The Greater Part of the Law

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

In university,
they speak of justice
in Latin—
res ipsa loquitur,
caveat emptor,
as if truth itself
could be summoned
by incantation.

They hand out codals
like sacred texts,
expect you to memorize
every article
as though the world runs
on order alone.
But they do not say
that the greater part of the law
is learning to sit still
while someone mangles logic
with the confidence
of a man who’s never been told no.

There is no elective
on listening to fools
and nodding politely—
when you want to scream
that facts are not feelings,
that a loud voice
is not the same
as being right.

They do not prepare you
for the hearings that drag
longer than the lunch breaks,
or the judge who yawns
as you speak.
They don’t warn you
about clients who ask
for miracles,
or the colleague who jokes
that you’re too idealistic
for this line of work.

The greater part of the law
is not won in debate,
but in the waiting—
in the moments
you swallow pride
like a bitter pill,
and still keep showing up
with your spine unbent
and your shoes polished.

This is what the books
never taught:
that the courtroom is not
a cathedral,
but a market—
loud, flawed, full of barter.
And yet,
you enter anyway,
carrying the hope
that truth,
even limping,
can still
cross the floor.