Author's Note: Seriously, I own nothing from Justified, including Hopkins, nothing from EL or F/X. This is a story about the Hopkins case as mentioned in passing by Art in Season 3, Episode 7, and the plot twists around behind the scenes until the Season 3 finale. The camera follows Raylan's investigations but sometimes it's fun to imagine what's going on where the spotlight isn't focused. Don't be upset if I use your name for a make-believe character. I can't come up with any that don't get a hit for a real person on Google™.

Thank you, thank you, with gushing and hand-clapping, to hallonim for the original cover photo. I'm ecstatic. And yes, playing cards were harmed in the making of it. Don't run with scissors.

The Hopkins Case – Chapter One

"You are totally not going to follow up on that girlfriend." The disdain was apparent, in the look, in the tone.

But Raylan wasn't one to be deterred by anything when he had his teeth sunk into the bumper of a carload of trouble. And Quarles was definitely trouble – big trouble. Raylan could see it the first time he laid eyes on the man; he could see it, hear it, feel it, smell it, taste it. It was going to take more than a follow-up conversation with the girlfriend of a small-time junkie thief to make him let go of Robert Quarles, even for an afternoon.

So Raylan stood his ground. "I was hoping you'd do it – right after you made the call," he said calmly, unmoved by the disapproving look Tim was leveling at him. Raylan still had seniority and it was convenient today to hang it over the head of this junior Marshal. He reached down and touched Tim's phone a second time, lightly, a visual nudge to encourage compliance then he handed over the information on the Hopkins case.

Tim sighed, took the file and lifted the receiver. "I'll see what I can find out." He picked out the number from memory, reluctantly, gritted his teeth while he made the request of his friend at the FBI and said a few Hail Marys to whichever patron saint watched over the actions of pig-headed and reckless lawmen. The information was on its way and no point worrying now.

His friend was always obliging and Tim was careful not to take advantage because it was all about trust. When you didn't have much family to run to, you valued your friends; when you spent time getting shot at and the only thing between you and a bullet were your buddies, you valued your friends; when you struggled weeks at a time against brutal images that intruded into your life, awake and asleep, and your buddies were the ones who stood vigil and kept you from hurting yourself while you sank into a drunken and forgetful stupor, you valued your friends.

Tim had that working for him, his network of friends; some days that was all he had and he cherished it.

So he was still pissed at Raylan a few hours later when he delivered the Tonin crime-family tree, complete with a post-it and a big black arrow pointing to the important bits. He got it that Raylan was on the scent of something nasty that needed hunting, but the collateral damage that normally accompanied Raylan's obsessions would give anyone pause before putting a friend in the line of fire. Tim made it clear that this was as far as he would go in helping. He packed up shortly afterward and headed for the elevator to follow up with the girlfriend in the Hopkins case. It would be a futile errand but he jumped at the excuse to clear out of the office. Driving was close enough to meditating as long as you weren't in a hurry to get somewhere.

But Art stopped him in the hall. "Tim, I need you to ride with Garcia."

"Gee, Boss, I was just going to have a talk with Ms. Dempsey." Tim paused to get his bearings then pointed vaguely south and east. "High-priority errand you're interrupting."

"Dempsey?"

"The girlfriend in the Hopkins case," Tim reminded him.

"Oh, right." The light came on, recognition of the name then memory of the conversation. Art looked confused. "I thought Raylan was doing that."

Tim chewed back a few angry remarks; this was the kids' fight, no need to bring Dad into it – he'd just ground them both. He threw out a diversion, "I think you're losing it, Chief. I said I'd do it, remember? You forget to take your meds with breakfast?"

"You're a disrespectful little shit, you know that?"

"Yep."

"Garcia first. She's got a good lead on a fugitive – a real-life, dangerous offender, not some piss-ant pain in some Judge's backside that we got to pretend is important." Art chafed at the politics, letting his feelings out about the Hopkins case. "I don't want Garcia going alone. She's waiting for you in the parking lot. If you're a good boy maybe you'll get lunch out of it."

And so the girlfriend was shuffled to second place again.

Tim accepted the change in plans, headed for the stairs – the elevator had come and gone while Art was talking.

"Hold up. I'm not finished." Art grabbed at the back of Tim's shirt. "Take your rifle."

"Righto," Tim responded, spun around and headed back inside.

Garcia got her man and Tim didn't even need his rifle. They caught their armed robber napping, literally. His brother-in-law opened the door and invited the Marshals in with no hesitation. Apparently he was tired of his house guest drinking his beer and sleeping in his bed. Garcia's fugitive was snoring loudly, didn't even hear them enter the bedroom, woke to the bad-ass end of a Glock staring him in the face.

"Rise and shine, asshole," Tim said. It was a bit of a let-down after hiking up the adrenalin – a bit like not finding the awesome promised toy in the cereal box, just a tiny cheap piece of plastic that didn't work like it was supposed to. It ended with an uneventful pass-off to the locals.

Garcia laughed at the look on Tim's face, slouched in the passenger seat on the ride back to the courthouse, like a teenage-boy in English class. "You look bored, Gutterson. Not enough shooting for you in the Marshal business?"

Tim grinned. He liked Garcia well enough. She was usually serious, reserved, professional, kept it to business. Today, however, she was punchy coming down from the nerves of a big arrest and in a rare talkative mood. Tim joined in. "Squirrel hunting is more excitin'," he drawled, cranking up the hillbilly. "I didn't get to shoot nothin'. Woulda been nice to fire off a round or two. I miss the noise."

Garcia was from the southwest and Raylan and Tim's backwoods Kentucky act never failed to amuse her. The two of them would ham it up for a laugh whenever the opportunity presented itself.

"I never mind it boring," she commented with feeling. "And I appreciate you riding along – it took some of the edge off. I'll give you credit on the report."

"Nah." Tim shrugged at the offer. "All I did was wave my muzzle in the guy's face. I didn't have to do any of the leg work. This one's all yours."

"It was a marvelous muzzle wave, though, really," she teased.

"Well, I reckon it was worth not shootin' the asshole just to see Art's face light up like the Fourth of July when we get back with a live one for a change." Tim waited a moment – timing was everything – added, "But, shit, shootin' him would've been fun just to listen to the squealin'."

She started giggling at the ridiculousness. "Art will be proud."

"I aim to please."

"Interesting choice of words." She was feeling relaxed now and waded carelessly into personal territory. "You miss the Army?"

Tim had stopped wondering that after his first year back in the world. He could never figure it out in his own mind – at least not definitely enough to satisfy himself. He side-stepped the question with one of his stock answers to avoid sinking back into that bog of doubt. "I miss desert cammo."

"Desert cammo?"

"It was a good color for me. And I miss the Oakleys. I don't get to wear sunglasses enough. Should've joined the FBI."

"I thought Rangers did a lot of night ops?" Her tone said 'gotcha.'

"Oh, look who knows so much," he taunted. "Yeah okay, so Rangers do a lot of night ops. But muzzle flare is a problem for a sniper – dead give-away of your position. Might as well shout 'howdy', stand up and wave. We'd move around in the dark but we'd shoot in the nice bright light of day. Much safer."

She returned to the point, pressed the question, curious, "Do you miss it though, seriously?"

"What? Sneaking around in a country where nobody wants you, hoping not to get shot or taken prisoner and tortured? Who wouldn't miss it? On the down side, though, you do get a lot of grit in your underwear face-dragging through the desert. Seriously uncomfortable."

Garcia caught the edge in the tone, backed off. "Ha, my vacations are worse than that. Two brats with rapid fire demands and me with a rampant yeast infection swimming in the ocean."

Tim wiped a hand across his mouth, nodded in appreciation of the problem. "I'll just have to take your word on that one."

Back at the courthouse, Tim got out the passenger side, walked around and held out his hands for the keys. She dropped them in his open palm with a half-smirk and a query. "Going somewhere already? We just got back."

"Tell Art I'm gone to talk to the girlfriend in the Hopkins case. I'll be a couple hours."

"Have fun."

"Oh yeah."

"And thanks again."

"Not a problem."

Donny Hopkins made bail. No one was surprised – it wasn't set very high. He had no money and a girlfriend and family in and around Richmond, Kentucky where he was from and the Circuit Court Judge didn't think he was a likely runner. He just lacked that kind of ambition. The only thing he worked hard at was finding enough money for his next score and his last next score's financing was coming from a series of sloppy break-ins. And the last break-in was at a nice house on the outskirts of Lexington with a tricky silent alarm where he and a similarly motivated accomplice had gone from sloppy to sloppy and unlucky when they killed the parrot that lived there, accidentally knocking over the cage and frightening it to death. It was the beloved pet of a District Court Judge. The Judge was upset.

The Judge was more upset with the low-ball bail and when Donny Hopkins failed to appear at his trial date, the Judge went on a rampage.

Usually the file on a small-time junkie runner like Donny would find itself in the hands of the local Sheriff who would keep half an eye out on a slow day, or at most the folder might make it to the bottom of a pile on the desk of one of the Marshals where it would magically never get off the bottom, as if a card shark were shuffling and keeping it there on purpose. There were better hands to bet your time on if you were a Marshal, hands with armed robbery in the cards or murder or kidnapping or trafficking or grand-theft auto or assault – assault on an exotic bird didn't count – and so a small-time junkie runner just couldn't compete for anyone's attention. Unless an angry Judge got involved, which he did, and now the file kept finding its way back onto the Bureau Chief's desk and the Bureau Chief kept finding a pile to set it on, on one of his deputies' desks, on the top. It had made the rounds in the Lexington office, a lame hand to have to play.

It was Tim's turn to fold the hand but he decided to play it. He anteed up – a half-hour drive south-west of Lexington to speak with the girlfriend. She had already spoken to a local deputy but that wasn't good enough for the Judge who wanted a Federal US Marshal on it. Apparently Marshals were better at interviewing girlfriends. Tim wasn't sure how he could put a different spin on 'I don't know where he is' but he thought for Art's sake he'd better try.

"I don't know where she is," the landlord said.

That was a different spin, thought Tim. "But she was here just last week. A deputy spoke with her."

"I know she was here last week, but she ain't here this week. I kicked her out. She and that junkie boyfriend haven't paid rent since Christmas. I ain't running a fucking charity house."

Tim looked up the street, grateful that at least it was a nice day. "Any idea where she might've gone?"

"She ain't from around here. She's from way over in Irvine."

The way he said it might make you think she'd need a passport and an overnight flight to get there from here, but Tim knew the area well enough. Irvine was only twenty minutes down the road. He smiled half-heartedly, said, "Okay, thanks for your help," pulled out a card and handed it to the landlord. "If you see her or her boyfriend, could you give us a call?"

"He in trouble?"

"Yep."

"No surprise there."

Tim turned and trotted down the steps and strolled back to the car. He checked his watch and decided he'd have just enough time to get back to Lexington before his favorite coffee shop closed at 5pm. The girlfriend could wait until tomorrow.

A half hour and a coffee stop later he walked back into the office.

Art was pouring himself the last cup from the pot in the kitchenette, eyed Tim's take-out with envy. "Any luck?" he asked tiredly.

"Nope. She's gone."

"Gone, or gone?"

"Gone. Landlord threw her out."

"Shit," Art cursed. "I'm so sick of this case. Could you please just find this guy and shoot him so he stays put?"

"Could I have that on paper…with your signature at the bottom?"

They both turned with a commotion at the door and watched as the parrot-mourning Judge pushed his way in and looked around.

"Double shit," said Art.

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