When the icebreaker “What’s your favorite movie?” comes up, I’ve found myself drawn to explaining why “To Kill a Mockingbird” is mine. It’s old-timey and pleasant on the eyes, yes, with its black and white hue, old-fashioned clothes and a full array of vintage townsfolk interactions.
But more than anything, the movie captures the heart of the book. It’s a courtroom drama through the lens of a child. A sort of naïveté in the face of grave injustice.
“Scout, your father’s passing,” Jem tells his sleepy sister.
I remember it vividly, my first interaction with Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird.” The breeze rushed into my hammock swing. The sun beamed down overhead, and in the shadows of the house, I hung in that turquoise swing, carried away into the story before my eyes. Perhaps it was the simplicity and innocence of the dear children’s lives with the hues of persuasive powers of Harper Lee’s penmanship.
I found myself walking in Scout’s shoes and living her tomboyish life with her brother and her father among the breezy trees, weed picked flower gardens and topsy turvy houses on the streets of Maycomb, Alabama. It was the jokes, the adventures, the lessons on empathy and the sweaty courtroom arguments. It was Atticus Finch, firm and gentle all in one man, always knowing how to respond and speak up for justice.
Atticus Finch seemed to always know what to say. His words had power inside and outside the courtroom. And when he didn’t know just what to say, it was Scout and Jem, Atticus’ children, who innocently helped, disbanding the mob outside of the jail by calling out individuals.
I’ve been pondering recently how words carry deep meaning and why we use the words we do. Well, of course words have meaning. But sometimes words make the difference between life and death. A true friend’s words mean comfort and challenge. Quarrelsome words mean strife. The mother’s words have power to soothe the angry baby. And the court’s word has power over a man’s life.
The courtroom drama is an interesting genre for this reason. It’s a war without the guts. Stories such as “12 Angry Men,” “A Few Good Men” and “Just Mercy” reach climaxes of sweaty men arguing in each other’s faces for justice. The dramatic cross-examination is just like a battle scene from “Gladiator,” without spears and blood. Wits replace axes. Questions replace shields. And we as audience members find it justifiable for men to angrily vent, scream and bluntly, harshly call things as they are.
Take Col. Jessep and Lt. Kaffee from “A Few Good Men.”
“I want the truth!” Lt. Kaffee yells, sweat dripping down his forehead.
“You can’t handle the truth!” Jessep screams, venting frustration on the courtroom.
But the truth always comes out, and we sit in our jury seat comfortable at home judging which way the verdict should be voted.
But are courtrooms really this exciting and glamorous? What appeals to us about such stories of fighting for justice?
My grandparents and I used to watch “Jeopardy” together, and we would yell out answers to the TV screen as if we were the experts. And when football season ensues, many a fan is known to yell at the pinstriped referees from their coach.
But coming up with the answers comfortably in a living room is easier than standing on a podium, all eyes on you. Think fast! Speak fast! Speak truth! Real life obviously is not like our living room TV experiences, even if it is easier to judge when the pressure is not on us.
But we still love the courtroom drama.
In “12 Angry Men,” 12 jurors angrily argue with each other over the facts of a case of murder. Every man walks into the room with his own personal story and level of investment in the case. One man, Juror Eight, reasons with 11 men, persuading each man to reconsider different parts of the story in court.
Juror Eight’s ruthless pursuit of truth reveals where all 12 men’s priorities lie. One man brings his logic, another brings his impatience, another brings his marketing skills. Some bring their prejudices, others come ready to reason.
In the room of 12, Juror Eight makes a compassionate, compelling case for a reasonable doubt. His words were minced; his mind was sharp. Juror Eight knew a few things about the world. In fact, I made a list, so that I could learn to become as compassionately persuasive as him.
- Everyone has a reason for what they believe, even if it’s foolish.
- Persuasion means you listen first. James 1:19.
- Thinking critically takes time, asking good questions, and reasoning with others.
The movie is not realistic. But that’s not the point. The drama portrays an idealistic situation where a heroically logical man with the perfect amount of reasonable doubt perfectly persuades his fellow jurors.
What legal situation ever plays out so seamlessly?
But I do wish I was as persuasively witty and passionately hungry for the truth as Juror Eight.
Maybe this is why we love legal dramas. They achieve something we’ve been longing for in the court system. The piles of paperwork and unproductive court trials, the injustice we are angered by, the bad lawyer all create headaches in real mundane life. It’s pleasant to see justice achieved and truth sought after so passionately by faithful, empathetic lawyers.
Even if they are unrealistic, I will gladly watch a courtroom drama for the satisfaction of a good disagreement. The jury box may not be as tidy and dramatic as “12 Angry Men” makes it out to be, and the courtroom may not be as intense as “A Few Good Men” shows. Most lawyers may not be like Atticus Finch. But it’s worth learning the art of persuasion from quality characters because words do in fact have meaning.
