EXT. A WORKING CLASS NEIGHBORHOOD IN WASHINGTON - NIGHT

Lincoln stands in front of William Hutton's row house, talking to Hutton. The funeral wreath still hangs on the door behind them, displaying the marks of time passing: faded, weatherbeaten, dusty.

           WILLIAM HUTTON

I can't make sense of it, what he died for. Mr. Lincoln, I hate them all, I do, all black people. I am a prejudiced man.

The door opens slightly behind Hutton. His wife looks out. Hutton exchanges a glance with her, and the door shuts again. 97.

           LINCOLN

I'd change that in you if I could, but that's not why I come. I might be wrong, Mr. Hutton, but I expect... Colored people will most likely be free, and when that's so, it's simple truth that your brother's bravery, and his death, helped make it so. Only you can decide whether that's sense enough for you, or not.

Hutton walks slowly back to his house.

           LINCOLN (CONT'D)

My deepest sympathies to your family.

Lincoln goes back to his buggy. Hutton pauses at his door to watch Lincoln's buggy drive away.