Copyright 1990 - 1997 by Rob Perry and NorthStarr Productions
All Rights Reserved
ONE WEEK LATER
EXT. DESERT - NIGHT
The horizon marked by a thin copper line that maybe
the end, of the beginning of a day.
The train that follows, cuts through the night at 100
miles an hour.
INT. TRAIN - NIGHT
His eyes closed, head rested against the glass. Ten
years ago, VICTOR GARCIA might have been an athlete, a
track man or a welter-weight. The body looks it, but
the face has seen some time -- not all of it good.
INT. TRAIN - REFRESHMENT DISPENSER - NIGHT
GARCIA comes down the aisle, slips a coin into the
mechanism, receives a DIET COKE and returns to his seat.
INT. TRAIN - NIGHT
Tired of the program, he takes off the headset and
drops it next to three empty beer bottles and a
sandwich wrapper, adjusts his position and winds up
staring at his reflection in the window. Runs a
hand over his face, it could use a shave. He leans
closer and peers through the glass.
Out there in the black a sign flashes past: LOS
ANGELES, THREE MINUTES.
EXT. PLATFORM - NIGHT
The train slides in, smooth as an eel, and stops with-
out a sound. Carrying a Jock Bag and an Attaché Case,
he disembarks ahead of the other passengers and into the
sweltering night.
INT. CORRIDOR - NIGHT
GARCIA has got his coat swung over his shoulder, his
shirt already damp, as he walks down the long, hollow
passage under orbs of yellow light.
EXT. TERMINAL - NIGHT
He unlocks his car and gets in. Turns the ignition
and hits a sensor. The dash console glows and he
sits back waiting for the air unit to cool things off.
GARCIA (V.O.)
It was 99 degrees in the city and
no hope of improvement. Not bad
if you're a lizard. But four hours
earlier I was drinking Vodka with
a Native American lady in North East
Arizona. That's a tough change to
make. It was so good, I didn't want
to leave, so I left a day early.
A little detached, he taps another sensor on his
NOTEBOOK COMPUTER, and watches as his messages
flash across the viewer stating date, time and
caller. The last one is repeated five times.
He sighs, switches off the viewer and gets on
the CELL PHONE.
GARCIA
This is FEDERAL MARSHALL VICTOR GARCIA.
The SOUND OF A CHIME precedes the mechanical female
voice that answers.
VOICE
Marshall Garcia, stand by please.
A pause. Followed by a husky male voice.
VOICE
GARCIA.
GARCIA
Yah, Arnold.
ARNOLD (VOICE)
Where the hell you been?
GARCIA
You know where I been. I been on
vacation.
ARNOLD
Next time you go on vacation,
do me a favor, let us know where
it is.
GARCIA
What's up?
ARNOLD
DRAGO got hit.
There is a pause. That was bad news.
GARCIA
Bad?
ARNOLD
Dead. You'd better get in here.
HERNANDEZ is waiting for you.
GARCIA
I'll see you in a minute.
The ENGINE REVS, the wipers rake two weeks of dust off
the windshield and GARCIA jams out of the lot.
INT. THE VAN NUYS FEDERAL BUILDING - NIGHT
An enormous gray vault of a building. A businesslike
GARCIA strides down a long corridor with his brief-
case and Marshall Badge pinned to his coat.
GARCIA (V.O.)
(Looking at his Alpha Beeper)
Drago was attempting to arrest SMITH
wanted by the government for conspiracy.
Drago was shot three times, one in the
forehead and two in the heart.
The door in front of him slides open and he walks
through.
GARCIA (V.O.)
SMITH must be fast because
Drago was as quick as they come.
CUT TO:
INT. INSPECTOR HERNANDEZ'S OFFICE - NIGHT
The INSPECTOR is in his fifties. The deep creases in
his face, the broken capillaries in his nose say
brawler, spoiler, drinker, but the diplomas on the
wall say something else. HERNANDEZ kneeled at his safe
trying to open it. GARCIA it sitting on the edge of
the desk reading the print-out.
GARCIA (V.O.)
SMITH was arrested and he managed to kill
his captors and escape.
HERNANDEZ gets the safe open and brings out a bottle of
whiskey.
GARCIA (V.O.)
HERNANDEZ has a liver problem. A
couple years back he handed me a
bottle and said have a drink for
another man. I been drinking
for him ever since.
GARCIA sets down the report and takes the shot HERNANDEZ
just poured for him.
GARCIA
SMITH is a real piece of shit, huh?
HERNANDEZ
Three nights ago he managed to break
into a National Guard Armory and he
now has an M-16 with a grenade
launcher two thousand rounds of 5.56
ammo and two cases of grenade's.
GARCIA
Who's he going to kill now?
HERNANDEZ
Who knows, probably us.
A grim pause.
GARCIA
You got a location on him yet?
HERNANDEZ
We're putting the word out on the street.
Its our guess he's in the city.
GARCIA
Where do we start?
HERNANDEZ is back at the safe locking up his bottle.
HERNANDEZ
That's where you come in.
GARCIA
What are the charges on SMITH?
HERNANDEZ
Espionage, Government Theft of classified
data and now three counts of murder.
GARCIA
Ok, but what's he going to broadcast
that has the government so shook up?
HERNANDEZ
Remember when the story broke that the
ATTICA prison guards killed all the
prisoners and hostages during the
1971 ATTICA prison riot. Well, the
truth of the matter is the government
reported that the prisoners cut the
hostage's throats. Headlines even
read "I Saw the Slit Throats."
Recently, 25 years later, the man
who did the autopsies, Dr. Baden,
said on the HBO series "Autopsy"
that the guards shot everyone and
the stories to the contrary were a
Big Lie.
GARCIA
No shit?
HERANDEZ
Another thing he's going to broadcast is
people who died during the final assault
on the Branch Davidian sect were killed
by the FBI, not at the hands of Davidian
members as reported, when in fact they
were killed by FBI tanks that rammed the
room, which, due to widespread bugging,
the FBI must have known the women and
children where in there. The Government
conspires to cover-up and censor the
facts proving this.
GARCIA
Well, is it true?
HERNANDEZ
What difference does it make if it is
true or not, we were told to terminate
without prejudice, and we have to follow
orders.
GARCIA
What else is he going to reveal?
HERNANDEZ
Remember the World Trade Center bombing? Well
the FBI facilitated and allowed the World
Trade Center bombing to happen when they
could have stopped it. Mr Salem, a former
Egyptian Army officer, was used by the FBI
to infiltrate the terrorists later charged
in the Trade Center bombing. The original
plan told to Mr Salem was that his job was
to see to it that fake explosives were used,
then the bombers would be busted for planting
what they thought was a real bomb with no
possibility of anybody getting hurt. A good
plan. Mr Salem secretly tape recorded hundreds
of hours of his telephonic communications
with authorities without their knowledge.
The recordings reveal that the FBI changed the
original plan and told Mr. Salem not to use
the fake explosives but to use REAL explosives.
GARCIA
Did personnel have former address on
him?
HERNANDEZ fishes a piece of paper out of his pocket,
copies down a number and hands it over.
GARCIA
I'll go take a look.
GARCIA stands and holds up his drink.
GARCIA
Thanks.
Like a sick boy looking out of the window, HERNANDEZ
watches VICTOR down the whiskey. GARCIA puts down
the glass and turns to leave.
GARCIA (V.O.)
The big incentive to eliminate a person ready
to spill the beans to the American Public
was the advantage. If the public found out
that their government had been bullshitting
them for years they may demand the elimination
of all secret agencies. This was one of the
worst one's we had and HERNANDEZ was worried.
He wanted to tell me to be discrete or something.
But I didn't give him a chance.
EXT. PLAZA HOTEL ENTRANCE - NIGHT
An electrical storm is brewing. GARCIA stands outside
side the entrance to an old hotel holding an umbrella,
as people scuttle into doorways to avoid the sudden
downpour.
INT. PLAZA HOTEL LOBBY - NIGHT
A heavy metal maze of cubicles and perilous iron
balconies, peopled with rejects from society.
MEXICAN'S in white man's clothes and other
lower echelon welfare recipients. Flea Bag Hotel
is crowded, cramped and darkly alive.
GARCIA steps out of an elevator and moves through the
crowd. A cloud of steam drifts up through a grating
as two old men, clad in towels descend a flight of
stairs under a neon sign that says bath house.
A musty subterranean wind ripples GARCIA'S clothes as
he turns into an alcove. He stops in front of a door
that says, MANAGER and pushes the buzzer. It's opened
by an emphysema victim with an oxygen tank lashed to
his hip. GARCIA flashes his ID and speaks some
words which are inaudible due to the Chinese Music
playing down the hall. The man grabs a key from his
wall, hands it over and shuts the door.
INT. PLAZA HOTEL CORRIDOR - NIGHT
The companion ways below deck of a big ship are no
more bewildering than the ups and downs and ins and
outs of this establishment. But GARCIA finds the door
he's looking for. He pauses a moment, listens, then
knocks. He inserts the key and with a hand on his
nine-millimeter GLOCK PISTOL he opens it.
INT. HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT
An empty room. A cot and not much else. He steps in
and stands quiet as a hunter sensing the signs. For a
place surrounded by greasy hovels it is surprisingly
clean. Spartan in fact. The towel by the spotless
basin is perfectly folded.
He runs two fingers over a shelf. No dust. He looks
in the waste basket. Wadded up candy wrappers. The
bed by the window is neatly made. GARCIA looks
under it, then runs his hands along both sides of
the mattress.
The closet. There's one suit in it. He pats it down.
Nothing. A show box on the floor. He stoops, takes
out what looks like a pen from his pocket and
carefully traces it over the box. Assured of its
harmlessness, he lifts off the lid.
It contains a little stack of photos bound with a
rubber band. GARCIA removes them, goes to the
lamp by the balcony window and turns it on.
A touching collection of family snapshots. The kind of
anonymous stuff sold by the bunch in dusty junk shops.
The family dog. Junior on the pony squinting in the
sun. Uncle Ben clowning with the kids. The faded
Polaroid of Christmas morning. Simple pictures of
simple folks celebrating the family bond.
EXT. STREET BELOW - HANNIBAL CHEW'S SHOP NIGHT
INT. HANNIBAL CHEW'S SHOP - NIGHT
Chew is a spindly old man of precision, his veiled
eyes are shrewd and Chinese, but the rest of him
looks like a Charles Dickens invention.
He's got a jewelers' glass stuck in his eye, lurched
over a lamp, squinting at something in his hand. After
a moment his lips peal back into a sour, belligerent
smile.
CHEW
Well, you're right. This little
honey has a couple of defects.
He snaps off the lamp and swings round to face his
client.
LANES MITH'S face is almost young, but something has
gone too far, too fast. Premature old age has made
his bones brittle and his co-ordination slow. The
house may be dark but there's a light on in it. He's
a closet genius.
CHEW
You're a regular perfectionist,
SMITH.
SMITH'S apologetic, especially around the acerbic
Mr. Chew.
SMITH
It has to be right for my customer.
CHEW
Your customer, eh?
Chew snickers and beckons. SMITH follows him down
a high narrow hall to a heavy insulated door. There's
a moth-eaten full length fur coat hanging by it. Chew
tugs it on and they go through. The big door slams
shut behind them.
INT. COLD STORAGE ROOM - NIGHT
Except for the work table with its sharp gleaming
instruments, the room is as barren and sterile as a
morgue. The glass door compartments in the walls
look like crypts. Some of them small as post office
boxes. From one of the Chew removes a vacuum, packed
box. Carefully separating the seal, he reaches into
the purple jell and with a pair of tweezers extracts
a processor chip.
Through the jeweler's glass, which he has not bothered
to remove, Chew holds the chip up to the light and
studies it a moment. His other hand searches through
his pockets.
CHEW
You got a pocket-charger, boy?
Quick to accommodate, SMITH removes a pencil-like
device from a row of such things in his breast pocket
and steps closer. The back of the chip is touched with
the pencil and the chip glows.
CHEW
Is that good enough for your
customer?
Anxious to leave, SMITH nods. Chew reseals the
chip taking his time. He can afford to, he's wearing
his coat.
CHEW
How much is he paying you?
In place of an answer, SMITH clears his throat,
stares at the bag like he didn't hear.
CHEW
Well, when do you get paid?
SMITH
Soon as I finish the job.
CHEW
When might that be?
SMITH
Day after tomorrow.
CHEW
Oh! Day after tomorrow.
SMITH nods. Chew stares at the poor bastard,
concerned in spite of himself.
CHEW
The rich hate to pay, SMITH. A guy like
the buyer keeps you waiting. Pay the
little guy last. You should charge twice
as much. It'll make him feel better.
SMITH nods his head like that's exactly what he'll
do. Chew sees it's hopeless and hands him the bag.
SMITH
Thanks, Mr. Chew.
Chew pulls the door open for him and SMITH goes
through quick as a dog.
EXT. HANNIBAL CHEW'S STORE - STREET - NIGHT
SMITH may lack co-ordination but he got what he
came for and there's a hopeful spring to his walk as
he heads for his truck.
INT. SMITH'S AMBULANCE - NIGHT
It's an old panel job with ambulance siren and lights.
The lettering on the side reads "Telecommunications."
SMITH gets in, starts up the engine and suddenly
realizes he's not alone. It's a jolt that causes him
to yelp.
PETRA is sprawled on the seat next to him, and wakes up
with a yelp of her own. They stare at one another for
a startled instant, and she jumps out and starts
walking.
But she's forgotten her little beat-up overnight case.
SMITH puts the truck in gear, drives next to her
and opens the door.
SMITH
Hey! You forgot your...
He holds up the bag. Hesitantly she reaches for it.
SMITH
How come you were in my truck?
PETRA
I was tired and didn't have any
place to go.
She stares at him, hand on her case, looking lost.
SMITH isn't good at this, but he tries.
SMITH
You can get back in if you want...
She can't make up her mind.
SMITH
Don't worry, I won't hurt you.
She gets in. Both of them are silent. People are not
SMITH'S medium -- usually he's too shy, but this
girl is shyer still, plus they're about the same age --
it gives him courage.
SMITH
What's your name?
PETRA LOPEZ.
SMITH
Mine's SMITH.
PETRA
Hi.
So pleased with the way that went, he forgets for a
while what comes next.
SMITH
Oh! Where do you want to go?
She shrugs. That leaves him a lot of responsibility.
He throws her side long glances, but she's not helping.
SMITH
You want to go home?
PETRA
I don't have one.
SMITH
Oh.
What do you do with a beauty who looks like
she's lost out of some "Welcome to Sunny
Arizona" poster?
SMITH
Where are your folks?
PETRA
They left.
SMITH
What about friends?
PETRA
I have some, but I have to find
out where they are staying.
She leans forward and rests her elbows on the dash.
Her body would win prizes, from any angle.
SMITH
Well, where should I take you?
She looks at him, a shadow of enticement in her clear
blue eyes.
PETRA
We scared each other pretty good
didn't we?
SMITH
We sure did.
She giggles and laughs.
PETRA
I'm hungry.
SMITH
I've got stuff. If you want to go
to my place?
PETRA
I was hoping you'd say that.
SMITH'S face is normally on the gray side, but it
just turned red. He turns on the ignition and they
pull away from the curb.
CUT TO;
INT. GARCIA'S CAR - FREEWAY - NIGHT
Speeding along the freeway. The terminal in the
communications console lit. His right hand just
finished a punch-up. The screen flashes back.
REQUEST
GARCIA punches up. Letters flash across the screen:
ESPER
Screen flashes back:
CLEARANCE
GARCIA punches up.
U.S. MARSHALL'S CODE 414
Pause.
Screen flashes:
STAND BY.
GARCIA'S voice has been heard over the preceding.
GARCIA (V.O.)
Machines can be helpful sometimes,
but they can also be a pain in the
ass. Ask for a trace on a forger
and you might wind up at a steel-
mill. I don't mind a bum-steer once
in a while -- it's their personalities
that usually get me. Somebody once
said that man makes machines in his own
image. If that's true, whoever made
Esper should have been shot.
ESPER
This is ESPER and I'm ready. Go
ahead please.
ESPER'S deep melodious voice is anxious to please, and
oiled with a touch of self-pity.
GARCIA
You equipped for random questions?
ESPER
Why, yes, of course.
GARCIA
You start.
ESPER
SMITH is in Los Angeles and he's been
spotted by one of our street people.
Are you with me?
GARCIA
How do I find him?
ESPER
Unknown at this time.
GARCIA
Okay, but...
ESPER
I'm coming to that. Advertise for a
communications expert and he will
respond.
The communication is interrupted by a BELL which is
immediately followed by a stern, MECHANICAL VOICE.
VOICE
You are in violation of traffic
ordinance M-139 statutory freeway
limit restricted by one-hundred
and eighty kilometers.
In his rear view mirror GARCIA sees two black-clad
motorcycle cops coming up behind him like the hounds
of hell. They draw silently alongside. GARCIA
presses his I.D. to the window.
The cop tosses a salute to GARCIA and he and his
partner accelerate, vanish in the night. And his
car does too.
EXT. SMITH'S APARTMENT
A district of silence and ruin. The street is strewn
with refuse. The building looks vacant. A ten story
condo gone to shit. The vandals have come and gone
long ago.
SMITH'S little white VW RABBIT parked at the curb.
MR. DIAZ, the old Watchman, sitting in the building
entry in a straight backed chair, is reading a comic
book.
INT. SMITH'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Well stocked with items of survival, all labeled and
stacked. And shelved along the walls and hung from the
ceiling is a menagerie of Machine Guns. Like so many broken
toys awaiting resurrection from SMITH'S wise hands.
SMITH is seated at a large work-table, bent over a
stereo scope. The tool in his right hand is a sensor
probe and he's using it with the delicacy of an en-
graver.
The object of his concentration is a maze-like chip
configuration no bigger than a thumbnail, but magnified
under the scope, it looks like an aerial view of a
large city. The needle-like sensor probe moves care-
fully over the contours of the configuration, testing
the bonds.
Suddenly a blue flash erupts from one of the junctures.
SMITH
Oh!
PETRA is light on her feet. She's standing behind him
with a half-eaten Sandwich in her hand.
PETRA
Whatcha doing'?
SMITH
You scared me.
But he's happy to see her.
SMITH
I'm working.
She's changed her dress and made up her face. Looks a
little older and sexier.
SMITH
You look... better.
PETRA
Just better.
SMITH
Beautiful.
PETRA
Thanks.
He watches her as she prowls around the room, looking
at this and that, eating her sandwich.
PETRA
And you live in this building all
by yourself?
SMITH
Yeah, I live here pretty much
alone right now...
Trying to make light of it.
SMITH
No housing shortage around here...
plenty of room for everybody.
She sprawls on the couch studying him.
Looking closely at his face she notices
a mass of wrinkles.
PETRA
How old are you?
He can't meet her eyes.
SMITH
Thirty-five.
PETRA
What's your problem?
It's not an easy subject. His voice is barely audible.
SMITH
Methuselah Syndrome.
PETRA
What's that?
SMITH
My glands. They grow old too fast.
PETRA
Is that why you have wrinkles?
SMITH
Yes.
There is a silence. He steals a glance at her.
PETRA
I like you just the way you are.
Under the desk he bats his knees together.
SMITH
Ah, you get hold of your friends?
PETRA
As a matter of fact I did. They've
got some work to do tonight, but
they're gonna come tomorrow.
SMITH
Good.
The implications catch up.
SMITH
I can sleep on the couch.
CUT TO:
INT. GARCIA'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
It's dark except for the glow of the terminal. A tired
GARCIA sits in front of it. ESPER sounds like he's
been talking for hours.
ESPER
We have street information that SMITH
was seen in Monterey Park.
A long pause.
GARCIA
I know all that.
ESPER
What about a summary then.
GARCIA
I think we're through for the night.
GARCIA starts to reach for the panel.
ESPER
Mr. GARCIA.
Hesitates.
GARCIA
Yes?
ESPER
Do you have something against
science?
GARCIA
Not if it works.
ESPER
And what in your estimation works?
GARCIA
The umbrella.
GARCIA picks up the umbrella and with it stabs the
terminal off button before ESPER can respond and the
machine goes dead. He sits there for a moment then
flips on the lamp. SMITH'S snap-shots are spread out
before him.
INT. MARSHALL'S CAR - DAY
An unmarked marked car makes a sharp turn, drops into
an underground parking garage.
EXT. LAPD RAMPART DIV UNDERGROUND PARKING. - DAY
The car comes to a stop. The door opens and VICTOR
GARCIA steps out.
He walks up to a desk, hands his I.D. to a guard
who checks it against a list on a screen.
GARCIA (V.O.)
But so far they'd always managed to keep it
quiet. Not to say that once in a while
there wasn't bad publicity. Some fanatic
bitching about equal rights for minorities
or rumors that the 1971 SYLMAR and 1994
Northridge earthquakes were caused by
powerful nuclear underground tests.
The guard hands him back his I.D., pushes a button
and GARCIA walks away.
GARCIA (V.O.)
But what's more American than good
old supply and demand? The U.S.
Government needed to test them,
industry made them and the military
needed them.
The elevator door slides open. The young lady inside
would look right standing on a cliff, hair blowing in
the wind, looking out to sea in a 19th Century painting.
MYRA
Hello, Mr. GARCIA. My name is
MYRA LOVE.
GARCIA tips his head to her and steps in.
INT. POLICE DEPARTMENT ELEVATOR - DAY
No woman can be all things to all men, but MYRA comes
closer than most. The only trouble is she's all
business. Formidable without really trying. Some beauty
is better avoided and GARCIA looks straight ahead.
INT. SPECIAL SERVICES CORRIDOR - DAY
The door slides open and they continue down the corridor.
MYRA
It seems your department doesn't
believe out new unit is to the
public benefit.
GARCIA
An ex-government employee is just another
employee, but this guy has too much
information that can hurt other people.
MYRA
But because your department can't do
an adequate job in detecting this
fugitive at large, it's a problem.
Correct, Mr. GARCIA ?
INT. SPECIAL SERVICES - AIR-FILTERED CORRIDOR - DAY
They pass into a canopied, air-filtered corridor. Garcia
doesn't answer the question because he's looking at the
guards. The armed guard at the exit never takes his eyes
off them.
MYRA
You like our security?
GARCIA nods.
Hands thrust in her pockets, she strides off towards
the exit without looking back.
The exit is another tube. Just big enough for two. No
room for excess. He tries to ignore her cool appraising
stare.
MYRA
You're in a very unique position,
Mr. GARCIA. You could affect the
future of this entire organization
according to how you work your
problem.
GARCIA has nothing to say.
MYRA
Are you apprehensive?
GARCIA
Why should I be?
MYRA
For the responsibility of your
power. Being a Federal bureaucrat,
you've got more than your share.
The door slides open. He looks down at her.
GARCIA
You got it wrong, girl. I work for the
bureau, but I'm not responsible for what
they want me to do.
He lets it sink in.
GARCIA
My job isn't to detect malfunctioning
ex-employees, it's to eliminate them.
The more the better.
He walks out of the elevator first.
INT. OFFICE OF JUDD ALAN ASST. CHIEF - DAY
The office is dimly lit, but highlights of resilience
reside in the luster of the antique furnishings, like
glimmers of gold in a darkened mine. Chief Alan is a
fragile man of power, with that look of "youth" obtained
from steroids and surgery. Dapper and trim, he leans
against the desk looking at an old fashioned pocket
watch. The only sound is the insidious PERKING
of COFFEE BREWING in the background.
ALAN taps a sensor on his desk. The door in front of
GARCIA and MYRA LOVE slides open. They enter
a vestibule and face another door, this one befitting
the decor of the office, ALAN slips the watch into his
pocket as they enter.
MYRA
AGENT GARCIA. CHIEF JUDD ALAN.
ALAN
How do you do, Agent GARCIA. Please
sit down. Would you care for a cup
of coffee?
GARCIA
Thanks.
ALAN
Black?
GARCIA
Please.
ALAN pours from an old time coffee maker into small china
cups and hands one to GARCIA. The congenial light in
his eyes could almost pass for warmth -- dragon warmth.
ALAN
Somehow, I didn't expect that the
man who did the dirty work would
be the man to do the technical
work. Here you are, AGENT GARCIA.
He hands him a cup of coffee.
ALAN
Is this to be an empathy test?
GARCIA
Yes.
ALAN
Capillary dilation of the so-called
blush response? Plus fluctuation
of the pupil, plus involuntary
dilation of the iris?
GARCIA nods.
ALAN
May I ask a personal question?
GARCIA
Go ahead.
ALAN
Have you ever retired an operator by
mistake?
GARCIA
No.
ALAN
But in your profession that is a
risk.
GARCIA
Nothing is infallible, but so far
the BECKMAN/GILFORD test bas been
foolproof.
ALAN
Like you said, AGENT GARCIA, a
machine can be a hazard. The
BECKMAN scale is a machine,
isn't it?
GARCIA
One that relies on human
interpretation. Where's the
subject?
ALAN
Sitting next to you.
GARCIA stares at MYRA, then back at ALAN. Delighted,
ALAN takes a cup of coffee.
Accepting the challenge, GARCIA opens his briefcase and
starts fishing out the apparatus.
THE BECKMAN
MYRA'S eye fills the screen, the iris brilliant, shot
with light, the pupil contracting.
GARCIA'S VOICE
Ready.
MYRA
Go ahead.
In the soft green glow of the dials, the needles in both
gauges are at rest. CHIEF ALAN stands silhouetted behind
GARCIA, who sits in front of MYRA, a pencil beam
trained on her eye. Wire mesh discs are attached to her
cheeks.
GARCIA
You're given a calfskin wallet
for your birthday.
The needles in both gauges swing violently past green to
red, then subside.
MYRA
I wouldn't accept it. Also, I'd
report the person who gave it to
me to the police.
GARCIA
You have a little boy. He shows
you his butterfly collection, plus
the killing jar.
Again the gauges register, but not so far.
MYRA
I'd take him to the doctor.
GARCIA
You're watching TV and suddenly
you notice a wasp crawling on your
wrist.
MYRA
I'd kill it.
Both needles go to red. GARCIA makes a note, takes a
sip of coffee and continues.
GARCIA
In a magazine you come across a
full-page photo of a nude girl.
MYRA
Is this testing whether I'm a lesbian?
GARCIA
You show the picture to your husband.
He likes it and hangs it on the wall.
The girl is lying on a bearskin rug.
MYRA
I wouldn't let him.
GARCIA
Why not?
MYRA
I should be enough for him.
GARCIA frowns, then smiles. His smile looks a little
like a grimace or the other way around.
GARCIA
You become pregnant by a man who
runs off with your best friend,
and you decide to get an abortion.
MYRA
I'd never get an abortion.
GARCIA
Why not?
MYRA
That would be murder, AGENT GARCIA.
GARCIA
In your opinion.
MYRA
It would be my child.
GARCIA
Sounds like you speak from
experience.
He notes the needles. One goes green and the other
remains inert.
GARCIA
Last question. You're watching
an old movie. It shows a banquet in
progress, the guests are enjoying
raw oysters.
MYRA
Ugh.
Both needles swing swiftly.
GARCIA
The entree consists of boiled
dog stuffed with rice.
Needles move less.
GARCIA
The raw oysters are less acceptable
to you than a dish of boiled dog.
GARCIA moves the adhesive discs from her cheeks and
switches off his beam.
GARCIA
Lights please.
The lights come on.
ALAN
Well?
GARCIA
It's better than a lie detector.
ALAN
The machine works.
MYRA sits very still. Except her eyes -- they go to
ALAN and hang on. He stares back at her as he speaks.
ALAN
How many questions did it take?
GARCIA
Enough.
MYRA sits rigidly in her chair, as the ground crumbles
around her, her big mermaid eyes locked with ALAN.
His voice is quiet and strong, mesmerizing.
GARCIA watches with a bad taste in his mouth.
GARCIA
Does she know?
ALAN
Myra is my protégé and is being trained
for field work.
MYRA nods fixedly. Careful not to let go her grasp.
ALAN
How many questions does it usually
take, AGENT GARCIA?
GARCIA
Five, maybe six.
Slowly, carefully, ALAN unlocks his gaze from MYRA
and turns towards GARCIA, who is starting to put away
his equipment.
ALAN
You're going to have to be on your
toes, my friend.
GARCIA glances back at him.
ALAN
It's a complex problem and we
wouldn't want anything to happen
to you.
Less of a man might shrink at the end of GARCIA'S look,
but not ALAN.
ALAN
For the good of all, I recommend
you take MYRA with you.
Considering her uniqueness, I'm
sure she could prove quite helpful.
GARCIA almost smiles at the nasty power of ALAN'S
style. He turns away and starts packing up the
Beckman.
GARCIA
No thanks. Look, Smith had his fingerprints
removed but when I get him, this machine
will tell me if it's really him. Don't worry
I will terminate him without prejudice!
GARCIA is ready to go.
ALAN
And how is it one man will be able
to cover so much ground?
GARCIA
Discreetly.
ALAN
All pertinent information is
being fed into your departmental
computer, an Esper 231 -- I
believe -- and a photo over-lay
packet is being produced.
GARCIA opens the door.
ALAN
Mr. GARCIA, I think it would be
wise to reconsider my offer.
MYRA sits there very pale and expressionless, her
feet flat on the floor, alone is the word.
Trying to keep the fury out of it, GARCIA'S voice
comes out in a whisper.
GARCIA
I work alone.
On the last word, MYRA glances up at him and GARCIA
turns away. The outer door slides open and he goes
through it.
CUT TO:
Go to Part 4
Back to beginning of script