Contains spoilers for the pilot. Some scenes may be in a slightly different order from the show for better storytelling. Title is taken from the song at the beginning of episode, which to my knowledge hasn't actually been named yet. Dialogue borrowed from the show, but the rest is my own.
Two counts of felony murder.
That's what they were calling it. Two lives brought to a sudden end by his own hands, the hands of a killer.
But he wasn't a killer. He was innocent. He'd repeated it like a mantra from the day he was arrested. Again when he was charged. And every day for the last seven years he'd spent rotting away in this miserable, dank cell with its mucky peeling walls that may have once been cream, but were now a dirty grey.
They hadn't listened.
The prisoner was perched on the end of the bed, shallow, raspy breaths hinting that not enough air was getting into his lungs in the wake of the panic attack he was having. His face was hidden by shaking hands, curtained by a mane of straggly, untrimmed hair suggesting a broken spirit that had once been a fighter, but now awaited his grisly demise with dull acceptance. There was nothing left to fight for, no way to prove his innocence in the light of his final moments.
He felt out of place, clad in prison orange that stood out horribly against the colourless furnishing. Well, the sink, the table, the toilet and the bed anyway, he didn't exactly live a life of luxury here and charged killers apparently never got anything more than the bare minimum. But in truth he was out of place, he didn't belong here because he wasn't a killer. Criminal maybe - he'd had his fair share of run-ins with the law, but he'd never murdered anybody. And he had little under an hour to prove that.
Keys rattled at the door beyond the bars of his cell, and at that moment enough dread to last a lifetime pooled in the pit of his stomach, tearing at his insides and churning up a dizzy sense of nausea. He didn't have anything to throw up though; his final meal was still untouched in the centre of the room. It was no different from any other meal he'd eaten on the inside, nothing special or fancy commemorating his last day on earth. Just a sorry looking bread roll among other things he didn't want to question.
It couldn't be time already; he must still have a few minutes. Unless, they were so eager to get rid of him that they had pushed forward his execution. He dug his nails into his palms until they turned white, and left little crescent moons embedded in his skin. He wasn't ready. He needed more time, just a few more minutes then he'd think of something.
Instead, a guard entered his cell with another man, a bald, dark skinned figure with rounded spectacles, dressed in a plain black suit and clerical collar. His hand held what looked to be a beaded necklace. Oh, prayers beads, he found on closer inspection. The man, better know as Milton Winter, hovered by the door, examining the prisoner with an unreadable expression, but somewhere between unease and sympathy, with just a hint of curiousity.
The guard, clearly the unsympathetic type, drew his baton and drew it loudly across the cell bars.
"Wake up caveman, your priest is here."
He fumbled with a ring of keys and unlocked the door.
"It's a little game we like to play," he added with a smirk. It was easy to deduce that it wasn't the first time the guard had poked fun at the inmate.
He stood back to allow the priest into the small room.
"You 'gonna be okay in here?" he asked, as the priest paused before the cell, still transfixed by the trembling mess of a man that had yet to look up from his feet. He knew so much about the man before him, some things the prisoner didn't even know himself. But knowing was not seeing, and to finally meet the man who would soon become Bo's protector, he couldn't help but feel some apprehension. He had been questioned frequently on his desicion to choose the death row inmate to entrust with the girl's safety, but he knew deep down he was the only one capable of the task. For reasons only he understood.
"I'm fine. Thank you," Milton offered finally, having realised he had yet to answer.
He moved forward as the door was locked behind him and the guard left. He took off his fedora, holding it in both hands in a neutral gesture.
"Good evening," Milton addressed the man, placing his hat down on the old wood table.
"I didn't ask for a priest," the male scoffed in reply. He needed more than a priest to get him out of this, he needed a damn miracle. He wasn't religious, but if there really was someone up there looking out for him, he would gladly accept a favour or two, in return for promises to become a better person that would most likely remain unfulfilled.
"You have such a long history of violence, Mr Tate. First arrested at fourteen, after that numerous arrests for robbery and assault. Now you're being executed for two counts of felony murder in thirty minutes, and you have nothing to confess?"
"I'm innocent. I was set up," Tate mumbled in between breaths - his shaking by now developing into full fronted convulsions that wracked his entire body. The priest seemed oblivious to his distress, or he was too polite to comment. He knew time was ticking, and he didn't want to spend his last minutes being told what he already knew.
"They've no reason to believe you, do they? No one ever did. No friends or family have come to be with you today, nor in the seven years that you have been in here." He took a stole from his bag - a long purple satin scarf with embroidered golden crosses - and laid it over his shoulders. Two thirds of a con was looking the part, after all, and there was a security camera pointed towards the cell, so this had to be done right or not at all.
"It must be very difficult to maintain hope, remember who you once were."
"I don't need a confession," came the gruff reply as the prisoner drew another shaky breath.
"Well, thank God for that," Milton announced, straightening up with a smile and looking far too pleased with himself despite the severity of the current circumstances. Tate finally looked up, confusion etched across his face as he sought out an explanation for the sudden outburst, and Milton was secretly pleased he had finally caught his attention.
"We live in a world where everyone wants forgiveness, but no one has permission." Milton sat down, picking up a bible in his other hand.
"What do you want?" Tate finally asked, wishing the priest would either lose the cryptic remarks and be blunt about his intentions or let him be alone in his final few minutes. He deserved that much.
Milton Winter smiled, allowing the silence to pan out between the two as he watched the inmate. It was a while before he spoke again.
"I'm here, to help you escape."
To be continued.
