Structuring a Closing Argument Like a One-Act Play
The difference between a good closing argument and a forgettable one is the same difference between a standing ovation and a bored cough in row B: structure.
Not evidence. Not emotion.
Structure.
Because whether you’re pleading for justice or staging a one-act in a black box theatre with three working lights and a prop gavel from Amazon, the human brain wants a story. Not a spreadsheet. Not a PowerPoint.
A story.
And if you think storytelling has no place in the courtroom, I invite you to observe any jury deliberation and count how many times someone starts a sentence with:
“I just felt like she was being honest when she said…”
or
“I didn’t buy his story. Something didn’t line up.”
Lawyers aren’t just advocates.
We’re playwrights with a filing deadline.
ACT I: EXPOSITION (a.k.a. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury…”)
We begin with tone. Rhythm. A promise.
No one wants to hear you say, “Let’s walk through the evidence.”
That’s an insurance seminar.
Start with a beat.
Maybe it’s the first lie. Maybe it’s the moment the plaintiff’s life split open like a windshield under impact.
Maybe it’s a question:
“What would you do if your Tuesday morning turned into your worst day… and no one believed you?”
You are not giving a lecture.
You are building the world in which this case takes place.
Time, place, stakes.
No dragons, just depositions. But the drama is the same.
RISING ACTION: BUILDING THE CASE, NOT JUST REPEATING IT
Now you climb. Brick by brick. Scene by scene.
- You call back the testimony of the treating physician.
- You reveal the inconsistencies in the defense expert’s report.
- You remind the jury that the defendant “didn’t recall” nearly 14 separate things – but somehow perfectly remembered the one fact that exonerates them.
This isn’t recitation. It’s choreography.
Each point tightens the thread.
Each callback is a spotlight.
And somewhere around page 5, you see the first juror nod.
The others shift forward.
That’s pacing. That’s tempo. That’s the smell of belief taking root.
THE CLIMAX (Page 7. Mark it. Own it.)
This is the moment you stop talking about what happened and start talking about what it means.
“He didn’t just ignore the stop sign. He ignored the rules we all agree to follow.”
“She didn’t just fall. She was failed – by a company that cared more about cost than safety.”
This is your moment of reckoning.
Your “look them in the eyes and tell them it doesn’t matter” beat.
You don’t scream.
You declare.
Measured. Final. Inevitable.
“Your Honor, the climax is on page 7. Weep accordingly.”
FALLING ACTION: THE VERDICT BEGINS HERE
Don’t meander. Don’t keep trying to punch after the knockout.
Instead, give the jury back their role in the story:
“You are the final chapter. You decide how this ends.”
You empower them. You invite them.
You let silence do some of the talking.
Because just like in theatre, a good pause can hit harder than any monologue.
RESOLUTION: THE ASK, AND THE RELEASE
Close with clarity. With courage. With symmetry.
If you began with the moment the plaintiff’s life changed, end with the moment the jury can change it again.
If you posed a question, now offer the answer.
If you built tension, now allow peace.
“Today, you have the power to say: this wasn’t okay. And that it matters.”
Curtain.
They don’t clap.
But sometimes they cry.
Sometimes they look away because it hit too close.
And sometimes, they walk into that deliberation room already writing the final line.
“We find for the plaintiff.”
Epilogue
You don’t need jazz hands.
But you do need beats.
Because the courtroom and the theatre are sacred in the same way:
Both are places where strangers gather to decide what matters.
So next time you’re prepping a closing, don’t just think like a lawyer.
Think like a playwright on opening night.
Brian Brijbag 