum of sirens. The TV above them flashed headlines about corruption, public outrage, a new investigation.

Jack glanced up, then back at her.

Jack: “You think it ever changes? All this — the cycle of power and betrayal?”

Jeeny: “No. But every generation gets to decide how much of their soul they’ll trade for comfort. Adams knew that. He wasn’t telling us to hate power — just to never kneel to it.”

Host: The rain softened again, the sound turning tender against the glass. Jeeny leaned back, her eyes distant now, thoughtful. Jack followed her gaze — to the Capitol, faint and blurred in the distance, its lights still burning through the storm.

Jack: “Maybe the real danger isn’t power itself. Maybe it’s forgetting we gave it away in the first place.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Liberty dies not with a bang, but with a signature.”

Host: The last of their whiskey glowed amber in the low light. The clock above the bar struck midnight — quiet, deliberate, as though time itself had joined their argument.

Jack raised his glass slightly, half in irony, half in resignation.

Jack: “To distrust, then. The last defense of a free soul.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “To vigilance — the act of loving freedom enough to question it.”

Host: Their glasses clinked, a small sound against the storm. Outside, the Capitol’s reflection trembled in the puddles, the lines of its image fractured but still standing — fragile, enduring.

And as the rain eased into a soft, forgiving drizzle, the two of them sat in silence, watching the lights of power through glass, knowing that even faith in freedom was only safe so long as it was never blind.

For in that storm of history and human nature, both had come to understand what Adams meant — that liberty doesn’t live in trust, nor in fear, but in the restless courage to never stop questioning.