Disclaimer: I don't own Prison Break.
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Clemency.
It was the one thing that could save a man's life. A man's life. A man whose hand Sara had held not fifteen minutes before. Lincoln Burrows hand was that of a workingman's. Rough and callused. If she flipped through his file, she would probably find that he had worked on a construction crew or in a warehouse. Manual labor. Manus, manus, f. Hand.
All she had to do was lift her hand and pick up the phone. But that would require facing her father. The same father who sent her flowers for her birthday but thought her ideas and her dreams were next to worthless. If flowers could be sterile, that bouquet had been. She kept her eyes focused carefully forward. If she turned around, she might see the origami flower in the glass-fronted cabinet. She still didn't know where Michael Scofield had gotten the colored paper.
It had been Michael who had begged her. Pleaded her, twisting his long-fingered hands. To talk to her father. To face him again as the Fox River prison doctor. It was her job to be an advocate for her patients. To make sure they were patched up, to demand answers when they showed up in her office with missing toes or torn rectums. It was so rare that she got a straight answer though. Prisoners were worse than abused housewives when it came to making excuses for their injuries.
She shoved back her desk chair, snatching her purse from by the filing cabinet. These men—Michael, Lincoln—they were counting on her to speak for them. Because, now, they could no longer speak for themselves. And she wasn't going to remain silent just because she couldn't face her own father.