Good old Scriptware, pardon the conversion.
"Good Friday"
FADE IN:
EXT. MAXIMUM SECURITY PRISON - DAY
Grey. Everywhere, even the sky.
INT. EXECUTION VIEW ROOM - DAY
On the face of a black man, JOHN, 20's, in jeans and t-shirt, could be a prisoner, looks like a criminal, as he walks into the crowded room. The others look up, he's tall.
John's face is expressionless as he scans the crowd. Self-righteous white men, frail-looking white ladies. The only black woman in the room, a MOTHER, 50's, wears her Sunday best with dignity.
She walks to John.
                        MOTHER
        You'd be John.
No expression. John's eyes soften a little. Very little.
                        MOTHER
        Sit with me?
They sit together on the front row of seats. Moving away from them, the VICTIM'S FATHER nods to a PREACHER as he takes his seat beside a woman in tears.
                        VICTIM'S FATHER
        Now she knows how I feel.
                        PREACHER
        An eye for an eye.
The death row prisoner is brought into the execution room. He's black, big, wears a blindfold. He walks with pride, with dignity.
He's bound into the chair. He wiggles his wrist free. His right hand shakes, forms into a fist with a thumb's up gesture.
The mother, beside John, bites her lip.
                        MOTHER
        He didn't do that horrible thing. Not my boy.
                        JOHN
        No.
The victim's father looks over at two younger versions of himself, in their 20's, and they all lift their chins, glare at the mother of the prisoner.
                        MOTHER
        You helped him. Get back on the right road.
John's expression doesn't change.
                        JOHN
        He talked about you. Your fried chicken.
The words startle the mother. Her lips quiver, the tears come. She raises her eyes to the ceiling as the countdown ends.
A CRACK OF THUNDER booms outside the prison walls as the prisoner's life ends.
The women jump, hail pounds the roof, as the mother wails in grief.
                        MOTHER
        Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do!
The guards look around, uncomfortable. The victim's father comforts his timid wife.
                        VICTIM'S FATHER
        Oh for God's sake, it always rains on Good Friday.
They all sigh, nod, comfort each other in their grief. Start to shuffle out.
                        PREACHER
        It's not like he's the son of God.
They chuckle. The preacher always knows what to say in times like this.
The two remain. The black woman whose grief pours from her body. The black man whose expression never changes.
A black hand, rough, big, reaches over to grasp the mother's. She stops wailing, sniffles into a white handkerchief with lace etching.
She nods. They remove the prisoner's body from the chair. Cover him with a sheet, pull down the curtain.
A GUARD clears his throat from the doorway.
                        GUARD
        Ma'am? You have to leave now.
The mother nods, stands. John stands at the same time, walks with her to the doorway. She turns to him.
                        MOTHER
        You could come by the house Sunday. If ya like chicken.
John looks at her. Same expression.
                        JOHN
        I like yours.
She smiles, her face lights with beauty. With peace. Sheets of rain pour on the roof, thunder booms outside.
She looks down and sees he's still holding her hand. Then looks at the black curtain.
                        MOTHER
        Woman, behold thy son.
She walks from the room. John turns back to the curtain. His face holds no expression.
His right hand forms a fist.
With a thumb's up.
        FADE OUT.
"Good Friday"
FADE IN:
EXT. MAXIMUM SECURITY PRISON - DAY
Grey. Everywhere, even the sky.
INT. EXECUTION VIEW ROOM - DAY
On the face of a black man, JOHN, 20's, in jeans and t-shirt, could be a prisoner, looks like a criminal, as he walks into the crowded room. The others look up, he's tall.
John's face is expressionless as he scans the crowd. Self-righteous white men, frail-looking white ladies. The only black woman in the room, a MOTHER, 50's, wears her Sunday best with dignity.
She walks to John.
                        MOTHER
        You'd be John.
No expression. John's eyes soften a little. Very little.
                        MOTHER
        Sit with me?
They sit together on the front row of seats. Moving away from them, the VICTIM'S FATHER nods to a PREACHER as he takes his seat beside a woman in tears.
                        VICTIM'S FATHER
        Now she knows how I feel.
                        PREACHER
        An eye for an eye.
The death row prisoner is brought into the execution room. He's black, big, wears a blindfold. He walks with pride, with dignity.
He's bound into the chair. He wiggles his wrist free. His right hand shakes, forms into a fist with a thumb's up gesture.
The mother, beside John, bites her lip.
                        MOTHER
        He didn't do that horrible thing. Not my boy.
                        JOHN
        No.
The victim's father looks over at two younger versions of himself, in their 20's, and they all lift their chins, glare at the mother of the prisoner.
                        MOTHER
        You helped him. Get back on the right road.
John's expression doesn't change.
                        JOHN
        He talked about you. Your fried chicken.
The words startle the mother. Her lips quiver, the tears come. She raises her eyes to the ceiling as the countdown ends.
A CRACK OF THUNDER booms outside the prison walls as the prisoner's life ends.
The women jump, hail pounds the roof, as the mother wails in grief.
                        MOTHER
        Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do!
The guards look around, uncomfortable. The victim's father comforts his timid wife.
                        VICTIM'S FATHER
        Oh for God's sake, it always rains on Good Friday.
They all sigh, nod, comfort each other in their grief. Start to shuffle out.
                        PREACHER
        It's not like he's the son of God.
They chuckle. The preacher always knows what to say in times like this.
The two remain. The black woman whose grief pours from her body. The black man whose expression never changes.
A black hand, rough, big, reaches over to grasp the mother's. She stops wailing, sniffles into a white handkerchief with lace etching.
She nods. They remove the prisoner's body from the chair. Cover him with a sheet, pull down the curtain.
A GUARD clears his throat from the doorway.
                        GUARD
        Ma'am? You have to leave now.
The mother nods, stands. John stands at the same time, walks with her to the doorway. She turns to him.
                        MOTHER
        You could come by the house Sunday. If ya like chicken.
John looks at her. Same expression.
                        JOHN
        I like yours.
She smiles, her face lights with beauty. With peace. Sheets of rain pour on the roof, thunder booms outside.
She looks down and sees he's still holding her hand. Then looks at the black curtain.
                        MOTHER
        Woman, behold thy son.
She walks from the room. John turns back to the curtain. His face holds no expression.
His right hand forms a fist.
With a thumb's up.
        FADE OUT.
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