accomplishment of an objective - part one

Chloe Sullivan arrived at work promptly at 8 am. She stopped and chatted with the security guard on her way in, like she always did, then took the elevator to the 17th floor where her desk was. A reporter for the Chicago Tribune, she handled fairly large stories concerning the darker side of the Windy City. She’d been on hand for several press conferences and court dates of various criminals and other questionable people. She wasn’t afraid of much, except clowns and running out of coffee, and she had a knack for finding out lesser known facts and scooping everyone else in the business.

She loved her job.

She entered the newsroom and did a quick scan to see who was there. Most days, she was one of the early birds, and today was no exception. She carried her steaming coffee cup in one hand, a thick stack of files in the other, and her leather satchel slung over her shoulder. Dressed in a light gray pant suit with a pink cashmere sweater and black heeled boots, she was not only one of the most popular reporters at the paper, but also one of the more stylish. People wondered why she was still single, but she just chalked it up to being married to her work.

Her gaze stopped on the chair beside her desk, reserved for the few people she’d convinced to come in and talk with her about a story. Usually her sources insisted on public places for private meetings. But today, a man sat in that chair, obviously waiting for her.

Frowning, she scooted to the left and over to the tall filing cabinets where her co-worker Marilyn was busily rifling through some folders.

“Who is that?” Chloe asked, her voice low and her head tipped towards the man.

Marilyn smirked. “Cute, isn’t he?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“He wouldn’t give his name. Just said he had to see ‘Miss Sullivan’. I told him you weren’t in yet and asked to take a message, but he insisted on waiting for you.”

“Any idea what he wants?”

“Not a clue.”

Chloe nibbled on her lower lip for a moment as she observed the stranger. He sat casually in the chair, his arms crossed over his chest, and a calm look on his face.

“He doesn’t appear dangerous,” Chloe said.

“He appears single,” Marilyn said. “No ring.”

Rolling her eyes, Chloe made her way over. She set her things down on the desk and extended her hand towards the man. He was instantly on his feet.

“Miss Sullivan?” he asked, and Chloe couldn’t resist the tiny shiver that raced up her spine at the sound of his deep voice.

“Chloe Sullivan, that’s right. And you are?”

He shook her hand, a firm shake, but not too hard.

“Michael Scofield. I need to talk with you.”

Chloe removed her hand from his and unbuttoned her coat, shrugging out of it and draping it over the back of her chair. She motioned for him to sit, as she did the same.

“Can I ask where you got my name?”

“From the paper,” he said with the tiniest of smiles.

“All right then. What can I do for you?”

Michael leaned forward a bit, forcing Chloe to stare into his eyes. They were green, she noted, with tiny gold flecks that made them all that more engaging.

“You’re the Tribune’s lead reporter on the Lincoln Burrows case,” he said.

Chloe nodded and reached for her coffee. “I am. I’ve been following it since day one. Fascinating story.”

“Why you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Three years ago, you were barely a blip on the radar screen. Then you landed the Burrows story. You’ve made quite a name for yourself with that.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t see where this is going. Would you care to clarify for me? And quickly? I have a lot of work to do,” Chloe said, a slight edge in her voice.

Michael sat up straighter. “I’ve offended you. I apologize.”

Chloe let out an exasperated breath and stared at him through narrowed eyes.

“Look, Mr. Scofield, just what is it that you want? What’s your interest in the Lincoln Burrows case?”

“Michael, please, call me Michael.”

“Fine, Michael. Whatever.”

“Would you care to take a walk with me, Chloe?”

Chloe couldn’t figure this guy out. Had she misjudged him? Was he really crazy? She glanced over at Marilyn, who was eyeing them curiously from her desk at the other end of the room.

“I assure you, I’m not dangerous,” Michael said, bringing her attention back to him. “I would just rather discuss this away from the prying eyes and open ears of others.”

“Discuss what?” Chloe asked.

“My brother’s case.”

Chloe felt as though she’d been smacked in the chest. She swallowed hard and stared at Michael.

“Your brother,” she said slowly.

He nodded. “Lincoln Burrows is my brother.”

Her mind reeling at all the possible articles she could write, she jumped up, grabbed her coat and bag, and tossed her half-drank coffee cup in the trash can on the other side of her desk.

“Let’s go.”

They left the newsroom and exited the building. Chloe pulled the collar of her coat up around her neck as a harsh January wind blew against her. Michael pulled on black leather gloves and pointed to a café down the street. Wordlessly, she followed him.

They ordered coffee and croissants and sat at a table in the back, away from the window, Chloe noticed. Once they were settled, and she’d dropped in enough cream to make her black coffee turn light brown, she reached into her bag for her tape recorder.

“Wait a second, please,” Michael said, touching her hand. “This is off the record.”

“You want to talk about Lincoln Burrows, right? His final appeal comes up for a decision in 8 weeks. If he’s denied, that’s it, no more chances. This is a huge story, I have to –”

“No,” Michael said. “What I want to talk to you about stays off the record, or else we don’t talk.”

Chloe clenched her jaw and tried to keep from showing how annoyed she was. She removed her hand from her bag and instead gripped her coffee cup. For a full minute, they regarded each other coolly, sizing each other up.

Chloe couldn’t help but notice his determined expression and the way his eyes practically burned right through her. This was one seriously intense guy, she decided. But she wasn’t afraid of him. There was something about him that made her think of him as slightly vulnerable and a little unsure. Quite frankly, she was intrigued.

“All right then. Off the record,” she said, and he relaxed a bit.

“How is it that you landed the story about Lincoln?” Michael asked. “Aside from a brief stint at The Daily Planet, you hadn’t had any major bylines.”

“You’ve done a little research on me. How unfair. Considering not one news source made any mention of Lincoln Burrows’ brother.”

Michael just smiled. Chloe sipped some coffee and then sat back in her chair.

“I have a source on the police force,” she said. “I was one of the first reporters at the murder scene, and because of that, my story was printed in that evening’s edition, while everyone else had the story the next morning.”

“A bit of an unfair advantage,” Michael said.

Chloe raised a brow. “Like you knowing things about me before we’d even met.”

“Touche.”

“So because of my scoop, my editor granted me the story. I was posted outside the courthouse when he was arraigned, and I had exclusive sources that fed me information during the trial.”

“The trial was closed. There were no reporters allowed inside the courtroom.”

Chloe smirked and said, “Just because reporters weren’t allowed inside doesn’t mean news still didn’t make it outside.”

“You spoke to witnesses? Saw evidence?”

“You’ve read the articles, I’m sure. You know I did.”

Michael nodded and laced his fingers together, resting them on the table.

“And what did you deduce from your findings?”

Chloe shook her head. “Your turn. Just who are you, Michael Scofield? Are you really his brother? What do you do? Where do you live?”

“I’m really his brother, I’m a structural engineer and I live here, in Chicago. Now, back to your conclusion, please.”

“Why do you care what I think? The evidence proved he was guilty. The prosecutor had eyewitness accounts and recorded evidence that Lincoln Burrows entered that garage and shot Terrence Steadman. There were his previous convictions for battery, theft and drugs. There were his fingerprints all over the car, the murder weapon, the bloody pants covered in the victim’s blood found in his apartment. It all pointed to Lincoln.”

“That’s not what I asked, Chloe,” Michael said, his voice soft.

Biting her lip, Chloe studied him for what must have been the sixth time in the past half hour.

“I think it was too neat,” she finally said, and Michael’s jaw twitched as he nodded. “It was too easy for the police and the prosecutors to pinpoint him as their only suspect. Sure, all the evidence was there, but my question is, how did it get there?”

“And why,” Michael said. “I’ll admit, my brother doesn’t have the cleanest record, but he’s not stupid.”

“So you believe he’s innocent?”

“He swears to me that he is, and yes, I believe him. Lincoln has never lied to me.”

Chloe absently rubbed her thumb over her lips, thinking. “You do remember that he admitted, under oath, to agreeing to kill Steadman.”

“Yes.”

“And you still think he’s innocent?”

Michael shrugged. “Sometimes you have to go on faith.”

“Faith. Huh.”

Michael pushed his untouched coffee and croissant aside, and leaned towards her. Chloe had never met such a man. It was as if he didn’t believe in personal space. Where normally, she would have backed away, with him, she didn’t move. She felt as though he was challenging her, and she never stepped back from a challenge.

“I’d like you to work with me,” he said.

“Work with you?”

“On my brother’s final appeal. But with one condition.”

Chloe waited.

“You can’t write about it.”

A laugh bubbled up inside her. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m a reporter, and in case you haven’t realized, Lincoln Burrows is big news. I can’t just ignore him.”

“I’m not asking you to. You can write your stories about him, just not the one we’d be working on.”

Chloe felt herself moving closer to him, as if drawn to him by some unseen force. “What is it you’re looking for, Michael?”

They were so near each other, that when he answered, “The truth,” his breath brushed against her lips.

“You think there’s some kind of conspiracy here?” she whispered.

“I do. I believe my brother was framed, and I’m going to prove it.”

“How?”

“By doing some investigating. I’ve already started, but I realize I need someone with inside information. Someone who knows the story.”

“Someone with connections,” Chloe finished.

“Exactly. Will you help me?”

“If I do,” she said, “what’s in it for me?”

“Whatever we prove, at the end of the day, the story is yours. Exclusively.”

Chloe drummed her fingers on the tabletop, thinking it over. After a few moments, she extended her hand.

“It’s a deal,” she said.

He surprised her by not shaking her hand, but instead, grasping the tips of her fingers in his and squeezing gently.

When he whispered, “Thank you,” Chloe knew she was in for a lot more than just an exclusive story.

She just wasn’t sure what.

~end Part One

onto Part Two