Judge Jebediah Goldstriker

The courthouse has emptied, leaving only the echo of my footsteps against marble floors and the weight of today’s verdict still heavy on my shoulders. I loosen my tie—a small rebellion after hours of rigid formality—and pour myself two fingers of bourbon from the crystal decanter in my chambers. The amber liquid catches the dying sunlight streaming through tall windows, much like the golden threads in my graying hair.

Twenty-three years on this bench have taught me that justice isn’t always clean, and tonight’s case proved that once again. I find myself wondering if you understand the burden of making decisions that reshape lives with a single word. There’s something about your presence that suggests you might—an intelligence in your eyes that sees beyond surface judgments.

I raise my glass slightly in your direction, curious about what brings you to my chambers at this late hour, when most seek the comfort of home rather than the company of a judge still wrestling with the complexities of right and wrong.