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"DEATH ON APPEAL"

by

Des Nnochiri

Copyright © Des Nnochiri 2007

E-mail: desnnr@yahoo.co.uk
Web: <<http://desnnochiri.250free.com>>
Tel: +234 803 3316667
or +234 805 6059862
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FADE IN

INT. HOLDING CELL - DAY

Prison fatigues on a broad back, one of several tightly wedged

within a row of identically clad INMATES. Beyond them, cold steel
bars frame a sterile hallway.

A burly MARSHAL steps up, bristling with weapons. Some we

recognise. Some we don’t.

MARSHAL
Hammett.

HAMMETT (V.O.)
My name is Spenser Hammett.
And this is the story...
of the last 48 hours of my life.

INT. APPEALS CENTER HALLWAY - DAY

The marshal thumbs a keypad, and the bars slide open - just
enough to let one person squeeze through.

He stands to one side as SPENSER HAMMETT (late twenties, average

build, prison fatigues) elbows past several of the thirty or so
inmates in front of him, and exits the cell.

The bars clang shut, as Hammett follows the marshal down the long
hallway. They pass holding cells on each side, all packed with
jostling convicts.

Wall monitors (exactly what they are) display archive news

footage, from the Prime Time Crime network. Gang violence. Armed
insurrection. Running battles with police and government troops.

HAMMETT (V.O.)
Been like this for a while, now.
Things got really bad, in 2029.
“The MS-13 Crisis.”
Armed gangs from El Salvador
invaded the United States.
Started turf wars with the Mafia, the Yakuza,
Russian Mob.
Anyone stupid enough to take them on.
It was mayhem.
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Government tried everything.
Deportation, prison ships,
converting old factory buildings into--

MARSHAL
End ‘o’ the line.

They’re outside an office: “Appeals / Executions.”

Door’s open. They enter.

INT. APPEALS / EXECUTIONS OFFICE - DAY

A bored-looking COURT CLERK sits behind an elevated desk at the

end of the room.

COURT CLERK
Spenser Hammett.
Having been convicted, on July 17th, 2048, of
the fatal shootings of Veronica Louise
Hammett and Ilsa Margrit Dietrich, and the
death by stabbing of James “Mad Dog” Cain,
you were duly sentenced to Death On Appeal.
Sentence to be carried out immediately.
May God have mercy on your soul.

She taps the console in front of her, and the page that she was
quoting from fades out. She turns back to the novel she was
reading before.

A geeky TECHNICIAN hustles over, from where he was standing

beside what looks like a hi-tech dentist’s chair.

The marshal steers Hammett over to it.

As he sits down, restraints in the arm-rests lock Hammett in
place.

TECHNICIAN
(fussing with headrest)
You know how this works?

HAMMETT
No. Ow!

He looks down. Sees some kind of semi-transparent bracelet

attached very tightly to his left wrist. The restraints are still
in place.

TECHNICIAN
The bracelet’s just injected you with the
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TrackInfection. Tracking Infection. It’s a
powerful neurotoxin--

HAMMETT
Glows in the dark?

TECHNICIAN
No.
It’s, uh, L-Fourteen Neuronase?
Induces cardiac arrest, stops all higher
brain functions. Instantly.
Almost painless. Really.

HAMMETT
Do I get to wear an eyepatch?

TECHNICIAN
Ahhh... No.
There’s a laser terminal in the infirmary, I
think.
If you’re having problems with your vision.
Anyway, each molecule has little nanobots on
it, that act as a--

HAMMETT
You gonna chain me to a hot-looking babe from
the Resistance, at least?

TECHNICIAN
Resistance? I don’t, uh...

He looks over at the Marshal. He’s no help.

TECHNICIAN
The, uh, the nanobots act as a 48-hour time-
release for the poison.

He wheels over a tripod. Moves it close to Hammett’s bracelet.

A 3-dimensional display pops up, with street maps, office names,
and communication links on it.

TECHNICIAN (CONTD.)
They also report on your location and
physical condition.
The Bracelet’ll hook you up to the grid, in
the usual manner.

HAMMETT
SuperGlue me to a college co-ed, even?
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TECHNICIAN
What? No. Ummm...
If you find evidence to overturn your
conviction, access any street map, like this
one, and download the information to the
Appeals Office nearest to you.
A sophisticated algorithm will process that
information, and, if it checks out, will
instruct the nanobots to reverse-engineer the
toxin.

HAMMETT
So, I guess screwing in a public plaza’s
out of the question.

TECHNICIAN
What? Ahhh....
I wrote it myself. The algorithm. It rocks.
Anyway.
Timer starts as soon as you leave the
building.
You’ll get your last meal, of course.
Religious blessing, of your choice. I hear
the lasagne’s really good.
Good luck!

HAMMETT
Die with dignity.

The seat restraints retract.

The marshal stands by as Hammett gets up, then escorts him from
the room.

INT. APPEALS CENTER EXIT HALL - DAY

Hammett (in street clothes, now) collects a Ziploc bag of his

belongings from the reception desk.

The marshal pushes Hammett toward the security grille at the exit
door, shoves him through. And stands there, Easter Island style,
as Hammett walks away.

EXT. APPEALS CENTER - DAY

It looks like a meat-packing plant. Which it probably was.

HAMMETT (V.O.)
In case you’re wondering about the name? My
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mother, God bless her.
She was obssessed with the whole private eye,
“Kiss Me Deadly”, thing before the brains
behind Prime Time Crime were in kindergarten,
even.
After she stalked, and then married a guy
named Hammett, well...
I didn’t get much say in the matter.
Rest of the world seems to have followed
suit.

He looks at his wrist. The Tracking Bracelet is glowing green.

There’s a digital timer counting down. A little over 47 hours and
58 minutes left.

HAMMETT (V.O.)
But, that’s enough about me.
I have to go see my lawyer.

INT. LAW OFFICE RECEPTION AREA - DAY

The outer office of Gardner, Neff, & Gittes, Attorneys (says so

on the wall plaque) is crammed with CLIENTS, and a harassed
looking RECEPTIONIST (MS. LAKE).

Several of the clients wear Tracking Bracelets, glowing in a

spectrum from green, through yellow, to orange. Red strobe light
means adios.

Trying to blend in, but failing miserably, is an MS-29 COP

(Violent Crime Suppression Unit). If you thought the Marshals at
the Appeals Center were packing heat, you should see this guy.

The door to the office of Lawrence Gardner, Attorney at Law, is

slightly open, and we can hear voices from within.

INT. LAWRENCE GARDNER’S OFFICE - DAY

It’s clean, smart, and well furnished. This guy is no ambulance-

chaser.

Hammett fidgets round the office, as LAWRENCE GARDNER (mid-

fifties, silver hair, well fed) reads from a legal file, and
drones on.

GARDNER
...and a history of misdemeanour convictions,
several involving violence. You’re taking
Placidaxx, I understand?
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HAMMETT
Occasionally.
Not since--

Gardner looks a little alarmed at this.

HAMMETT
The whole zombie thing.
Just wasn’t working for me.

GARDNER
I understand the new formulation is--

HAMMETT
Where’s Mr. Neff?

GARDNER
Excuse me?

HAMMETT
Gregor Neff. He was my lawyer for the trial.
Where is he?

GARDNER
Greg is... on sabbatical. You understand, in
the current climate, the practice of criminal
law is very stressful.
I generally handle corporate cases myself,
but with the backlog--

HAMMETT
Where?

GARDNER
I’m sorry, I don’t--

HAMMETT
On sabbatical. Where?

GARDNER
Of course, that’s, that’s confidential.
To get back to your case.
DNA traces on the murder weapon were those of
you, and your wife. Forensic analysis
confirms that Mrs. Hammett could not have
shot Ms. Dietrich, or herself.
Financial incentives for you - property, bank
accounts, insurance - were not
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inconsiderable.
And there were aggravating circumstances, of
course.

Hammett puts down the paperweight he was holding, and stares at

him.

GARDNER (CONTD.)
You killed a man, Mr. Hammett. On the morning
of your trial.

Hammett’s eyes glaze over, as he remembers...

EXT. PRE-TRIAL DETENTION CENTER - MORNING

(A flashback, to the early morning of July 17th, 2048)

Hammett stands with a group of forty or so inmates, as they wait

to board the transport shuttle to court.
From the middle of the pack, JAMES “MAD DOG” CAIN (mid-30s, huge,
muscular, mean as Hell) steps up, and gets in Hammett’s face.

“MAD DOG” CAIN

Y’Alright, sister?

Hammett turns away. Tries to ignore him.

Mad Dog grabs Hammett’s chin, squeezing his cheeks, as he turns
Hammett back to face him.

“MAD DOG” CAIN

Hey! I’m talkin’ to you, bitch!
Yeah. Tha’s right.
Couldn’t get it up for her, so she--

Hammett snarls, spits at him. Cain steps back a bit. Grins, as

the spoon shank up his sleeve slides down into his fingers.
Advances.
He hasn’t noticed the subtle shift in Hammett’s eyes and
attitude. Jekyll-Hyde. We’re not dealing with the same person,
anymore.

As Mad Dog soon discovers. Hammett’s all over him - punching,

kicking, gouging, elbowing. It’s over very quickly. A cry of
pain, a snap, a sickening crunch.

And Hammett steps back, covered in blood. But not his own.
He’s gasping, sweaty, wavering on his feet...
Then collapses suddenly, as he’s zapped with a taser stick by one
of the MARSHALS who have come up behind him.
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SENIOR MARSHAL
(re: the fallen Hammett)
Clean him up, and get him on the bus.