Oaths
A young lawyer, Thomas, fights a desperate legal battle to save his client, relying on a grueling cross-examination and a late-night search for a forgotten detail that could turn the entire case.
INT. COURTROOM - DAY
SOUND of a lone FLY buzzing, the slow, heavy TICK of a large wall clock
Dust motes dance in hazy shafts of spring light pouring through tall, arched windows. The air is thick, humid. The room is dark wood and worn leather. A gallery of stern-faced JURORS watch intently.
At the witness stand, MRS. MORDEN (60s), face etched with a lifetime of hard labor, clutches a worn handkerchief. Her cheap cotton dress rustles like dry leaves.
Opposite her, THOMAS (22), in a slightly-too-large suit, grips an oak railing. His face is a carefully constructed mask of professional calm, but a tremor betrays him in his white-knuckled hands.
Across the room, the prosecutor, MR. SAMPSON (50s), polished and silver-haired, watches with a faint, knowing smirk.
THOMAS
You claim, Mrs. Morden, that you observed the altercation from your kitchen window. Is that correct?
MRS. MORDEN
(Flat, unyielding)
That’s what I said, ain’t it? Clear as day.
Thomas lets the silence hang. The buzz of the fly seems to grow louder. He glances at his client, MR. TAYLOR (40s), a gaunt, hollow-eyed figure who sits perfectly still, a man already turned to stone.
THOMAS
And what time, precisely, was this ‘clear as day’ observation made?
MRS. MORDEN
Past eight. Near nine. Sun was down, but there was still light.
THOMAS
Indeed. The sun was down.
He begins a slow, deliberate circle in the small space before the jury. The floorboards GROAN under his scuffed leather shoes.
THOMAS (CONT'D)
Yet, earlier, you testified that the streetlamp on Elm Street had not yet been lit. Do you recall stating that?
MRS. MORDEN
(Voice rising)
Well, it wasn’t. They don’t light ‘em till the lamplighter comes around. He’s usually late.
THOMAS
So, no streetlamp. And the moon?
He stops, turning to face her fully.
MRS. MORDEN
Moon? Don’t recollect no moon.
THOMAS
Yet, Mrs. Morden, on the evening of April 14th, the moon was in its first quarter. A thin crescent, barely visible, set to dip below the horizon shortly after sunset. Not much light from that, would you agree?
Mrs. Morden’s foot begins a nervous, insistent TAP against the leg of the witness stand.
THOMAS (CONT'D)
And your kitchen window. It faces north, correct? Overlooking the alleyway and then Elm Street?
MRS. MORDEN
(Sharper)
Yes. Always has.
THOMAS
Meaning...
He pulls a crude, hand-drawn sketch from a stack of papers. He traces a line on it with his finger.
THOMAS (CONT'D)
...that the light from the setting sun, in the west, would have been at your back. The streetlamp, unlit, provided no illumination. The moon, a mere sliver, also offered little. What then, Mrs. Morden...
He places the sketch before the jury.
THOMAS (CONT'D)
...illuminated this ‘clear as day’ altercation you observed?
She stares, brow furrowed. A faint redness creeps up her neck.
MRS. MORDEN
There was... it was... I could see fine.
THOMAS
(Softer, but sharp)
Could you, Mrs. Morden? Or did the shadows play tricks? Did the failing light obscure details?
He gestures to the large courtroom clock. Its hands tick with a solemn, relentless rhythm.
MRS. MORDEN
I saw what I saw.
Her voice is a thin wire. She points a trembling finger at the defense table.
MRS. MORDEN (CONT'D)
That man... Mr. Taylor... he was there. He done it.
Taylor flinches. Thomas turns, his gaze sweeping the jury. He sees doubt on some faces, but conviction on others, mirroring Mrs. Morden’s own. He takes a breath, the fight going out of him.
THOMAS
No further questions, your Honor.
He returns to his seat, the exhaustion hitting him like a physical blow.
Sampson rises smoothly.
SAMPSON
Redirect, your Honor.
He steps forward, his voice deep, resonant, filling the space.
SAMPSON (CONT'D)
Mrs. Morden, are you absolutely certain of what you saw?
MRS. MORDEN
(Immediate, firm)
Absolutely.
Thomas winces. Taylor’s shoulders slump, a quiet, defeated sigh escaping his lips.
INT. COURTROOM - LATER
JUDGE JENKINS (O.S.)
Court is in recess until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.
The GAVEL bangs. The room erupts in a low murmur. Thomas sits frozen, the weight of the day pressing down on him.
EXT. COURTHOUSE - DAY
SOUND of horse-drawn carriages, sputtering motorcars, a distant newsboy shouting
Thomas pushes through the heavy double doors into a grey, drizzling afternoon. The roar of the city is a jarring contrast.
A hand claps him on the shoulder. It’s Sampson, holding an umbrella, not a single silver hair out of place.
SAMPSON
A valiant effort, young man. But conviction, you see, is a powerful thing. Facts sometimes bend to it.
THOMAS
And justice?
Sampson gives a dry, humorless chuckle.
SAMPSON
Justice is what the jury believes.
He tips his hat and strides off, disappearing into the crowd. Thomas is left standing alone as the rain begins to soak his jacket.
INT. JAIL INTERVIEW ROOM - LATE AFTERNOON
A small, concrete box. A single bare bulb overhead. The air is cold, smelling of disinfectant and despair.
Taylor sits on a narrow cot, hands clasped, shaking slightly. Thomas sits opposite on a metal chair, its legs SCRAPING loudly as he pulls out a sheaf of damp notes.
TAYLOR
(Raspy, defeated)
It’s no good, is it, lawyer? She still got them to believe her.
THOMAS
We still have tomorrow, Mr. Taylor. Tell me again. Everything you did that night. Every single detail. Think about the alleyway.
TAYLOR
Same as always. Coming home from my shift at the mill. Took the alley shortcut. Heard the shouting, saw the... what happened. I swear, I tried to help.
THOMAS
The alley. Was it particularly dark that night?
TAYLOR
Dark as a grave. They never fixed that lamp at the corner of Elm and Maple after the last storm.
Taylor pauses. His eyes narrow, recalling something.
TAYLOR (CONT'D)
There was... a flash. Just for a second. Like a spark. Made me jump.
Thomas leans forward, a flicker of interest cutting through his weariness.
THOMAS
A spark? Where?
TAYLOR
Don’t know. Just... a quick flash. Lit up the corner for a split second. Saw the faces clear as day then.
His eyes widen with the memory.
TAYLOR (CONT'D)
That’s what it was. That’s how I saw it. Just a quick flash. But that’s how I knew it was them. The men who were fighting. Not me. Not me with the knife.
Thomas’s mind races. A spark. He stands abruptly.
THOMAS
Mr. Taylor, I need to go.
TAYLOR
(A flicker of hope)
You got something?
THOMAS
Maybe. Just maybe. Don’t lose hope.
He exits, leaving Taylor alone in the stark, silent room.
EXT. ALLEYWAY - DUSK
The light is failing fast. The alley is a narrow, oppressive passage of damp brick and refuse. The unlit lamppost at the corner of Elm and Maple stands like a skeletal sentinel.
Thomas scans the darkened windows of the surrounding factory buildings. Dead eyes.
Then he sees it. A single light on in a second-story window of a small, grimy apartment building. A lone white sheet hangs on a laundry line, a ghost in the gloom.
INT. APARTMENT BUILDING HALLWAY - DUSK
The door to the apartment creaks open. An OLD WOMAN (80s), stooped and frail, peers out, clutching a worn shawl. Her eyes are watery but sharp.
OLD WOMAN
What do you want, young man? It’s late.
THOMAS
My apologies, ma’am. My name is Thomas, I’m a lawyer. I’m investigating something that happened in the alleyway on the night of April 14th. Did you see a flash of light? A spark?
The Old Woman squints, her gaze drifting past him, down into the dark alley. A shiver runs through her.
OLD WOMAN
(A reedy whisper)
A spark, you say? Aye. I remember a spark. A bright one. Thought the wires were coming down. Scared my cat right off the windowsill. It was after that... after that there was all the screaming.
Thomas’s heart leaps.
THOMAS
You saw it?
OLD WOMAN
Saw it clear as day. Woke me right up. But I didn’t see no fight. Just the flash. And the fuss after.
THOMAS
Thank you, ma’am. This is very important.
He turns, a new energy coursing through him.
EXT. ALLEYWAY - NIGHT
The last vestiges of daylight are gone. The alley is plunged into a deep, cold gloom.
Thomas returns to the corner of Elm and Maple. He drops to his knees, his eyes scanning the ground with renewed intensity.
He crawls, his fingers tracing the rough surface of the bricks, the gritty dirt between them.
SOUND of his fingers scraping against soil and stone
His fingers brush against something cold, small, metallic. Half-buried.
He digs it out.
CLOSE ON THOMAS'S HAND
He holds a jagged shard of metal, the size of his thumbnail. It glints faintly, reflecting the distant city lights. It has a faint, iridescent sheen, like oil on water.
He turns it over.
TIGHT ON THE SHARD
A faint, almost imperceptible etching on its surface. A small symbol.
CLOSE ON THOMAS'S FACE
His eyes widen. A flicker of shock, then dawning realization. He recognizes the mark. The maker's mark of the old mill.
He closes his hand around the shard, a piece of cold, hard truth. He looks up, his gaze fixed on the dark courtroom he must return to. For the first time, he holds not just a theory, but a weapon.
SOUND of a lone FLY buzzing, the slow, heavy TICK of a large wall clock
Dust motes dance in hazy shafts of spring light pouring through tall, arched windows. The air is thick, humid. The room is dark wood and worn leather. A gallery of stern-faced JURORS watch intently.
At the witness stand, MRS. MORDEN (60s), face etched with a lifetime of hard labor, clutches a worn handkerchief. Her cheap cotton dress rustles like dry leaves.
Opposite her, THOMAS (22), in a slightly-too-large suit, grips an oak railing. His face is a carefully constructed mask of professional calm, but a tremor betrays him in his white-knuckled hands.
Across the room, the prosecutor, MR. SAMPSON (50s), polished and silver-haired, watches with a faint, knowing smirk.
THOMAS
You claim, Mrs. Morden, that you observed the altercation from your kitchen window. Is that correct?
MRS. MORDEN
(Flat, unyielding)
That’s what I said, ain’t it? Clear as day.
Thomas lets the silence hang. The buzz of the fly seems to grow louder. He glances at his client, MR. TAYLOR (40s), a gaunt, hollow-eyed figure who sits perfectly still, a man already turned to stone.
THOMAS
And what time, precisely, was this ‘clear as day’ observation made?
MRS. MORDEN
Past eight. Near nine. Sun was down, but there was still light.
THOMAS
Indeed. The sun was down.
He begins a slow, deliberate circle in the small space before the jury. The floorboards GROAN under his scuffed leather shoes.
THOMAS (CONT'D)
Yet, earlier, you testified that the streetlamp on Elm Street had not yet been lit. Do you recall stating that?
MRS. MORDEN
(Voice rising)
Well, it wasn’t. They don’t light ‘em till the lamplighter comes around. He’s usually late.
THOMAS
So, no streetlamp. And the moon?
He stops, turning to face her fully.
MRS. MORDEN
Moon? Don’t recollect no moon.
THOMAS
Yet, Mrs. Morden, on the evening of April 14th, the moon was in its first quarter. A thin crescent, barely visible, set to dip below the horizon shortly after sunset. Not much light from that, would you agree?
Mrs. Morden’s foot begins a nervous, insistent TAP against the leg of the witness stand.
THOMAS (CONT'D)
And your kitchen window. It faces north, correct? Overlooking the alleyway and then Elm Street?
MRS. MORDEN
(Sharper)
Yes. Always has.
THOMAS
Meaning...
He pulls a crude, hand-drawn sketch from a stack of papers. He traces a line on it with his finger.
THOMAS (CONT'D)
...that the light from the setting sun, in the west, would have been at your back. The streetlamp, unlit, provided no illumination. The moon, a mere sliver, also offered little. What then, Mrs. Morden...
He places the sketch before the jury.
THOMAS (CONT'D)
...illuminated this ‘clear as day’ altercation you observed?
She stares, brow furrowed. A faint redness creeps up her neck.
MRS. MORDEN
There was... it was... I could see fine.
THOMAS
(Softer, but sharp)
Could you, Mrs. Morden? Or did the shadows play tricks? Did the failing light obscure details?
He gestures to the large courtroom clock. Its hands tick with a solemn, relentless rhythm.
MRS. MORDEN
I saw what I saw.
Her voice is a thin wire. She points a trembling finger at the defense table.
MRS. MORDEN (CONT'D)
That man... Mr. Taylor... he was there. He done it.
Taylor flinches. Thomas turns, his gaze sweeping the jury. He sees doubt on some faces, but conviction on others, mirroring Mrs. Morden’s own. He takes a breath, the fight going out of him.
THOMAS
No further questions, your Honor.
He returns to his seat, the exhaustion hitting him like a physical blow.
Sampson rises smoothly.
SAMPSON
Redirect, your Honor.
He steps forward, his voice deep, resonant, filling the space.
SAMPSON (CONT'D)
Mrs. Morden, are you absolutely certain of what you saw?
MRS. MORDEN
(Immediate, firm)
Absolutely.
Thomas winces. Taylor’s shoulders slump, a quiet, defeated sigh escaping his lips.
INT. COURTROOM - LATER
JUDGE JENKINS (O.S.)
Court is in recess until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.
The GAVEL bangs. The room erupts in a low murmur. Thomas sits frozen, the weight of the day pressing down on him.
EXT. COURTHOUSE - DAY
SOUND of horse-drawn carriages, sputtering motorcars, a distant newsboy shouting
Thomas pushes through the heavy double doors into a grey, drizzling afternoon. The roar of the city is a jarring contrast.
A hand claps him on the shoulder. It’s Sampson, holding an umbrella, not a single silver hair out of place.
SAMPSON
A valiant effort, young man. But conviction, you see, is a powerful thing. Facts sometimes bend to it.
THOMAS
And justice?
Sampson gives a dry, humorless chuckle.
SAMPSON
Justice is what the jury believes.
He tips his hat and strides off, disappearing into the crowd. Thomas is left standing alone as the rain begins to soak his jacket.
INT. JAIL INTERVIEW ROOM - LATE AFTERNOON
A small, concrete box. A single bare bulb overhead. The air is cold, smelling of disinfectant and despair.
Taylor sits on a narrow cot, hands clasped, shaking slightly. Thomas sits opposite on a metal chair, its legs SCRAPING loudly as he pulls out a sheaf of damp notes.
TAYLOR
(Raspy, defeated)
It’s no good, is it, lawyer? She still got them to believe her.
THOMAS
We still have tomorrow, Mr. Taylor. Tell me again. Everything you did that night. Every single detail. Think about the alleyway.
TAYLOR
Same as always. Coming home from my shift at the mill. Took the alley shortcut. Heard the shouting, saw the... what happened. I swear, I tried to help.
THOMAS
The alley. Was it particularly dark that night?
TAYLOR
Dark as a grave. They never fixed that lamp at the corner of Elm and Maple after the last storm.
Taylor pauses. His eyes narrow, recalling something.
TAYLOR (CONT'D)
There was... a flash. Just for a second. Like a spark. Made me jump.
Thomas leans forward, a flicker of interest cutting through his weariness.
THOMAS
A spark? Where?
TAYLOR
Don’t know. Just... a quick flash. Lit up the corner for a split second. Saw the faces clear as day then.
His eyes widen with the memory.
TAYLOR (CONT'D)
That’s what it was. That’s how I saw it. Just a quick flash. But that’s how I knew it was them. The men who were fighting. Not me. Not me with the knife.
Thomas’s mind races. A spark. He stands abruptly.
THOMAS
Mr. Taylor, I need to go.
TAYLOR
(A flicker of hope)
You got something?
THOMAS
Maybe. Just maybe. Don’t lose hope.
He exits, leaving Taylor alone in the stark, silent room.
EXT. ALLEYWAY - DUSK
The light is failing fast. The alley is a narrow, oppressive passage of damp brick and refuse. The unlit lamppost at the corner of Elm and Maple stands like a skeletal sentinel.
Thomas scans the darkened windows of the surrounding factory buildings. Dead eyes.
Then he sees it. A single light on in a second-story window of a small, grimy apartment building. A lone white sheet hangs on a laundry line, a ghost in the gloom.
INT. APARTMENT BUILDING HALLWAY - DUSK
The door to the apartment creaks open. An OLD WOMAN (80s), stooped and frail, peers out, clutching a worn shawl. Her eyes are watery but sharp.
OLD WOMAN
What do you want, young man? It’s late.
THOMAS
My apologies, ma’am. My name is Thomas, I’m a lawyer. I’m investigating something that happened in the alleyway on the night of April 14th. Did you see a flash of light? A spark?
The Old Woman squints, her gaze drifting past him, down into the dark alley. A shiver runs through her.
OLD WOMAN
(A reedy whisper)
A spark, you say? Aye. I remember a spark. A bright one. Thought the wires were coming down. Scared my cat right off the windowsill. It was after that... after that there was all the screaming.
Thomas’s heart leaps.
THOMAS
You saw it?
OLD WOMAN
Saw it clear as day. Woke me right up. But I didn’t see no fight. Just the flash. And the fuss after.
THOMAS
Thank you, ma’am. This is very important.
He turns, a new energy coursing through him.
EXT. ALLEYWAY - NIGHT
The last vestiges of daylight are gone. The alley is plunged into a deep, cold gloom.
Thomas returns to the corner of Elm and Maple. He drops to his knees, his eyes scanning the ground with renewed intensity.
He crawls, his fingers tracing the rough surface of the bricks, the gritty dirt between them.
SOUND of his fingers scraping against soil and stone
His fingers brush against something cold, small, metallic. Half-buried.
He digs it out.
CLOSE ON THOMAS'S HAND
He holds a jagged shard of metal, the size of his thumbnail. It glints faintly, reflecting the distant city lights. It has a faint, iridescent sheen, like oil on water.
He turns it over.
TIGHT ON THE SHARD
A faint, almost imperceptible etching on its surface. A small symbol.
CLOSE ON THOMAS'S FACE
His eyes widen. A flicker of shock, then dawning realization. He recognizes the mark. The maker's mark of the old mill.
He closes his hand around the shard, a piece of cold, hard truth. He looks up, his gaze fixed on the dark courtroom he must return to. For the first time, he holds not just a theory, but a weapon.