"PRISON BREAK" (Untitled Prison Break Project) One Hour Pilot Written by Paul T. Scheuring 2ND DRAFT 5 December 03 EPISODE ONE - "The New Fish" TEASER INT. TATTOO PARLOR - NIGHT TIGHT ON the face of MICHAEL SCOFIELD, 26, grimacing like hell. There's buzzing off-screen. Incessant. Widen. A TATTOO ARTIST sits beside him, the tattoo gun in his hand working methodically. We don't get a real good look at the tattoo, but one thing is evident--tattoos cover the whole of Michael's arms and torso, like something out of Ray Bradbury's "Illustrated Man". The Tattoo Artist finishes up, surveys his work. TATTOO ARTIST Can I just, you know, look at it for a minute? Michael nods. The Tattoo Artist looks at his work with awe. Michael can see the Pygmalian sort of reverence there, nods: MICHAEL You're an artist, Sid. TATTOO ARTIST You're telling me you're just gonna walk out of here and I'm never gonna see it again? MICHAEL There's a good chance of that, yeah. TATTOO ARTIST Most guys, you know, for the first one, they start with somethin' small. 'Mom', girlfriend's initials, somethin like that. Not you. You get the full set of sleeves, all in a couple a weeks. Takes guys a few years to get the ink you got. MICHAEL I don't have a few years. He pulls on his shirt. Sets a wad of cash on the counter. MICHAEL Wish to hell I did, though. He smiles, walks out. INT. CONDOMINIUM - NIGHT High rent district. CAMERA tracks across NEWSPAPER CLIPPINGS, plastered on every available vertical surface. A random, non-related hodge-podge of topics: Scientists Close In On Trigger Of Insulin Resistance. Informant Crucial Piece of Prosecution's Case Against Abruzzi. Governor's Daughter Wins Humanitarian Award. Posterity is not the motive in this avalanche of information. Obsession is. Camera moves to the cluttered desk below, to the stacks of books there--Criminal Law, Who's Who in the Virginia Legal System, the 2001 Trinity College Yearbook--then onto prescription bottles of an obscure compound called PUGNAc. The camera comes to a halt, and holds for a moment, on a single and very complex ORIGAMI SWAN. In the b.g., Michael enters. He crosses to the clippings, begins pulling them from the wall, trashing them. The files on his computer are next. Scores of them, being deleted by the mouse click. He pauses. Way too many files. Way too much information. He flips open the computer's shell, YANKS OUT-- EXT. BANKS OF THE POTOMAC - DAY --THE HARD DRIVE. In Michael's hand now as he stands by the banks of the Potomac, gazing at the swiftly moving current. He shakes his head slightly, smiles a self-admonishing smile, like a man about to engage in activities he knows full well are perilous and not at all smart. The nervous energy of a man about to jump out of an airplane, or climb Everest, or ski K2. The kind of smile a man unfurls in front of a firing squad, because there's nothing else you can do. If there is one thing unique in Michael Scofield it is that smile. That firing squad smile. MICHAEL (quietly; to himself) You can still turn back. A long beat. He tosses the hard drive into the river, heads back toward his shiny new BMW idling at the curb. Over this we hear SHRIEKS and WAILS. SHOCK CUT TO-- INT. BANK - DAY The terrified face of a TELLER, pressed against the counter. The Customers are on the floor. Lording over all of them is Michael, a .38 in his hand, Dog Day Afternoon 30 years later. Cradled under his arm, a grocery sack full of cash. MICHAEL The vault! Open it! TELLER We can't, sir. The branch manager's not here-- MICHAEL Where is he?! TELLER Across the street, sir. At White Castle. Michael looks out the window. To White Castle across the way. He checks his watch. Rolls his eyes. Jesus Christ. HE UNLOADS THE PISTOL INTO THE CEILING. Everyone flinches. MICHAEL Well go get him, goddammit! TELLER I...I mean you've already got over half a million in cash there, sir... don't you think maybe it'd be better-- They're interrupted by the thump of HELICOPTER ROTORS overhead, then TIRES skidding up on the sidewalk outside. A SWAT TEAM pours out of 3 different vans outside, begins taking up position. One very long and pregnant beat of silence ensues. Things suddenly aren't looking so good. Michael lets out a long breath. A grateful sigh? He lowers the pistol and bag to the floor, slowly raises his hands, and walks toward the blinding light outside... END TEASER ACT ONE The JUDGE eyes Michael from the bench. JUDGE No contest. You're sure about this, Mr. Scofield. MICHAEL I'm sure, your honor. His lawyer stands up beside him, mortified. VERONICA DONOVAN, 28, beautiful, razor-sharp, the whole bit. VERONICA Your honor. We'd like to recess if we could. Michael's a bit confused at the moment-- MICHAEL I'm not, your honor. VERONICA He is, your honor. Chuckles and whispers ripple through the gallery. The Judge considers Michael and Veronica for a moment. JUDGE Ultimately the decision rests with the defendant. Perhaps you should heed your representation's advice, take some additional time to properly consider your response. MICHAEL I've already done that, your honor. Veronica looks at him, aghast. Michael looks back over his shoulder, meets eyes with someone in the gallery he didn't anticipate being there. LJ, a handsome kid of 15. JUDGE This court isn't known for granting violent offenders--even first time ones like yourself--much leniency. You understand that, don't you? Michael looks back again at LJ, distracted. MICHAEL I do, your honor. The Judge digests it, nods. JUDGE I'll retire to my chambers to determine sentencing. Court's recessed until 1:30. He brings down the gavel with a CLACK. EXT. COURTHOUSE HALLWAY - DAY LJ heads for the exit. Michael catches up with him. MICHAEL LJ, wait. LJ stops, looks back at Michael. Anguish there. MICHAEL I didn't want you to come. I didn't want you to see this. LJ What, you thought you could just get locked away for a few years, and I wouldn't notice? I'm your nephew, man. What were you going to do? Send me a postcard? MICHAEL Look. I know I haven't done this right. But you gotta understand. I'm ashamed. All this...it's not me. You've got to believe that. LJ (shakes his head) Heard that before. MICHAEL It's gonna work out, LJ. The whole thing. I promise. LJ doesn't look even vaguely consoled. A long uncomfortable beat ensues. LJ I gotta go. He turns, heads for the exit. MICHAEL LJ-- LJ disappears out the revolving door. The SHERIFF'S DEPUTIES keep a wary eye on Michael. Veronica comes up a moment later. MICHAEL I didn't think it'd be this hard on him. VERONICA Can you blame him? He's getting the idea that anyone he attaches himself to is gonna end up in prison. She looks him in the eye. VERONICA It's not just him that's starting to feel that way, Michael. EXT. COURTYARD - DAY Veronica studies Michael's face. VERONICA Don't you understand? You put the book in this guy's hand, he's gonna lob it at you like a hand grenade. No contest means nothing to him. You put up the white flag, he's gonna use you as target practice. This guy's so far to the right that rehabilitation's not even in his vocabulary. Justice and punishment are the same thing to him. MICHAEL I know. VERONICA Then will you please tell me what's going through your head? MICHAEL We've been over this. VERONICA Come on. You've never even paid a parking ticket late. Hell, you've probably never even gotten one. MICHAEL You'd be surprised. VERONICA I can't sleep, Michael. This whole thing--the prospect of you going to prison--it's got me sick. MICHAEL Look, you've got your own life to worry about now. My life's not for you to worry about anymore. VERONICA I can still care about you, can't I? Jesus Christ. Why won't you let me help you? Beat. MICHAEL You've been good to me. My whole life you have. But you've got to let me deal with this. Okay? INT. COURTHOUSE - DAY Tight on the Judge's face: JUDGE ...given your complete lack of prior criminal conduct, I am inclined toward probation. Veronica lets out a subtle sigh of relief. JUDGE However, there's one thing I cannot get past. The fact that you discharged a deadly weapon during the commission of the crime. That suggests malice to me, a preparedness to do bodily harm. For that reason, I feel it incumbent that you see the inside of a prison cell, Mr. Scofield. Michael absorbs the news solemnly. Veronica looks like she's the one receiving the sentence. JUDGE I find that recidivism rates are sharply lower when first time offenders--violent ones in particular-- are assigned to the higher level facilities. Tends to scare them straight, if I may be colloquial. He looks at the paperwork before him. Then: JUDGE It says here that you've requested through your attorney to be incarcerated somewhere near your home here in Arlington. Michael nods. JUDGE I'm willing to honor that. The closest level 5 facility to-- VERONICA Level 5? That's maximum security, your honor. JUDGE I would ask consul to refrain from interrupting me. Veronica sits back in her chair. Whispers to Michael: VERONICA We're appealing this. JUDGE As I was saying, Ms. Donovan, the closest Level 5 facility would be Wallens Ridge State Penitentiary. He puts the paperwork down, eyes Michael. JUDGE As for the term of your sentence, I'm setting it at five years. You'll be eligible for parole in half that time. Sentencing is to be carried out effective immediately. He drops the gavel with a CLACK. SHOCK CUT TO-- EXT. WALLENS RIDGE - DAY An aerial shot of Wallens Ridge State Penitentiary, an imposing fortress dominating a densely wooded ridge line. 30- foot cement walls, imposing gun towers, and fields of razor wire encircle the brand new facility. This isn't the big house. This is the huge house. INT. UNIT 5A - "THE FISH TANK" - DAY Receiving and Discharge. Michael looks down at his "state blue"--the official prison uniform of blue jeans, blue work shirt, and white sneakers--folded up neatly in his hands. Senior Correctional Officer BELLICK, 35, surveys Michael as he fills out his medical records on a clipboard. BELLICK Back number? Michael looks at the number stenciled on his state blue. MICHAEL 55241. BELLICK You a religious man, Scofield? MICHAEL Never really thought about it. BELLICK Good, 'cause the Ten Commandments don't mean a box of piss in here. We got two commandments and two only. First commandment is you got nothin' comin'. As long as you're in here, and you're thinkin' maybe you're wantin' to ask for something--extra roll of TP, conjugal visit, maybe a naked picture of your sister doing the shimmy, just remember Commandment number one: you got nothin' coming. Michael nods. Subtly amused. MICHAEL What's the second Commandment? BELLICK See Commandment number one. MICHAEL Gotcha. Bellick eyes Michael, the bemused expression. BELLICK You talkin' out of the side of your neck? MICHAEL Come again? BELLICK I said, you being a smart-ass? MICHAEL Boss, I'm just trying to fly low, avoid the radar. Do my time and get out. Bellick sneers; a GOLD-CAPPED TOOTH is visible. BELLICK There isn't any flying under my radar. Michael nods, slides the clipboard across to him. Then gathers his state blue and heads up the hallway. Bellick scans the clipboard and Michael's medical history. "TYPE I DIABETES" is scrawled there. Bellick nods to himself, then looks up at Michael's form as he diminished down the hallway. INT. 'A-WING' - DAY A sweeping slow shot introduces us to life on the inside--a hundred different stories unfolding within the cells on the 3 floors, dramas exposed to our voyeur eye in the fashion that Jimmy Stewart's neighbor's lives were In Rear Window. VOICE (O.S.) Cain't a brother get some A- condition'? It's hot as a crack ho's mouth up in here. VOICE #2 (O.S.) Plug it, fish. You're in the jackpot now. You ain't got nothin' comin'! Camera drifts up to a cell on the third floor, where-- INT. CELL - DAY Michael stands at the bars, gazing at the jungle out there, the PRISONERS milling about on the floor of A-wing below. His cell mate reclines on the bunk behind him. Meet FERNANDO SUCRE, 22, so handsome he could've been a cover boy for Teen magazine, if it weren't for all the liquor stores he couldn't help knocking over back in Queens. SUCRE Ain't no sense in bein' on your feet, fish. Heard they tossed a nickel at you. Michael nods, distracted. Something's going on below. Shouting, shit-talking between a group of men. SUCRE In here, my man, all we got to do is serve time. Ain't nobody gonna serve it for you. So I suggest you ease your seat back, kick up your feet, and enjoy the ride-- A PIERCING CRY OF PAIN BELOW. Sucre gets up, comes to the bars beside Michael. One of the inmates is down, gripping his stomach as everyone scatters. There's blood coursing between his fingers. WHISTLES echo up the wing from the central rotunda. CORRECTIONAL OFFICERS rush toward the scene a moment later. CORRECTIONAL OFFICER We need medical in A-Wing! Sucre smiles a wan smile, pats him on the shoulder. SUCRE Welcome to Prisneyland. He returns to his bunk, flips through his magazine again. But Michael lingers there at the bars, looking down at the fallen inmate, the knife wound in his stomach. Off the look of muted shock on his face, we CUT TO-- INT. VERONICA'S LOFT - NIGHT A high-end loft overlooking the Potomac. Veronica stands at the window, clad in a robe, a mug of tea in her hand, gazing out at the water. It's late, quiet as a graveyard. SEBASTIAN (O.S.) You wanna talk about it? She turns, looks up the spiral staircase to the loft above, where her fiancee, SEBASTIAN, 30, peers down at her. VERONICA It's not worth talking about. SEBASTIAN If it's keeping you up, it is. VERONICA It's just... it's nothing. You know. Michael's case. He takes a deep breath, sits down on the top step. SEBASTIAN You did the best you could. VERONICA But he didn't. SEBASTIAN What do you mean? VERONICA I don't know what I mean. He just sort of rolled over, didn't put up a fight. It's not like him. He shakes his head subtly. Michael. His favorite subject. VERONICA I'm sorry. I shouldn't be talking about him. SEBASTIAN Hey. If it's on your mind, it's on your mind. She looks at him. Don't be like that. He gets to his feet, heads back toward the bed. SEBASTIAN Whenever you're ready. He disappears from view. She returns her gaze to the Potomac. EXT. YARD - DAY If A-Wing is the jungle, then this place is the Serengeti: wide open spaces filled with predators of all size and shape. Sucre and Michael move through the yard. Sucre nods to the various race-delineated groups. SUCRE Trey Street Deuces got the hoops court, Nortenos got the handball, Woods got the weight pile, the Tribe's got the far corner... His eyes slowly go up to the GUN TOWER looming over them. There's a plexiglas enclosure there, within which sits SHOOTER, a C.O. whose M-16 is never too far from his hand, and whose amber-hued shooting glasses never leave his face. The shoot-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy. SUCRE And the C.O.s got the rest. Michael and Sucre take a seat in the bleachers. SUCRE Bellick and his boys...man, they're the dirtiest, cheatenest, drug- runningest gang in this whole place. only difference 'tween us and them is the badge. Michael looks up, meets eyes with Shooter. The corner of Shooter's lip curls slightly. Something unsettling in that. Sucre lights up a smoke, takes a long drag, nods. SUCRE Ah, the great outdoors. Fresh air. Nothin' like it, huh? Michael's eyes fall across a solitary man standing to their left. Peering out from within his overcoat is a CAT. We will know him later as 60-year-old EDWIN WESTMORELAND. MICHAEL Who's the pet lover? SUCRE That old head, right there, ain't none other than the legendary D.B. cooper. MICHAEL What? That guy that jumped out of the plane up in Washington? SUCRE Parachuted out of a 747 thirty years ago with a million and a half in cash. Waxed two guys in the process. Sitting behind a Life Without for it, too. MICHAEL Doesn't look like the type. SUCRE Who does? (looks up) Yo. What's up, C-Note? Michael looks up. C-NOTE, 23, stands there, all cornrows and pimp lean. He eyes Michael with suspicion. C-NOTE Whatchu doin' with this fish? SUCRE He's my new cellie. I'm layin' it down for him. Sucre looks at Michael, nods to C-Note. SUCRE This is my boy C-Note. Scrounger extraordinaire. Anything you want, he can get it: a little brown, bottle of Chivas, even a little love monkey, if that's your thing. Met him up in Rikers. Me and him did a deuce behind them bad walls. C-NOTE Man, you keep handin' out my jacket, I swear I'm gonna bust your grape. SUCRE You couldn't bust a grape in Napa with a set of cleats on. C-NOTE Listen to your big goat-smellin ass. Don't be actin' like you're about somethin' now-- As they go on, camera comes in on Michael's eyes. Tuning them out. Their voices fade and we're seeing the yard the way that he sees it--not as warring factions of cons, but rather as GEOMETRY--the drainage grates, arranged intermittently around the yard, forming a sort of grid. They line up, extend away in a diminishing row toward the INFIRMARY and ADMIN BUILDINGS beyond. The bickering between C-Note and Sucre fades back in. MICHAEL Listen...I was hoping you could help me with something. He looks back up at them. MICHAEL I'm looking for someone. Guy named Lincoln Burrows. Sucre and C-Note laugh. Funniest thing they ever heard. SUCRE Linc the Sink? MICHAEL That what they're calling him now? C-NOTE Yeah. As in he'll come at you with everything but the kitchen, dawg. MICHAEL Where can I find him? C-NOTE Trust me, whiteboy, of all the people that God dumped on this cold hard stone, Lincoln Burrows is the very last one you'd ever want to cross paths with. EXT. FAR SIDE OF THE YARD - DAY Sucre, C-Note and Michael stand along the chainlink. 100 yards away, visible through six sets of chainlink, is the CSU Yard (Capital Sentence Unit). Unlike Gen Pop, only four inmates are allowed out at a time. One of them is LINCOLN BURROWS, 32, all tats and wiry muscles. He moves around the track slowly, methodically. A caged lion. Michael's eyes never leave him. SUCRE Meanest mo in the whole place. Shotcaller for the Woods. Pipehitter like no other. C-NOTE Boy's lookin' at the chair behind a Murder One. Which means there ain't no one more dangerous inside these bad walls than him. 'Cause he's got nothin' to lose now. What're they gonna do? Kill him twice? MICHAEL There a way I can get to him? SUCRE They got his ass strained up tight. Only time those boys are getting out is for chapel and P.I. MICHAEL Chapel. SUCRE Yeah, you know. They all go. Even the ones that hate God. See it as a chance to stretch the legs. MICHAEL And P.I. What's that? SUCRE Prison Industry. He nods vaguely over the wall toward the FACTORY. SUCRE Guys over there that're Grade C--you know, the ones that play well with others--they get to work with gen pop. Make eyeglasses for the grannies all over this glorious country of ours. C-NOTE I wouldn't get your panties all in a bunch, fish. You ain't sniffin' none of P.I. MICHAEL Why's that? SUCRE Cause John Abruzzi runs it. MICHAEL John Abruzzi John Abruzzi? SUCRE (nods) John Abruzzi John Abruzzi. C-Note surveys Michael for a moment. C-NOTE Why you wanna see Burrows so bad anyhow? Michael eyes Burrows through the chainlink. Nods. MICHAEL Because he's my brother. END ACT ONE ACT TWO INT. VISITATION ROOM - DAY 3 months prior. Lincoln looks out through the glass at Michael. He's hardly the caged lion we saw earlier, but rather well-spoken, introspective. LINCOLN They denied the motion. MICHAEL Then do it again. LINCOLN Can't. That's it. MICHAEL I thought appeals could go on forever. Lincoln looks down. LINCOLN May 11th. MICHAEL (shocked) What? LINCOLN That's the date, man. That's the date, uh, you know...they... The unimaginable has just become very, very real. MICHAEL Jesus Christ. LINCOLN That's what I said. (beat) Funny thing is, and you're not gonna believe it, but I've been talking to Him. MICHAEL You're right. I don't believe it. LINCOLN Haven't heard a peep though. (beat) Can't really blame Him, I suppose. With all the crap I've pulled in my life. But you know me, man. I've never denied any of it to you or Him or anyone else. Not once. MICHAEL I know. Long beat. LINCOLN I didn't kill that man, Michael. MICHAEL The evidence says you did. LINCOLN I don't care what the evidence says. I didn't kill him. MICHAEL Swear to me. LINCOLN I swear to you, Michael. MICHAEL But how'd they get it wrong then? The courts, the appeals-- Lincoln gnaws on his lip, contemplative. LINCOLN I don't know. All I keep thinking, looking back on all of it, is that I was set up. And whoever it was that set me up wants me in the ground as quickly as possible... INT. CELL - DAY Back to the present. To Sucre lying in his bunk. Trying to compose a letter. SUCRE What's another word for love? MICHAEL What's the context? SUCRE Ah, you know. The I-love-you-so-much- I-ain't-never-knocking-over-a-liquor- store-again context. MICHAEL Oh. That one. SUCRE Except, you know, classy. MICHAEL Classy. Right. SUCRE I'm proposin' to my girl, if you gotta know. MICHAEL In a letter? SUCRE You got a better way? MICHAEL Face to face works pretty good. Sucre nods to the whole of Wallens Ridge around them. SUCRE This place ain't exactly the romantic spot, if you know what I'm sayin'. (beat) I'm gonna have her go get on the Statten Island Ferry, then once she can see the Empire State building, she opens the letter, and bam, it's almost like being there. Except, you know, for the fact that I won't be there. MICHAEL I don't know. Try 'passion'. SUCRE Yeah. 'Passion'. That's dope. He starts writing, then pauses, knitting his brow. SUCRE How do you spell that? P-A-S-H... His voice trails away. Michael looks up at him. Sucre shrugs. SUCRE School wasn't one of my strong spots, know'm sayin? EXT. LONG ISLAND HIGH SCHOOL - DAY Private high school. Upper crust. Kids disperse in all directions--on foot and skateboard, in SUV and BMW. LJ emerges. He's clean cut, well-dressed, and yet, in the white bread world of Long Island, somehow an outsider. A moment later, his friend BRIAN, 16, finds him. BRIAN Yo. you ready? EXT. CITY STREETS - DAY Skateboard wheels clack over uneven sidewalks. Brian nods to LJ as they coast along. BRIAN Beemer. LJ Range Rover. BRIAN Won't be able to afford it. LJ No, they've got these new ads. Five grand down. 279 a month. They skate up through the parking lot of a corner mall. Chinese restaurants. Pager stores. Laundromats. BRIAN We're sophomores. No one in their right mind's gonna lease us a car. They whip around the back. Dumpsters. Employee parking. LJ We do this right, we can pay cash. They hop off their skateboards, look around, then knock on the back door of the pager shop. The door opens, revealing a Russian immigrant. TSILI, 29. He motions them inside. INT. PRISON COMMISSARY - DAY JOHN ABRUZZI, 35, throws spades with his CRONIES on the 3rd floor of A-Wing. DeNiro after the fall in GoodFellas. Even incarcerated, he's still got that teflon presence. Michael approaches him, nods. MICHAEL I need you to hire me. At P.I. Abruzzi tosses a card, doesn't look up. ABRUZZI Beat it. MICHAEL Maybe you ought to hear what I've got to say. ABRUZZI Fellas. If he's standing here in 10 seconds, launch him. He nods over the railing to the floor of A-Wing 30' below. The Cronies get to their feet. The action says two things: listen to the man, or you're gonna sprout wings, fast. MICHAEL I've got a hypothetical for you, John. What if I actually had something you needed? ABRUZZI You got nothing I need. The Cronies crowd Michael. MICHAEL I wouldn't be too sure of that. He tosses something on the table in front of Abruzzi. A rudimentary ORIGAMI SWAN. ABRUZZI Oh. My mistake. You're right. Just what I need. You see that, fellas? A duck. MICHAEL It's a swan, John. Abruzzi considers it for a split second, then looks back up to Michael. Play time is over. ABRUZZI I got a hypothetical for you. You think if my boys here launch you over the edge, you'll bounce or you'll break when you hit the floor down there? The Cronies move for Michael. He wisely raises his hands, retreats peacefully. STAY ON ABRUZZI--rolling the swan between his fingers, considering it. After a moment, he crumples it, tosses its misshapen form over the railing with a dismissive chuckle. FOLLOW IT as it flutters slowly toward the the floor of A- Wing below, DISSOLVING TO-- INT. PAGER SHOP - DAY One very large bag of WEED. Tsili hands it to LJ. TSILI Turn it around by the end of the week, because that's when I'm gonna come knocking. LJ puts it in his backpack. LJ Got it. They turn, head for the rear door. Tsili watches them for a moment. Something about him, despite the pressed white shirt, suggests that this is not a guy to be trifled with. TSILI This one's on you, LJ. Your friend here screws up, it's on you. LJ looks back. The man's serious as a heart attack. LJ nods. EXT. MINI MALL PARKING LOT - DAY LJ and Brian emerge. Pull on backpacks. Hop on skateboards. They quickly skate off. Widen. Reveal an UNMARKED POLICE CAR up the block. The COP inside brings his mike to his lips. COP Fish on. EXT. SIDEWALKS - DAY Brian and LJ skate up the sidewalk. A PATROL CAR rolls up to the corner 15 feet in front of them, blocking their path. LJ and Brian slow to a stop, hop off their boards. 2 COPS get out, move for them. The boys turn, ready to bolt off in the other direction-- But 2 MORE PATROL CARS roll up behind them, block their exit. LJ turns, looks back at the COP coming toward him. COP What do you say we have a look inside those bags? Off LJ's face, the color draining from it, we CUT TO-- INT. INFIRMARY - DAY Blood roiling back up into a hypodermic needle. Widen. DR. SARA TANCREDI, 24, attractive in a benevolent, harried sort of way, administers an insulin shot to Michael. SARA Must've been painful. The tattoo, I mean. MICHAEL You've got no idea. SARA Looks fresh. MICHAEL Figured I needed some sleeves for prison. You know, fit in. SARA Uh-huh. MICHAEL I'm Michael, by the way. SARA Scofield. I've seen the report. MICHAEL And you're... SARA Dr. Tancredi will do. Michael digests the name. MICHAEL Tancredi. Like the governor. She pauses just long enough. Michael eyes her. MICHAEL You're not related, are you? He takes her silence as an affirmative response. MICHAEL Wouldn't think you'd find the daughter of Frontier Justice Jim working in a prison. As a doctor, no less. He subtly eyes something across the room as he talks. Beneath the emergency wash station is a slotted, cast iron DRAIN. SARA I believe in being part of the solution. Not the problem. MICHAEL 'Be the change you want to see in the world', huh? SARA Huh. MICHAEL What? SARA Oh, it's nothing. That was just my senior quote, that's all. MICHAEL That was you? This whole time I was thinking it was Gandhi. SARA Very funny. She tapes a pad of gauze over the tiny hole, motions for him to cover it with his finger. SARA Put direct pressure on that. Sit tight. I'll be back in a minute. She crosses into the adjacent office. As soon as she's gone, Michael's off the table, over to grating. He quickly reaches up to one of the cardboard supply boxes on the shelf above. Tears away a long, wide strip of cardboard. He finds his HANDS TREMBLING SLIGHTLY from the insulin shot. Seems it's not normalizing him, as it should for the typical diabetic, but rather overloading his adrenal system. He slides the cardboard down into the grate. Quickly wedges it securely in the shaft beneath, folds the top down so that it's no longer visible. He quickly returns to the examination table. Sara returns a moment later. MICHAEL So, how do we play this? You hook me up with a few weeks supply-- SARA Nice try. No hypos on the floor. MICHAEL I'm the farthest thing from a junkie. Trust me. SARA I've got news for you, Michael. 'Trust me' means absolutely zero inside of these walls. The only way you're getting that insulin is if I'm administering it. Michael removes the gauze pad, hands it to her. MICHAEL Guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other, then. She deposits the gauze pad in the trash, nods. SARA Guess so. EXT. NEW JERSEY MEADOWLANDS - DAY Establishing shot of the innumerable warehouses that make up the meat packing district along 1-95. Come in on one of the warehouses. SALVATORE MEAT. INT. SALVATORE MEAT PACKING - DAY Carcasses on hooks. A whole indoor football field's worth. GAVIN SMALLHOUSE, 44, enters, an envelope in his hand. Something in him suggests 'consigliere'. The Prada suit maybe. Or the diamond-encrusted Rolex. He crosses to the manager of the plant, a cro-magnin-browed thug named MAGGIO, 34. SMALLHOUSE We need to talk. INT. SALVATORE MEAT / OFFICE - DAY Smallhouse tosses the contents of the envelope onto the desk. PHOTOS. The 300mm, long-distance surveillance variety. Maggio looks at the BEARDED SUBJECT with disinterest. MAGGIO Yeah. So? SMALLHOUSE That's the son of a bitch that fingered Abruzzi. MAGGIO That's Hill? No... (sitting forward, recognizing the face) Thought the son of a bitch was gone forever. SMALLHOUSE Evidently somebody found him. MAGGIO Yeah, but...who? SMALLHOUSE You're not gonna believe this. He tosses the only other content of the envelope onto the table beside the pictures. We don't see it. But Maggio does. As a quizzical expression washes across his face, we hear-- VOICE (O.S.) Why do you seek the living amongst the dead? INT. PRISON CHAPEL - DAY The PRISON CHAPLAIN as he finishes reading from Luke 24: PRISON CHAPLAIN The Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, and be crucified, and the third day rise again... Cut to the back of the chapel, the last row of pews. Michael sits there, eyeing a single man in the front row. Lincoln. Surrounded on either side by a cadre of Woods. The Chaplain wraps up service. The inmates begin to file out. ON LINCOLN -- moving up the aisle. Stopping. Michael stands before him. All color runs from his face. Utter shock. Michael approaches him. Instinctively, the WOODS around Lincoln step to Michael-- LINCOLN It's all right. Long beat as he eyes Michael. Absolutely dumbfounded. His words are incredulous, hardly a whisper. LINCOLN It's all right. INT. CHAPEL HALLWAY - DAY The two brothers embrace. LINCOLN God, it's so good to see you. You have no idea. He holds Michael at arm's length. THEN PROMPTLY DECKS HIM HARD ACROSS THE FACE. Michael reels. Nearby the Woods bristle. Simultaneously, Michael and Lincoln hold their hands up to them. MICHAEL It's cool. LINCOLN It's cool. Michael rubs his jaw, looks back at Lincoln. MICHAEL The hell was that for? LINCOLN What do you think, you goddamn idiot-- He pauses momentarily, eyes falling across the Christ effigy above Michael's head. He mutters a contrite apology, takes a deep breath to cool off. Looks back at Michael. LINCOLN Didn't I teach you anything? In the b.g., one of the C.O.'s notices the tea party. C.O. Burrows. Roll it up. Happy hour's over. LINCOLN Michael...? MICHAEL You're not gonna believe it. LINCOLN I already don't. Michael takes a beat, lowering his voice. MICHAEL I'm getting you out. LINCOLN What? C.O. Burrows. You go deaf on me? The C.O. crosses toward them. Lincoln runs his hand over his face. Shakes his head. LINCOLN It's impossible, Michael. Michael takes a quick look at the approaching C.O., then looks back to Lincoln, the firing range smile returning. MICHAEL Not if you designed the place it isn't. Lincoln's eyes go wide. The C.O. reaches him, grabs his arm. As the C.O. guides him across the yard, he looks back over his shoulder at Michael, confusion and disbelief in his eyes. END ACT TWO ACT THREE INT. SECRET SERVICE HQ - DAY Capitol Mall outside the window. Special Agent KELLERMAN, 33, inside, working at his computer. The man's severe looking, immaculate as a Marine. A perfunctory knock at the door, then Special Agent HALE, 29, enters. He's big, not terribly bright. Little John to Kellerman's Robin Hood. HALE We're all clear on the Burrows execution. Kellerman doesn't look up. KELLERMAN Good. HALE Except one thing. Bishop McMorrow's not in the fold. KELLERMAN Doesn't matter. HALE It does. He's got a lot of influence with the Governor. They went to prep school together, evidently. Kellerman lets out a long breath. Slightly concerned. Hale looks around, closes door behind him. His tone changes. HALE I'm not sleeping. The closer it gets! man, it's just...the more I'm worried the bottom's gonna fall out of this whole thing. We need this guy deep- sixed. ASAP. Kellerman considers the Washington Monument outside. KELLERMAN Well then, perhaps it's time we paid the good bishop a visit. He pulls on his jacket. Hale doesn't look consoled. KELLERMAN Look, if it helps-- He motions to the calendar. Raps a knuckle on May 11th. KELLERMAN We got what, 3 months? He pats Hale on the shoulder as a coach would a disconsolate player. Both men exit. We, however, hold on the calendar. On that date. May 11th. 3 months. INT. PRISON CELL - DAY Sucre paces. SUCRE This is your fault, dawg. MICHAEL What? SUCRE I ain't heard a peep from her. Shouldn't listened to your white bread ass. 'Passion'. Probably thinks I went fruity in here spouting words like that. (beat) Got more than one syllable it's too much talkin'. That's me. From now on. One syllable Sucre. Yes. No. Love. Screw. Bang. MICHAEL Give it time. SUCRE You kiddin'? I proposed to her. That doesn't take time. Yes. No. One syllable, man. He goes to the bars. At wit's end. SUCRE She's supposed to come around for a conjugal on Tuesday. And she's always callin' me beforehand, lettin' me know she's comin'. This time, man. I ain't heard a word. (beat) I spooked her, man. And it's all your fault... His voice trails away. A C.O. appears outside the cell. C.O. Scofield. The Pope wants to see you. Michael climbs out of his rack curiously. Sucre nods to him, whispers: SUCRE Not good, fish. No one gets an audience with the Pope. Not unless he's real interested in what you got going on. INT. WARDEN'S OFFICE - DAY Meet 'the Pope', as in WARDEN POPE, 60. He surveys Michael, his face unreadable. THE POPE I read your I-file, Mr. Scofield. I understand you're a structural engineer. MICHAEL Was. THE POPE A very promising one at that. Top of your class at Georgetown. A prominent role at one of the better design houses in Arlington. I can't help but wondering what someone with your credentials is doing in a place like this. MICHAEL Took a wrong turn a few months back, I guess. THE POPE You make it sound like a traffic infraction. Like all you did was turn the wrong way up a one-way street. MICHAEL Everyone turns up one sooner or later. THE POPE I take it you don't believe in self- determinism. MICHAEL Chance governs all, right? THE POPE (smiles; surprised) Ah. He quotes Milton. MICHAEL That was Milton? THE POPE It was. But he wasn't talking about life. He was talking about Hell. MICHAEL Kinda the same thing right now, isn't it? The Pope circles the desk, leans against the edge of it in front of Michael. THE POPE Listen. The reason I called you here. It's about your I-file. I noticed put down 'unemployed' under occupation. (beat) That's not true, now, is it? A long, uncertain beat between the two men. THE POPE I know you're a structural engineer, Scofield. INT. ADJACENT OFFICE - DAY The Warden opens the door. He steps inside; Michael follows. The room's dominated by a 4-foot-tall construction of the TAJ MAHAL. The Pope circles it. THE POPE Being married to someone in Corrections is a terrible job. I wouldn't wish it upon anyone. But Leslie--that is my wife--you know in 39 years she's never complained? Not once. And the worst part about it is that I've never thanked her. Maybe it's a male thing, a law enforcement thing, I don't know. Michael takes a closer look at the structure. It's constructed entirely of MATCHSTICKS. THE POPE This thing sort of just started happening, I guess. She loves the story of the building of the Taj. Just loves it. So, because I couldn't say it, I thought, you know, I could build it. He looks up at Michael. THE POPE Come June, it's our 40th anniversary. Two and a half years I've been working. But the closer I get to finishing...well, look for yourself. Here. The infrastructure's threatening to collapse beneath the weight of the exterior. He leans on the desk, crosses his arms. THE POPE That's where I'm hoping you can be of some assistance. For the favor, I can offer you work in here 3 days a week. It'll keep you out of the yard. Michael looks around. Working in the Warden's office. Just a little too close to the powers that be. He shakes his head. MICHAEL Can't do it. THE POPE It's better for me to owe you one in here than it is for you to owe me one, I can promise you that. MICHAEL I'll take my chances. The Pope nods, disappointed. THE POPE Then we're through here. INT. PRISON PHONE ROOM - DAY Abruzzi cradles the phone in his hand, shocked. ABRUZZI What'd you say? Maggio's voice is on the other end of the line. ** INTERCUT FOR CONVERSATION ** MAGGIO (PHONE) You heard me, boss. Someone found Hill. ABRUZZI What do you mean someone found Hill? MAGGIO I'm lookin' at the photos right now. Son of a bitch's got a beard, sunglasses, ball cap. Witness Protection look if I ever saw it. ABRUZZI Who was this someone? MAGGIO Dunno. There was no return address on the envelope. Just, well... ABRUZZI Just what? MAGGIO Just this folded-up bird. Made of paper. ABRUZZI (beat; a dawning) Origami. MAGGIO Yeah, like that, like origami... Abruzzi lowers the phone. Off his incredulous look, we CUT TO-- INT. PRISON CELL - DAY --the incredulous look on Michael's face as he stares down into the toilet. He jiggles the handle. Looks back at Sucre in his bunk, eyes closed, vibing to his Walkman. MICHAEL Hey. The toilet won't flush. Sucre pulls out an earbud. SUCRE Huh? MICHAEL The toilet won't flush. A look of fear crosses Sucre's face. SUCRE Son of a bitch! He jumps down, suddenly in an extreme state of agitation. MICHAEL Look, it's not that big a deal-- SUCRE Hell yeah it is-- Outside, a very officious voice booms through A-Wing: VOICE (O.S.) SHAKEDOWN ! Outside, two dozen C.O.'s in riot gear spread out through A- Wing. D.I.R.T. is stenciled on their chests (Disciplinary Intervention & Response Team), and a half dozen GERMAN SHEPHERDS strain at the leash in front of them. SUCRE The Dirt shuts down the water so you can't flush your contraband! MICHAEL Then we got nothing to worry about-- SUCRE Says you! And suddenly it comes out. NUDIE MAGS from beneath the mattress. JOINTS taped beneath the shelves. A bottle of WHISKEY from beneath the toilet. He tosses them hurriedly through the bars, over the edge of the walkway, to the floor of A-Wing below. Everyone else is doing the same thing. It's a sight to behold: the whole of A-Wing is a deluge of the forbidden, the prisoners' naughty little habits cascading to the floor below. It's a ticker tape parade, except that most of the confetti that flutters to earth comes from the pages of Playboy. SUCRE Women, fallin from the sky. Who'd a thunk-- He seizes up. SUCRE Oh crap. Michael looks back at him. SUCRE Under the sink. MICHAEL Huh? SUCRE Under the sink! He motions wildly toward the sink. Michael quickly reaches under there, and retrieves A SHANK. He looks at it incredulously. MICHAEL The hell is this? SUCRE Whattaya think it is? Insurance, whiteboy! Dump it! Michael goes to the bars, about to toss it-- BELLICK STEPS INTO VIEW. Michael freezes. Bellick's eyes go to the shank in his hand. He looks to the riot-clad C.O.s behind him. BELLICK Open it. The door slides open a moment later. Bellick steps into the cell, relieves Michael of the shank. BELLICK Well well well. What were you thinking of doing with this? Sticking a C.O.? Sucre's eyes go to Michael. Michael doesn't say anything. Outside, chaos reigns supreme. Shouts and barking as the DIRT turn the cells inside out. Bellick hefts the shank, considers Michael. How to proceed. His eyes fall across a couple of errant D BATTERIES that have spilled out into the hallway during the mass-jettisoning. He picks them up. Nods to Sucre. BELLICK Get a sock. I'm not gonna ask twice. Sucre reluctantly grabs a sock. Hands it to Bellick. Bellick drops the batteries inside. Shifts his grip to the open end of the sock, holding it like a handle. Bellick eyes Michael, a split second away from 'slocking' him, as it is affectionately known within these walls. His fist clenches, ready to go-- THE POPE (O.S.) Is there a problem here, deputy? All eyes go to the cell doorway. Pope stands there. BELLICK Got a shank in here. The Pope motions for the shank. Bellick gives it to him. The pope surveys it for a moment, then looks to Michael. THE POPE Looks like you owe me one now, Scofield. (beat) A weapon like this mandates 90 days in the Shoe. Bellick grins at the prospect. THE POPE Either that or I get to see you first thing Monday morning in my office. Choice is yours. The grins fades from Bellick's face. Michael nods; no choice there. The Pope pockets the shank, nods to Bellick. THE POPE Move along. BELLICK But-- THE POPE We've got bigger fish to fry, deputy. He exits, moves up the hall, followed by the two C.O.s. Bellick looks back to Michael. BELLICK You're in the old man's back pocket, are you? Think that makes you all that, huh? I got news for you, fish. He may run this place during the day. But I run it during the night. He smiles that unnerving gold-capped smile. BELLICK Know what I'm sayin'? EXT. LONG ISLAND MANSION - DAY A beautiful backyard spread, replete with pool, gazebo, and 4000-square foot house in the b.g. LJ sits there uncomfortably in front of his mother, LISA FOCHS, 32, a hard working and attractive woman who has recently married after 15 years of single motherhood. LISA Two pounds of pot? (searching his face) What were you trying to do? Set a record? A faintly bemused expression threatens to cross LJ's face. LISA It's not funny, LJ. You're turning into a punk. LJ shrugs. Lisa can see she's not getting through to him. LISA It's pretty obvious to me you need guidance. LJ looks over to the bbq, where ADRIAN FOCHS, 34, tends grill. LJ From who? Old Daddy Warbucks? LISA Give him a chance. He's a good man. LJ We've got nothing in common. LISA I love you both. That's something. She studies his face. He looks away. LISA LJ. Where is this coming from? Last semester you were almost all A's, and now you're... She stops. LISA It's your father, isn't it? LJ I don't have a father. LISA It wasn't an immaculate conception, honey. Trust me. She gets to her feet. LISA Maybe it's time we went and saw him. LJ Mom, don't. LISA I'm about excited by the prospect as you are. But something's got to give. You've got too much potential to be screwing up your life like this. She turns, crosses over to Adrian at the barbecue. INT. LONG ISLAND MANSION - DAY LJ enters, picks up the phone, dials. After a moment: LJ Mr. Tsili, it's me. TSILI (PHONE) You set me up, kid. LJ I didn't, I swear-- TSILI I just spent the last 2 nights in jail. You have any idea what that's like? No. And you probably don't have any idea what it's like to come up with a quarter of a million dollars of bail, do you? LJ I'm sorry, I don't know what happened. I just-- TSILI Kid. LJ Mr. Tsili, you gotta believe me-- TSILI Kid. LJ (beat) Yeah? TSILI You're a dead man. Click. The line goes dead. LJ slowly lowers the phone. His eyes go out to his mother and Adrian, the picture of suburban bliss. And totally oblivious to the hurricane of shit that's just landed on his shores. INT. VISITATION ROOM - DAY Veronica and Michael sit together at a table amongst a dozen other INMATES and VISITORS. VERONICA There's something I've been wondering about. What if this little plan of yours hadn't worked? MICHAEL What're you talking about? VERONICA What if they'd sent you to Sussex or Red Onion and not here? MICHAEL I've got a feeling I'd probably be doing the same thing I'm doing here. Eating Jell-0, drinking Kool-Aid-- VERONICA I know what you're doing, Michael. MICHAEL What is it you think I'm doing? VERONICA Things don't happen by chance with you. It's not luck of the draw you're in here with Lincoln. Michael smiles, shakes his head dismissively. VERONICA You forget that I know you. Both of you. You two have the most dysfunctional idea of love I've ever seen. What, he beats you up to keep you off the streets, so you get yourself tossed into Wallens Ridge with him? To what? Save him? Michael smiles, looks down, shaking his head. VERONICA I deserve to know, Michael. I loved him as much as you did, don't forget. MICHAEL Past tense for you, maybe. Not me. VERONICA I gave him a shot when I got back from college. I did. Even with all that stuff going on in his life. I gave him unqualified love because I thought that's what he needed. And he threw it away. MICHAEL You ever think maybe he was hurt that you left in the first place? Beat. VERONICA Don't do this. Whatever you're doing, don't do it. There's a better way. Look, I'm already appealing your case-- MICHAEL I told you to leave it alone. VERONICA And Lincoln. I've gotten in touch with the diocese. The bishop may be able to help him. MICHAEL That won't stop it. It'll only delay it. Veronica studies him, trying to divine the meaning. MICHAEL You want to do something? Find out who's trying to bury him. VERONICA No one's trying to bury him, Michael. The evidence was there. MICHAEL The evidence was cooked. The BUZZER SOUNDS. End of session. Michael and Veronica stand along with the rest of the Inmates and Visitors. VERONICA Michael, What're you talking about? Michael looks over, sees one of the C.O.s monitoring them. Michael puts his arms around Veronica, embraces her tightly. CLOSE ON his mouth, whispering ever so quietly in her ear as they rock back and forth: MICHAEL Someone wants him dead, Veronica. VERONICA Who? MICHAEL I don't know who. VERONICA This is desperation, Michael. You're grabbing at straws. You're in denial. MICHAEL Maybe. But I can't watch him die. I won't do that. They slowly separate. The Visitors move for the door. Veronica turns to join them. She stops, looks back at Michael. Resolve in her eyes. VERONICA You're gonna get both of you killed. And if you're asking me to sit back and watch, that's something I won't do, Michael. MICHAEL Veronica-- But she's already gone. INT. CAPITAL SENTENCE UNIT / EXERCISE ROOM - DAY ON LINCOLN--working the speed bag. He finishes up. He crosses to the window, toweling off his face. Through the thick mesh screen, a beautiful girl is visible out in the auxiliary lot. Climbing into her car. Veronica. He doesn't breathe for a moment, all the heartache flooding anew through his veins. Slowly, as her car drives off, the heartache's supplanted by something else. Confusion. His eyes drift back to the parking lot. Then the doors of the facility she emerged from. Visitation. INT. CATHOLIC DIOCESE OF ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA - DAY BISHOP McMORROW, 53, kneels supplicant, alone in prayer. He crosses himself, gets to his feet. Turns to see two men moving toward him down the aisle. Kellerman and Hale. MCMORROW Gentlemen. It's a pleasure. KELLERMAN (unctuous) The pleasure's all ours. INT. CATHOLIC DIOCESE / OFFICE OF THE BISHOP - DAY McMorrow sits down across from the 2 Special Agents. MCMORROW What exactly about the Burrows situation can I help you with? KELLERMAN It's our understanding that you have great influence with the governor. MCMORROW I wouldn't say it's great or influence. We're friends. KELLERMAN It's also our understanding that you oppose the death penalty. MCMORROW I'm a man of God. How couldn't I? KELLERMAN In this case, we're hoping that you'll suspend that position. At least temporarily. MCMORROW You want to tell me what this is all about? KELLERMAN We're asking you not to prolong the execution process by petitioning the governor for a stay. MCMORROW If the inmate appeals to me for intervention, how can I turn my back on him? KELLERMAN You have a way of answering with questions, excellency. MCMORROW And you have a way of asking questions that beg more questions. KELLERMAN Are you saying you won't do it? MCMORROW I'm not a man to equivocate, Mr. Kellerman. I intend to file a petition on behalf of that inmate. Kellerman takes a deep breath in through his nose, looks briefly to Hale. Then looks back to McMorrow. KELLERMAN You're, what, 53 years old now, excellency? McMorrow nods. Kellerman gazes at him impassively. KELLERMAN Then I would assume you'd be well versed in how our government's tax system works. (beat) Taking personal capital gains under the umbrella of the church's tax shelter is fraud, excellency. MCMORROW (resolute) I won't be cowed into forsaking my beliefs. Not by you or anybody else. Kellerman considers him for a moment. Nods. KELLERMAN Admirable. He gets to his feet. So does Hale. KELLERMAN Good day, excellency. As they turn to leave, McMorrow calls after them: MCMORROW Mr. Kellerman. Kellerman turns. McMorrow nods: MCMORROW What is it about this case that makes you care so much? Kellerman looks at him impassively. KELLERMAN The man killed the Vice President's brother, excellency. EXT. YARD - DAY Westmoreland's CAT eyes the cons around the yard with a mixture of contempt and boredom. Michael looks across the bleachers at Westmoreland. MICHAEL You're Edwin Westmoreland, right? Westmoreland doesn't look up from his paperback. WESTMORELAND Do I know you? MICHAEL I knew your wife. Before she passed away. WESTMORELAND You knew Marla? Beat. MICHAEL You mean Ann? Westmoreland pauses momentarily, a wry smile appearing. WESTMORELAND Had to test you. (beat) How'd you know her? MICHAEL We taught together in Boston. WESTMORELAND At East Farmington? Beat. MICHAEL You mean West Wilmington? Another wry smile from Westmoreland. WESTMORELAND No more tests. Promise. He puts down the paperback, meets eyes with Michael. WESTMORELAND Well, seems you know everything about me. Who are you? Michael reaches over. Shakes his hand. MICHAEL Michael Scofield. Westmoreland nods politely. Michael motions to the car. MICHAEL How'd you get it in here? WESTMORELAND First off, she's not an it. She's Marilyn and she's grandfathered. Back from the days when prisoners were allowed a creature comfort or two. Despite what the state says, there are good guys and bad guys in here. And this is definitely one of the good guys. Michael pulls a piece of PURPLE PAPER from his pocket. Begins folding the nascent form of something in origami. MICHAEL Heard you were D.B. Cooper. Westmoreland lowers the book for a moment, shakes his head. WESTMORELAND Knew it. Soon as I saw you. MICHAEL Knew what? WESTMORELAND Every new fish comes in here...first thing they hear on the wire is that Edwin Westmoreland's D.B. Cooper. sooner or later they're over here asking for the story. (eyes Michael) I'll tell you the same thing I tell them. You want the Cooper story, I can't give it to you. 'Cause I'm not him. MICHAEL Too bad. Sorta wish it was true. Be a good guy to be stuck with. Westmoreland nods, smiles. WESTMORELAND Nowhere near how much I wish it was true, friend. I'd have a million- five waiting for me on the outside. Michael smiles, finishes the origami. Once again, a SWAN. He shifts in his seat, idly drops it between the bars of the grating beneath the stands. It disappears from view into the SEWER below. He pauses, senses someone standing over him. He looks up. John Abruzzi. With a couple of Cronies in tow. ABRUZZI (to Westmoreland) Catman. Beat it. Westmoreland's already on his way. Abruzzi sits down next to Michael. Eyes him. ABRUZZI Tell me why I don't just have my boys here wrap you around that basketball pole. Get the information I want that way. MICHAEL You could take that chance. But you break me in half and I don't talk, I'm in Security Housing for the rest of my sentence. You'll never see me again. Hill goes 'poof'. Abruzzi looks at Michael for a long moment. ABRUZZI This ain't just about a job, is it? MICHAEL You're an intuitive man, John. ABRUZZI What do you want from me? MICHAEL Right now, just a job. ABRUZZI And later? MICHAEL You gotta stop asking so many questions, John. That's my job. (beat) Like for instance, just, you know, hypothetically speaking...say you were able to get outside those walls. ABRUZZI Yeah? MICHAEL Would you have the people in place to make sure you disappeared forever? ABRUZZI Hypothetically. Yeah. (beat) Why're you asking? MICHAEL Just curious. He pats Abruzzi on the shoulder. Gets to his feet. Starts to walk off. Abruzzi calls after him: ABRUZZI Tell me something, fish. (Michael turns) How is it that you can find a guy that the rest of the world can't? And more importantly...why? A wry, ten-percent smile crosses Michael's lips. MICHAEL Like I said, John. You gotta stop asking so many questions. He turns, walks off. Cronie #1 looks at Abruzzi. CRONIE #1 You gonna let him talk to you like that, boss? Abruzzi eyes Michael as he walks away. He shakes his head. ABRUZZI We'll break him, fellas. Don't worry. We'll break him. EXT. HIGH-END COMMUNITY - NIGHT A Mercedes rolls up in the driveway. Bishop McMorrow emerges, grabs his overcoat from his back seat. Move for the house. VOICE (O.S.) Bishop McMorrow. McMorrow turns. A guy in a SWEATSUIT approaches. MCMORROW Yes? SWEATSUIT Can I have a word with you? There's a flash of blue steel in the moonlight. A GUN in Sweatsuit's hand, a silencer affixed to the barrel. McMorrow's eyes go wide. THWIP! THWIP! McMorrow collapses to the driveway. Sweatsuit pockets the pistol, jogs off. McMorrow lies there, dying eyes watching the man that just killed him disappear into the darkness... END ACT THREE ACT FOUR INT. CSU CELL - DAY Lincoln sits alone in his six-by-eight. The walls are devoid of personal effects. Nothing in here but the man alone. The slot slides open. A Death Row PORTER peers in. PORTER Sink. You got a visitor. INT. CSU VISITATION - DAY Lincoln enters. Stops in his tracks. Lisa and LJ sit on the other side of the glass. Lincoln doesn't move. It's been a long, long time. LISA He was arrested. LINCOLN For what? LISA Possession of marijuana. Lincoln digests it in silence, sits. Lisa stands. LISA I figured he could use some fatherly advice...before it's, you know... LINCOLN Gone forever? LISA I didn't mean... LINCOLN I know you didn't. Lincoln nods appreciatively to her. LINCOLN Thanks, Lisa. She exits. Lincoln and LJ regard each other. Deadbeat dad and pissed off kid. Lincoln finally manages: LINCOLN Jesus. You're so...big. Only silence in response. Lincoln nods after a moment. LINCOLN Dope, huh? (beat) You using or dealing? LJ Neither. I'm not that stupid. LINCOLN Then what, you think it gives you street cred or something? LJ crosses his arms, looks away. LINCOLN You're on the Island now. You don't need it. You got a piece of the good life. Take advantage. LJ Look, I get it. The whole thing. She drags me in here, you give me the big speech, and I walk away a changed kid. Straight A's. Prom King. All- league quarterback. Harvard. Grow up and be a dentist-- LINCOLN Better than being in here. LJ Hey, man. Just a chip off the old block, right? You. Uncle Mike. Figure I'm just carrying on the tradition. Lincoln lets out a long breath. Tries a different tack. LINCOLN Don't punish yourself 'cause I screwed up, junior. LJ Don't call me that. You got no right. LINCOLN You gotta realize who's getting punished when you're doing the things you're doing. You think it's me, but it's you, man. I did the same thing, punished my dad 'cause he was gone. And look where it got me. (beat) I'm not asking you to love me. I already screwed up the chance of that long ago. I'm asking you to love yourself. You can still put the brakes on this thing. LJ gets to his feet. LJ So that's what fatherly advice is like. LINCOLN Where're you going? LJ I got homework. He turns as if to leave. LINCOLN They're putting me to death, LJ. In a few months time, I'll be dead. You get that? LJ Yeah. I get it. LINCOLN Well? LJ looks back at him. LJ You're already dead to me. He walks out. Lincoln jumps to his feet. Pounds on the glass. But it's too late. LJ's gone. INT. INFIRMARY - DAY Sara looks over Michael's charts. SARA You went to Georgetown. MICHAEL It says that there? She shakes her head. MICHAEL You've been checking up on me. SARA Just like to know my patients. (beat) I went to Trinity. Graduated 2 years after you. MICHAEL Maybe we met before. You know, drunk out at a bar somewhere. SARA I would've remembered. MICHAEL That a compliment? SARA I just don't forget faces...huh. MICHAEL What? SARA Your blood glucose is at 50 mg/dl. MICHAEL So? SARA That's hypo-glycemic. MICHAEL And? SARA Your body's reacting to the insulin like...you're not a diabetic. (beat) You're sure it's Type I diabetes you've got? MICHAEL Ever since I was a kid. SARA And you're not experiencing any cold sweats? No buzzing sensation throughout your body? Michael shakes his head, shrugs. No. She's interrupted by the PHONE RINGING in the office. She holds up a finger. Be right back. She crosses to the office. Once she's out of sight, Michael's off the table, straight over to the grating. He peers down. The cardboard's still wedged there; barely visible down the 18" wide vertical shaft is another pipe, running parallel to the ground--the main storm drain running beneath the yard and infirmary. A very shallow sheen of water diverts around the cardboard 'dam'. A bit of flotsam has built up there. Bobbing in the middle of it is the ORIGAMI SWAN. He gets back up. Looks out the WINDOW over the grating. Outside, a stone's throw away, the TREES begin. An uninterrupted terrain of forest and mountain stretches away to the horizon. Freedom, that close. Except for 3 things: the single chain-link fence topped with razor wire outside the window, the 100' wide strip of 'no man's land' beyond--denuded of vegetation and totally exposed-- and lastly, and the BARS on the window. An INSULIN TREMOR runs through Michael's hands as he tests the bars. Cast iron. An inch thick. But the screws that fasten them to the top and bottom of the sill are maybe an eight of an inch thick at most... SARA (O.S.) Nice view, huh? He turns. Sara stands in the doorway. He puts his tremulous hands into his pockets. She comes over. SARA Next time you're in, I'd like to run a few tests if I could. Last thing I want is to be administering insulin to a man that doesn't need it. Michael takes pause. Hesitance there. But he covers it up with an affable nod. MICHAEL sure. INT. LEGAL OFFICE - DAY Veronica sits at her desk. Her ASSISTANT appears at the door. LEGAL ASSISTANT Bishop McMorrow was murdered last night. VERONICA What? LEGAL ASSISTANT Somebody gunned him down in front of his house. Veronica pinches the bridge of her nose, confused. LEGAL ASSISTANT You want me to send flowers? Veronica nods solemnly. Thunderstruck. The Legal Assistant nods politely, leaves. Veronica looks out the window at the Arlington skyline, stunned. INT. LEGAL OFFICE / RECEPTION - DAY Later. Veronica emerges, nods to her assistant. VERONICA I need you to get me Virginia vs. Burrows, 2001. Discovery, ruling, all of it. LEGAL ASSISTANT I don't think there's going to be anything you haven't already seen a hundred times. VERONICA I don't care. I want to see it again. She goes back into her office, closes the door. INT. CONJUGAL ROOM - DAY Synthetic flowers. Two candles. A futon with freshly washed sheets. Wallens Ridge's 'love shack'. Sucre sits on the edge of the futon, clean-shaven, his hair neatly combed. He's been waiting. A long time. He checks his watch. Taps his foot impatiently. Checks his watch again. She's not coming. He gets to his feet, lets out a doleful breath. Mutters some sort of curse word under his breath. He heads for the door. Just as he reaches for it, IT OPENS. MARICRUZ, 19, stands there. In one hand, flowers, and in the other, a picnic basket overflowing with goodies. SUCRE Baby. MARICRUZ Sugar. Beat. MARICRUZ I went on the ferry. SUCRE You read the letter? She nods. SUCRE And? She can hardly contain herself. MARICRUZ Yes. SUCRE Yes? MARICRUZ Yes. SUCRE You mean it? She kisses him, wraps her arms around him. Holds him tight. MARICRUZ Yes, sugar. I've never meant anything more in my life. EXT. YARD - DAY Michael approaches C-Note along the fenceline. MICHAEL I need you to get me something. C-NOTE Store's always open, my man. What do you need? MICHAEL PUGNAc. C-NOTE I only speak English, whiteboy. MICHAEL It's an insulin blocker. Standard over the counter variety. You can get it at any pharmacy. C-Note nods up toward the infirmary. C-NOTE They got it up at medical, then. MICHAEL I can't get it at medical. C-NOTE Why not? MICHAEL Because they're already giving me insulin shots. C-NOTE You're one mixed-up cracker, you know that? MICHAEL Can you get it for me or not? C-NOTE Only if you tell me why it is you wanna keep going back to medical to get insulin shots you don't need. Ain't you afraid of needles? MICHAEL I like the ambiance. C-NOTE Uh-huh. Michael produces something from his pocket. Cash. Fittingly, a C-NOTE. MICHAEL We in business? C-Note eyes the cash, grabs it a moment later. He turns, heads out across the yard. MICHAEL C-Note. C-Note turns, looks back. MICHAEL I need that stuff. Yesterday. INT. LONG ISLAND MANSION - DAY ON LJ -- cleaning up his room. Or more precisely, cramming everything that's lying around into his closet. As he shove a sweatshirt onto the top shelf, a SHOEBOX falls to the floor. Pictures spill out. He begins putting them back in. Stops. Lingers on one. It's him and Lincoln. 5 years prior. Laughing like hell together in the upper deck of Yankee Stadium. Better times. We stay on his face for a moment. Yearning there. But he won't let it bubble to the surface. He puts the picture back in the box, shoves it back on the shelf. He runs his hand through his hair, for a moment out of sync. He finds his skateboard, exits. EXT. LONG ISLAND MANSION - DAY LJ hops on his skateboard, and heads up the sidewalk. As he does, we widen. To a CAR ACROSS THE STREET. Inside, a familiar face. Tsili. He flips open the glove box, revealing a .357 inside. He pulls it out, begins loading it, his eyes never leaving LJ. As the brass shells slide in one by one, we CUT TO-- INT. PRISON FACTORY - DAY An elliptical piece of glass. A huge, distorted eye peers through it, inspecting it. The owner of the eye is Michael. The glass is a freshly ground lens. An INMATE FOREMAN stands beside him. FOREMAN That's right. Grind and buff. Grind and buff. Once you think you're done, send it down to number 5. He'll clean up any of your mistakes. Michael looks down the assembly line toward the inmate at position Number Five. Lincoln. As the Inmate Foreman moves on, the C.O. in charge barks out: C.O. Break it down, cons. 10-minute chow! INT. PRISON MESS - DAY Michael collects his food. Briefly makes eye contact with Abruzzi across the mess. A knowing nod between the men. Westmoreland's a few places back in the line. Michael crosses to where Lincoln sits, takes a seat. They eat in silence. After a while, Michael nods. MICHAEL Veronica came around yesterday. Lincoln swallows some food. Thinks. LINCOLN Still engaged to that guy? Michael nods. Lincoln shakes his head. Regret there. LINCOLN Coulda been me. MICHAEL If you hadn't self-destructed. LINCOLN Give me a break. I was 18. Think I meant to knock up Lisa Fochs? I was just being stupid. Hurt. (beat) By the time she came back, I didn't deserve her anymore anyhow. He lets out a long breath. LINCOLN Shouldn't have pushed her away. MICHAEL You pushed everyone away. LINCOLN I'm an anchor in here, man. All I'll do is drag 'em down with me. The other INMATES begin to sit down around them. LINCOLN Look straight ahead. MICHAEL Huh? LINCOLN Far as these guys are concerned, you and I aren't brothers. Just a couple of cons doing time. MICHAEL Corrections doesn't know. And by the time they do-- LINCOLN It's not Corrections I'm worried about. He makes eye contact with a group of NLRs (NAZI LOW RIDERS) that has just taken seats at the table beyond them. These swastika-drenched misanthropes make the Woods look like choir boys in comparison. LINCOLN You're all right now, 'cause I'm Shotcaller. But once I'm gone, your insurance policy isn't gonna be good here. 'Cause a lot of those guys out there, they want me dead. And once I'm gone, you're gonna be the next best thing. Michael swallows some food, nods. MICHAEL I'm not planning on sticking around that long. LINCOLN You're not still serious-- MICHAEL I'm not here on vacation. LINCOLN Bro. Getting outside those walls, that's just the beginning. You need money-- Michael eyes WESTMORELAND across the way. MICHAEL I'll have it. LINCOLN And you need people on the outside. People that can help you disappear-- MICHAEL I've already got 'em. His eyes fall across ABRUZZI. MICHAEL They don't know it yet. But I've already got 'em. LINCOLN Look, whatever you got going, fill me in, 'cause I'm in the dark here. The goddamn void. Michael casts a wary eye around, then: MICHAEL Chapparal Associates got the contract to design this place in '99. 2 year job. But the head partner got in way over his head. Couldn't crack it. Four million dollar contract. Biggest one they had. Of course he didn't want to lose it. So he sub-contracted out, an under-the-table sort of thing with a former associate. That guy was one of the partners at my firm. We basically ghost-wrote the plan-- crossed the t's, dotted the i's, grouted the tiles, if you know what I'm saying. Lincoln sits back, putting it all together. LINCOLN You've seen the blueprints. MICHAEL Better than that. Beat. MICHAEL I've got 'em on me. INT. KITCHEN STOCK ROOM - DAY Michael buses his plate, subtly steps into the stock room. A moment later, Lincoln follows suit. For a brief moment, they're out of sight of the C.O.s, Inmates. Michael unbuttons his shirt, slips it off. LINCOLN Good god. What happened to you? For the first time, we get a good look at the ELABORATE TATTOO that covers the whole of his torso, arms. Not a square centimeter of virgin skin. It's glorious, a labyrinthine web of images--angels and devils, vines and barbed wire, rivers and roadways--all intertwined, all overlapping. Lincoln marvels at the artwork. Beautiful, yes. But still: LINCOLN Am I supposed to be seeing something here? MICHAEL Look closer. As Lincoln does, so do we. And like one of those 3-D posters that you have to stare at for a few minutes--until you stare through it--the underlying scheme suddenly becomes clear. The angels and devils become cell blocks and buildings. The vines and barbed wire become walls and fences. The rivers and roadways become pipes and shafts beneath the surface. MICHAEL The train's leaving the station, Linc. The tattoo expands, morphs, rising from Michael's body as the camera sinks deeper into it. The real slowly gives way to the virtual; soon there is no stock room around us, no Lincoln, no Michael. There are only BLUEPRINTS, hovering in space. They morph one more time, two dimensions becoming three-- EXT. WALLENS RIDGE - DAY --and suddenly we are outside the wire, outside the walls, looking at the whole of Wallens Ridge from a God's eye view. MICHAEL (V.O.) And you're gonna be on it. The prison complex rotates in frame, a warren of tunnels and shafts and pipes pulsing beneath the surface. They radiate outward in every direction like a dozen different secret subway tunnels, their destination all the same. Freedom. END PILOT