Rated: PG

Feedback:  Comments appreciated at tunecedemalis@yahoo.com

Author’s Notes: There may be a little plot here, but it’s really about being an outsider, ‘us vs. them’, divided loyalties, and ‘who do you trust?’  

Thanks again to Cheri and Susan, to who fall the Sisyphean task of fixing my errors.

There was still a lot of activity going on, evidence to be processed, phone calls to be made, and squad cars to take the bad guys away. But the operation had already taken on a T.G.I.F. feel, with some of the task force members standing around, telling old war stories.  

McCormick, who an hour ago had been wired for sound, and the focus of considerable attention, had now been left more-or-less to himself. This was, of course, after the first round of slaps on the back and congratulations: “Good job.” “Nailed ‘em clean.” He didn’t know many of these guys; some were State Police, one was a Federal liaison. Frank was around somewhere too, though he’d mostly been on board as an observer, and maybe to offer assurance, to the more skittish members of the team, that McCormick was not as loose a cannon as he appeared.

Even Hardcastle had stepped away; he was talking to an old buddy from vice, a guy named McGruder. He seemed to fit right in at this sort of gathering. He’d always seemed as much ex-cop as ex-judge to McCormick. But Mark knew he’d have some pretty pointed commentary when they got out to the truck; like how come the task force hadn’t anticipated Anson’s proclivity for bringing Uzi’s to the negotiating table, for one. McCormick smiled. Now that little turn of events had gotten his adrenalin going.

But now all the adrenalin had worn off, and he was beginning to wonder how much longer the wrap-up would take.

But being one of the few people in the room who wasn’t doing anything, he was among the first to notice when one of the detectives, Jacet was it?, came out of the back room and spoke urgently to Captain Henry Alba, the head of the team. After a moment’s conversation, both men retreated into the small room where the evidence was being processed. There was a brief lull in conversation; a few eyes turned in that direction. When Alba emerged, a few minutes later, more people were aware that something was up. He spoke to his assistant, Orton, and to the Federal guy, McCormick had forgotten his name; he wasn’t sure they’d even been introduced.  

He couldn’t hear any of that conversation, but he got the drift from what was being said closer at hand. “Damn short count.” “We’re gonna be here half the night.” And then he realized that the three at the other side of the room, Alba, Orton, and the Fed, were all looking in his direction, and that Orton was saying something to his chief.

Hardcastle had become aware of what was going on, too. He broke away from McGruder and headed in McCormick’s direction.  

Mark licked his lips once, trying to look calm. “What’s up, Judge?” he asked quietly.

“Nothing much.” The judge pulled up another chair and sat down next to him. “They aren’t coming up even on the money. Happens all the time. They’ll just have to count it again until they get it right.”

McCormick thought about the $250,000 in medium-sized bills. A decent-sized suitcase full that he’d flashed to Anson as his end of the deal. “How much short?” he asked.

“Dunno. Usually a couple of bills. It’s hard work counting money, easy to get distracted. Alba won’t want to sign off on it unless they can make it tally.”

“And if they can’t?”

“They will, eventually,” the judge smiled in reassurance. “It’s all there.”

McCormick knew he should take some sort of comfort in this vote of confidence, but now Jacet was emerging from the room again. He looked grim as he handed Alba a piece of paper. Things had gotten tensely quiet in the room, and then Alba was heading his way.

“Judge, I think we may have a little problem here,” McCormick had dropped his voice to a near whisper.

“That’s crazy,” the judge was back on his feet and stepped forward to intercept the Captain. “Hank, what gives?”

“Judge, sorry, I apologize for this but I’m going to have to ask you for permission to search your car.”  

“You mean my truck?”

“No, the car, the Coyote.”

“That’s my car,” McCormick said, carefully keeping his voice even. He shot the judge a look that combined ‘I told you so,’ with ‘What do I do now?’  

Hardcastle held his hand up, palm toward McCormick, and Mark heard the Just keep your mouth shut and let me take care of this, as certainly as if it had been spoken out loud. “How much are we talking about, Captain?”  

“Ten thousand, five hundred. This is more than a miscount, Judge.”

“At least fifteen guys have had proximity to that suitcase, and you go right for McCormick here?”

“He had sole possession, in the car, while driving to the meet.” Alba locked glares with Hardcastle.  

He didn’t even have to play the trump card, McCormick thought, though it was pretty evident that it was foremost on nearly everyone’s mind. McCormick had felt the temperature in the room drop a good ten degrees since the Captain had begun to walk in his direction.

“Look, Judge,” Alba retreated to a more collegial position, “if you’re so sure there’s nothing in it, then let us take a look right now, put suspicion to rest. I’ll be the first to apologize to you if we’re wrong.”

“You mean apologize to him,” Hardcastle jerked a thumb in Mark’s direction. “Anyway, it is his car, and his decision.”

Now they were both looking at him. “Judge? What happens if I say ‘no’, just on general principle?”  

Hardcastle looked at Alba, then back at him. “I’m guessing they’ll impound it and get a search warrant. Probably take ‘em six, maybe eight hours.”

“It’d be a real pain in the butt for everybody, huh?”  

“Yeah, they might even do some of the searching with box cutters, seeing as they went through all the trouble to get a warrant.”

McCormick got the drift. This wouldn’t be a good time to exercise his full rights under the Fourth Amendment. He tried to put a good face on it, “Well, then, Captain, you have my permission.” He reached into his jacket pocket and then handed Alba his key ring.

The Captain wasted no time, snapping his fingers at two of his detectives, tossing the keys to the closest and pointing them outside. McCormick got to his feet and made to follow them out. “You wait here,” the Captain said brusquely.

“Uh-uh,” McCormick replied, “I get to watch. I won’t touch anything.”

“That’s not unreasonable, Alba,” Hardcastle joined in. “It’s a very valuable piece of machinery.”

Alba frowned at the judge for a moment, then relented, “All right, but he stays out of the way. Let my men do their job.”

Afterwards, McCormick tried to figure out exactly when had developed the cold conviction that something was Not Quite Right. The guys on the search committee were merely doing a doggedly deliberate job, going about it carefully, wearing latex gloves and slightly bored expressions. Alba, aside from his initial flash of hostility, was entirely professional; the judge himself seemed irritated, but not overly concerned at the turn of events.  Ah, but then there’s the difference, he hasn’t seen what happens when-

And so it was that he was looking in Hardcastle’s direction when one of the guys by the car shouted out, “Got something here, Captain.” And although he knew what he would see when he looked back at the car, for a moment, at least, he couldn’t take his eyes off the judge. He watched irritation transformed into surprise, then, briefly, fear, followed by anger, but if there had been a moment of doubt, McCormick never saw it.

The detective came around the car towards his chief, holding a small stack of bills. They were damp and flattened. “Under the floor mat on the driver’s side.”  

Now it was McCormick’s turn to be irritated, and though he knew this was the wrong time to make a smart remark, he couldn’t help himself, “It’s bad enough to be suspected of stealing, but this is criminal stupidity--”

Hardcastle silenced him with another gesture. “Alba, this is circumstantial. This doesn’t make any sense. An hour ago you watched him face down a guy with a submachine gun. Your people asked for his help bringing down Anson. What the hell makes you think he would do something like this?”

“It’s not my job to explain why people commit crimes, only to arrest ‘em when they do.” The Captain’s voice was cold and detached then he added, pointedly, “and if he didn’t put those bills there, then who do you think did?”  

Hardcastle was looking past Alba. Most of the task force was outside now, standing back in scattered groups, watching the search, and now this exchange. The judge’s eyes narrowed; his voice dropped, “Some kind of joke, a really bad one. This is a step up from stuffing somebody in a locker their first day at the station.”

Alba looked back at his own men, too. Their faces didn’t show much now. All the camaraderie of a few moments ago was gone, replaced by sullen suspicion, mostly directed at McCormick. No one was stepping forward to take credit for a prank. The Captain turned back to Hardcastle. “Doesn’t look like it, Judge. I think I need to Mirandize your man.”

McCormick had watched this exchange with an odd sense of detachment. He’d known what was going to happen from the moment the money had been discovered, but this interlude had been unexpected. He suddenly realized that what had really been worrying him, all along, was what Hardcastle would think.  

But now that that part was settled, the harder reality of being put under arrest loomed in front of him. He listened to the familiar cadence of the Miranda, and saw the other detective taking out his pair of handcuffs.

“Wait a minute.” That was the judge again.  

Then Frank (Where had he come from? How much of this had he seen?) was at Hardcastle’s side, with one hand on his arm, saying, “Hold on, Milt, take it easy; let’s just sort it out downtown.” McCormick was relieved; he didn’t think they’d book an ex-judge for interfering with an arrest but, the way the mood was now, he couldn’t be sure.

They had the cuffs on him now, and someone had him by the upper arm, turning him toward yet another waiting squad car. “Wait a sec, wait,” McCormick mumbled. The guy held up. “Judge?” he twisted back, and saw the judge right behind him. “Look, this’ll all get straightened out.” Facile, yeah. “You need to just get a grip here, nothing stupid. Frank?” He dropped his voice down, “Frank, you tell him. Okay?” Then he was being walked away.

Men’s Central was a mammoth place, more like a prison than a lock-up or jail. McCormick didn’t even like his infrequent visits here with the judge, on business. He’d tried to beg off on more than one occasion, and had gradually gotten the impression that Hardcase thought it was good for him, some kind of deconditioning, or maybe just a frequent reminder of why he didn’t want to get on the wrong side of the law again.

Either way, it hadn’t worked. The booking process was just as dehumanizing as ever, now with an added fillip of fear; as much as he had stood apart from that gaggle of law officers earlier that evening, he had crossed over to their side in some strange way. Heck, there were probably a dozen guys in here right now who owed their present condition to the efforts of the judge and himself. Now, and probably for the rest of the night, there’d be the booking process, and maybe getting questioned. Tomorrow, though, he’d be swimming with the sharks. Keep your back against the wall, and your eyes open. You can get through this.  

His valuables catalogued and bagged, his picture, front and profile, taken, the fingerprinting done; he was placed in an ‘interview room’. No longer handcuffed, he sat at the table and rested his head on his arms. He didn’t even lift it when he heard the door open.  

“Mark?” It was Frank.

“Hi, Frank.You alone?”

“Yeah, for now. Milt is working the phones. He’ll be down in a bit. He’s trying for bail.”

McCormick lifted his head and stared at Frank in disbelief. “Not at one in the morning, I hope.”

“Yeah, I know; barring that, he wants you in PC.”  

Mark blanched a little at this suggestion. Protective custody here would be little more than solitary confinement. Tolerable for a day or two, maybe, but for the weeks it might take to get through this mess? McCormick knew he’d never get bail. Even he could recognize himself as a flight risk at this point.

“Frank,” he said quietly, “you know who’s in the protective unit up in Quentin? Child molesters and dirty cops.” He put his head down again. “Hell, Hardcase and I put some of those cops there. They’ll have to think up a whole new classification for me.”

“Mark, listen to me; you don’t even have the ink wiped off your fingers yet and your head’s already in San Quentin. Will ya give Milt a little time?”

McCormick lifted his head wearily. “He still thinks it was some kind of sick joke?”

Frank was looking at him oddly. “Yeah, maybe. That’s what he was thinking.”

McCormick caught the look; he paused then said, “And what do you think, Frank?”

Frank glanced away quickly, then back at Mark. “I haven’t actually heard you say you didn’t do it.”

This drew a sharp, harsh laugh. “Damn, Frank, at least you’re honest . . . No, I didn’t do it.”

“Well, then I guess that’s enough for me,” Frank said. “That, and Milt believes you, but I think you really ought to consider PC if they offer it.”

“Box-time. God, Frank, you have no idea.”

“I’m just saying if it wasn’t a joke, then somebody wanted to pin this on you.”

“Why? Most people who hate me, do it because I was standing next to Hardcase when the hammer came down on them. He’s the one with the enemies list.” McCormick sat quietly for a moment. It was late and he was drained, exhausted, but the line of reasoning spun out. “Somebody wanted me out of the way to get at him.”

“Yeah, only we don’t know how far out of the way.”

“-or why. Is it just to make him look dirty? Or make him lose it, do something stupid, or--”

“Don’t worry; I’ll put a unit over by the estate, at least for a couple of days ‘til we get some kind of handle on this.”

McCormick nodded, tacitly acknowledging this admission that he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“But, in some ways, it’s an easier case this way,” Frank conceded. “If it was a joke, we’ll never prove it, short of somebody rolling over on a fellow cop. This thing’s gone way past the easy confession stage. But the other way . . . at least we’ve got some hopes of figuring out the connections there.”

“Frank, you know he’s gonna try and go point on this mission. He needs somebody to watch his back.”

“I know, I know.”

They both looked up with matched expressions of guilty surprise as the door opened and Hardcastle strode in

“Lemme guess,” the judge said in a grim humor, “co-conspirators?” Frank opened his mouth to protest, but Hardcastle went on, “McCormick, never rob a bank with this man.” He jerked a thumb in Frank’s direction. “He’s not as good at spin as you are.”

“How’d it go?” Frank asked patiently.

“Well, no luck on the bail, but I did get Ferguson to agree to protective custody.”

“Judge, wait a minute,” McCormick began.

“No, kiddo, you listen to me.” The judge had pulled up a chair and was now sitting next to the younger man, looking at him intently. “I know you think you can handle most things, talk your way out of stuff, even in here, but the situation is not the same as it was before.”

“I know that.”

“I already checked; we’ve got people in here from at least six recent cases, fifteen of them, last count. And that’s not including ‘known associates’ and guys who just hate informers on general principle.”

McCormick flushed. “I‘ve never been an informant.”

“I know that, kiddo, but the not-so-subtle distinction between informing and being Tonto is going to be lost on some of these guys.”

“Judge, I know all this stuff. I really do. But Frank and I have been thinking--”

“That this was more than an idiot joke? That somebody wanted to put you away?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s more reason for the PC. Hiring a con to do some dirty work is way easier than buying a cop.”

McCormick shook his head. “Yeah, cons are easy, but they’re not reliable, and they have no reason to shut up if they’re caught. Besides, whoever it is can’t hire everybody; he’s gonna have to stick to one, maybe two guys, or even let me take my chances with the ones that hate me anyway. But protective custody . . . now back there it’s nice and quiet, hardly any witnesses. They find a guy dead in his cell, they call it a ‘suicide’. If they’ve already hired a cop, why not a jail guard?”

“I’ll have them add on a suicide watch,” the judge said stubbornly.

“No!” McCormick put both hands on the table, palms down. “You are not getting it, Judge. I won’t go. I can refuse, right Frank?”

Frank nodded, looking uncomfortable.

“Administrative segregation, then. You can’t refuse that.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s great, Hardcase. That’ll look good when they finally get around to hauling my ass into court. You might as well get me a sign to wear, ‘Guilty as hell and a troublemaker’. No, you aren’t going to do that. I’m gonna finish up getting processed here. You’re gonna go home, hit the sack, then get up tomorrow and start working the files. When you’ve got this thing narrowed down to a short list, you’re gonna talk to Frank. You are not going to go haring off after anybody. For all we know that was the whole point of this, to make you do something stupid.”

“I don’t ‘hare off’ after anybody. I’ve been doing this stuff--”

“Since I was in short pants. Yeah, yeah. Call it exceptional circumstances. They’re about to send your yardman up for ten to twenty. It might make you impulsive. Now I think we’ve done about all we can do here tonight. Frank, maybe--”

“Yeah, Milt, you should leave the truck here, lemme give you a lift home. You can catch a cab back; visiting starts at ten.”

McCormick was already on his feet. The judge rubbed his hand wearily over his face as he stood up. He reached out and clasped the kid by the shoulders, and found himself pulled into a hug. “Okay, okay,” he said, thinking the next time he saw him; it would be through a glass partition in the visitor’s room. “It’s gonna be all right. We’ll get it sorted out.”

McCormick released him and pulled back, his face arranged in an expression that was disturbingly familiar. That’s how he looked the day I took the Cody file down to show it to him, when he was in the cell. It’s like some kind of mask. Then Frank had the door open, and the guard stepped in to escort the kid away.

At ten sharp, Hardcastle was back at Men’s Central. He had already narrowed it down to a list of three likely candidates, all cases they had worked on in the past few months, which had not yet come to trial. In all three, the judge would be called on to give critical testimony.  

But in one, McCormick was also an important eye-witness. Eddie Vuschulo’s lawyers would undoubtedly file a motion attempting to block McCormick’s testimony, in Vuschulo’s upcoming trial for murder, based on Mark’s status as a felon, but the facts of the case made it likely that the judge would not rule in the defendant’s favor.

On the street, Vuschulo was better known as ‘The Breaker’. It was his specialty. He paid a pittance to destitute men, then broke an arm, or a leg, and set them up as accident victims in order to defraud insurance companies. It was McCormick who had listened to the ‘death-bed’ statement of Vuschulo’s last victim; though the man had died, gasping for breath, not in any sort of bed, but in the filthy backroom of a warehouse, with twenty dollars in his pocket, and a femur fracture gone horribly wrong.

There was no question in Hardcastle’s mind that Vuschulo would like to see both the kid and him out of the picture. Eddie might have been unduly impressed by the moment when McCormick had pinned him to the wall, and told him he would see him rot in hell. On no more than gut instinct, Hardcastle was already convinced that Vuschulo was the lynchpin to what was going on now. He had a lot of cash, and contacts on the outside. It was only a matter of finding the connection between his money and someone on the task force.

He walked down the aisle to the assigned spot. McCormick was already seated on the other side, looking tired, but managing a tight smile in greeting. It was better than the withdrawn mask he’d been expecting. As the judge took a seat, he looked more closely at McCormick’s posture; shoulders slumped, he kept his right hand hidden below the level of the counter as he fumbled for the phone with his left.  

The judge’s eyes narrowed. He stood up abruptly and spun on his heel, going back up the aisle.

McCormick sat there, craning forward a bit until his forehead was on the glass. The judge was already out of sight. He sat back, puzzled, then carefully lifted his right hand to cradle it against his shirt. Maybe he forgot something? But Mark thought he had caught a glimpse of anger in the judge’s eyes.

A moment later, a guard tapped him on the shoulder. Of course, if he had no visitor they would want him to vacate the spot. But, no, the guard had him by the arm and was helping him up. “Ahh,” McCormick gasped, and moved his good hand down to his right side.

“You better come with me,” the guard said impassively. They threaded their way past the other visiting stations and out into the hallway that led back to the holding cells. Then the guard made a right, down another hallway. Two more turns and they came to a door labeled ‘Infirmary’. The guard knocked once and pushed the door open before either of the two men inside could respond. It was the judge, and a young guy in a doctor’s coat, who was looking harassed.

“There you are,” the judge said. “Show him your hand.”

McCormick held out his right hand. The doctor looked. The knuckles were abraded, the two outer ones swollen and bruised. He mashed down on McCormick’s hand just above those joints, asked him to make a fist, and straighten out.

“Not broken. Was it teeth?”

“Huh?”

“Did you hit the guy in the mouth?”

McCormick looked aside quickly at the judge. “Tell him the truth, McCormick.”

He looked back at the doctor. “Um, no teeth. Side of the head, maybe missed him once when he started to go down, might of hit the wall next to him.”  

The doctor nodded, apparently happy to believe him. “Good, otherwise it’s a fight-bite. Bad. Big chance of infection. Your hand turns red, swells up. You’re sure about the teeth?”

McCormick swallowed once and looked down at his hand nervously. “No teeth.”

“And that?” The judge was pointing at the right side of McCormick’s shirt, a diagonal brown stain, barely visible on the denim of the uniform blues.

“Yours or his?” the doctor asked.

McCormick touched the spot with his hand. His finger went through a narrow rip in the fabric. “Ah, must be mine.” He pulled at the shirt, untucking it and lifting it up a little, trying to see what was underneath.  

The doctor shook his head in disgust. “How long ago did it happen?” he pointed at the cut, a downward slash across the lower right chest, deeper over each rib.  

“’Bout eight-thirty.”

“You wash it out any?”

“Wash it?” McCormick looked at the doctor as if he were from some other planet. “Doc, I was trying to put some space between me and a guy who came at me with a shank.”

The doctor shook his head again, then made a gesture for them to follow him into an inner room. He pointed McCormick over to an examining table. “I’ll have the tech clean it up. Probably can get away without stitches, just some butterfly bandages, but you’re going to have to lead a nice quiet life for about a week.”

“Oh he will,” the judge added dryly as he followed them into the room.

“Last tetanus shot?”

McCormick looked blank.

“About a year ago,” the judge said. “Remember, you were taking the blade off the mower?”  

“Oh, yeah.”

The doctor looked at the judge speculatively, then back at McCormick. “Okay, that’s good then. Any allergies?”

McCormick hesitated.

“To antibiotics?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so.”

“Okay, I’m going to put you on something, just in case. You going to be here more than five days?”

McCormick shrugged.  

“No,” the judge answered abruptly.

The doctor looked over at him again. “Alright, I’ll make it ‘keep on person’ so you won’t have to stand in the pill line. It’s one pill, four times a day. The tech will get you cleaned up.” He walked away to deal with the paperwork.

The doctor was barely out of the room before Hardcastle lit into him. “Satisfied? We tried it your way, now are you ready to check in? And why the hell didn’t you report this to somebody? What do you think you have to do, be some kind of stand-up guy now that you’re back inside?”

McCormick sat there, trying to recognize it for what it was--venting, but after that last remark he interjected, “No, that’s not it, Judge. Shanks don’t come with monograms on them and I got in a few good hits of my own. That makes it a fight. The only way I could have reported it would’ve been to let the guy bury the damn knife in me.”

There was a pause. The judge rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “Okay . . . okay, let’s start this over. Do you know the guy who did this?”

“No.” McCormick shook his head. “Twenty-five, maybe a little older, white, brown hair, bad teeth,” he looked down at his hand again, “but if it makes you feel any better, I got the impression it wasn’t anything personal, like he was maybe doing a job.”

“Okay. I’ll ask Frank to check the list for that block. Not even a first name?”

“Nope, oh, a prison tattoo, right forearm,” McCormick closed his eyes, “horns, must have been a devil, something under it, one word, short.” He opened his eyes and looked at the judge. “Oh, and he was left-handed, at least for knife-wielding purposes.”

“What happened to the knife?”

“Dropped it in a bucket of water; they were mopping the floors down the hall. They’ve probably found it by now.”

“So we won’t be getting this guy’s prints off it.”

“Yeah, mine neither.” McCormick flashed a cockeyed grin. Hardcastle went back to rubbing the bridge of his nose. Mark let the grin slip. “You didn’t get any sleep either, huh?”

“No, not much,” the judge conceded, “but I think I’ve got a very short list here, maybe just one guy.”

“Vuschulo?”

“Got it in one.”  

“Got any connections between him and anybody on the Task Force?”

“Give me one more day.”  

“Just one?”

“Okay, maybe two.” The judge looked at him intently. “Will you go into protective custody . . . please?”

Mark looked back at him, not answering for a long moment. He finally nodded once. “PC, but no suicide watch. That might not be enough, and it would just be handing them an excuse.” The doctor had returned, holding a chart, followed by a tech bearing supplies. “Doc, can you put something else down there?” Mark jerked his head toward the chart. “Say I said I wasn’t suicidal. Definitely in good spirits.” He looked back at the judge again, “I don’t want them to have to take your word for it, if something happens.”

The judge nodded slowly, his face had gone grim. “I’ll have Frank try to vet the names of the guys on duty there. There are some old-timers, twenty-year guys around here.”

“Nick . . . Nick Ballard, I trust him,” McCormick replied, then he added, hopefully, “Two days?”

“Yeah, there’s gonna be lines from the other end, somebody had to do some maneuvering to get you where they wanted you.”  

“I don’t think anybody in that group is going to talk to you.”

“They’ll talk to me, or they’ll be talking to their own IA people. And a lotta money must’ve changed hands. That much money is never invisible. Two days, I promise.”

“But you gotta try and get some sleep.”

“You, too, kiddo.”

“I’ll try. You go, make phone calls, get things done.” McCormick made a little dismissing gesture with his good hand as the tech went to work. “You know where to find me.”

That afternoon, sitting in Harper’s office, across from him at a file burdened desk, the judge listened to the description.

“Devil’s head, right forearm, with the word “Teufel” underneath in gothic script. His name is Arnie Kotts and he’s ex-Aryan Warrior. Got himself debriefed at Folsom a couple years back, part of his parole deal. Maybe he re-upped, maybe he’s free-lance. You and Mark got any recent beefs with the A.W.?”

“I think they know they’re not on my Christmas card list,” the judge replied, “but we haven’t gone head-to-head.”

“We recovered the knife. Would ya please tell the kid that ammonia is hell on latents?” Harper added wearily.

“He already knows.” The judge smiled. “He’ll be able to ID it when this is all over.”

“Yeah, but we would’ve liked prints. Prints are always nice.” Frank shook his head slowly. “How’s he doing?”

“A little frayed around the edges, but I think having somebody come at him with a knife actually cheered him up some.” Hardcastle frowned. “It wouldn’t be much of a conspiracy if they left him alone now.”

“Well, I talked to the higher ups over there--gave them your staffing suggestions. You know they don’t take it too well when you suggest one of their guards might be paid for. They think PC will take care of everything.”

The judge said nothing.  

“On the other end, I had a little chat with Captain Alba, trying to figure out just how Mark’s name came up as a candidate for this project. I seemed to remember when he originally came to me; Alba wasn’t real familiar with you two, like he was doing it on someone else’s recommendation.”

“And?”

“This time around he got a little closed-mouthed. But I think I left him with something to think about. Anyway, about an hour after that, he sent one of his guys over with this.” Frank tapped his finger on a manila envelope and slid it over to the judge. “Kinda makes me think he’s coming around to our view.”

Hardcastle slid the contents of the envelope out into his hand. On top was a list of the task force members. An asterisk had been penciled in next to the name of Alba’s second-in-command, William Orton, along with the notation, ‘Requested to join, previously worked in State Fraud Division. Mentioned McCormick as a potential undercover operative who wouldn’t be known to Anson.’  

“Either you or Mark know Orton?”

Hardcastle smiled. “Never heard of the guy before the day we met him here in your office three weeks ago. Frank, he’s our man.” The smile did not bode well for Orton.

“Looks like it. We’ll need some subpoenas, bank and phone records.”

“That’ll take days. I don’t have that kind of time.”

Frank raised one eyebrow. “I know Mark’s worried, but honestly, Milt, do you really think whoever’s doing this can get to him in PC?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” the judge said tensely. “He’s the one who’s in there . . . and, anyway, I told him two days.”

“Two days? Mark knows how hard it is to get subpoenas on the weekend; he’ll understand.”

“Maybe,” the judge looked stubborn, “but it’s what I said, and I don’t want to have to go back in there on Monday morning and say different.”

“Okay, okay.” Frank held up his hands, “I don’t want him in there any longer than necessary either. I’ll get the forms typed up. You think of somebody who owes you a favor. Judge Tivoli is up on the roster today and you know he never does anything in under forty-eight hours.”

Hardcastle nodded. “Jenkins, or Scrupps, they’re both quick readers. And you’ll talk to Kotts? I’ll take Orton.” His smile had gone wolfish.

“Now, Milt, this is exactly what Mark was talking about, that ‘haring’ thing. Anyway, we haven’t got anything on Orton yet except suspicions.”

“I’m just gonna rattle his cage a little, let him know I’m thinking of him.”

“I know how you work, Milt. Just don’t make him so nervous that he tries to shoot you,” Frank sighed wearily. “If you do, Mark’s gonna never let me hear the end of it.”

The protective custody unit was filled to capacity, thanks to a recent gang war and the arrests that followed. McCormick looked almost wistfully at the locked down cells along either side of the corridor--one man to a cell, but only bars between them and the open passageway. The faces that looked back were sullen, bored, occasionally angry, but human, and McCormick had developed remarkably low standards for human contact over recent years.  

But the officer led him down the hallway, to a closed door beyond which were a desk and an additional short corridor. It was quieter back here. The man at the desk looked as bored as the prisoners. He nodded once at his counterpart and accepted the sheet of paper he was offered. Studying it for a moment, he said, “Put him over there, holding four.”

A solid metal door, with only a small glassed square at eye level, opened onto a room barely large enough to hold the cot and the toilet/sink which were its sole contents. As he stood at the doorway, McCormick resisted a powerful urge to say ‘No, I’ve changed my mind.’ He’d promised Hardcase he would do this and so he would. The guard said nothing as he pointed him in.  

He stepped inside and sat down on the edge of the bed. Looking up at the departing guard, he said, “Goodbye,” not really expecting a response. The door closed.

Hardcastle chalked it up to blind luck, to find his quarry already outside on the tail end of a sunny Saturday afternoon, washing his car in the driveway of his home--luck, or maybe an earnest effort on the part of Orton to appear absolutely normal. He pulled the truck over to the curb and stepped out. Orton had looked in his direction and turned off the hose.  

“Judge.” He nodded. “What brings you out here?” The voice was neutral, mildly curious.

You’re overplaying it, Hardcastle thought, too much disinterest. “Just thought I’d check in and see how the investigation is going.” Hardcastle smiled. “Didn’t find you down at the office, thought you might have packed it in for the day.” They both knew he hadn’t been in at all.

Orton cleared his throat. “Alba’s handling it. Said I should take it easy today. We’ve been going at it pretty hard this past week.”

“Yeah, I know; I was there.”

“Anyway,” Orton mustered up a little defiance, “doesn’t look like a whole lot of investigating to be done. The guy’s dirty.”

Hardcastle relaxed his fists and spoke slowly, controlling his tone. “That’s kinda interesting, coming from the man who recommended him in the first place.” He watched Orton freeze, like someone who knows the bead of a gun has fallen on him. “I was just trying to think of where you might have run across McCormick before.”

Orton had locked eyes with the judge; now he licked his lips once. Just keep talking, the judge willed him mentally. It was only a matter of a little more talking before he caught him out in a lie.

But Orton tossed the sponge into the bucket and cocked his head back at Hardcastle with what was intended to be a smile. “I don’t think I have a whole lot to say to you, Judge.” He turned away and coiled up the hose.

Hardcastle nodded. The Fifth was as good as a lie anywhere but inside a courtroom. He’d heard as much as he was going to hear from this guy, and enough to convince him that he wouldn’t have to look any further for the man who had set up McCormick.

The snick of the lock being unfastened startled McCormick. He hadn’t expected anyone to do much more than give him the occasional eye through the viewing window. Dinner had passed through the flap at the bottom of the door about an hour ago, bologna on white; it was the kind of sandwich the judge would eat. Mark had taken a few bites, drunk the milk, and retreated back to the corner of the bunk, where he could lean against the wall.

The door opened. “Skid? That you?” It was Nick peering through. “Man, I knew something was up when they tapped me out down in C Block and sent me up here.”

“Hi, Nick.” McCormick smiled warmly. “Yup, I’m back.”

“And juiced up, it would appear.” Nick whistled solemnly. “They’re letting you request your own personal guards now?”

“Special circumstances.”  

Nick’s eyes took in the stained shirt and the bandaged hand. He said, “Guess so, and here you are in Punk City, too. Don’t tell me I’m the last friend you have.”

McCormick smiled, “Nah, I still got a few of them left.”

“Maybe you want me to leave the door open for a bit? Let you get some air?”

“Could you?” McCormick asked, “I mean, you wouldn’t get in some kind of trouble?” He hoped his panicky gratitude wasn’t too obvious.

“Nah, I’m just on loan from the GP blocks. Nobody even handed me a copy of the protocol for special sections.” Nick smiled.  

“Thanks, Nick, but don’t forget to close it up before shift change.”

“I’m pulling a twelve, won’t be off until 0800. Unless you want it shut while you sleep.”

McCormick shook his head.

Hardcastle met Frank as planned at the facility at nine-thirty that night. They’d already compared some of their notes by phone, but Frank hadn’t finished up with Kotts until a few minutes ago.

“I think Mark must have a pretty good right hook.” Frank said admiringly. “The guy looks like he may have a broken jaw, but he’s refusing medical. I’d say that’s not the only reason he’s not talking. Looked to me like he hadn’t been expecting that much of a fight; Mark must’ve surprised the hell out of him. Now he’s mad.”

“At McCormick?”

“My guess is, at the guy who put him up to this. First his victim knocks out a couple of his teeth, now some nosey cop pulls him into the interview room and grills him for a few hours. The guy’s gotta be wondering what he got himself into.”

“So you let him go back into the block?”

“Catch and release,” Frank shrugged. “What can I do? Mark’s not pressing any charges yet, is he?”

“Did you forget to tell me if you located Vuschulo, Frank?”

Frank smiled tightly. “Block B. I think that’s how he tapped Kotts for the job. I’m surprised Mark didn’t run into him yesterday morning. Vuschulo was probably trying to avoid him.”

“Frank, I don’t want Vuschulo dead.”

“Don’t worry. We’re watching him pretty carefully. He shouldn’t notice it, though.” Frank had a look of self-satisfaction. “I give him twelve hours, maybe eight, before he pulls the pin. Even with a busted jaw, Kotts is a hell’uva scary guy.”

Hardcastle was giving his friend a long and considering look. Finally he said, “Frank, I’ve known you a long time; I’m just wondering how I never noticed this devious streak in you before.” He frowned. “Maybe you’re spending too much time around McCormick.”

He heard the footsteps and jumped off the cot to close the door from the inside, realizing a half-moment later that there were familiar voices. He stuck his head out cautiously and watched Nick pass Frank and the Judge through with a friendly smile and a nod of the head. “’Evenin’ Judge, Lieutenant.”  

“How’s it going?” Mark asked without preamble, as he waved them into his cell.

The judge stepped in and sat down on the end of the cot looking tired but not as worried. His eyes passed over his surroundings for a moment and then he looked up at McCormick, leaning casually against the opposite wall, still within arm’s reach. “You okay, kiddo?”

After a moment’s thought, McCormick replied, “Yeah, I am. Tell me you’re making some progress.”

“Yeah,” Frank pitched in, from the doorway, “we are. Arnie Kotts, he’s the guy who tried to knife you, is in play--may shake something loose--”

“And I did not have an interesting conversation with Orton today,” the judge added dryly.

“Orton, Alba’s shadow, the guy who never said very much?”

“The same. He suddenly doesn’t want to talk to me, specifically. Which is a shame because I had a couple of things I wanted to say to him.”

“Any evidence?” McCormick asked hopefully.

“Well, we’re sort of still at the theory stage, but when people start acting this guilty, it’s my experience that things will start to gel pretty fast.”

McCormick slumped back against the wall a little. “Thanks.” He glanced over at Frank, “and thanks for getting Nick assigned up here.”  

“Do you need anything?” The judge asked.

“Um, yeah, there’s a book. It’s . . .” McCormick shut his eyes for a moment, concentrating, “on the floor, in the gatehouse, next to the bed--Nineteenth Century American Literature.”

The judge was staring at him as though he’s grown a third eye in the middle of his forehead.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got class on Tuesday night; I don’t think I’m gonna feel much like doing it Monday.” McCormick said pragmatically. “This is the perfect place to read Poe, if you ask me,” he added with a smile. “And Judge,” he added more seriously, “you need to get some sleep. You look terrible. Go. Now.” He hooked his thumb toward the doorway. “I’m fine. Really.”

He pulled into the drive at Gull’s Way a little before eleven, bone-aching tired but less worried than he had been the night before. He thought maybe he wasn’t lying when he had said he would sleep.  

He parked. He got out. There’d been a quarter-moon on his left-hand side as he’d driven home and, as he’d come up the driveway, it was low in the western sky, just glimpsed through the trees. He’d lost sight of it now, behind the house.

He walked around alongside a half-trimmed hedge, past the pool and onto the back lawn. Even with this little light, the stars out over the ocean were reduced to the simple outlines of a few familiar constellations. As he strolled towards the low wall at the back of the estate, he caught sight of the moon again, casting its angled light on the crests of the long rollers.  

He hardly ever did this anymore, come out to look at the night sky over the ocean. He’d seen the kid do it, after he first came here, sometimes in the middle of the night. He’d watched him a couple of times, from inside the house; it hadn’t seemed like he’d wanted any company. Then one night, maybe five months after he’d come, yeah, January, it was cold, there was some wind, he’d seen him standing out there in his shirtsleeves for what must have been a half hour. Hardcastle had finally put on his own coat, grabbed a spare jacket out of the closet, and gone out.

“What are you looking at?” McCormick had jumped, startled out of whatever it was he’d been thinking about. He’d turned around sheepishly and Hardcastle had handed him the jacket. “You’re gonna freeze to death out here,” he’d added, gruffly.

“Nah, Judge,” he’d smiled as he’d accepted it and shrugged it on, “this is LA.”  

“Yeah, but it’s 45 degrees out tonight.” Hardcastle had watched him pull the jacket tight in front and cross his arms. “So what are you looking at?”

“Wait,” the kid had said, “there,” he pointed suddenly, a little northward, “See? No, you gotta be looking. They don’t last very long.”

“A meteorite?”  

“Yeah,” the kid had turned his face toward him and he was grinning. “Shooting stars. There were a bunch of ‘em yesterday, too.”

The judge had nodded. “It’s January, that’s when we have the most, when it’s too cold to stand around and watch ‘em.”

“Nah,” McCormick had replied, “It’s LA,” He gazed off towards the north again. Then, after a moment, he said softly, “You could charge admission to see this where I come from.”

Hardcastle hadn’t asked which place he meant.

Now he watched the moon drop slowly into the sea, extinguishing the light on the waves. There were more stars. He watched them, too, hoping . . . but no, it was the wrong time of year. After a little while, he turned and trudged back to the house.

The phone rang at seven, as Hardcastle was returning from the gatehouse. It was Frank.

“I shoulda taken bets,” he said, “Bright and early this morning, Vuschulo asked to talk to rank, said he felt his life was in danger.”

“Did he mention who he was afraid of?”

“Not yet, I was just heading over there now to have a little talk with him. Wanna come?”

“I can be there in twenty minutes,” the judge smiled as he hung up the phone.

McCormick hadn’t been asleep, but even if he had, he would have heard the opening of doors and the exchange of words that announced the arrival of another inmate.  

“I’ll take him,” he heard Nick say, and then there were the departing footsteps of the other guard. McCormick let out a sigh of relief; Nick hadn’t let the other guy get far enough into the unit to see the still-open door of his cell.  

He edged off the cot and looked out the doorway. Nick had the prisoner by the left arm. He was unlocking the door one down and opposite Mark’s. The prisoner turned his head and caught sight of McCormick, standing in his own doorway.  

“Well, well, what have we here?” McCormick said. “If it isn’t the Breaker himself. Nick, do you know who you have there? That’s Eddie Vuschulo. He’s a guy who goes around smashing people’s legs.”

“I don’t have to listen to this guy; you’re supposed to be putting me in there.” Vuschulo said nervously to Nick.

“I am, buddy; you gotta give me a minute with this lock. I don’t usually work this end of the building.” Nick fumbled with the keys.

“See, Nick,” McCormick leaned forward a hair, Vuschulo backed up to the wall. “Eddie here only likes to operate on guys who are old, or too drunk to fight back. When he has to deal with anybody else, he has to hire help. That’s right, Eddie?”  

Vuschulo blanched.

McCormick raised his voice a hitch. “I’m surprised they didn’t have you up here right from the get-go, Eddie. If ever somebody deserved a big ‘R’ on his card, it was you. A man who goes around using a mallet and a wedge of wood like that on helpless old guys, well, it’s enough to give some people ideas.

“But I’ll tell you another thing, Breaker; you made a very big mistake when you got me put back inside. See, out there I was only going to testify against you once. In here,” McCormick locked eyes with Vuschulo and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper, “I will make it my life’s work.”

“Wait a sec.” Hardcastle put his hand on Frank’s arm as they approached the partly-open door at the end of the corridor. He added softly, “It’s showtime.”  

The voice within was McCormick’s and the tone was controlled anger, but the words weren’t entirely clear. He stepped forward and eased the door open slowly, in time to catch the kid’s description of Vuschulo’s MO, followed by his very sincere threat.

Hardcastle cleared his throat and all three men within turned to look at the two in the doorway. Vuschulo paled further at the sight of at least a dozen men in the cells beyond, all listening intently to the first interesting thing that had happened all weekend.

“Good morning Judge, Frank.” McCormick eased back with a polite smile, keeping one eye on Vuschulo.

“He giving you a hard time, Eddie?” Hardcastle nodded towards Mark.

Vuschulo’s back was against the wall. He swallowed, opened his mouth to speak, and then thought better of it.

“Show him what you’ve got, Frank.” Hardcastle smiled evilly. Frank produced the papers from his inside jacket pocket. “Those are subpoenas-for phone records, bank accounts--all for a guy named William Orton. How careful do you think he’s been, Eddie? I’m betting he didn’t think anybody was going to be looking at him too hard.

“Now you’re going down, with or without McCormick’s testimony. We may lose the homicide beef, but we’ve got you six ways to Sunday on fraud, and assault and battery, multiple counts, probably twenty-five to life. If I were you, I would be trying really hard not to be riding the bus up to San Quentin with him.” The judge jerked his thumb in McCormick’s direction.

“The best thing you could do for yourself right now, is to go on up to the confessional with Lieutenant Harper here, and tell us what little we don’t already know about you and Orton. We’re going to put it all together anyway, but this way McCormick here gets his pass a little faster and, believe me, that is in your best interest.”

Vuschulo bit his lip and muttered, “I wanna see my lawyer.”

“And I wanna check out,” McCormick interrupted. “You guys look like you need the space back here; besides, the stench is getting to me. I’ll just make myself at home back in Block B. I gotta lot of old friends there.”

Vuschulo flicked a fearful sideways glance at McCormick and then looked back at the judge. “You can’t do this, this is some kinda coercion.”

“Coercion? Eddie, this isn’t even slander,” Hardcastle gestured at McCormick. “It’s just God’s honest truth, and he’s exercising his First Amendment rights.”

Vuschulo took one more look at McCormick and appeared to collapse in on himself. He jerked his head up after a moment and said to Harper. “Okay, I got some things to tell you. But you gotta talk to them. You gotta explain everything. They can’t put me back out there now.”

Frank nodded and gestured for the man to come along. Vuschulo shot one last worried look over his shoulder and followed him out.

Nick was grinning broadly. He carefully closed the door behind them. McCormick slumped back against the wall, like a man who had run a fast mile and needed to catch his breath. After a moment, he lifted his head and fixed the judge with an inquiring look. “First Amendment, huh? Are you sure they wouldn’t be disqualified as ‘fighting words’?”

“Jailhouse lawyer,” the judge smiled. “For your information, kid, Chaplinsky v. New Hampshire has kinda fallen out of fashion. Hell, nowadays we don’t even hold people responsible for their own actions, let alone for what other people do.” He shook his head. “Anyway, it worked.”

McCormick nodded. “Now what?”

“Well,” the judge pulled a book from under his arm, “you stay out of trouble here for a little while. I’m gonna go catch the next act up in the interview room.” McCormick took the book from him and stepped back into the cell. “Good thing you weren’t reading that when they hauled Vuschulo in here,” the judge added, “might have ruined your ‘I-am-your-worst-nightmare’ routine.”  

“Nah, I meant every word of that and he knew it.” There was no humor in McCormick’s face now. “You’ll be back later?” He sat down on the still-made cot.

“Yeah, might take a bit, though. I’m not going to try for anything fancy, just get a copy of the interview tape over to whoever’s the most reasonable guy on the roster today, and get ‘em to set bail, maybe even recognizance. Shouldn’t be too hard. We can work the rest of it out tomorrow.” He saw McCormick frown worriedly. “Tomorrow from home, I mean getting the charges dismissed; we’re gonna make bail today,” he assured him.

“Okay,” Mark drew his legs up on the cot, “I’ll be here.” He smiled thinly. “Go. Get it done.”

“I will.” The judge looked at him one more time, “You want the door left open?”

“Nah,” the kid had picked up the book again, “close it on your way out. I could use a little peace and quiet.”

When all was said and done--duping the tape, running down the judge (Holman, an old friend of Hardcastle’s), filling out the paperwork, and processing McCormick out; it was evening. Mark had climbed into the passenger side of the truck, without even the token protest, and promptly fell asleep almost before they were out of the lot.  

When he woke up, they were pulling to a stop in the driveway of the estate and the judge was nudging him. “Come on, kiddo, you don’t want to sleep out here.” He had a few seconds of disorientation, then the whole strange weekend came back to him in a rush; Friday seemed like it had happened about a month ago.

He climbed out of the truck and stood there blinking for a moment. The judge was already halfway up the steps, turning back and saying, “You’re not too tired to eat?” He was carrying something in a paper sack.

“As long as it’s not bologna on white, yeah.” McCormick stretched, scratching his head. He followed the judge inside.  

“Nah, Italian beef.”

“Hot peppers?”

“Only on yours,” the judge grimaced, as he put the bag down on the kitchen table, “some of us want to get some sleep tonight.”

“Oh, I’ll sleep, I think.” He scratched thoughtfully again, yawned, and sat down. “Anyway,” he unwrapped his sandwich, “thanks.”

“It’s just hot peppers.”

Mark smiled. “No, I mean for getting me out. You still had twelve hours to go; that was pretty quick work.” There was a pause. “Of course if it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have been there in the first place,” he added, tense but quiet. “I think maybe I’m gonna put my foot down on the McCormick Lend-lease Program. See,” he launched himself into the rest of his argument without waiting for a reply, “I don’t mind putting it on the line for you; I know you’ll back me up no matter what, but I don’t know the rest of these guys. Well, except maybe Frank.” Hardcastle’s eyebrow went up a notch at that ‘maybe’, but otherwise he made no comment.  

McCormick waited through a moment of silence before adding, “It’s a matter of ‘who do you trust?’.”

He expected some protest, a defense of the system. Instead the judge merely nodded his agreement.

“You don’t mind?” McCormick finally asked.

“Nope,” the judge finally replied, “I agree; it’s not worth the risk.”

McCormick sat back, pondering this for a moment. Then he shook his head. “And still you don’t believe me when I tell you it’s not Italian beef without the hot peppers.”

Shortly after that, McCormick had said ‘goodnight’ and headed out the door. Somehow, though, it hadn’t surprised the judge, when he looked out the window a short while later, to see the younger man standing near the back of the property, silhouetted against the last of the moonset.  

The judge didn’t bother with a jacket. It was a balmy night. As he approached across the lawn he said, “It’s the wrong time of year.”  

“No it’s not.” McCormick glanced over his shoulder and then turned back to look at the western sky. “There’s always one or two. It’s just not dark enough yet.”  

Hardcastle joined him at the edge of the lawn, but after a few moments he was rocking back on his heels, impatiently. “You should turn in.”

“Wait.”

Just then the judge caught a scintillating flash out of the corner of his eye--gone by the time he turned his eyes fully to it.

“See, I told you,” Mark said with satisfaction, “always a few, and always when it’s the darkest.”






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