Miss Sloane Page #5

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PERSISTENT MAN:

Word on the hill is that the Gun

Lobby approached you to bury Heaton-

Harris. And you refused.

ELIZABETH:

I don’t comment on ‘the word on the

hill’.

20.

PERSISTENT MAN:

I know there’s no way you’d do

that... Unless you support gun

control. You know why you’re good,

Liz? Same reason Ayrton Senna was the

greatest auto racer of his time. The

same reason terrorists are scary.

ELIZABETH:

I’m not sure a three-way comparison

between myself, a dead race car

driver, and Al-Qaeda is a good use of

your remaining hundred-and-thirty

five seconds.

PERSISTENT MAN:

A terrorist will strap himself to a

bomb for his cause. Senna believed

God was protecting him from harm, so

he threw himself around corners,

fully committed. You won’t find a

mercenary on Earth willing to do

either. You’re good because you

believe in your clients’ causes;

conviction-lobbying. And belief

motivates people in ways money just

can’t.

ELIZABETH:

I said ‘get to the point’

PERSISTENT MAN:

The Sloane Ranger, sticking up for

corporate America against the thieves

on the hill, clawing at hard-earned

profit to fund frivolities like

healthcare.

Her ears prick up. Her retort is instant and impassioned.

ELIZABETH:

Or because private property is the

foundation of civilized society, I

object to any entity being forcibly

expropriated of the product of their

labor. And you wanna talk about

frivolities, those thieves on the

hill just spent nearly a million

dollars of someone’s hard labor

funding research into methane

emissions made by dairy cows.

I accept a minimum rate of taxation

for necessities, but a meddling, all-

consuming government constricts

freedom, throttles innovation, and

subverts the free market. All of

which destroy standards of living.

PERSISTENT MAN:

(shrugs, nonplussed)

Personally, I’m all for more gun

control. Will you admit the present

system is unfit for purpose?

21.

ELIZABETH:

I remain committed to the Second

Amendment.

PERSISTENT MAN:

D*ldos are illegal in Texas, but Joe

Public can walk into a sports store

and emerge five minutes later with a

shotgun.

ELIZABETH:

That would explain the low rate of

dildo-related murders in Texas.

The Man LAUGHS heartily.

ELIZABETH:

It wasn’t that funny.

PERSISTENT MAN:

No, but you just proved my point. The

mere mention of taxation elicits a

libertarian polemic. All I get from

gun control is a sarcastic

deflection. You do support Heaton-

Harris, and you abhor the tactics

your leadership would employ in

discrediting it.

ELIZABETH:

Alright. You have unusual acuity for

a member of the D.C. press. What do

you want?

PERSISTENT MAN:

Your quote.

ELIZABETH:

Fine:
a conviction-lobbyist never

cheats; she exposes cheaters.

He scribbles on a notepad.

PERSISTENT MAN:

That’s a keeper. One more thing - off

the record - d’you know anything

about the Gun Lobby’s opponents?

ELIZABETH:

What, Brady? I know they’re going to

lose because their total budget comes

to less than what the Gun Lobby pay

to get their shoes shined-

PERSISTENT MAN:

What about their lobbyists, Peterson

Wyatt? They’re a boutique law firm

with a bi-partisan Government Affairs

division

22.

ELIZABETH:

‘Boutique’ is a euphemism for ‘little

fish’ and ‘bi-partisan’ denotes a

bunch of hippies in suits, some of

whom are mercenary enough to swing

right when times get hard.

PERSISTENT MAN:

D’you know anything about their

President? Guy named Schmidt?

ELIZABETH:

Never heard of him. But if the firm

is built in his image, he’s probably

a simpering wuss with a Ph.D in styleover-

substance.

PERSISTENT MAN:

Got it.

(beat)

I never introduced myself, by the

way. Rodolfo Schmidt, President of

Peterson Wyatt.

Elizabeth stops. She is, for once, speechless.

RODOLFO SCHMIDT (CONT’D)

What’s the matter? Am I not simpering

hard enough?

ELIZABETH:

(thinking out loud)

Your firm’s only twelve years old,

you’d think your name would either be

Peterson or

(snaps out)

What’s this about?

RODOLFO SCHMIDT:

You’re pro-Heaton-Harris and it’s an

open secret you’re at war with your

firm’s leadership.

(beat)

The Brady Campaign want you to lead

the fight to pass the bill. Peterson

Wyatt will employ you as a

consultant, you’ll run defense out of

our office, and when it’s over you’re

free to choose from any of the D.C.

behemoths in line for your signature.

This is their quote.

He writes down a number we don’t see and tears off the piece

of paper he scribbled on earlier. She regards it with a smirk,

now wise to his strategy.

ELIZABETH:

(re:
offer)

I don’t know if I should be flattered

or insulted, Mr. Schmidt, but you

clearly have the wrong opinion of me.

Especially considering the battle

you’ve got ahead of you.

23.

RODOLFO SCHMIDT:

I think my opinion of you is spot-on.

His earnestness halts any immediate retort from her. She

studies him.

RODOLFO SCHMIDT (CONT’D)

Don’t even think about telling me you

don’t wanna take a swing at this.

Maybe you’re the only one in this

town who can pull it off. Anyway,

it’s on the table. I’ve overspent my

three minutes.

Rodolfo walks off, but turns back

RODOLFO SCHMIDT (CONT’D)

Where’s your car?

Long pause. Elizabeth motions back down the street, from where

they came.

ELIZABETH:

Three blocks that way.

INT. ELIZABETH’S HOUSE - KITCHEN - NIGHT - PAST

It’s late. All is quiet, dark. Elizabeth downs a tall glass of

milk. She puts the bottle back in the fridge, but stops before

she closes the door. Considers the milk.

EXT. ELIZABETH’S HOUSE - NIGHT - MOMENTS LATER - PAST

Elizabeth carefully sets down a saucer full of milk on her

front doorstep. Takes a wistful look around the posh, peaceful

neighborhood. The pervasive stillness a touch unsettling.

INT. ELIZABETH’S HOUSE - NIGHT - LATER - PAST

Elizabeth sits in an armchair and leans forward. Her eyes dart

around the room, she fidgets, unable to turn her brain off.

As if deciding to stop thinking once and for all, she leans

back, closes her eyes and ceases all movement. Deep breaths,

an attempt to induce sleep.

It’s no use. She snaps out of it quickly, turns on a lamp and

snatches a book next to her - John Grisham’s The Litigators.

Starts reading from her bookmark (she’s not far in), but

discards it in no time. She’s wired. An idea has taken hold.

She glimpses around her place. It’s not a home; more a

warehouse for files, boxes, and neatly-organized work-related

clutter. No family portraits. No photographs of a husband or

children.

On hearing a faint MEOW, Elizabeth glances out the front

window. A stray cat and two kittens lick the milk she set out.

Elizabeth lets out a SIGH, as if this provides her some small

measure of comfort. She catches her reflection in the window.

Ruffled and sleepless.

She removes something from her pocket - the torn-off SHEET OF

A NOTEPAD given to her by Rodolfo Schmidt. She considers it -

then grabs her cell and makes a call.

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