Concussion Page #3

We MUTE and go in there. His head. Where there’s nothing but

limbic throb. And disconnect. And so peace. His face placid.

Happy. HOLD a long beat, then-

22 IT’S 3AM

And we’ve gone ravey electronica. Bennet’s moves liquid. More

of that peace. HOLD on him in his solo bliss, then cut to--

23 INT. BENNET’S CONDO - NIGHT/PRE-DAWN

EYES FOCUSED like cameras on the crime scene photos from the

death row case. Spread across a kitchen table.

BACK TO REVEAL Bennet, there, still in club clothes. The

notes he takes calligraphy-neat.

Bachelor pad sparse. Microscope on the table. Forest of text

books. Squared and aligned, like his-

Closet. Shirts and suits precision-hangered by color. A row

of ties pre-knotted. Shoes lined up like soldiers. Now-

Back to Bennet. At his computer. Which we see has a Pope John

Paul II screen-saver. Pope’s watching him. Watching over-

Bennet’s searing focus. And then-

And Bennet is finally asleep atop his bed. Then-

24 INT. RECEPTION - LAW FIRM - DAY

Pale marble. White leather appointments. A sprawling view of

Pittsburgh. The antisepsis of influence and success.

WE FIND BENNET alone amidst the furniture. Briefcase on his

lap.

JUMP TO SAME AN HOUR LATER. Bennet hasn’t moved. One of the

PARTNERS - MR. CROCKETT - sticks his head in.

CHERRY PAGES 1.21.15 11.

CROCKETT:

(ignores Bennet)

You sure Dr. Bennet hasn’t come

through? He was supposed to be here

an hour ago.

BENNET:

I am Dr. Bennet Omalu.

CROCKETT:

Doctor Bennet? Omalu?

(Bennet stands, and--)

RECEPTIONIST:

I’m so sorry, Mr. Crockett. I

thought he was here for the clerk

job.

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - LAW FIRM - DAY

Partner leads Bennet to a conference room. Huge table covered

in files and laptops. A half-dozen ATTORNEYS huddle waiting.

SCARBOROUGH:

(looking up, confused)

Where’s Cyril?

CROCKETT:

This is Dr. Bennet Omalu.

BENNET:

I work for Dr. Wecht.

(after a pause, you gotta

be kidding me--)

SCARBOROUGH:

Our guy’s gonna be put to death in

thirty days, and we were supposed

to get the Hail Mary expert

witness, and Cyril sends us this?

No offense.

BENNET:

(a smile, none taken)

Your client didn’t do it.

SCARBOROUGH:

We know that.

BENNET:

You may know. But I can prove it.

(and we cut, and--)

CHERRY PAGES 1.21.15 12.

26 EXT. INDUSTRIAL RIVER BANK - DAY

WIDE of a weed-strewn empty lot. A king-cab Chevy pick-up in

the lee of abandoned construction. Side windows blown,

replaced with garbage bags.

As a Harley bike ENTERS FRAME crossing to the pick-up, cut to

27 A REAR-VIEW MIRROR.

In them, eyes, slightly mad, trying to recognize their own

reflection. They fill the screen, then we WIDEN TO-

28 INT. CHEVY PICK-UP TRUCK - DAY

MIKE WEBSTER, 50 but looks 70. Unwashed. Hair stringy.

Granular thickness everywhere, forehead barnacled with scars.

Fingers mangled in a permanent curl, as if gripping a ball.

Surrounded by soiled clothes and Ding-Dong wrappers. Crucifix

dangles from the mirror.

Piles of lined yellow paper. Covered edge to edge in scrawl.

An equally massive MAN dismounts the bike: 6’8”, 320 lbs:

JUSTIN STRZELCZYK (Strel-zik), 36. Heavy-bearded, plaid

shirt, overalls. A giant hippie.

STRZELCZYK:

Webby, hey man, love your digs!

(no response)

Webby, it’s Jugger!

(then)

Mike. It’s Justin.

(Webster turning his big

head, no recognition)

I’ll just sit with you a minute?

And slips behind the wheel. Smells like ass. On the passenger

seat:
container of ammonia; super-glue.

WEBSTER:

(awakening to where he is)

Where is this?

STRZELCZYK:

This is Ohio. Off some freeway.

WEBSTER:

Ohio’s got the best truck stops.

CHERRY PAGES 1.21.15 13.

STRZELCZYK:

But this ain’t even that. This is --

I don’t know what this is.

Strzelczyk picks at the yellow paper. Starts to read. Then.

Reaches for Webster’s knee.

STRZELCZYK (CONT’D)

My brother. Been looking for you.

Pam said I might find you here.

(which taps Webster into

momentary focus)

WEBSTER:

Juggers.

STRZELCZYK:

We’re all worried about you.

And takes a wad of toilet tissue dipped in ammonia, puts it

to his face. Eyes flare -- “Don’t do that” -- “Keeps me

awake! Don’t want to fall asleep!” -- Strzelczyk grabs for

the wad -- “What the -- Mike!” -- two tree-trunk arms shovel-

hands slap at it-

WEBSTER:

Don’t wanna fall asleep don’t wanna

fall asleep can’t fall asleep-

A glimpse of the mess of Webster’s mouth: teeth glued back

in, gums bloody.

STRZELCZYK:

You gotta let me take you back.

(Webster can’t remember)

You called an audible, Mike. You

took off.

(pause; then)

I heard you sold your Super Bowl

rings. Your rings, man.

Webster non-responsive. Then gets out of the truck. Agitated.

Can’t get the words out. Strzelczyk gets out his side, comes

around. Right up into Webster-

STRZELCZYK (CONT’D)

Pam is your wife. Garrett, your boy-

WEBSTER:

(announcer voice)

--was so ugly when he was born his

momma carried him around upside

down for a week, thought he only

had one eye!

CHERRY PAGES 1.21.15 14.

Laugh line. But no one laughs.

STRZELCZYK:

(squeezes Webster’s hands)

Mike. My knees are shot. I retired.

I’m done. I just wanted you to

know.

(then; afraid)

What happens when Mike Webster

falls asleep?

WEBSTER:

He remembers.

STRZELCZYK:

I’m starting to forget things,

Webby. I’m hearing myself say this

stupid crap to my kids. I almost

pushed Keana into a wall, man. I

never touched a girl like that.

Webster looks at him. Then getting back into the truck-

WEBSTER:

Don’t give up, son!

(Strzelczyk leaves a roll

of hundreds, walks)

Finish the game and we’ll all be

winners!

(Strzelczyk gets on his

bike and--)

A28 EXT. STRZELCZYK HOME - PITTSBURGH SUBURBS - DUSK

Big rangy house of a pro athlete. Strzelczyk playing guitar

on his porch, some mournful melody. Soft voice incongruous

with his giantness. Flanked by his SON, 9, DAUGHTER, 6.

Car pulls up. Wife, KEANA -- 30, thin, angular face, the

opposite of Strzelczyk -- crosses to him with groceries.

KEANA STRZELCZYK

He really sell his rings?

(he stops playing--)

STRZELCZYK:

That wasn’t Webby. Webby’s gone. I

don’t know who that was.

(and back to--)

CHERRY PAGES 1.21.15 15.

INT. CHEVY PICK-UP TRUCK - DAY

The plastic bags taped to the windows breathing in and out

like a bellows.

Webster failing at sleep. Stretches across the trash. Then

fetal. Now sits up. Everything hurts. The mosquitoes rage.

Can’t find stillness. He grips his head. Searing hot pain.

He reaches for a Taser. Charges it. The prongs jack up. A

loud crack, like a gunshot. Primed and ready.

He’s sweaty. Desperate for sleep now. Pushes down his pants.

Thigh flesh already burnt. Charred in places.

Brings the Taser to his own meat -- doesn’t even flinch --

triggers -- CRACK! -- blue flash. And Webster’s bulk is rag-

dolled onto the floor of the truck, and we cut to black-

OVER BLACK, in PRE-LAP -- RAP RAP RAP -- the crack of metal

on window glass, then-

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