We hear only ourselves... Whatever we shape leads back around ourselves again... We walk in the forest and feel we are or might be what the forest is dreaming... We do not possess that which is all around us... because we are it itself and are standing too close to it, the spectral and still ineffable nature of consciousness or interiorisation. But the sound burns out of us.

Ernest Bloch, The Philosophy of Music

Life is not about finding our limitations, it's about finding our infinity.

Herbie Hancock

ACT ONE

Even at the age of four, everyone knows young CHRISTIAN HOWES is destined for musical greatness. He is the youngest member of the church bell choir by a decade and has to stand on tippy toes to reach the bell tree. He is a delight to everyone around. Everyone, that is, except his father RALPH HOWES, whose approval is only earned by the demonstration of diligent practice and discipline, even at such a young age. At home, as Chris eagerly plays a single-stringed, homemade violin, we are simultaneously blown away by his talent, and disturbed by the lengths he must go to win the affection from his parents every child craves. His mother DIANA—simultaneously juggling Chris’s infant sister, HEIDI—overcompensates for Ralph’s palpable sternness.

A few years older, Chris is the model 8-year-old. We find him perfectly-dressed, with neatly parted hair—he is unflinchingly attentive as he occupies the front row church pew next to Ralph, who is completely engrossed by the sermon of the day. Diane is here, too, trying to occupy now-toddler, Heidi, while bouncing new baby KATHERINE on her shoulder. It’s a Christian Science church—the protestant denomination that believes, among other things, that sickness is an illusion that can be cured by prayer alone. As the pastor relays an apropos parable, Ralph pulls out a small pad and makes notes, a clear devotee. At home, Chris plays with his little sisters, but when Ralph comes home from work early, he explodes at Chris for wasting his time, sends him to his room, demands he practice his music. Chris struggles to hold it all together, but before he can burst into tears as any 8-year-old would, he stuffs it all down, pulling out his violin instead. And when bow-hair hits the strings, we’re blown away by the talent of this young boy. The song is full of melancholy—emotion that has otherwise been squelched comes pouring out through the music. When he fumbles a passage, he scolds himself sternly, starts again. It’s heartbreaking.

At age fifteen, Chris has morphed into a different animal altogether, his youthful zeal pounded into a raging teenage angst. But man, can he play. In an orchestra full of adults, Chris plays a solo that leaves the audience standing, cameras flashing. But unfortunately, he still can’t drive. Ralph drops him off at a friend’s house, reminds him of curfew, and here we see Chris relax for the first time. A few other friends join in and they smoke some weed, play music in the garage—but just as it’s really getting going, Chris has to leave to make it home on time. Embittered, he vandalizes a random car on the walk home, and arrives five minutes late in the process. And Ralph takes it out on him—the screaming match takes on a new tenor now that Chris is older. But he takes it. And we get the sense that over the years he’s taken it, and taken it, and taken it… In the next room, we see the worried faces of his siblings—Heidi’s now 12, Kat is almost 9, and a new face joins this crew—6-year-old Lewis, whose concern weighs the greatest.

In school, Chris is a normal kid—he flirts with girls, daydreams through class. When he’s invited by an upperclassman to a night of hanging out at the high school baseball field, he’s eager to join. Careful not to wake his father, Chris sneaks out into the night. It’s a raucous good time and a drunken Chris proceeds to break every window at the school, reveling in his bravado. On the rooftop after hooking up with a cute girl, Chris stands near the edge of a three-story drop, raising his arms like he’s going to jump off and fly. His eyes reveal a deep pain, buried in a far-off gaze. The girl grabs him by the waist and pulls him back to the roof for some more making out. Chris sneaks back into his house and—pulling the girl’s panties from his pocket—flops down on his bed, high on life. Staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling above him, he fades off—sweet dreams. Next thing he knows, Ralph shakes Chris awake abruptly—the police have paid a visit and Chris is in very big trouble. Wrapping a belt around his hand, Ralph delivers a round of corporal punishment so brutal, so humiliating, that Chris wishes he’d just jumped off the roof instead. “God’s perfection must be reflected in our actions,” Ralph says as he throws down a book: Lessons in Humility. “Read it.”

In church, Chris seethes, a dark bruise under his eye. The three younger siblings sit at perfect attention—the tension in the family is palpable. The minister drones on about the church’s teachings on self-healing—why do we need doctors and manmade medicines when the body God has given us can and will heal itself perfectly? As Chris listens to a BOY SOPRANO sing the hymn that follows, he’s struck with a thought, his mind racing. Back in school, he meets his posse at their lockers and buys a prescription bottle of pills. The following morning, Chris is late for breakfast—Diana has Lewis check on him, but the next thing she hears is a scream from her youngest. She races upstairs to find Chris passed out on the floor, pills next to him, Lewis in near shock. Holding herself together by a thread, Diana manages to wake him, but he’s totally out of it, almost gone. Summoning whatever strength she can, she drags him downstairs and into the car—the siblings pile in, panicked. At the hospital, Ralph is forced to make the ultimate decision—authorize medical care to save his son’s life, or adhere to his strict religious beliefs and let Chris die. He nods to the doctors, okaying the stomach pump. When Chris recovers, he’s strapped to a gurney like a prisoner, but he smiles as he finds his father through the haze. Chris proclaims victory—Ralph chose Chris over God.

On his own at age 17, we find Chris in a college dorm room at OSU, having sex. His hair is longer, his beard scruffier, and he carries an air of reckless abandon. Realizing the time, he pulls on clothes and runs out the door, stopping to grab his violin on the way. He shows up for orchestra rehearsal late, disheveled, and unrepentant. He’s joined the Columbus Symphony Orchestra—a college freshman amongst career professionals, but to his obvious disgust, he sits second chair to an inferior, adult, violinist. On a break, the CONDUCTOR lays into Chris for his appearance, his continued poor conduct, his uninspired playing. Chris’s reaction is to storm out of the room—no one tells him what to do anymore. But the kicker catches Chris at the door—the conductor is permitting Chris to challenge the other violinist for the concert master spot. In front of the whole orchestra, the two musicians trade off playing a notoriously technical passage from Paganini—they both nail it, but the brute passion behind Chris’s performance is palpable, and there is no question who the winner is. Chris, however, feels no need to play the good sport. He gloats on his way out the door—the conductor warns him not to be late for the performance the next night.

That night, he celebrates with his old high school friends at a local bar, a place where Chris is clearly well-known, and after reminiscing about the old times and the old trips, the gang—along with a guy Chris doesn’t know, NICK—asks if Chris can help them score seven sheets of LSD. Chris’s POT DEALER joins the guys in a booth and after laughing at the ridiculous request, asks Chris for a private moment. In the alley, the dealer shoves Chris against a wall, fuming about the severity of the drug order—seventy times bulk, drug kingpin status, big time. Chris says he trusts the guys, then physically turns the tables on the dealer, “I just spoon-fed you a mint, you don’t want the deal, fuck off.” The dealer relents. A time and place is set.

The next night, Chris is definitely out of place in black tie under the fluorescent brightness of a White Castle as he scarfs down the remains of a slider. His buddies pull into the parking lot, and Chris grabs his violin and joins them in their car. The deal goes down smoothly, and Chris heads off to his performance. As the concert comes to a close, Chris brings the crowd to its feet with his rousing solo. But the glory is short lived as the audience parts and a squad of DEA AGENTS is led down the aisle by Nick, who turns out to be an undercover agent. No encore tonight.

Chris sits in his tux in a holding cell—it’s been hours since his arrest. Ralph arrives, puts up bail—which he’s had to scramble to pull together—and it’s a humbling moment for Chris. He knows how badly he’s screwed up. Ralph doesn’t compound it. They drive to his childhood home in silence, until Ralph breaks finally breaks it, “This is all my fault.” It’s enough to bring Chris to the edge of tears. The following morning, they meet with an attorney, who breaks the hard news—the judge has committed to making a statement with this case. Chris is looking at 15 years to life—best case an indeterminate 6 to 25. But it will be the maximum if he chooses to face a jury and loses, which given the evidence against him is likely. Father and son are both shocked silent, the full reality of the situation landing on them. Once Ralph and Chris are alone, Ralph offers to take Chris to Mexico, start a new life there. Chris, choking back his emotion at his father’s willingness to break the law to ease his suffering, decides to serve his time like a man. But once he’s alone, the demons come out. He shaves his head, nicking it badly, staring at himself in his mirror as rivulets of blood trickle off his chin. On the day of his incarceration, we find Chris in an orange jumpsuit, on a bus full of convicts, motoring along to his confinement. He stares out the window at the scenes of life he’ll soon be deprived of—a little league game, a father teaching his son to ride a bike, teenagers messing around, killing time. The bus continues on into the countryside, leaving life as he knows it in the dust.

ACT TWO

We open Part Two in prison orientation, led by CORRECTIONAL OFFICER WALT ROGERS. “Strip, spread your butt cheeks, and you so much as fart and you’ll have a baton shoved so far up your ass you can taste it!” The guards remove any and all personal items from the cons’ possession, including Chris’s violin. But when Chris complains, C.O. Rogers stomps on it—no question who’s boss here. WARDEN FOSTER BANKS greets the new inmates, and upon his departure it’s clear the COs don’t relish taking orders from a black man. Chris is tossed into solitary confinement, 23 hours a day of nothing but time to face your fears, anxiety, mistakes. The sounds, the darkness, the confinement overwhelm Chris until late the first evening he hears the sound of a high voice, an almost eerie BOY SPORANO, echo through his cell. The soft melody brings a sense of calm over Chris.

The next day in the chow line, Chris begins to learn the social nature of the joint. He’s shoulder checked by DRE: mean, tough, blood on his hands. As Chris backs down, a white inmate standing with him in line—BJ—offers some advice. “Backing down is a slippery slope to being someone’s bitch.” BJ sits with Chris and starts to give him the joint lowdown, but Chris barely gets a bite of food down before he’s called back to his cell by C.O. KENNY HIGGINS. BJ jibes at him, “Welcome to Logan Correctional...” On the way back to his cell, Kenny offers a few words genuine encouragement, “Not everyone in here is an asshole.” Day in, day out, this is Chris’s routine for the next two weeks. It is grueling, demeaning, and a hard and fast transition from the outside. It beats him down, but he remains strong through it all.

Chris is finally pulled out of solitary and led to the Warden’s office where he discovers he has an advocate pulling for him. Based on a heartfelt letter written by Chris’s old conductor in the Columbus Symphony, Warden Banks gives Chris the opportunity to play in the prison band for work, and informs him that he’ll be living in “10 Dorm,” an honors pod. The warden is clear, “This is a privilege, everyone has a job here, don’t fuck it up.” The warden explains the nature of medium security prisons—everyone’s in the mix, including hardened violent criminals transferred down from maximum after years of relative good behavior. “Shit does go down, so watch your back.” In parting, he encourages Chris to make the most of his time. As C.O. Rogers escorts Chris across the communal yard towards 10 Dorm, he pokes Chris about the proverbial halo around his head. It’s also Chris’s first chance to see all the different factions of prison community up close: blacks, skinheads, hillbillies, Latinos... They all check out Chris menacingly—the threat of violence hangs thickly in the air, everywhere. The top dog skinhead, RYAN MILLER, tauntingly plays the banjo tune from Deliverance on his guitar. Chris, rattled, keeps his head down. He does not fit in anywhere. Arriving at his new pod, he’s shown to his cell. Chris reluctantly settles in as his OLDER CELLI advises him not to get too comfortable—people move around a lot. They talk for a few minutes and the old man seems amiable enough, even has an old guitar Chris can play anytime. Chris settles in. Definitely an improvement.

The next day BJ, the inmate from chow, pops his head in. At least he’s got one friend. BJ shows Chris around, and they eventually join a group of inmates playing Tonk—the house card game. Chris gets sucked in, loses his shirt pretty quickly, and learns about the primary currency inside—smokes. Turns out he owes a few cartons to the meanest and biggest mother in the joint—TARIQ. Heading to the commissary—the prison’s only legit store—BJ continues to spell out the rules of the game for Chris. The basic rhythm of prison, “Counts, work, meals, counts, free time, lights out, like that. Spend your prison account dough wisely. It can’t hurt to have some currency to buy protection either—the possibility of getting your ass kicked is ever-present, illogical, and even gets some poor suckers killed. And spare some extra for brokeass BJ when you can.” A DEADHEAD STONER GUY works the register, giving Chris a little hope, “Hell, if he can make it...” On the way out, Chris is eyed by a 40-something transvestite. BJ warns, “Last thing you want is to be is in the faggot minority in here, or one of the dudes that preys on them. Pretty boy like you might be a prize—not to scare you or anything... Don’t forget to buy your shit—razors, soap, toiletries. And, oh yeah—the showers.”

Chris hesitates outside the steamy dark shower—to himself, “Come on, Chris, man up already!” He heads inside and... it’s actually not too bad, definitely not what he was expecting. No rapes, no murders, there are even dividers between each showerhead. Cleaned up and ready for lights out, a BIG MEAN BLACK GUY comes to Chris’s cell, demanding the smokes he’s owed from Tonk. Thinking it’s Tariq and too afraid to make eye contact, Chris pays up. A CO in the distance bellows—lights out. And just like that, another day ends.

On the yard the next day, Dre approaches Chris and drags him over to meet big, badass Tariq, and Chris immediately realizes his colossal mistake—he paid off the wrong black dude the night before. Dre assures him, “No worries—you can pay up later, with interest of course—and if you ain’t got the smokes, there are always other ways to pay...” Kenny, the kind CO, rescues Chris and hauls him off to band practice. Thank God for the music, something Chris knows. But when he gets there, Chris finds he’s the only white guy in the room. Meet ANTWONE, the cracked-out band leader and guitar player, LENNY BANKS—better known as “POPS”—on trumpet, MARVIN on the keys, THREE THUMBS on bass. A mean- looking, stoic-faced con studies him from behind the drum kit—that’s SMILES. Antwone gives Chris a new violin courtesy of the Warden—complete with pick up and amp cord for playing with the band—and he launches into the Paganini he played the night of his arrest. But before he really gets going, Antwone yanks the amp plug midway. “You’re just a regular fucking Mo-Zart, huh? Mo, yeah, that’s gonna stick. But if you ever play that white shit again, it’s all over.” He tosses Chris a tambourine. “Try to keep up.”

A new day, and Chris is on stage at a prison concert. Time has passed, but Chris is moves awkwardly, drawing jeers and taunts from Ryan Miller and the skinheads, “Dance, monkey! Shake it, nigger-lover!” Not to mention they are in full costume—bow ties, cummerbunds and patent leather shoes complete the picture. Chris, thoroughly humiliated and fearing for his life, beelines for the end of the stage when Pops stops him abruptly. “You leave the band and you’ll be working some shit job off in some dark corner of the prison—think about it.” Chris reluctantly resumes his place in line. As a mellow tune picks up, we find the Warden enjoying the sounds over a PA system in his office as he fights with state officials for more money to rebuild the prison. The gen-pop housing at Logan is an overcrowded, underfunded, and needs a ton of work.

Visiting day. Chris’s first face-to-face with his family since incarceration, and rather than tell them the truth and destroy his mother and brother’s hope, Chris paints a rosy picture. “Food’s pretty good, people are surprisingly cool, getting tons of practice time, I’ve got one good friend…” But reality tells a different story—the food is repulsive, Chris routinely navigates skirmishes on the yard with Dre and his gang, the only practicing he’s been doing is on the tambourine, and BJ is proving to be more of a leech than a friend. Diana and Chris’s siblings may buy the charade, but an offhand comment from Chris about lessons in humility lets Ralph know that his son’s not faring quite as well as he’s letting on. Chris says goodbye, knowing it will be weeks before he sees them all again. And we remember in this moment that in spite of his live-or-die surroundings, he’s still a kid.

The car ride home with Chris’s family is a long one—turns out there are reasons they don’t put medium-level security prisons all that close to civilization. It’s hot, and there’s no AC, and Ralph turns on talk radio to an AM Christian station. Mid-teens and full of her own angst, Heidi asks how often they’re going to have to do this, and without missing a beat, Ralph says sternly, clearly ending any debate before it starts, “Every weekend.” As they continue down the Ohio country highway, it’s clear from the looks of everyone in the car, they, too, are in a prison cell of their own at this moment.

Back in the band room, the rehearsal has ended and Antwone orders Mo to clean up. Pops offers to help and once alone, Chris thanks him for keeping him onstage. They talk briefly about some of Pops’ other prison jobs, other prisons. Before long, Chris asks what Pops is in for—the old man overlooks the foible and lets Chris in on the do’s and don’ts of prison small talk. Pops then grabs Chris’s violin for him, and asks him to play something. Something Chris knows. Chris relents, and plays a lyrical sonata that seems to transport Pops to a peaceful place far outside the concrete walls. He thanks Chris, a subtle sign of respect, and finishes packing up.

On the yard, Chris is corralled by Antwone and the band, “Hey Mo, time to watch Marvin play the keys in church.” But Chris tells them doesn’t do church. Hasn’t since he was fifteen… But Antwone won’t take no for an answer. Seated with his bandmates, still drawing the threatening gaze from Miller and the skinheads behind him, Chris is caught off guard when a high soprano voice leads a hymn—the same voice from his first night in solitary. The singer is JESSE, 18, but could pass for 15, and Chris is moved by the music once again. Chris asks how someone so young could be in here, but Antwone laughs, “Prettiest bitch in the hole.” We get a bit of a primer here about what it means to be a “girl” in a men’s prison—rules about gay, straight, trans are all different than they are outside, but Chris is still genuinely disturbed, “He’s a kid for Chrissakes.” On the way out of church, a small group gathers around the area in the yard behind the bleachers. The thrust of the crowd forces Chris to the front, where he sees Dre systematically beat the life out of the Deadhead commissary clerk, then disappear into the crowd as the COs arrive. Racial tension spills over—the skinheads don’t take kindly to the fact that a white boy was killed, and threaten to even the score. It’s the first time Chris has ever seen a dead person before, let alone someone killed in front of his eyes. It’s sobering, harrowing. That night, Chris grabs the Old Celli’s guitar, picks out a simple tune, tries to escape into the music without upsetting the order. From a cell somewhere nearby, another guitar attempts to copy the phrase Chris just played, though not particularly well. Chris ventures another few bars, which are repeated, and the two go back and forth in an impromptu sort of lesson. Before long, CO Rogers’s voice bellows, “Howes, Miller, knock that shit off!”
 

On the yard the next day, Miller grabs Chris and tosses him against the wall, “I play just fine and don’t need any charity lessons.” Miller does however, invite Chris to play along with him and his crew on the yard, “We’ll even look the other way when you gotta play with the niggers.” Chris is suddenly struck with the notion that his music can serve as a currency—if it can mitigate the anger of a racist skinhead, what else can he do with it? Chris makes his way over to Tariq to finally pay off his Tonk debt—Bull reminds him that his door is always open for business.

With an afternoon practice session coming to an end, Antwone signals Chris to freestyle a violin solo—and the improvisation goes terribly. Antwone laughs, “Maybe you should just stick on the tambourine, Mo.” Frustrated, Chris hangs back to practice, and Pops sticks around, too. At the verge of breaking, Chris spews his mind, “What the hell am I doing in this band?” He takes shit from the skinheads for playing with the black guys, and the black guys don’t want him either. Pops shakes his head, “That racial shit’s a crock, you got to shake that off. But you could learn a thing or two from this black band, if you care to.” Chris is defensive, “Like how?” Pops guides him gently, “Look, you got this perfect classical training, this mastery of the instrument that’s about reading music and practicing pieces to perfection—that’s where you come from. But not all music works like that.” Pops grabs his trumpet and tells Chris to pick up his fiddle, “Don’t worry so much about being perfect, just listen, you and me are gonna have a conversation. And with that, Pops plays a phrase, “Now I know you got the key, so just gimme something back…” And Pops keeps playing, letting Chris’s melody on the violin lead for a few bars. “Now relax—just keep listening, talking to me.” And the two trade back and forth, Chris’s improvised lines grow with confidence as they play. Pops hits an incredible stretch, and Chris marvels at the old man for a moment—he feels the passion coming through that horn, from the lines in his face, his cheeks as he blows, his worn fingers a blur on the valves. As Pops winds it up, they take a moment—a veil has been lifted—and Chris nods his thanks. Pops shrugs it off, “Lessons are everywhere. Play with the skinheads, play with the hillbillies, play with whoever—sometimes you just gotta play.”
 

Time passes, and we find Chris playing with the skinheads now, starting to fit in, getting fewer glares, playing a request, earning a pack of smokes. We follow the smokes into the hands of an old con who hands a beat-up boom box over to Chris. Now he’s with the Latinos, playing along on guitar, getting some high fives, earning some cred. He’s becoming the musical minstrel of the yard. Watching Chris from the tower above, CO Rogers takes note, scowling… We move into a shop in the prison, and Chris hangs back as one of the Latinos rewires his boom box, MacGyvering it into an amp—Chris slings it over his shoulder and plays his amped up violin to some house music beat. It’s pretty catchy, and even Tariq and his crew give him props. Back with Pops, it’s clear that Chris’s musical ability is growing in ways he never expected. He is grateful for Pops’s mentoring, and on the heels of learning about currency firsthand, Chris asks what it is he wants for his time. Pops muses, “The more time you’re in the joint, the more you gravitate towards humanity, any piece of it you can find.” He pulls a small rock from his pocket—a rounded piece of sandstone—and runs his thumb across its surface. “You know, ol’ Pops used to be incorrigible—bought into having to be the toughest, the baddest, the meanest, whatever. But after too many fights, and too much bullshit, I finally realized that I’d turned into something that wasn’t inherently me—this place had worn the life nearly out of me. Drained the humanity right out of me. And the day all that hit me, I picked up this rock—it looked like I could crush it with his fingers, but I couldn’t. I kept at it, all day, trying to wear it down or something, but it just wouldn’t give. And that’s when I made a decision—that I’d never let this place break me. That I’d seek out whatever little piece of humanness I could find and latch on to it—through people, music, anything. Anything that would keep me alive, make me feel something other than the pain and isolation of incarceration. And if I started to forget, well, I’d just work on that rock a little more—wear it down instead of gettin’ worn down myself.” Pops hands the rock over to Chris, “Just keep sharing that musical gift of yours with this old man and we’ll be square.” Humanity. Chris never thought of it that way—his whole life he’s been fighting, being broken down one way or another. But where was it in this hellhole that he could find any sense of Pops’ humanness...?

We find Chris sitting in the least suspecting of places––the pews in church, listening to that voice again—Jesse’s voice. Something about the pain, the beauty in it—it pulls at something inside him. After the service, he tries to talk to Jesse, but the singer blows him off. Chris tracks him down in the chow hall, and sits down across from him. Jesse finally looks up––what the fuck you want man? Just as Chris is about to open his mouth, Jesse is approached by four cons who request his presence outside. He shoots Chris a final glare as he’s led off. Outside, Chris lingers back a bit, then discovers the four cons beating the shit out of Jesse behind the bleachers as a bribed CO looks the other way. It’s over in a second, and Chris rushes over to help him as the cons scatter. Bloodied, eye swollen already, Jesse spits and pushes Chris away as he stands––Chris tells him he’s not going to hurt him, but Jesse turns and drags himself away. The one piece of humanity Chris has found behind these walls, beaten to a pulp. Chris returns to the chow hall, where he eats alone in silence, clearly shaken.

We’re back at Chris’s home, family dinner, where a place remains set for Chris, even though he hasn’t been there for months. The rest of the family is there—it’s formal, restrained. Ralph makes small talk with Lewis about his success in the youth football league, which Heidi interrupts by saying she’s not going to visit Chris the following weekend—she has plans with her friends. Ralph’s rage builds in the silence that follows, which Heidi anticipates, “What are you going to do, hit me like you hit him? Maybe I’ll turn into a fuck-up and you guys can visit me in prison every week, too…” She storms off to her room and as Ralph rises to follow, Diane takes a stand, “Don’t.” Ralph, angry, frustrated and embarrassed, heads for the front door instead. Slam.

As the weeks and months go by, Chris has a rare opportunity: playing off campus in the Warden’s Band at a municipal picnic outside the prison walls and Chris’s family is in attendance. The band has finally gelled, and Chris is coming into his own. Ralph and Diane and the kids have fallen into a rhythm of routine visits, and this performance is something different—Chris almost seems like the brother they remember, not a convict. The crowd, likewise, is thoroughly impressed, including the Warden’s wife, MRS. BANKS. Chris and Diana pose for a picture with her, and through a series of shots and snippets of conversations, we get caught up on Chris’s life on the inside, at least what he’s willing to share with his folks and siblings. And it’s Chris’s first chance to catch up with the outside world. Before they go, he asks Diana for more musical writing paper—and maybe a few tapes. “Anything,” she promises.

An envelope arrives in the prison mailroom. It’s from Chris’s mom, and Walt Rogers—that asshole CO—is on mail duty when it hits his desk. Opening it according to prison policy, he leafs through it scowling—pictures of the band and the white kid that thinks he’s hot shit. He tosses it down in the stack to be delivered, then pauses, looks through Chris’s envelope again. Has a lightbulb moment… Later, a prison concert is about to begin and the band gathers onstage before a growing crowd of inmates. But Chris has forgotten his bow tie and Antwone is adamant, “You gotta have your uniform, your stuff's gotta be intact, you gotta have the bow tie!” Chris rushes back to his cell with gritted teeth as the natives grow restless, itching for the concert to begin already—it’s one of the few joyful moments these cons have. Chris arrives at his cell to find Rogers tossing it. Chris is pissed, “What the hell?” Rogers signals two other COs to detain Chris and proceeds to wave a picture of the Warden’s wife in his face accusingly. “This, and other pictures of the Warden’s family, are contraband—threats to the Warden’s safety, and you… are in deep shit—who else of them nigger musicians is involved?” Chris is incredulous, and denies the accusations as he’s dragged away by the COs. Back at the concert, Antwone is getting pissed. Rogers arrives, breaks up the show, unplugs the amps, and infuriates the inmates in the process. As the Warden arrives, he’s shown the pictures and is crestfallen, but knows he has no options—the concert is over. But Antwone isn’t about ready to give up the one privilege he has, and he grabs the mic and incites the crowd. Reaching a fevered pitch—“These cracker cops can’t keep the black man down!”—he throws the mic stand into the crowd, it hits a white inmate, and before you can say lockdown, a full-blown race riot is underway. Sirens wail.

Chris is thrown into the general population hole where—before having the door slammed on him—he gets a glimpse of the insanity. It really is lockdown. COs in riot gear, burning toilet paper showering down from the cell blocks above, inmates lying in pools of their own brain matter. Chaos rules. Welcome to the jungle. Gen pop hole is the worst place Chris has ever been. Pure punishment and close to a month of it. As the time passes, Chris begins to lose it, screaming through the slat in the door for help, making a hobby of killing the flies around the decrepit toilet, vomiting, falling prey to the putrid conditions. Hell on earth. But just when it seems he’s not going to make it, Kenny—our favorite CO—brings him his violin, if only for an hour, although he can’t make a peep. Kenny lifts another weight off his shoulders—he’ll personally assure the instrument and all of Chris’s gear makes the trip to his new gen pop accommodations intact. Chris draws an imaginary bow across the strings in silence, losing himself momentarily, escaping the squalor surrounding him. Music soars, but only in Chris’s mind.

Chris, haggard and beaten down from his time in the hole, is escorted to his gen pop bunk. 10 Dorm was a Hilton compared to this place—with rows of bunks only a few feet apart spread across a gymnasium-like floor, a few ancient TVs chained to the walls, and cons loitering everywhere, Chris realizes that any shred of privacy or dignity he once had has just been totally ripped from his existence. Things only get worse when he enters the bathroom—a line of ancient toilets runs the perimeter of a large room, no dividers or doors in sight—one con strains with constipation, another gets a makeshift tattoo off in a corner, another jerks off to a porn magazine. As Chris attempts to do his business, two of Dre’s thugs enter with a purpose. A few cons exit on cue and before Chris can follow their lead, he’s personally told to get the fuck out. As he exits, he sees Dre—pumped, ready for battle, fire in his eyes—staring down another prisoner. This is where gen pop disputes are settled. For a moment, Chris’s eyes meet with Dre’s—then Chris averts his gaze and heads back to his bunk as one of Dre’s thugs guards the bathroom entrance while the fight inside ensues. As the horrors of his new situation soak in, Chris looks up to see Jesse staring down at him from a tier above—welcome to my world. At the end of the cell block, Chris screams through a grate at a pair of COs—he’s got to talk with the Warden immediately. Just as they’re about to physically remove him, CO Kenny intercedes, escorts him to see the warden. Warden Banks opens his door and ushers Chris in. Breaking the silent tension, the Warden tells Chris in no uncertain terms that his hands are tied, “Of course I know you weren’t plotting any bullshit against me or my family, but there are other, larger forces at work. It’s all I can do to ensure I’m not ousted myself.” The band was a luxury, for them both, and now it’s over. Time to get tough, and—reminding him that he actually does like the kid—the Warden arranges for a new job that will help keep Chris out of harm’s way. In the commissary, an impatient con runs through Chris’s responsibilities—new supplies come in every other Tuesday, shelves are stocked at the beginning of every shift, inventories at the end, and if the drawer is off a fucking nickel you’re not only in the hole for a week, you’re scrubbing shitters every day until your time is up. This job is a privilege. Chris looks around and takes it all in, “There’s that word again…”

On the yard, Chris plays a cookie-cutter walking blues riff on the violin—he’s clearly miserable, and the music he plays is ironically comical. Jesse approaches and finally engages him, gives him shit, “Look at this picture, white kid playing an old black man’s blues.” Chris changes his tune to something comically bright––the juxtaposition with their surroundings catches Jesse off guard and forces a smile. Jesse asks him what his deal is, douchebag in here with a violin. Chris makes a joke about being the biggest acid-dealing violinist in the business, which breaks the ice a bit. He asks Jesse where he learned to sing—Jesse tells him. “Church. Got fucked with as an altar boy, but some pretty serious music going on in those big cathedrals.” Jesse explains that the prison chapel is as safe as it gets for playing music inside, if Chris is ever up for it… In the chapel, Chris and Jesse play a duet, Chris on the violin and Jesse singing––the acoustics here give their sound an almost majestic tenor. “Not bad, for a white boy.” As one afternoon session bleeds into many, Chris and Jesse’s music gets more and more layered, nuanced. A weight seems to lift from Chris as he improvises more and more competently, and Jesse’s tough exterior fades away bit by bit as time goes by. But across the yard, their liaisons draw the attention, and ire, of BJ who watches from afar. Such as it is in prison, no form of solace goes undisturbed for long.

As Chris rings up a sale in the prison store, BJ slides up to the counter. Once they’re alone, BJ asks Chris to float him a few packs of smokes on the house. “No can do,” Chris tells him. That’s the fastest way for Chris to get in trouble—but BJ presses. “C’mon, man. Anything from your personal stash? I wouldn’t ask except that it’s an emergency—I’m in deep with Tariq and I gotta give him something.” Chris reminds him, “Isn’t it always an emergency?” But BJ is relentless and his prodding turns darker, “Even after all I do for you? Watching your back? Making sure other cons don’t get the wrong idea about you and Jesse?” Chris fires back, “What wrong idea?!” BJ explains that some guys get a little irritated when they… feel like their turf is being walked on––and they tend to take out their irritation in the form of kicking the trespasser’s ass, or worse. Chris finally gets it, “They think I’m fucking Jesse? Seriously? Where would they get that idea?” BJ replies, “I don’t know, man––like I said, I’m the one’s got your back...” Absorbing all this, Chris begrudgingly pulls two packs from his pocket and hands them over. “Thanks, man—you are a true friend.” Prison power politics in action. That night, Chris lays on his bunk, staring up at the roof stories above, his face blank.

Early morning, just after count, only a few cons are up and about. Like many others, Chris lingers in his bunk, clinging to whatever sleep he can get to escape his nightmarish surroundings. From above a voice calls down, “Howes, get your ass up, you lazy con.” Chris rolls over to see Pops staring down at him from an upper tier. Chris buries his head in his pillow, “Not today Pops!” But before he fully drifts back off, Pops is standing over him. “I’m going for a run, and you are coming with me, lest you turn into a big fat ass right in front of your own damn eyes.” Chris drags himself up, “For you, Pops—anything.” As they run, Chris vents his frustrations about everything—no band, no practice rooms, only getting to play on the yard with hillbilly rednecks… The only music he actually enjoys playing—with Jesse—is apparently upsetting the peace on the yard and he’s being blackmailed to keep it. Maybe he should just fuck it. Pops stops him in his tracks as he catches his breath, “You’ll do no such thing.” Looking out past the fence, Pops points out an area that used to be a dairy farm back in the day. “Prisoners worked there once upon a time, but nobody would come near it on their own volition on account of the smell, the stigma of working in shit. But I figured out that early in the morning, I could go out there and play my horn as loud and bad as anything, no one but the cows there to complain. That’s how I started, that’s how I learned, that’s how I grew—through the shit.” He looks at Chris dead on, underscoring what he’s about to say, “You’re getting out one day, you’re not a lifer. And lest you end up on the street having wasted years of your life and nowhere to go but back inside, you better spend your time developing yourself, your music—forget the bullshit politics of the yard, what you’re supposed to do. You spend your time trying to measure yourself against these criminal fuck-ups, and you just might find yourself turned into one, withering and dying in here. Indeterminate sentences are tough—you might get out two thirds of your minimum day for day, or you might fuck up and get another year, then another, or another five, or ten, and all the sudden you’re an old man. You find any small piece of humanity inside, you grab on and hold tight, all else be damned.” Chris hears him on all counts, and tries to lighten it up by asking Pops if he’s ever getting out of here, or if he’s planning to stay until he’s an old man. A slow smile creeps over Pops’ face—after nearly 40 down, he’s up for parole this year. “Hell, maybe you and me will even get a chance to play some jazz together on the outside someday.”

Back at home, Ralph sits in the driver seat of the family car as it idles, dressed in his Sunday best. He checks his watch, anger brewing. After another moment, he storms into the house to find the kids in various states of readiness—it’s just one of those days when everything that could go wrong does, and Diane struggles to hold it all together and get the family out the door. But Ralph can’t take it any longer, and leaves without them, tells them to stay home—showing up late is disrespectful. At church, he sits alone, and the pastor fittingly preaches about the sermon on the Mount, and among other things, about rage. “Whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment…” The pastor offers a direct challenge to his congregants, “Who in his or her heart can think of a time when anger has come to bear in the here and now? The consequences are not only on judgement day, but all around us…” Ralph stays after the service, alone in the sanctuary, looking up at the crucified Jesus above him, and finally breaks down.

In the otherwise empty church sanctuary, Chris plays his violin alongside Marvin’s keys, Jesse singing a soulful solo. As they wrap up, Marvin and Chris shake hands—it’s not the band, but it’s something—and Marvin leaves the others to close up shop. As Chris packs away his instrument, he looks up at Jesse, who has a fresh black eye. Catching Chris’s concerned eye, Jesse turns away, “What the fuck you starting at?” Chris comments that it’s just not right. Jesse lashes out, “No? What is right? Teaching music to skinheads? Not everyone got the same currency––not everyone got people looking out for them and music lessons to keep the peace.” Jesse talks about his past, about years done behind bars of one kind or another—foster homes, juvie, then prison to prison. He learned early on how to get protection, to make “friends.” How to survive. Chris presses. “Even if you get your ass kicked de facto?” Jesse fires back, “You don’t get it. This ain’t nothing.” As they exit the chapel, Jesse clasps a padlock that guards the entrance, “Gotta get the key back to the COs.” Walking towards the main campus, they come across Dre, who eyes their togetherness with bitterness. With a final glance at Chris, Jesse walks ahead as Dre reaches him, and is immediately on the offensive. “You tappin’ that ass? That what you into? You think that shit’s for free?” Chris tries to neutralize the situation, “You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree here.” But Dre presses him, threatens him. He leaves Chris alone to think about it. “That bitch is mine, and if she sayin’ different, then she gonna need a little reminder.” Infuriated, Chris catches Dre off guard with a wild but solid left hook. As Dre is about to retaliate, a pair of COs pull them apart. You better watch yourself––Dre seethes as he heads the other way. Chris’s fist remains clenched, a new resolve crosses his face.

Chris pays a visit to Tariq’s cell and asks to pay him for protection. Specifically against Dre and his posse. Tariq smiles—no problem—and names the price, which is high. Chris explains that he can give him a few packs of smokes now, and that he’s getting a chunk of dough from his dad on his next visit, which is all Tariq’s. Tariq takes the smokes, and weighs the option of accepting the balance a week away. “Got any collateral, anything of value… how ‘bout that violin?” Chris considers, and relents. His instrument for protection. On the way back to his bunk, he consoles himself. It’s only a week.

And it’s a long week. The routine can really grind, the time can go so slow that you think you might explode. There’s no violin, no music. And unfortunately “protection” does not cover taunts, glares, or even shoulder checks by Dre in line at the chow hall, all of which Chris endures daily. But there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, an envelope of cash that will turn things around. As visiting day arrives, Chris greets Ralph with genuine warmth—where’s everyone? Diana’s in the ladies’ room, but she’ll be along soon—the other kids are staying with friends. They send their love, but what we get here for sure is that there has been a change in Ralph. A big moment for Chris, as he opens up to his father for the first time in years and tells him he’s had to pay for protection and he’s neck-deep in debt. Ralph is pained—he can’t do it. He needs to look out for the rest of the family as well, and on a tight budget, there’s just no extra money this month. And this time it’s Chris’s rage that gets the better of him—he screams at Ralph, who fights every instinct inside him and holds back, taking it. Boiling, Chris lunges at his father and starts to choke him before the attending COs pull him off. They drag him away, still struggling—Diane enters just as he goes, and loses it. But Ralph holds his composure under a mask of sadness—is this what his own rage looks like to others? Once Chris is beyond civilian eyes, batons are drawn and he’s beaten into submission, then tossed into solitary—the same dank hole he endured before entering gen pop. As he comes to, his rage has done everything but subside. He paces like a caged animal, refuses meals, punches the springs of his upturned bunk until his knuckles bleed, sleeps sitting up. When he’s finally released a week later, his body is leaner and bears the scars of his tumble with the COs, his eyes are hard and intense, his countenance like a rock. He is prepared to take shit from no one, evidenced by a curt “fuck you” in response to CO Kenny’s soft-spoken reminder about keeping his nose clean and not extending his sentence. Storming out to the yard, Chris approaches the skinheads and demands payment from Miller for lessons given previously on credit. He needs that violin back. Miller senses his desperation, and turns it on him. “Lessons? What lessons? Need I remind that you was always just invited to play, you was never paid for nothin’, and that he should probably watch your tone and take it down a notch.” Chris nods, turns away, then abruptly spins around on Miller, about to tackle him before he’s restrained by a couple of Miller’s skinhead thugs. Miller calls them off as he approaches Chris, nose to nose. “About those lessons, I think we’re even. I just saved your life right there. But from now on, you better watch yourself, you’re walking into no man’s land.”

At his bunk, Chris is approached by Pops, who suggests they go play a few tunes on the yard, but Chris declines. “Well how about a couple rounds on the mitts? You look like you could let off a little steam in the ring…” Reluctantly, he agrees. Boxing gloves on, Chris throws punches a little too hard at Pops’ focus mitts. “Fixin’ to take off one of my arms, are ya?” Pops fires a few rapid shots back at Chris, tapping him lightly where he is vulnerable. “Don’t lose the forest for the trees—if you keep indulging all this anger, you’re not even going to be able to recognize humanity when you see it.” Chris reacts with a volley of punches that Pops deftly outmaneuvers, bringing a stunned Chris down to the canvas, the old man securely on top of him. Pops is a force to be reckoned with. “You gotta let this go, this shit about protection rackets, about territory, possession—that’s all convict mentality bullshit. And another thing—you’re gonna have to find a way to forgive your old man, or you’re gonna regret it.” Chris pushes Pops off him, still raging. Pops shakes his head and turns toward the edge of the ring as he pulls off his gloves, “Ain’t nothing gonna grow from that hard place until you do.” Chris suddenly swings, landing a sucker punch squarely on Pops’ jaw. “What the hell do you know about regret?” As Chris storms off, Pops adjusts his jaw, looks after him sadly… “A lot.” Later at the commissary, Chris looks up as he’s approached by a formidable con who says that Tariq wants to see him—the money he owes him is still outstanding. At Tariq’s cell, Chris stands nervously in front of him, only to be handed his violin. Looks like someone else has covered his debt. Opening the case, he finds a note from Pops, “I forgive you.” Chris is hit with a wall of emotion. Back on the floor, Chris looks around for Pops, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

In the chapel, Chris and Jesse play a jazz duo, which crescendos into a daunting solo by Chris. In the silence that follows, Jesse comments, “You’re an entirely different person when you play.” She follows up by noting that it’s been awhile since anyone’s fucked with her… “Wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Chris dodges the question but tells Jesse a story about how he’s always been a terrible big brother to his own younger siblings. Maybe there’s time in life to turn things around yet. Jesse offers an unspoken, but sincere thanks. If you’re paying attention, in Chris’s mind (and ours), at this point in the story, Jesse has truly become a “she.” Fading back into the grind, Chris carries a new confidence about him, a new fuck-all attitude that is palpable. He may be in no man’s land, but no one’s gonna fuck with him either. Especially not with Tariq on the payroll. In the chow hall, Chris and Jesse stand in line together, sharing a rare laugh over an inside joke. Dre and his posse roll in, and Dre can’t resist getting in Chris’s face about it, poking at him and Jesse shamelessly. But this time Chris stands tall—he shoves Dre off him, making him stumble in front of the entire lunchtime crowd. As Dre rights himself, you could hear a pin drop. But catching Tariq’s eye across the room, Dre backs down, unable to save face. Furious, he mutters under his breath and storms out of the hall. Several unwitting cons look at Chris with a new reverence—a reverence Chris accepts by standing just a little bit taller.

On the upper tiers of gen pop, Pops sits alone, savoring the few minutes of direct sunlight that graces the inside of his cell each day. Chris appears, and offers a genuine apology, then thanks him for the violin. Pops accepts, of course, but studies the new Chris in front of him. He heard about the brush with Dre at chow. “Are you really sure what you’re doing? This new biggest cock on the block thing doesn’t ever lead anywhere good.” Chris falls immediately to the defensive. “Just when I’ve got shit figured out, you have to go and challenge me on it!” Pops clarifies—he’s just making sure Chris sees the big picture, remembers where he is, where he’s going. “You’re gettin’ it backwards—needin’ that respect from them, inside or outside, can only end up one place, and it ain’t pretty.” Not to mention Chris’s impending meeting with the board, a shot at getting out early. Chris listens, but doesn’t hear him, and Pops knows it. They hug it out. “I’ll be fine Pops, I know what I’m doing…” Violin in hand, Chris makes his way toward the chapel, whistling as he goes. But when he gets there, he’s greeted by one of Dre’s crew, who mentions that Chris might want to check out Jesse’s performance. Absorbing the thug’s sinister tone, Chris bolts past the door, where the padlock hangs from smashed hinge. Inside it’s pitch black, and before Chris knows it, four of Dre’s guys have him face down on the floor, completely subdued. Dragging him into the sanctuary, a dim light up front reveals Dre, holding Jesse by the scruff of her neck, shiv at his throat—one of the thugs yanks Chris’s head up so he can see. He struggles and tries to call out, but the thugs push down on his skull, forcing his jaw shut. Chris seethes through clenched teeth. Up front, Dre stares him down. “You see white boy? Ain’t nothing beautiful on the inside. It’s just power––and I am the power.” And with that he spins Jesse around and lands a solid blow to her nose, smashing it, blood everywhere. “Sing something now, bitch.” In the silence that follows, Jesse and Chris make eye contact––fear meets rage. Dre goes on. “No really, sing something. Now, bitch!” Jesse opens her mouth and begins a song we’ve heard many times by now, but Dre cracks her in the face right away, sending Jesse to her knees. “I said sing something!!” Jesse starts crying and whimpering as Dre bears down on her, each blow to her head doing more damage. Before long, head caved in, all life drained from her body, Jesse is silent. Dre drops his body to the ground, staring at Chris as he leaves. “Power.” Finally, a meaty fist comes down on Chris’s head, knocking him unconscious.

Blackness. When Chris comes to, he’s in the prison’s dilapidated infirmary. A nurse explains that he was found in the weight room, tripped on a dumbbell and knocked his head. Little bump, but he’ll live. His memory catches up to him. Jesse. Dre. A doctor checks his eyes, stoic, rage boiling behind thin veils. He signs some papers up front and upon release heads straight back to gen pop—looking for vengeance. He is detached. Every movement is measured, certain. There is nothing but fury. Chris bursts into the laundry room, demanding an explanation from Tariq. “What the hell was the protection money for?” Tariq fires back, “You look a’ight.” Chris explodes—“The hell I am! I just got hit by Dre and his entire crew, watched Jesse get killed, exactly why I employed you in the first place!” But Bull remains cool. “I don’t recall getting paid to look after anyone but you…” Speaking of getting paid, not only is Chris’s line of credit reached, he owes on another debt. “What other fucking debt?” Turns out it’s BJ’s. One Tariq was instructed to collect directly from Chris on his behalf. Chris is incredulous—he’s got nothing. Zero. Not for BJ, not for Tariq. Not for anybody. At this point, Tariq is no longer amused, and lets Chris know he always gets paid one way or another, and unbuttons his pants. “Care to make a down payment?” Chris refuses, and Bull responds by collapsing him with a crushing body shot, and delivers several crushing kicks to his stomach, sides, chest. “Don’t want to mess up that pretty face…”

In the bathroom, Chris takes in his reflection on the piece of polished metal bolted to the wall, the prison mirror. While his face remains unmarked, his torso is covered in black welts, which seem to grow as he studies them. He coughs, and spits blood at the image in front of him. In the chow hall, Chris sits by himself, trying to force down single bites of slop on his tray. BJ slides in across from him—thanks him for helping him out with Tariq. Chris stares at him for a beat, then lunges across the table at him, knocking him to the ground. As prisoners rise around them in a flash, eager to witness a fight, BJ pulls Chris in close, “Look around at you man, this is how it works, you fuck people or you get fucked, thought you knew that by now.” As the COs are breaking through the crowd, BJ looks at Chris, straightens his shirt, “My bad, no problems here guys, at ease.” Chris stands dazed, but the fight has gone out of him and the COs sense this. This one’s not worth the paperwork—everyone settle down. All of the commotion fades back into the grind. But this time it’s lifeless. Chris’s focus lost in the rafters above from his bunk. Chris at the commissary, reprimanded by a CO for a short drawer, getting tossed from his job, doing another week in the hole. Chris swabbing the floors of the vile bathroom. Chris’s violin case collecting dust. Chris’s thousand-yard stare standing in line at chow time, avoiding eye contact with Dre, a sign read as defeat. Submission. But then we also see Chris running in the morning, working out with an intensity not yet seen. The wheels in Chris’s head turning—plotting, thinking, waiting. Chris breaking off the end of his mop handle, honing it to a sharp point, hiding it behind a broken toilet in the corner of the bathroom. Chris studying himself in the polished metal—hard, chiseled, ready.

On the yard, Dre stands with a few guys in his posse, killing time. Chris sees him from a distance and beelines towards him. Before Dre can say what’s up cracker, Chris is on him, having landed a solid right hand to his jaw. Dre’s boys pull Chris off him and before they tear him apart Chris interrupts, staring right at Dre. “You and me, in the bathroom, let’s finish this.” Dre laughs, “My fucking pleasure.” Chris storms back to the gen pop dorm as Dre nods to one of his guys—he reaches into his boot and produces a nasty looking shiv, which Dre takes. Across the yard, Pops watches with concern as the posse makes its way toward the bathroom. Pops follows. In the bathroom, Chris bears down on the few prisoners in there. “Get the fuck out.” And given Chris’s raging demeanor, they do. He reaches behind the broken toilet and grabs his weapon, poised to drive it straight into Dre’s neck the moment he enters the room. He posts up by the entrance, fuming, ready to attack. Panting, he catches a glimpse of himself in the chrome once again and is stunned by the image—he has become a wild animal. But before he has much more time to consider, he hears a ruckus from outside. Shouts, overlapping voices—something’s up. Holding the wooden shiv in the crook of his arm, Chris heads out to see a mob circled around two figures fighting. Through the throng, Chris sees who it is: Dre and Pops—and Dre is livid. “This ain’t about you old man!” But the fight persists regardless. Forcing his way to the front of the crowd, Chris gets there just in time to see Pops turn Dre’s shiv against him, shoving it up under his ribs. As the life drains from Dre’s eyes, the rest of the prisoners break up, not wanting to get swept up in the bust that’s about to go down. Chris is stunned. He lets his own weapon fall to the ground in the shuffle, but stands in his place as the COs rush in and grab Pops. As they drag him away, he exchanges a look with Chris—a look that reminds Chris exactly what Pops has sacrificed for him in this moment. And later, as Chris watches Pops load into a transfer van headed north to a notorious supermax joint up north, it all sinks in. Chris watches the van as it recedes into the distance—his face expressionless. Chris has turned into the very thing that Pops warned him about. And now Pops is gone.

The same vacant stare, Chris sits in front of the parole board—a man in a suit reading from his file. The man looks up at CO Kenny, who nods an assurance. Based on length of term already served, and on account of a clean behavioral record in recent months, Chris is being released. Early. The man’s voice continues as Chris signs batches of forms, pulls his violin from under his bunk. Chris reads a long letter from Pops, a reminder that he’s going to end up right where he’s leaving if he doesn’t change. Chris walks towards a door at the end of a dark hallway. As it opens, the bright light of the outdoors spills in, and Chris walks out. Free to go. But free to go where?

ACT 3

Stepping out from the large metal doors, Chris is immediately smothered with hugs by his mom and siblings—he’s clearly overwhelmed by the physicality, the tenderness, the touch. He pushes down his fears, looks to the car. Ralph stands by the car, issues a strong handshake—almost like a job well done. The ride home is silent save for a few attempts to break the tension, all well-intended, none hitting their mark. Chris offers little response, focusing instead on the outside world. How much has it changed? How much has he changed? The tension carries over into Chris’s first meal at home. Pizza and forced conversation. Diana and the kids exchange glances—how can we talk to him? What do we say? Their answer is delivered by Chris. “This… is the best fucking pizza I’ve ever had.” As the awkward silence breaks into a warmhearted laugh, the Chris they know is still there, albeit hidden behind a hardened facade, a stoic silence. It may take time to break down the barrier, but this nugget of encouragement is all they need for now. With no guards to bribe and no permission needed, Chris heads out for a walk down Main Street. It is full of paranoia as Chris feels the eyes all around him, bearing down. He puffs up a little, chest out—a subconscious gesture of self-defense—an animal instinct he hadn’t realized he’d acquired, one he surely never wanted. The town seems different—new construction, a fresh coat of paint. Or maybe he’s just been staring at concrete for four years. As Chris daydreams, he ambles into a crosswalk, oblivious of the traffic around him. An oncoming driver slams his breaks to avoid running Chris down and blares his horn for effect. Chris snaps, charges at the driver, who sees the look in Chris’s eyes, decides to apologize and move on. Chris takes stock of his actions—maybe he should head home.

Lumbering into the kitchen, Chris is greeted by Ralph, who is ready to get down to business. They have a cold, sterile exchange, and Ralph wastes no time picking up where he left off—controlling Chris’s life. He’s pulled a few strings and set up an audition for Chris with the local chamber orchestra. “Time to get back on the horse and move on with life.” Chris absorbs the news, and bites his tongue. The day, the week, the time has drained him of this fight, and he heads up to his room like a school kid off to bed. Chris looks around his room—it’s the same, but he’s not. He carefully follows his ingrained prison routine as he gets ready for bed—shoes and socks placed by the foot of the bed, pants and shirt folded neatly on the chair. Chris lays back, staring up at the cottage cheese ceiling, and smiles when he sees the old glow-in-the-dark stars of his teenage dreams. But lest he forget what he’s just been through, Ralph sticks his head in and flicks a switch—lights out. In the darkness, it’s clear the stars have lost their radiance.

With violin in hand, Chris walks up the steps to a chamber auditorium. As musicians funnel into the building around him, Chris reluctantly follows them in. Standing at the back of the auditorium, looking down on the stage below, Chris takes in the once familiar sights and sounds—cases stowed under chairs, bows being rosined, instruments tuning up. Like riding a bike. The music swells as the audition-slash-rehearsal is in full swing. Seated directly in front of the conductor with the second violins, Chris plays along perfectly—the gift is still there, still effortless, always amazing. As the violins rest and the cellos step in, Chris takes another gander at the scene around him, then closes his eyes and listens to the music. But the euphoria, the sense of belonging, of home, is painfully absent. He looks down at his instrument—its body bears the scars of a life in prison, same as Chris. As the conductor cues them, Chris’s bow remains at his side. He just can’t do this anymore.

A fork lazily pushes around a half-eaten baked potato. Seated at one end of the dinner table, Ralph methodically cuts through his Salisbury steak, knife clinking, scratching, adding to the tension. Diana chimes in with words of encouragement—there will be other auditions, other opportunities. Chris wavers—he’s not so sure about playing in an orchestra at all. Ralph, frustrated over Chris throwing away the job op he set up for him comments, “No free rides in this house.” Diana suggests maybe Chris could teach music as a means of supporting himself. After all, it’s something he’s been doing the past few years when he was a... when he was.... “A convict?” Ralph finishes her sentence, continues, ”Who’s going to let him near their kids?” The barb stings—that hurts. Chris sweeps up his plate and heads into the kitchen, incensing Ralph. And old triggers sink their vicious teeth in… As Ralph continues his tirade from the other room, Chris stands silently over the sink, stuffing down the emotions, the rage, the dried up tears. In an instant, Ralph is at Chris’s ear, demanding answers as to how Chris plans to move on with his life, ridiculing him for his childish antics, insisting Chris act like a man. Chris walks away but is grabbed from behind from his father, “Answer me!” The physical contact sets Chris off—he instinctually shoves his father away, grabs the kitchen broom, snaps it in two, and has the jagged point at his father’s neck in a flash. Mom comes in to catch this last vignette and immediately breaks into hysterics. The other kids rush in as well, and it’s the horror in young Lewis’s face that overwhelms him—and it’s all too much. He drops the broom, releases Ralph, and runs out the back door, shoeless.

Bare feet splash through puddles as rain starts to fall. Chris runs through the night, desperate, lost, broken. The shelter of a bus stop beckons him out of the storm, and a few seconds later, Chris finds himself riding into downtown Columbus. The bus stops, Chris exits, and finds himself staring straight at a White Castle parking lot. The White Castle parking lot. It all comes rushing back, and he’s off and running once again. Down the sidewalk, dodging passersby, rounding a corner, where he barrels into a couple of beat cops. “Hey buddy, you looking for a night in lockup? Slow down. Get some shoes…” The comment lingers with Chris as he backs away from the cops and into a nearby alley. Slumping against a dumpster, he slides down to the ground. What the fuck is he doing? He looks to the heavens for an answer—maybe God can help. But the only vision he’s greeted with is the rusty bars of a fire escape ladder. Chris pulls himself up the ladder, and climbs the stairs to the roof of the building. Chris’s bare feet step up on the ledge. He peers over the edge—four stories down and one small step can end the journey, numb the pain. Chris raises his foot, creeps closer, takes a deep breath. Then... a steady beat. Is it his heart racing? He listens closer. A snare. A bass. The undeniable sound of a muted trumpet. Chris peeks over the edge again and finds the source of the music. Two men share a smoke in the alley below him, one has his foot propped in a doorway out of which seeps a soft blue light. A blue light and... jazz.

Chris—still shoeless—enters a seedy, modest tavern, where the few patrons are black, all listening intently to a quartet on a dais at the head of the room. The musicians, the bartender and the patrons are so rapt in the music that none seems to pay mind to the soaking white boy who idles at the bar. Chris watches them play and his eyes are drawn to the trumpeter—an OLD-TIMER, a black fellow, eyes shut, playing his heart out. Chris watches the old man’s deeply lined face, his fingers on the valves, his chest swelling with each breath he blows into the horn... As the set wraps up for the night, the Old-Timer eases up to the bar for a drink. The bartender apologizes for the low turn out and regrets that he can’t pay for the session. The gin, however, is on the house. With a soulful laugh, the trumpeter throws back the gin. “You know I’ve played for water…” He’d have played to an empty room, to a brick wall, to a field of cows. “Sometimes, you just gotta play.” Chris smiles. Something about that sounds just right.

As the sun rises, Chris climbs the steps to his house and enters to find his family passed out around the living room. He closes the door, they stir, anxious. Ralph rises to his feet as Chris approaches. Eye to eye. What’s next? Chris goes first, calm, steady, sure. “It’s over.” Ralph interjects, but Chris overpowers him. “Let me finish. Time for forgiveness, time to let it all go. Unconditionally. Can you live with that?” As Chris hugs an unsuspecting Ralph, the dried up tears begin to flow, and slowly, surely, Ralph’s arms wrap around his son. The family comes together, and we feel it. This is what Chris needs, what they all need.

Two years later. A bottle of champagne as it’s pulled from the fridge and placed in an ice bucket. A waiter, napkin over his wrist, hauls it through a pair of swinging doors and out into a sea of people hurrying to their seats. We’re at the Hollywood Bowl, it’s a packed house, and we’re moments from show time. The champagne bottle finally finds its table—Ralph and Diana are seated in the VIP section, silver spoon service. As the lights dim, the emcee announces the act: Jazz Legends, featuring the world’s pre-eminent jazz violinist, Christian Howes. As the waiter pops the cork, Ralph looks up at him. “That’s my son.”

Backstage—under the thundering applause—Chris sits, contemplative, hands together, running his thumb across an object out of sight. Next to him, his violin case lies open. He pulls the old instrument out and we see it’s still the same one he played so many years ago in the Logan Correctional Warden’s Band, in church, on the yard. A smile creeps across his face. Standing, he opens his hand and sets whatever he’s been holding on the corner of the table—fading to a blur as he heads out to the stage, the audience roars, and we stay focused on the object he left behind, a rounded piece of sandstone—a little smaller than before, but plenty left to last a lifetime.

In addition to Chris’s playing on stage and touring, he has become something else—something he also learned during his incarceration: a teacher. He reaches kids of all ages—many of them just as misunderstood as he once was—and urges them to fill their lives with music. He develops a camp that brings kids together from all over the world, who are not only amazed by Chris’s brilliance, but bring a taste of their own. Kids stay up late after the sessions of the day are done—play together in circles, improvising as they go, playing from the heart. This, Chris realizes, is his ultimate contribution to humanity.