Disclaimer: I don't own Prison Break
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"It's not like you're asking me for a new bike, kid."
The words struck Sara as hard as if her father had physically struck her. Did he think this was just a game to her? Did he think she didn't understand what was at stake? He hadn't been the one to sit there, holding Lincoln Burrows' hand and hear the man—on the eve of his execution—beg her to take care of his younger brother. He hadn't been the one to stand there, helpless, as Michael Scofield tried to teleport through the reinforced glass of her examining room to get to his brother. He wasn't the one who was going to have to face Michael tomorrow afternoon if the execution went through.
No, she realized, looking up at her father's merciless face, when the execution went through. He was not going to stay the execution. Here she was, giving him the straight facts of the issue, as circumstantial as they might be, and he wasn't going to believe them simply because they came from her. And he didn't have a shred of respect for her, daughter or not.
She listened as he droned on about his campaign, the promises he made, the cursed "Frontier Justice" he had sworn to uphold. How badly did she want to twist everything he was saying and throw it back in his face. Justice needed to be tempered with mercy…compassion. Words her father didn't understand; sentiments he had no use for. She bit her tongue. It was he who didn't understand the stakes. A man's life was more important than his political career. Why couldn't he see that?
And why didn't she have the power to make him see?