This is a work of fanfiction, for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators.

Author's Note: My fascination with "early" continues, just filling in a few missing pieces.

So it Begins

by

Cheride

"You're making the right decision, McCormick."

For his part, McCormick wasn't sure he agreed, but the decision had been made. Backing out now wouldn't get him out of this cell, or put Martin Cody into one. "So what now?" he asked, sliding down from the bunk to face the judge. "You got papers for me to sign, or something?"

Hardcastle flashed a quick grin. "This isn't exactly a corporate boardroom, kid."

"I didn't figure there was gonna be a signing bonus or anything, but there've been papers every other time I've gotten out."

"I forgot I was talking to the voice of experience."

"Yeah, well, that's why you picked me, right, Hardcase? Takes one to catch one?"

The grin grew. "Right. But before you get outta here, you need to talk to your attorney. He's probably here by now."

"That PD, Miller? Why? I already told ya I'd do it."

"Voice of experience or not, no one ought to enter into this sort of arrangement without lettin' their lawyer explain the finer points."

McCormick narrowed his eyes. "Why?" he asked again. "You pullin' something over on me?"

"Hardly," Hardcastle snapped, "but he's the one supposed to be lookin' out for you. You should hear from someone else that you're doin' the right thing."

And as he watched the older man stride purposefully down the darkened corridor, McCormick still wasn't sure he agreed.

00000

As the guard dumped him unceremoniously into the consultation room, McCormick stared in bemusement at the attorney seated on the other side of the table. In the courtroom, Steve Miller had seemed frazzled and ill-equipped; this after-midnight meeting only magnified the effect. He spared a passing thought for the idea that in less than eight hours the man's ineptitude had moved from concerning to mildly amusing.

"Mr. McCormick," Miller said with an air of formality, though the late hour—or the audience—seemed to have robbed him of some of the obsequious propriety he'd displayed earlier in the day. "What's so important it couldn't wait until visiting hours?"

McCormick dragged a hand through his hair as he slouched into a chair and didn't answer right away. He didn't think he was up to outlining the details of an agreement he wasn't yet completely sure of.

What he finally said was, "I'm not the one who called you," and found himself hoping that in addition to a summons, Hardcastle had explained the night's strange turn of events. He needn't have worried.

"The judge is offering you a deal, huh?" Miller said, sifting through pages in a file folder. "Well, even if he couldn't do it during regular business hours, a deal is better than prison, though everyone's always said Hardcastle's a few bricks shy of a load."

"Too many peanuts," McCormick muttered to himself. More loudly he continued, "Yeah, a deal. I already told him to sign me up, but he wanted me to talk to you first."

Miller was still studying the papers before him. "So what're you looking for? Advice? Seems like a pretty straight-forward work release sort of thing, except that the job and the confinement are at the same place. Pretty lucky for you, I'd say."

Mark's eyes widened. "Are you saying he could make me work for him during the day and still send me back to lock-up at night?"

"He could," the attorney answered with a shrug. "You're facing a list of parole violations as long as your arm, you know. That alone could get you tossed back inside, even if Hardcastle does enact a stay on the new charges." He read through the last page. "But there's nothing in here that indicates he intends to do that, as long as you behave. I told you; you're pretty lucky."

"I'm not sure I'd exactly call it lucky", McCormick answered shortly. A thought struck him. "And anyway, I don't think you can call it work release if it's not a real job, and a real job means getting paid."

Miller nodded. "It's all laid out in here; room and board plus a monthly stipend, in exchange for services rendered." He looked across at his client quizzically. "Though it's not very precise just what those services are. Reads sort of like an all 'round gofer-assistant type."

"Well," the prisoner began sardonically, "that's probably because it's hard to be precise about 'fast gun'—at least from a legal perspective."

That didn't seem to clear up anything for Miller, as he plowed ahead. "I can try and get him to pin down the details, if you'd like, but I still think this is the best chance you're gonna get."

McCormick rubbed at his eyes, suddenly feeling the lateness of the hour fully upon him. "Look," he said dully, "you don't have to sell me on this. I already told you both I'd do it, though I doubt either one of you has the slightest idea why." He took a breath and picked up a little speed. "But if he wants to think he's giving me the biggest break of my life and you want to think I'm the luckiest SOB on the planet, I can't change your minds. All I know is he's got something I want, and apparently I've got something to offer him, too. So if you'd just do whatever it is you have to do to get me out of here then you can get back to bed and I can get on with my life."

With a single nod, Miller pushed himself to his feet. "I'll tell the judge you're ready," he said as he turned away from his client. But then he stopped at the door and glanced behind him. "Whether or not you feel lucky right now, my advice to you is to behave yourself." He waved the folder lightly toward the other man. "This really is a big pile of trouble he's pulling you out from under, and according to the terms of the stay, you'll be in his custody until—"

"Until he says so," McCormick interrupted. "Indefinitely. I got it. And, yeah; I know exactly what he's getting me out of." As his attorney nodded again and finally vanished through the door, McCormick added a final, resigned whisper.

"I just hope I know what I'm getting myself into."

00000

As they strode through the almost-empty corridors toward the exit, McCormick recognized that his silence was unnatural, and he thought even Hardcastle might be just a little bit uncomfortable. Not that anyone could blame either of them, as far as he was concerned. Regardless of the enticement that had been offered—and no matter what his lawyer thought about his good fortune—this whole thing was just weird. He was still searching for an opening gambit when the judge saved him the effort.

"Miller was able to answer all your questions?"

"Sure," Mark answered easily. "He's a decent enough guy." He didn't know how to explain that Hardcastle himself had already answered the only question that mattered: Martin Cody would be made to pay for Flip Johnson's murder.

"Got some potential," Hardcastle agreed, directing them out the proper door into the darkened parking lot.

"He did say you weren't very precise about my job description," McCormick told him with a grin, "but he still thinks I'm damn lucky you're cuttin' me a break."

"See?" Hardcastle grinned back. "Lots of potential in that young man." He pointed at a parking spot. "As for details, you and I can work that out as we go along."

McCormick had opened his mouth to respond, maybe even ask for clarification on the unexpected idea of a monthly "stipend", but what came out instead was, "What the hell is that?" as he gawked at the vehicle the older man was approaching.

"What?" Hardcastle turned back toward his new charge. "My truck?" he asked, as McCormick continued to stare. "What about it?"

Pulling himself out of the silent amazement, McCormick shook his head ruefully and opened the passenger door. "Nothin'," he laughed, glad to latch on to the familiar topic of automobiles. "I just woulda figured you bein' a judge and all, maybe you'd be driving around in something with a little more style." He looked over at the man climbing in behind the wheel. "Though maybe your wardrobe shoulda given me a clue."

"There's nothing wrong with my wardrobe, McCormick," the jurist huffed. "And I'll have you know this truck is a classic."

McCormick cast an uncertain glance over the body, then crawled up into the cab. "Actually," he began slowly, "it probably could be, but it doesn't look like you've taken very good care of her." He continued his observations as they began driving. "A '58, right?"

"Right," Hardcastle answered, the surprise obvious in his tone.

The ex-con raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm a car guy, Hardcase, remember? And that doesn't just mean stealin' 'em. Why don't you at least paint her, or something? Jeez, she looks like she's had a hard life."

"She's had a good life, McCormick," the judge corrected, "and I think she looks just fine."

"I could help you take care of her," the ex-con said, surprising himself with the offer. "You know, part of my imprecise job description." He wasn't sure what he expected in reply, but he was pretty sure it would be some sort of denial, so he was a little surprised by that, too.

"Yeah, I guess you could," Hardcastle agreed. "Car guy or not, I could probably teach you a thing or two." He glanced over at his passenger. "But we don't need to paint the old girl. I'm not trying to impress anybody, ya know."

"I'm sure of that," Mark grinned. "I mean, hell, you're takin' me home, right?"

And as he heard Hardcastle's answering laugh, he had the fleeting idea that maybe Miller had been right. He might be pretty lucky after all.