Exhibit C

The metal screamed, the briefcase flew, and I saw his face—Arthur Victor—watching my life's work scatter across the floor.

Introduction

This adaptation of "Exhibit C" serves as a practical exploration into the art of narrative translation, a cornerstone of digital and media literacy. By converting a dense, first-person prose narrative into a production-ready screenplay, we can deconstruct the specific techniques required to transform internal monologue and subjective feeling into observable action and visual storytelling. This exercise highlights how different media use unique languages to convey tension, character, and plot, offering a valuable lesson in how the architecture of a story must change to fit the constraints and leverage the strengths of its chosen platform.

The Script

INT. AMTRAK CAR - DAY

The low RUMBLE of a moving train. Snow-blasted, skeletal trees whip past the window.

RILEY (20s), sharp, ambitious, sits with a heavy leather briefcase on her lap. She sips from a paper coffee cup.

A high-frequency SCREECH of torturing metal rips through the car.

Riley’s stomach lurches. Lukewarm coffee sloshes over her hand. She barely registers the burn. Her knuckles are white on the briefcase handle.

The world outside the window TILTS at an impossible angle.

A violent, full-body JOLT. The entire train car feels like it's been slammed down by a giant hand.

Riley’s head SNAPS back, THUDDING against the headrest. Her teeth CLACK together.

The sixty-pound briefcase is ripped from her lap. It hangs in the air for a split second--

--then SMASHES against the opposite armrest with a sound like a GUNSHOT.

The heavy brass clasps BURST. The case springs open.

A blizzard of paper ERUPTS into the aisle. Manila folders, tabbed dividers, white sheets fluttering everywhere.

A WOMAN SCREAMS somewhere behind her. A MAN shouts a curse.

Riley gasps, her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes are wide with horror, fixed on the paper spill.

She drops to her knees, scrambling into the aisle. A sticky brown puddle of coffee soaks into a stack of bank statements.

Her hands shake violently as she snatches up a sheet of paper. A wire transfer confirmation. Her damp fingers leave a coffee-colored smudge near the signature line.

She stuffs papers back into the ruined briefcase, haphazardly, frantically. Her hair falls into her face. A trickle of blood runs from her temple.

Across the aisle, a man sits perfectly still, untouched by the chaos.

ARTHUR VICTOR (60s), silver-haired, wearing a tailored cashmere overcoat. His pale, piercing blue eyes are fixed on Riley.

On the papers in her hands. On the Northgate Holdings letterhead.

A faint, predatory smile plays on his lips.

The train car has stopped moving. The world has ground to a halt.

What was that? Did we hit a drift?

Riley freezes. Her gaze is locked with Victor’s. He gives a slow, deliberate blink. A gesture of finality.

<center>ARTHUR VICTOR</center>

(smooth, disingenuous)

Everything alright over there, young lady?

Every head in the car turns. Riley is pinned by a dozen pairs of eyes. A hot flush of shame creeps up her neck.

<center>RILEY</center>

(choked)

Fine. Just… clumsy.

She shoves another handful of crinkling documents into the case.

<center>ARTHUR VICTOR</center>

Quite a spill. Looks important. You should be more careful with client materials.

The emphasis on *client materials* hangs in the air. A quiet threat for her ears only.

Riley slams the lid shut. The broken clasps won’t catch. She hugs the bulky case to her chest like a shield.

She tries to stand. Her knee, slammed during the jolt, screams in protest. She bites back a cry, her vision swimming with black spots.

Victor watches her, his expression one of detached, clinical interest.

A heavy-set CONDUCTOR, GUS (50s), with a ruddy, scowling face, pushes his way down the aisle.

Alright, alright, folks, stay calm. Everybody stay in your seats.

He stops, seeing Riley half-kneeling in the aisle.

What’s all this?

<center>ARTHUR VICTOR</center>

The young lady had a bit of an accident. Her bag flew open.

(to Riley, annoyed)

Well, get it cleaned up and get back in your seat. Last thing I need is someone slippin’.

Riley struggles to her feet, limping back to her seat. She collapses into it, shoving the broken case onto the seat beside her, covering it with her coat.

The overhead lights BUZZ erratically. Then, with a pathetic HUM, they die.

A collective GROAN from the passengers.

The car is plunged into a dim, grey twilight. The only light comes from the white snow outside.

Thin emergency strips along the floor flicker on, casting eerie green shadows.

The ventilation WHIRS to a stop. A profound silence, broken only by the WHISTLING of wind outside.

INT. AMTRAK CAR - NIGHT

HOURS LATER.

The car is an icebox. Frost creeps across the inside of the windows. The grey light outside has faded to inky black.

Riley shivers uncontrollably, her breath pluming in the faint green light. Her phone is dead on the seat beside her.

Other passengers are huddled together for warmth. They give Riley a wide berth, whispering, casting suspicious glances her way.

Across the aisle, Victor remains perfectly still. Unmoving. Unshivering. He watches her through the darkness.

Riley’s gaze falls on Gus, who wrestles with a stuck emergency supply closet at the front of the car.

Forcing her stiff limbs to move, Riley stands, her knee grinding in pain. She pulls her coat tight and makes her way to Gus.

<center>RILEY</center>

(a hoarse croak)

Anything I can do to help?

(grunting)

Doubt it. Damn thing’s frozen shut. Got blankets in here.

<center>RILEY</center>

Let me try. My hands are smaller.

Gus hesitates, then steps aside with a curt nod.

The latch is encased in ice. Riley’s numb fingers fumble with it. She pulls her sweater sleeve over her hand, using the wool for friction.

She pulls. Nothing. She repositions her feet, puts her weight into it, and YANKS upward.

The ice CRACKS. The latch gives. The door GROANS open.

(a low whistle)

Huh. Not bad.

Inside: stacks of foil emergency blankets and jugs of water.

<center>RILEY</center>

(teeth chattering)

Let’s get these passed out.

They work together. Gus hands her blankets, she distributes them. The other passengers take them with weary gratitude. The suspicion in their eyes softens.

Riley wraps a crinkling foil blanket around her own shoulders and returns to her seat. She glances at Victor. His amused expression has been replaced by a flicker of annoyance.

Gus walks over to her seat.

(low)

You alright? You took a nasty knock.

<center>RILEY</center>

I’m fine. What happened?

Switch froze, blew a transformer. We’re stuck. Rescue crew’s on its way, but... could be morning.

Morning. The word hangs in the frozen air.

<center>RILEY</center>

We need to conserve heat. Move everyone to one end of the car. Use luggage to block the drafts.

Gus appraises her. A glimmer of respect in his tired eyes.

Smart. Alright, let’s do it.

While Gus directs the shivering passengers forward, Riley turns her back to the activity, shielding the briefcase with her body.

Her numb fingers struggle with the papers in the dark. It’s useless.

<center>ARTHUR VICTOR (O.S.)</center>

Leaving so soon?

Riley flinches. Victor stands right behind her, a tall shadow blocking the aisle. He didn’t move with the others.

<center>RILEY</center>

We’re moving to the front.

<center>ARTHUR VICTOR</center>

A commendable display of leadership, Riley.

He used her name. Riley’s blood runs cold.

<center>ARTHUR VICTOR</center>

You’ve won over your fellow passengers. A classic tactic. Establish a rapport with the jury.

<center>RILEY</center>

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

He takes a step closer. The green light illuminates a predatory smile.

<center>ARTHUR VICTOR</center>

You work for Michael Chen, don’t you? Tasked with… sensitive deliveries.

He leans in, his voice a cold whisper.

<center>ARTHUR VICTOR</center>

We’re in a metal box in the middle of a blizzard, Riley. The normal rules are suspended. That evidence is a liability. A smart person knows when to cut their losses before things get… worse.

<center>RILEY</center>

(hissing)

Get out of my way.

<center>ARTHUR VICTOR</center>

(a thin smile)

Of course.

He takes a deliberate step back. A demonstration of control. Riley stumbles past him, joining the huddled group at the front.

She can feel his eyes on her from the other end of the dark, empty car.

INT. AMTRAK CAR - LATER

The wind HOWLS. The passengers are a silent, shivering mass.

Riley clutches the briefcase on her lap. She needs a light. Her eyes find the YOUNG MOTHER (30s) dozing a few seats away, her DAUGHTER (6) asleep against her.

Moving with excruciating slowness, Riley limps over.

<center>RILEY</center>

(whispering)

Excuse me. My phone is dead. Does yours have any charge left? I just need a light.

The Young Mother blinks, confused, then nods. She pulls out her phone. The screen flickers to life. 1% battery.

<center>RILEY</center>

Thank you.

She takes the phone and retreats, not to her seat, but to the lavatory at the very front of the car.

INT. AMTRAK LAVATORY - CONTINUOUS

Riley pulls the door shut. The LOCK CLICKS, deafeningly loud.

The tiny room is an icebox. Metal surfaces are coated in frost.

She places the briefcase on the closed toilet lid. She turns on the phone’s flashlight. The 1% icon glares at her.

She opens the case. The papers are a chaotic jumble. Her numb fingers sort through them, working against the clock of the dying battery.

She finds Exhibit C: *Laundered Asset Transfers*. She flips through the bank statements, the transfer orders…

And sees it. A page she doesn’t recognize.

An internal corporate authorization form. A capital expenditure request. The amount is staggering.

Her eyes drop to the signature lines at the bottom.

The first belongs to the Northgate CFO.

The second, the final approval, is a crisp, elegant signature.

A. Victor.

Riley’s breath catches. A punch to the gut. This document implicates him directly.

The phone screen FLICKERS.

She stares at the signature, burning it into her memory.

The screen flickers again, then DIES. Absolute, suffocating darkness.

She stands frozen, her breathing ragged in the silence.

A soft CLICK.

The sound of the lavatory door lock turning from the outside.

The door swings open without a sound.

A tall, dark silhouette fills the doorway, blocking the faint green light. The silver head of a cane GLINTS in the darkness.

A voice, low and devoid of all warmth, whispers right beside her ear.

<center>ARTHUR VICTOR</center>

Find something interesting, Riley?

What We Can Learn

This script conversion serves as a powerful case study in the principle of “show, don’t tell,” a fundamental rule of visual storytelling. The original prose relies heavily on a first-person narrator, giving the reader direct access to Riley’s panic, strategic thinking, and dawning horror. The screenplay must externalize these internal states entirely. Her professional terror isn’t explained; it’s shown in her shaking hands and the coffee-stained document. Her shift from victim to strategist isn’t narrated; it’s demonstrated through the simple, decisive act of opening a frozen supply closet. This process forces the writer to translate abstract feelings into concrete, observable actions, which is the essential work of adapting any internal narrative for the screen.

The adaptation of a psychological thriller like "Exhibit C" presents unique challenges and lessons, primarily in maintaining suspense without the aid of internal monologue. The screenplay must build tension through purely cinematic means: pacing, visual focus, and the strategic use of sound and silence. The 4-line rule for action paragraphs creates a staccato rhythm that mirrors Riley’s frantic state, while the “invisible close-up” technique—giving a key object like Victor’s signature its own line—forces the audience’s attention and invests the object with significance. The antagonist’s power is conveyed not through what he says, but through his unnerving stillness and the unwavering focus of his gaze, proving that in a thriller, what is seen (and what is left unseen in the darkness) is often more terrifying than what is said.

From a technical and media literacy perspective, this adaptation demonstrates how formatting is not merely a set of arbitrary rules but a crucial part of the creative toolkit. The strict adherence to industry-standard syntax, from character introductions to sound cues, ensures the script is a clear and efficient blueprint for production. Understanding this structure allows a creator to control the reader's experience, dictating the pace and rhythm of the story long before a camera is involved. For students of media, deconstructing such a script reveals the foundational layer of filmmaking, illustrating how choices made at the textual level—a line break, a capitalized sound, a parenthetical whisper—directly translate into the visual and auditory experience of the final product.