WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

CARLY RESTON'S APARTMENT

Donna had been knocking on the apartment door for the past five minutes. She was becoming even more annoyed. Finally, she decided to keep banging until someone answered the door. After thirty seconds, A small blonde woman with a serious hangover threw open the door and scowled.

"Carly Reston?"

"Yeah?"

"You're a flight attendant for sky national?"

"Oh, God. Look," The anger disappeared from her face and was replaced by annoyance. "I called in sick before I went to bed last night, which is more than six hours in advance, so if you couldn't find anyone to cover, it's not my fault."

Donna was stunned. She hadn't considered Ms. Reston not knowing about the crash since it's been plastered all over the news.

Carly was confused by Donna's silence. "You're not from corporate, are you?"

LATER

They were sitting on Carly table, a hot cup of coffee in her hand and the news playing silently in the background. Footage of the smoldering remain of the hull were being broadcasted at the moment.

"All of them?" Carly asked numbly, her eyes red and puffy. "Everyone?"

"Yes," Donna said softly, again.

"Sammi?"

"All of them. Everyone." Carly was about to cry again. Donna, who's not very good around messy people, awkwardly pushed a box of tissues across the table. "I need to know if Captain Mackelson was drinking at your party at the bar last night."

"Lori?" Carly squeaked. "No way! She's been sober for, like, a million years. Goes to meetings at every city on the route. She almost never comes out with us anyway. The only reason she even came out with us last night is 'cause it was my birthday."

TESSA REAGAN AND ASSOCIATES

"You didn't tell me Cynthia Baxter used to work in the Ivory Tower." U.S.A. Samuel Lynch was sternly reprimanding Tessa as he followed behind her to the elevator. "You didn't tell me she had a previous suicide attempt. You pretty much didn't tell me a single thing about the girl whom you tasked me with finding."

Tessa stepped into an elevator and hit the button for the ground floor. Sam shot his hand out to hold the doors open. "If I'm about to step into political quicksand here, I'd like to know it before I sink."

"I can't tell you any more than I've told you."

"But you know more. If you can't tell me more, then you're actually obstructing justice!"

"I'm sorry, Sam." She pushed his hand away and hit the button again. As the doors closed, she looked apologetic. "This is for your own safety."

PRESS CONFERENCE

Tessa stood behind the press podium, to her left were various officials from the airline union and others, to her right were the charts, maps, and technical specs the N.T.S.B and F.A.A had put up.

"I'd like to correct, in the strongest terms possible, the idea that the pilot, Lori Mackelson, had been drinking the night before the crash. She had not, and we have a witness to that effect."

The camera flashes increased, but she didn't let that bother her as she stared down the airlines spokesperson.

"A little history about Lori." Tessa continued, in a softer tone. At the edge of the crowd, she spotted Lori's husband. "She was married to Andrew Mackelson for 17 years. They have two boys - Carter, age 15, and Jonathan, age 12."

TESSA REAGAN AND ASSOCIATES

She had just gotten out of the press conference and was both emotionally and physically exhausted. She had planned on going to her office, but spotted Lyall's door ajar as she walked past the kitchen.

A horrible thought crossed her mind. She needed to know where Cynthia was, and she had an idea on how….but the cost of that was a high price she was mortified to have someone she cared about pay. She had been battling with this decision the entire car ride back.

She took a deep breath, muttering a quick pray for forgiveness, and walked into Lyall's office. He didn't look up until he heard his door click shut. Tessa leaned back against the door, taking her time to collect her scattered thoughts.

"I don't want to ask you to do this….it's not what you do anymore."

Lyall could tell she was uneasy, dangerously unsure of herself. He had a feeling he knew what she was about to ask of him. "You want the body."

"I know what I'm asking." Tessa pushed off the door and stood by him. "And if it's too much for you, if you don't want to, you can say no. That'll be the end of it. We'll find another way."

Lyall didn't respond at first. He reached across his desk to a pen holder he used to store lollipops. He took out her favorite, peach, and held it out to her. "I'll take care of it."

"Lyall," she took the peach lollipop with shaky fingers. "If you need reeling in, you call me. I'll come for you no matter what."

"I know that. Thank you." He stood up and took his coat off the back of the chair. "I got this. I'm good to go. No problem."

She watched him leave knowing full one someone might lose their life because Tessa asked for it.

O'ROURKE ENTERPRISES & HOLDINGS, INC.

MICHAEL'S OFFICE

Christopher Neilson barged ecstatically into Michael's office. Michael, his feet propped up onto his desk, was reading a copy of the latest copy D.R.E.A.M act Washington sent over.

"Digrazzo flipped!" Chris walked over to the desk and deposited a stack of papers he was carrying. "It took a lot of pork and a guarantee of heavy campaigning from you in New Jersey come midterms. We're only two away now."

Michael slowly took his feet off the table and turned to Chris. He was upset, and rightly so. "Cynthia Baxter's dead.

"I know," Chris said without pause, arranging the papers Michael needed to sign and look over. "Gabe called. How sad."

"Aren't you gonna ask how it happened?"

"No. Should I?" From Chris' voice, Michel could tell he was disinterested and only half-listening.

Michael placed his hand on the stack of papers, indicating Chris to stop. "A young woman died. A member of this company. My company."

"I said how sad I was. You didn't hear me? I'll say it again. How sad." He gestured sarcastically out the window. "Let's lower the flag out front."

"For God sakes, Chris, show some respect!" Michael tossed the D.R.E.A.M act on to his desk, leaning back in his chair.

Chris was quiet for a moment. Michael didn't like it when Chris got quiet in the middle of a conversation – it either meant lecture or argument. Either one would be well thought out and meticulous enough to pack the right amount of emotional punch and back-handedness to steer his opponent in the right direction.

Chris walked around the desk to stand in front of it, making sure he had Michael's full attention.

"128 innocent Americans - children, mommies and daddies and best friends and husbands and wives - died in that plane crash yesterday. That's sad. We lost one of the few sane and worthy members of the Senate yesterday. That's sad. Four Navy S.E.A.L.S died in Afghanistan….and that doesn't even touch Sudan, Congo, and northern Mexico. That's sad. But the disturbed girl who made it her life's mission to take down this company, your company; the one who was gleefully carrying your illegitimate bastard child she's no longer with us? Well, I'm sorry if I'm not sitting Shiva. I'm sorry if I can't help but see the millions of people that we'll actually be able to help now that Cynthia Baxter is gone. I am sorry, but this is a good thing. It is a good thing for us. It is a good thing for the company."

LATER

Catherine came in carrying lunch, a bright smile on her face. "I hear our guys in D.C. are going to pass the D.R.E.A.M. Act?"

Michael got up from his desk and kissed his wife's cheek. He helped her pull their food out of the bags and place in on the coffee table.

"Chris on it like a dog with a bone. You know he called Sanchez' widow?"

"Good. It needs to be passed."

"Still, there should be limits. We're political animals. We're not animals." Michael sank down on to the couch, leaning back to rest his head on the top. "Sometimes I think he's too willing to go to extremes."

Catherine was silent for a moment. She turned on her heel and walked to Michael's desk, pushing the button to reach Veronica Gadd. "Ms. Gadd, would you send Tom and Hal in here, please?"

Michael lifted his head, looking at his wife curiously. "Cat-"

Catherine held up her hand as Tom and Hal, Michael's personal two-man security, walked in from where they were posted outside the door.

"Tom," Catherine turned with a smile to the taller of the two men, blonde hair and a cleft chin.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"You would take a bullet for my husband, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Hal?" She turned to the shorter man, standing a good head below Tom. He was a little more round in the face and had brown hair.

"Yes, ma'am, I would."

"Thank you. That's all." The two men left and resumed their posts outside Michael's office. She turned to Michael with a knowing smile. "There isn't a person in this building who isn't willing to go to extremes for you."

"Yourself included?"

Catherine let that question slide as she finished unpacking their lunch.

TESSA REAGAN AND ASSOCIATES

CONFERENCE ROOM

"I got it," Gabe waked in with a smile.

Tessa was leaning over some of their paperwork. She stood up straighter, mildly disbelieving. "You got it?"

Gabe held up a blue folder. "Mechanic report - I got it." He handed it to her. "I looked through 200 reports, every inspection made on this plane in the last year. These are two separate reports," he pointed to the file.

Tessa opened it and placed them on the table. As he spoke, he pointed to the papers respectfully. "This one is signed and dated by a mechanic in Phoenix last fall. This one's signed and dated by a mechanic in Philly a week ago – the last inspection before the crash. No problems reported in either."

"That's bad for us, right?" Donna asked, climbing out from underneath the table. She had dropped her pen. "That means the plane was fine."

"Read line four," Gabe handed her the Phoenix report.

"'Power control unit'."

"Notice anything?"

"He misspelled 'control' with two 'T's."

Gabe turned to Tessa. "And the Philly report. Line four."

Tessa smiled. "It's misspelled here, too."

"What are the chances?" Gabe continued. "Identical reports submitted by different mechanics in different cities, months apart?"

"The Philly report is fake." Donna summarized. "The last inspection of the plane before it crashed was forged."

PLANE INSPECTION SITE

"That is your signature?" Gabe pointed out the inspector as they walked through the mechanic's bay.

"No, it is, but that's not my report." The inspector handed the paper back to Gabe. "That's not my handwriting. I wouldn't misspell 'control'. I won my sixth grade spelling bee."

They stopped at the tool rack. The inspector put on his belt and began to fill it with tools as Gabe spoke. "You were the last one to inspect the plane before it crashed. Can you tell me what you said in your report?"

"Hey," the man turned, furious, "I just turn 'em in, all right? This thing's not on me."

"I'm not here to blame you." Gabe calmed him down. "I just want you to remember."

The inspector sighed. "Fine. First, I would've checked the P.C.U., then the summing levers. And you want to make sure they're okay, 'cause if they're not, you risk the rudder deflecting to full blowdown limit-"

"Hold on," Gabe said, putting up his hand that had to report in it. He pulled out his phone and brought up the recorder. "I can't write as fast as you speak."

The inspector rolled his eyes. He started from the top, speaking a bit slower. "I would've checked the P.C.U., then the summing levers. You have to make sure they're okay, if they're not, you risk the rudder deflecting to full blowdown limit. If something was going on with the levers, I would've put the plane down. I remember recommending that for one of my birds."

"What exactly are you saying? Are you saying there's something wrong with the plane?"

CHARLIE'S APARTMENT

Lyall had been waiting in Charlie's apartment for the last several hours; sitting at his table, staring at his goldfish, trying to ignore the rusted red toolbox Lyall had brought with him. He had already laid down the plastic sheeting and wore his blue forensic booties. All that was left to do was wait.

He heard the jiggle of keys in the lock. Lyall calmly got up from the table and went to the door. He waited behind it as Charlie opened it. When it closed, Lyall attacked. Charlie was unconscious and on the ground in less than a minute.

"You're getting sloppy," Lyall whispered to Charlie, reminding him of their conversation at the diner.

TESSA REAGAN AND ASSOCIATES

CONFERENCE ROOM

Gabe had the blackbox recording on his phone. He hooked up a Bluetooth speaker and played it for Tessa, Donna, and Andrew Mackelson.

"Lori, left rudder. Left rudder." The co-pilot called out over the recording. Gabe paused it after a series of bumps.

"Right there. Hear that? Those three soft thumps. They're there. Trust me."

"Trust him," Tessa asked Andrew. "It's the sound of Lori pushing on the left rudder, but the pedal won't move. It won't let her go left."

"Why not?" Andrew asked Gabe.

"According to the mechanic, the thing that makes the rudder go left or right, one of its parts was bent. It'd be like making a right turn in your car and having the steering wheel lock up on you. The mechanic mentions the bent lever in his report, but that report is gone."

"This is good, Andrew. We can use this." Tessa told him. "It means Lori did everything in her power to stop that plane from going down. It means it wasn't her fault."

Andrew looked around to everyone in the room. "Then whose fault was it? My wife is dead. 120 people are dead. Who's to blame for that?"

O'ROURKE ENTERPRISES & HOLDINGS, INC.

CONFERENCE ROOM

EVENING

As Michael stood at the head of the long table, on the phone with Senator Jankowski, David Howser, Christopher's staff, and various D.C. aids sat around looking to Michael with hope and anxious fear on their faces. Chris stared down at the glass table, twiddling his thumbs.

"Well, we really appreciate your help. And I know senator Sanchez would, too. This is a great way to honor him." Michael chuckled. "We'll fly you and Lynn out to New York for dinner next weekend; Catherine would love to catch up. Okay. Thank you, senator. Yeah. Bye." Michael tentatively hung up the phone and turned to Christ on his left. A smile broke out over his face. "Jankowski's in."

Chris let out a holler, throwing his fist in the air as everyone else smile and congratulated one another. "Well done, everyone! All right!"

Margot Creech handed Chris his tablet. As he wrote on the screen, the image appeared on the large whiteboard on the conference room wall. The heading of the page was 'DREAM Act Senators'; underneath was a T-chart of 'yes' and 'no' voters. Currently, with Jankowski's change, the two columns were tied - 49 to 49. He added Jankowski's initials with the other senators in their column.

"Brant," Chris barked, turning to a White House staffer down the table. "Call your people, let them know the updated count. I want confirmation on all sides. Understand?"

Brant nodded, collected his things, and left the room to find a desk somewhere to make his calls. Chris turned David, who was sitting on Michael's right. "Brownhill's the deciding vote. And our V.P's call to D.C will-"

"I'm sorry." David shook his head. "I tried again this morning, but-"

The happiness from their momentary win was fading. Chris was becoming stern again. "Don't do this to me, David."

"We're gonna need one more or else it's a tie."

Michael pushed away from the table. "Get your boss up here. This has gone far enough."

He slammed the conference room door on his way out, leaving David and a handful of staff to Chris's anger.

CHARLIE'S APARTMENT

Charlie was lying naked on the plastic sheeting in the middle of his living room. His mouth was duct-taped, his feet were zip-tied together, and his arms restrained and splayed out on either side of him. This allowed for his lungs to expand. His body was covered in sweat and smelled of stale fear. Lyall could see the fear reflected in his eyes.

"I know. I know." Lyall hushed him softly, squatted down beside Charlie. "Just showing up at someone's house it's so tacky. But we really do need to talk about what happened to Cynthia Baxter. Okay, Charlie?"

He left to retrieve his rusted red toolbox from the kitchen table and returned to squat beside Charlie once more. Charlie was completely aware of what was inside that toolbox and just how Lyall was going to use those tools. Charlie had seen him work and often called it masterpiece, a privilege to see such a talented artist work. But now that Charlie was Lyall's canvas….he no longer thought Lyall an artist, but a butcher.

"I don't want you to think that I'm doing this because I'm mad at you. I'm not." Lyall shook his head sincerely. "I'm not. You trained me; but it was the agency, really. They took stuff from me, and not just my name or my ability to ever contact my family again. I was young, I was fresh out of high school, accepted into every top tier university I wanted, and they made it sound fun. We had fun, didn't we? That's the problem."

Lyall took out a pair of black latex gloves and put them on. "It's horrible and it's sickening, and just when you think you can't take any more, it gets fun. The U.S. government really knows its stuff, yeah? Something in you just falls away, and it gets fun."

Lyall lifted the top rack of the toolbox up to pull out his real instruments. He laid them out next to Charlie's head.

"There's a high. It's good. It's so good, which is what I wanna remind you of how good it can get. You think about that." Lyall chuckled nervously. "Okay, I'm thinking about it 'cause I'm rusty. I'm sober. This is gonna be….bad for me for a while, but I'm gonna push through the horrible and the sickening and then something's gonna fall away, and I'm gonna start enjoying myself."

He picked up the vibrant yellow drill with the dime-store unicorn sticker on it and attached the bit he needed. "And we both know what an artist I can be. And like any junkie, I'm gonna enjoy the high for as long as I can. Okay?"

Charlie lifted his head as much as he could, shaking his head and muttering. Lyall let the drill spin, a high pitch whining sound coming out of hit.

"Are you ready, old friend?"

O'ROURKE ENTERPRISES & HOLDINGS, INC.

MICHAEL'S OFFICE

"Charlotte!" Michael smiled, getting up from behind his desk to greet his company's Vice President. "Thanks for coming on such short notice."

Charlotte Davis was a proud African-American woman; God-fearing and as right-winged as she could be. She is passionate and deceptively charming, having no problem with using her gender to charm her way into what she wants. Tall, lithe, and with onyx black hair waving to below her shoulders. One would think choosing the Vice President of one's company meant selecting a trusted, yet knowledgeable friend, at the very least someone you tolerated. Michael's and Charlotte's relationship was purely political driven business. They both knew they needed the other to get what they wanted.

"It's nice to be invited to the party, Michael." She shook his hand with a smile. "I just came from a prayer meeting. You know how my people like to pray."

"I do. Please," he gestured to the sitting area. Charlotte took a seat on the couch and Michael sat in the arm chair beside her, a safe distance between them.

"I don't know if you know this, but my Cassidy was only 12 years old when I was deciding whether or not to take you up on your V.P. slot, and she said to me, 'do it, mama. War-Hero-Rourke walks with the Lord'." She chuckled. "Can you believe she was only 12 years old?"

"Very precocious, that Cassidy." Michael smiled, crossing his legs. Cassidy was a freshman at Columbus now and by-far nothing like her mother. "We did it, Charlotte. Our votes tally The D.R.E.A.M. Act will tie in the Senate unless we get your friend Senator Bradley Brownhill on board to cast the deciding vote."

"Michael, I'm afraid that I…" She took a moment to consider her words. "The children of illegal immigrants should not be allowed to take part in the bounty of America, Michael. That is not God's plan. I'm not saying that they shouldn't be allowed to partake in certain paths to legal immigration."

"You're an experienced politician and a woman of God, so I'm not gonna waste your time by trying to talk you into something that you've obviously given a lot of serious thought to. So let's just get right to it. You've been a Congress Woman, Senator, and now the V.P of an incredibly influential company that spans the globe. Just look at what we're doing; we took over the fucking Senate."

"Michael-"

"You intend to be President one day. You're plenty young and your ambition grows every day. And whatever our disagreements, I am not ashamed to admit this country could use a woman president. So let's put this inconvenient situation in that perspective, shall we?" Miachel leaned forward in his chair. "Out of the 14 vice presidents in our nation's history who have gone on to assume the presidency, do you know how many have done so without the endorsement of the President they served?"

"None."

"None. When, not if, but when you run, a recommendation from me and this company could go a long way. Or it may not get you very far. That all depends on the next few seconds." Michael stood, towering over her, his hands in his pockets. "Get Brownhill on board."

"I'll get Brownhill on board," Charlotte agreed in a diplomatic tone, not wishing to betray what she truly felt although Michael was fully aware.

Chris stepped in as Charlotte was leaving. "Sir?"

Michael watched Charlotte leave, waiting till the door closed fully behind her before speaking. "She's in. Deal closed. We're good. The bill will pass the senate with Brownhill with no problem." Michael turned with a smile to Chris, who stood beside Michael's desk, "And if it doesn't, I will tear her right-wing guts out and send them to that brat of hers. I'm back. I am back, Chris."

He dropped down onto the couch, propping his feet on the coffee table. His good mood didn't last long. Receiving no response from Chris, Michael turned to him. "Chris?"

Chris had his hands shoulder width apart on the desk, his head hung and staring blankly down. Michael snapped his fingers and called his name out again. This time, it seemed to rouse him. Chris walked over to the armchair Michael had been in and slumped down, his hand rubbing his eyebrows.

"We got a blackmail letter. A demand." He dropped his hand and sighed. "It's not Tessa. It's not Cynthia. Tessa's not this crazy, and Cynthia is dead." He leaned forward in the chair. "Which means there's someone else, a third party. Tessa did not send us that sex tape. Someone else did-"

"Chris!" Michael yelled, cutting across Chris's blabbering. "What's the demand?"

CHARLIE'S APARTMENT

NIGHT

Charlie was yelling as much as he could with the tape secured over his mouth. He was writing in extreme pain, pulling at his bindings, moaning, crying, yelling. Snot, sweat, drool, and tears mixed together and all of it ran down his face. Blood splattered all over the plastic sheeting and Charlie; amazingly, not one drop escaped their little plastic hell.

Lyall laid down beside him; taking in the high of lost sobriety. He could feel small pools of Charlie's blood seeping into his own clothing, but he didn't care. He brought a spare set with him. There was blood already running down his face. His breathing came in ragged breaths, like he couldn't quick catch it and keep it in.

"Oh, Charlie, you make a beautiful noise." Lyall sighed, closing his eyes. He rolled on his side to face Charlie, propping his head on his hands. "They did, you know, take stuff from me the U.S. Government. After I started not being able to sleep after I started crying when I wrapped a guy in plastic, they put me in a hole nobody wants to be in. And I don't mean a metaphorical hole. I mean, an actual hole."

"They took stuff from me, Charlie," Lyall whispered, rolling back over onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. He could feel the emotions welling in his chest, the pinpricks of tears swelling at his eyes. He let them run down his face when they came. "I was homeless, on the subway, begging for change when Tess found me. That's why I'm breaking my sobriety. Because she asked, okay? And I'm telling you this because I want you to understand that I owe her. I'm not gonna stop until you tell me where Cynthia is. You get that?"

Lyall sat up and ripped the tape off of Charlie's mouth. Charlie was moaning and crying out in pain, but Lyall squished Charlie's cheeks together to silence him a little. He leaned in close, his voice softly menacing.

"Tell me where she is, Charlie. I have a scalpel, a 10-blade. I will peel you like a grape. You're gonna retire to New Mexico. It's nice there. But first, you're gonna tell me where Cynthia Baxter's body is." Lyall reatched behind him to retrieve the scalpel. He held it up. "All right?"