DISCLAIMER: The concepts and characters of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me. This is for entertainment purposes only. No money is being made from it.

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‘A winter's day, In a deep and dark December.’¹

1973.

‘I am alone…’

‘Don't talk of love.
Well, I've heard the word before.
It's sleeping in my memory.
I won't disturb the slumber
Of feelings that have died.
If I'd never loved,
I never would have cried…’


Milton C. Hardcastle looked out of the cabin’s front window at the ice covered eaves and the white expanse of forest that lay beyond them. Pine boughs drooped with the weight of fresh snow and the cold wind outside matched the one in his soul. He turned away wearily and sank down in the recliner. Eight months. Over half a year gone since Nancy’s death.² Bedside vigils in the hospital room, day after day, watching his love fade from a vibrant shining star to a weak, pain-ridden…. He closed his eyes in anguish. God, it hurt him to watch…feeling so helpless. The cancer was like a criminal--stealing into a home to wreck and attack-taking the best items; the irreplaceable things that made the world valuable. He couldn’t arrest it; couldn’t charge it and try it like one of his cases-a thing to be punished and locked away from others. He couldn’t do a damned thing at all! Nancy’s trust and faith in him was the one thing that kept him going after the news about Tommy. And why did that have to happen? Why was his son sent away to a foreign land to die far from home?-never to hear the words Hardcastle wanted to tell him; feel the hugs that he wanted to give. And now, both of them were gone. Gone. His love...his life…

He had felt compelled to flee from Los Angeles to the mountains a few weeks ago in late November-avoiding the Thanksgiving celebrations. “Thanks”giving? What in the hell did he have to feel thankful for? Being alive when his world was dead? He had wished many times that he had been the one to go instead of Nancy and the boy. He had wished many times also that he would go as well-but he hadn’t the guts to carry out a suicide act. Ha!…that was a laugh. A “macho” man like him afraid to…. And God didn’t seem to want him badly enough to send a car wreck or stray bullet his way.

That was another thing…God. What sins had he committed that the Lord punished him this way? He had fought for law and order all his life. Punish criminals…protect the innocent…help the needy. Wasn’t that supposed to be what you ought to do? He couldn’t understand why Heaven was turning its back on him-taking his two precious gifts of life and slamming the door in his face…shunning him...refusing him peace and understanding. [Well, he wouldn’t put up with that--throw him out, would He? He’d throw Him out-refuse to enter Heaven even if he was asked to.] After all, he was getting used to being in Hell.


‘I've built walls.
A fortress deep and mighty.
That none may penetrate.
I have no need for friendship,
Friendship causes pain.
Its laughter and its loving I disdain…

I have my books,
And my work to protect me.
I am shielded in my armor.
Hiding in my room,
Safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me…’


1975.

“Come on, Milton-it’ll be fun. Jack and I are renting a boat for the weekend and going out on the lake for bass fishing,” District Attorney Michael Daniels urged the jurist. Hardcastle smiled but shook his head. “No thanks, I’ve got to do a lot around the house. The washer conked out yesterday, and I’ve got to get the repairs done.” He knew it was a lame excuse, but he wasn’t in the mood to “have fun”. The DA shrugged and went off down the hall to his office. Hardcastle pushed open the courthouse door and walked out to the parking lot.

Driving up through the gates of Gulls Way, he parked by the front fountain and walked into his den. Mail lay on his desk…bills, doctor’s appointment note, more bills…an invitation to Greg Murray’s son’s college graduation. Greg was a fellow law school graduate in the Judge’s class and had a successful practice over in Pasadena. He and Milt had crammed in late night study sessions for Torts and Contracts and had served in the Student Government together. Nice fellow. Good friend…but,…well…he didn’t feel like going to a celebration. Especially one which would open up memories of his own family…the one he used to have. It seemed that a lot of celebrations reminded him of things he’d rather forget…birthdays, anniversaries, graduations…not to mention Valentines Day, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Yep, pretty much the whole year was covered with opportunities for a recurrence of pain and feeling hopeless and alone.

He shut out the fleeting thought that he was the one who chose to be alone. Nope, he’d send his regrets with a nice note and gift.


1978.

Sarah shook her head as she watched the Judge interact with the guests, if “interacting” was the right word for it. It was his turn to host the annual LA Superior Court’s Fourth of July picnic, and the grounds at Gulls Way were festive with red, white, and blue streamers and balloons. The sun flashed silver sparks off the ocean surf, and the breeze was light and filled with the scent of the beautiful flowers of the nearby garden and the music of happy voices. The gaily-decorated table was full of different potluck foods and desserts, but he had only “picked” at a few items and nodded pleasantly to co-workers who talked in small groups and danced to the hi-fi. He was friendly enough, but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Police Sergeant Frank Harper called him over to a group of cops discussing the last Rams’ game. Their laughter was echoed by his voice, but its power didn’t reach his eyes. She gave an involuntary shiver. He looked so…empty…so lost. She wished Mrs. Hardcastle, God bless her, could be here now-she’d give him a kick in the pants, figuratively speaking-get him out of his depressed mood and put the fight back into his soul. Of course, if she were here now, he wouldn’t have a reason to be this way in the first place. God help the poor man, she thought. He doesn’t need to be like this.


1981.

The Judge threw another file folder on top of the growing stack on the desk. Five new cases to hear today. Three reports on the previous weeks’ rulings due to the Superior Court records room. He was glad Sarah was helping with the typing. He still was a two-finger man on the keyboard. He stretched his arms out against a kink in his back. Long week. Long month, to think of it. Long years…no, let’s not get into that now! Time gone by...so fast…so slow. Gray in his hair now. Still in good shape, though. Basketball did that. Every night-lay-ups, long shots, free throws. Keep the ol’ ticker going. Don’t have to feel with it-it just has to beat. Hours of work--writing reports, guest teaching at the University, serving on a discussion panel at a law convention. Listening to a long line of excuses and wimpy plea-bargaining by punks in the courtroom trying to beat the rap. There’s no excuse for breaking the law, he thought. You do a crime, you do the time. Case closed. Hundreds of cases--hundreds of faces, looking across a wooden desk at him. Angry, sullen, smart-mouthed, afraid. He never really focused on them. He listened to the charges, read the police and medical reports, examined the evidence, and made a ruling. Jail. Punishment. ‘Hunt ‘em, hear ‘em and hang ‘em.’ Get them out of the way of society so innocent people could live safely and without fear. He felt the responsibility of his job and took it seriously.

He got up and put on his robe over his shorts and Hawaiian print shirt, then entered the courtroom. He heard the “All rise…” announcement as a faint echo as he sat down behind the bench and looked at the folder in front of him. “Mark McCormick”. He remembered the case history he’d reviewed. “Caucasian Male, age 26, originally from New Jersey. Several arrests there as a young teen for joyriding, fighting, and minor theft. Moved to Florida in 1975 to take up car racing. Involved in more run-ins with the law there over “repossessing” automobiles. Came to California to continue racing. Lived with his girlfriend Melinda Marshall. In front of this court now because he tried to fool the insurance company by putting a Porsche under her name for billing, then ran off with it when they broke up. She wasn’t the most intelligent of witnesses, Hardcastle had to admit. But the papers had her name on them, and he took the car without permission. Grand Theft Auto. That’s what the book said-black and white. And he had to go with the law.

He looked up from the file at the curly-haired kid sitting at the defense table. As McCormick kept interrupting the prosecutor with complaints and under-the-breath comments, he pounded the desk for order, fixing the culprit with a steely glare in which he tried to hide his exasperation at the kid being caught up in a stupid situation like this. Young idiot! The jury returned the verdict. He hated to say the words, but they came out. ”Five years in the federal penitentiary; parole in two possible with good behavior.” The smart-mouth comments stopped then, as the cocky expression faded quickly to an almost terrified, “lost” look-showing deep hurt, hopelessness, and emptiness inside. [He looks like I feel], the Judge thought for an instant as he watched the young man being handcuffed and led out of the courtroom. He shook his head. No! I’m not feeling sorry for him-he broke the law. I did my job-nothing to be ashamed about! He returned to his office and began reading the brief of the next case. McCormick’s face kept flashing in front of him, distracting his attention. Damn it! Why do I care anything about that young kid? I’m old enough to be his father! Oh…. No! Well, hell-I guess I ought to check up on him once in a while to make sure he follows the rules from now on. Kid could have a better future ahead if he’d get his head on straight! Not that it matters to me….


1983.

Last case! Last day as an active Judge. Years of hard work-climbing the ladder from cop to lawyer to the lower courts-finally up to the Superior Court. Respected by peers and colleagues. He’d even gotten an “honorary” police badge the night before at the party thrown by the LAPD. Looked to for advice. Professionally valued. He’d tried to make the right decisions-do the right things. Now he was retiring. Lots of time to travel, to enjoy hobbies, to…. He suddenly felt a big letdown. Lots of time…to do what? He’d tried for years to fill the time-to work, to study, to do anything that prevented him from remembering. Now…he had to go back to the house and live there alone (well, Sarah was there--he apologized to her silently-but it was awfully quiet without…). Listening to the silences where there should be laughter and song. Looking at the treasured art items and expensive furnishings without anyone to appreciate them with. Playing solo basketball, polishing the Corvette that had belonged to his son, watering the flowers that Nancy loved so much…. Damn! Even John Wayne movies weren’t as much fun without someone else to share the excitement.

He had tried in the past few years to help some of the kids and young men who were arrested for minor crimes and first-time offenses. Counseling them, doing activities, sponsoring them in work projects and training schools. Of course, they had to “earn” their way by chores, but chores had never hurt him on the farm back in Arkansas. He hadn’t enjoyed some of them, but he came to see their value in the life of his family-adding to their comfort and their betterment. Many of the parolees/ cons were lazy and indifferent-not wanting to do anything they could get out of; many resisted--partially due to the resentment against “authority” figures and partially because they were afraid deep down of being anything but the street-wise aggressive punk they pretended to be-afraid of being vulnerable and looking “weak” by depending on others for help and guidance. Obeying laws to them was a sucker’s game. Life gave them crap, so they took what they wanted and didn’t stop to care whom they hurt. He sighed. He wished that he could find someone different--someone who could change-who could be useful in his plan. His great plan.

He’d thought about it nights. There were a lot of regrets he had over some of his cases and cases of others. Because of stupid mistakes in arresting criminals and handling evidence, plus the “plea bargaining” behind the scenes, many criminals had “walked” due to technicalities. He had absolutely hated it when the police or the DA’s office had “screwed up” a case, and he had to let a person go who was a danger to society and sure to commit more crimes in the future. He had to go “by the book”-no damn choice. He planned to catch the crooks at their old tricks---find them and prove they were guilty of new crimes and get them put behind bars where they should have been in the first place. But, he needed an assistant. Someone, preferably young, who had the stamina and drive to go all out in this quest. Someone who cared about right and wrong like he did and would stand by him and support him as a partner. Tough to find anyone like that off the police force. He’d looked and failed before. Oh, well, maybe sometime…. Let’s look at the trial agenda today…who’s the lucky fellow I get to see? Oh, no….not him!

Later that night, Hardcastle walked through the holding cells of the city jail, looking for McCormick. The young kid had been up to his old tricks of GTA. Never learned, did he? He had some song-and-dance to justify his actions-something about his friend really owning the car and a guy named Cody stealing it. He had just simply “stolen” it back (he called it “retrieving for the proper owner”)-wrecking the Cody warehouse area, smashing a police car (although he had stopped to aid the wounded officer--why?, Hardcastle wondered. This kid was an enigma!), and breaking several other laws such as exceeding the speed limit, running red lights, illegal turns, and committing flight to avoid arrest. You can’t run forever, kiddo, the Judge thought. Maybe I’ll just tie you down at my estate, and we’ll see about fixing your attitude. You could prove to be useful…possibly…


‘I am a rock.
I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain.
And an island never cries.’


1984.

The Judge looked out over the back lawn of the estate. McCormick was digging holes in the garden-probably destroying the flowers and leaving the weeds! He grinned to himself. The young man, despite his irritating smart-mouth, complaints about slavery, and tendency to laze around by the pool instead of doing his chores, was really working out. They had assisted in the capture of many of the felons on Hardcastle’s list, plus a lot of new ones. Mark…no, McCormick, had shown courage and determination in the face of danger and had turned out much better than expected. Well, actually…he had expected some of that from the boy anyhow-he could see the inner qualities that needed to be freed from the memories of poverty, neglect, and prison. Just as he now knew that he needed to be free from the isolation, grief, and hopelessness that had trapped his life for so long. Being an emotionless rock was no use in itself-it was the chips and blows of life that shaped it into a statue. Being an island apart from the touch of friends…and family…led only to echoes against the cliffs that no one listened to. He needed to still have that voice…that contact with someone else who could make sure his tracks in the sand---his hard work and beliefs---weren’t washed away unseen by the tide. He was awakening through his work with the young man-learning to laugh, to see the beauty in nature, to enjoy life again. The emptiness was being filled---and he was grateful.