Letter

It has been said that you can tell a lot about a man by examining the contents of his wallet. His interests. His tastes. Where he bought his gas. Stores he frequented. Who he loved. Where he went.

What was important to him.

A lot of information is contained within the folded creases of an ordinary wallet.

In Alexander Mahone's wallet, there was a white piece of paper, folded into the shape of a swan.

If you were to open this swan, you would find written on the square paper a letter.

The letter reads as follows:

Agent Mahone,

I am writing you because I know who you are. More importantly, I know what you are.

You, Alexander, are a good man. One motivated by an honest desire to see right done in the world. To see justice. One who is as honest as he is intelligent. A man with integrity. A man who won't be corrupted by either money or threats.

I am writing to you as a last hope. One last, final plea to someone I can trust to see justice done.

I am writing to you to beg you to save my brother.

Lincoln Burrows is an innocent man. He did not kill Terrance Steadman. Indeed, I have reason to believe that Terrance Steadman is, in fact, alive. Alive and living as a prisoner. A prisoner of whom, you might ask? Then ask yourself this: who has benefited the most from Steadman's alleged death?

There is a conspiracy here deeper than even I know. I don't understand it, I just know it exists. There is proof surrounding this entire affair, if one looks at it. Looks at who has gained and who has lost. And who has lost their lives.

Have you noticed, Alex, that anyone who might possibly help prevent Lincoln's execution are now dead? Bishop McMorrow, the man who may have influenced the governor to stop the execution. Nick Savrinn, who was working to prove his innocence. Veronica Donovan, who has been listed as simply missing, but who was killed while on the phone to my brother. My nephew's mother and stepfather, killed and him blamed for the death. Why are all these people dying? What do they have in common?

They were working to save my brother.

I can't keep him safe and uncover the truth. I need someone more powerful to do that for me. Someone with the brains to work through the tangled web and not get killed himself. Someone with the integrity to find the truth and expose it, to die rather than let an innocent man live like an animal.

I lay this at your feet knowing I'm giving you a terrible burden. Knowing that even having gotten the information from a criminal, you'll be forced to follow up on it. Because you can't simply let it lie. It's not your nature. And I am using you because I understand the fire within you.

Please. Save my brother. I ask nothing for myself and I'll willingly turn myself in to you once he is free.

Michael Scofield.


The paper has been worn thin from being folded and unfolded so many times. Smoothed over and read. Handled, sometimes with care, sometimes with anger.

Until now, this was the only part of Michael that Alexander possessed.

Now, with Michael fast asleep in his arms, Alexander thought about that letter. The letter, and how drastically it had changed his life.

He could, he supposed, finally throw it away. Why keep a paper that contained only an idea of the man when he had the man himself?

But he wouldn't. Because, even though he now held someone who fit him better than anyone ever before had, he still needed that letter. To remind him who he had been. And to remind him why he had given it all up.