First Kill the Lawyers

SPOKANE, WASHINGTON. A 1995 Toyota 4Runner is parked down the street from the Spokane Convention Center. The man sitting in the driver's seat is Jonathan Smith. He's still fit, even in his late fifties. He has the keen stare of a 30-year veteran police officer, but the five o'clock shadow and purplish bags under his eyes betray that something is weighing on him. He fiddles with something unseen in his hand. His eyes are fixed on the front entry to the convention. A bead of sweat forms at his hairline even though the city is barely crawling out of winter.

The passenger door opens and Smith whips his arm to the outside of his left thigh to hide what is in his hand as Michael Kowalski (Ski) plops down in the seat next to him. Ski sniffs the air and pulls a face. He arches to look into the backseat and cargo space of the car. He sucks through his teeth then looks at Smith. "Somethin' stinks, J." He has the dialect of a kid that grew up in downtown, west of Division among the tweakers and prostitutes. And he'd probably have ended up selling to one or pimping the other if it weren't for the Marine Corps and Smith's mentorship on the force.

Ski squints through the windshield at the convention center. The sign flashes "NDAA ANNUAL CONVENTION." He looks at his friend. "What's the plan here, J?" Smith looks at him with bloodshot eyes. "Justice, brother. Finally." Ski nods. "Okay."

NIGHT. Smith is driving down along the River to the "Y" a mile west of Division. He is nursing a bottle as his goes. As he crosses into the West Central neighborhood, the houses noticeably deteriorate. Pit bulls pace yards enclosed by chain link fences. Many houses are abandoned, with boards over the windows and unpruned shrubs snarling at passerbys. It looks like a hurricane might've ripped through the neighborhood, only, none had.

Smith eases the station wagon to the side of the road in front of a darkened house. He kills the motor and breaths deeply. A dog barks in the distance. A shouting match starts up a block away. A siren. Smith tips the bottle back and as he brings it down we... Smith standing on the front porch of the house, the bottle finishing the downward move. He eyes a strip of red tape across the door jamb. It reads "EVIDENCE." He clumsily opens a pocketknife. He's obviously drunk. He splits the tape and shoulders the door open. Inside, he floats from room to room. The previous occupants were living in abject squalor, but it doesn't seem to phase Smith. Smith stands in the doorway into the kitchen, staring at the oven, it's door slightly agape. He approaches like its going to explode, the bottle dangling at his side. He sinks to his knees in front of it and begins to weep, mumbling the same phrase over and over, "I'm so sorry." After composing himself, he pulls a gun out of his jacket pocket. He chambers a round and hugs the weapon. Macro shot of his finger on the trigger.

POP! We cut to a shot of a bottle of champagne popping and being poured. We are at Lodgepole Restaurant & Bar. Smith is there and he's smiling. Sort of. There is a woman next to him. This is Amanda Martinez. She is roughly 15 years younger than Smith, but by the way she looks at him we know that she is in love. Ski is there too. He holds hands with a very pregnant Mrs. Ski. There are two dozen others there, some wearing uniforms. A banner is pinned to the wall: "Happy Retirement, Jon!"

The night is filled with good cheer and heartwarming speeches from Smith and Ski. Then as the party winds down, midway through the Captain's speech (the last of the night), Smith goes rigid when something catches his eye by the door, "What the hell is he doing here?!" Angle on a well-dressed black man with a bald head and beard. This is Ronald S. Bopkin, Esq. He is escorting a young white woman to a nearby table. He doesn't notice Smith's daggers.

Ski follows Smith's eyeline. He turns back to Smith and tries to lighten the mood. "Yo, our favorite douchebag." He smiles. Smith shakes his head and tries to rejoin the merrymaking. Ski launches into a story about pregnant Mrs. Ski and, while both women are laughing, Smith can't stop stealing glances at Bopkin. The sound of conversation deadens and his looks get longer. "J! C'mon, man!" Ski cuffs Smith on the back of the neck. "Leave him." Smith smiles thinly and takes a sip of whiskey.

Smith and Ski and their significant others are in the parking lot, wrapping up the night. "So what are you gonna do now that you're retired, J? You hate golf." Just as Ski asks the question, Bopkin comes out of the restraunt with his date. He's all smiles, but when he notices Smith staring, the smile disappears for a moment before returning, painted on. Bopkin climbs into his car. Ski notices the moment. "So what's it gonna be, J? You can't have no plan..." Smith doesn't answer as he stares at Bopkin's tail lights heading down the street.

Bopkin's tail lights in a different part of town, only now, we're moving and Smith is tailing him. Smith is wearing all black. Montage of him stalking Bopkin. Waiting outside office, dry cleaners, The Garden Lounge...Bopkin's house. Smith exits the car and sneaks into the house. Bopkin sits on his couch watching TV. Smith draws his gun and points it at the back of Bopkin's head. Point blank. A shot made thousands of times on the range. But he can't do it. He flees back to his car, narrowly missing being seen. He calls Amanda. "I need to see you."

CORNER CLUB. Amanda and Smith sit in a darkened corner booth. Smith nearly confesses to what he was going to do, but Amanda is distracted...and distracting. She had a rough day at work. She's a child welfare advocate for the county. There is a particular lawyer making her job impossible and endangering a child in the name of the law. Smith feeds off her rage. Amanda gets a text. "Shoot. I have to go back to the office for a few things...you can come?" Smith shakes his head. "I have to take care of something too." Back at Bopkin's, Smith throws the car into park, breaks into the house, goes to the bedroom to find Bopkin sleeping, pulls his gun and shoots him.

In another bar in another city sits another man. His name is Charles Adams. His hair and beard are long and unkempt. His eyes are glued to the tv screen behind the bar as Bopkin's picture appears on the nightly news. His eyes moisten and he stifles a strong emotion. He signals the bartender over and whispers something. The bartender smiles and rings a bell. "A round of drinks for everyone!" Amanda is sleeping soundly next to a wide awake Smith. He stares at the ceiling. He goes to the kitchen and opens fridge. He flips through channels on the tv. He cleans his gun. He surfs the internet. He goes to his garage and begins to tinker at his workbench. His attention snaps to the door when someone knocks (suddenly, its DAY). Smith rubs his face and goes to the door. Ski and Stan Uta (Smith's old rival since their days in the academy and Ski's new partner) are at the door. "Mornin', J," Ski says, "we've got a murder we need to talk to you about."

Smith invites them to sit in the house and makes them coffee as they tell him about the Bopkin murder. Uta has clear animosity toward Smith and the feeling is mutual. They ask Smith, since he worked a bunch of cases where Bopkin was the defense attorney, if he had any enemies. "You're wondering if he had any enemies? You should be wondering if he had any friends." Smith does leave them with one name: Silverman. After Bopkin got Silverman's wife's murderer off scot-free, Silverman left the courtroom screaming about how he was going to kill Bopkin.

Uta and Ski have an argument in the car on the way to Silverman's. Uta actually suspects Smith, but Ski dismisses it as jealousy (and it probably is).

Uta and Ski roll up to a public park where the homeless sleep at night and loiter during the day. They approach a rough-looking man in a filthy trench coat. He flees and Uta and Ski pursue him. After apprehending him, they cuff him and sit him on the curb by the car and begin to question him. He admits that his name "used to be Silverman, but now it is 'Man of Silver...'" Turns out that Silverman is absolutely insane and there is no way he could've committed the murder. Uta and Ski decide to release him and as he's walking away he says, "I haven't eaten in 40 days and 40 nights. You guys got any food?"

Establishing shot of a nice restaurant at night. Inside, another well-dressed man sits at a table with a smartly-dressed woman. This is Miles McGee and Stephanie Glover. They are partners at McGee, Glover & Darby, LP, a prestigious corporate and criminal law practice. And Smith watches them from a table in the corner. When they finish their meal, they exit passing by Smith's table as McGee tells his partner, "I have to run back to the office. I'll see you tomorrow."

The parking structure at McGee's office is nearly deserted, except for a McGee's BMW X5 and a Station Wagon. McGee approaches his car. He hears a noise that spooks him. He approaches the car. The angle makes it seem like someone will jump out from behind him but nothing happens. He climbs into his car. As he starts it up, the passenger door rips open and a gun appears in a gloved hand. Smith sits down. McGee is a mess, blubbering like a baby and begging for his life. "Do you remember me?" Smith asks. "I don't." "Do you think that a mother who is tweaking and puts her infant daughter into a heated oven 'because she was cold' should be convicted as a murder." Everything comes rushing back. McGee stutters. "Y-You were the detective." Smith nods, "And you argued, and I quote, 'had Detective Smith tended to the child instead of brutally tackling and beating my client, the girl probably would have survived.'" McGee weeps. "Yes, yes, I said that in court. I had to. I'm a defense attorney. I have to vigorously defend my clients." Smith is disgusted. He cocks the gun. "She was guilty of killing her daughter. Murder. Murder. Say it, Miles. Murder." McGee stutters, "M-Murder." The sound of a gunshot carries through as we...

The exterior of the car, police tape marking off the crime scene. Ski and Uta stand over the bloody body of Miles McGee. Stephanie Glover is being interviewed.

Smith is in his garage. He is tinkering again. Soldering something.

The locker room of a gym. A hispanic man is wrapped in a towel. He is combing his hair in the mirror. Smith appears in the reflection. Ski at the scene in the locker room. A body is covered in a sheet and techs snap photographs. Ski turns to Uta, "We can't put surveillance on every damn defense attorney in the entire city."

An older female in a power pantsuit closes her garage door and as she opens the door between the house and the garage, Smith is there with his gun raised.

A single bowling pin is knocked down. Ski, Smith, and their ladies are at a bowling alley. "This is bad, J." Ski sips on his beer as Amanda lines up for her next shot. "We're gonna run out of lawyers." Smith doesn't