Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators.
MAKING THE GRADE
By Susan Zodin
Mark McCormick opened the official-looking envelope and stared down at the single sheet of paper with a feeling both of shock and overwhelming happiness. The UCLA School of Law insignia headed the top, and two single sentences presented him with a future of success and accomplishment.
"Dear Mr. McCormick,
The Dean of the School of Law is pleased to award you the degree of Juris Doctor, Summa Cum Laude.
Commencement will be held in the Dickson Court Center on June 1, 1990 at 7:30 pm."
He had done it! Wow! He had put heart and soul into years of studying--hours into the night--attending lectures, taking part in the "real life" Moot Court (for which performance the criminal justice professor had cited him for "a highly original and interestingly persuasive argument"--McCormick wasn't quite sure if that was good or bad--but he had won the competition!), and writing essays and briefs until his fingers felt worn down to the stump.
A law degree! Eight years ago, he had been on the other side of the law and felt that he was doomed to be a nobody all his days. No true friends, no family, and a hard-ass judge on his case constantly if he even jaywalked across the street!
Then...the final "punishment" life had for him--getting paroled into that judge's custody for three years in lieu of finishing his term in Quentin. There were several times in those years when he wished to be back in jail to get away from the constant orders, the criticisms, and the recurrent role of target for all the crum on the streets who owed Hardcastle a "favor". "Hey, kiddo," was a constant echo in his ears, usually accompanied by "Why haven't you mowed the lawn yet? I told you to do it three hours ago!", "When will you learn to keep this place clean? It looks like a pig sty--except no self-respecting pig would come in it!", or "Don't you ever listen?".
Being at the receiving end of Hardcastle's constant caustic comments had given him a choice--either to:
(1)deck the guy--which would put him back in prison in a heartbeat. "Assault and Battery" on a federal judge was not a wrist-slapping offence. Besides, as he got to know the Judge's life history over time, he felt less able and willing to do any physical form of complaining--or, (2)--take it as some more of the "dues" he owed life. What else should he expect, anyhow, but more abuse and pain? No one cared about him—except to put him down.
Ever since he was a kid growing up in the tough streets of New Jersey and New York, with a working single mother and an invisible father who minded his own wants more than his responsibilities, he had faced that same choice. To face the world with anger and violence--ending up in prison or lying bleeding in a dirty alley--or to take a martyrdom attitude that he deserved what he got (mostly bad luck) and wasn't worthy of anything better. No chance at a good education, no job skills except working on car engines--a minimum wage life with a minimum chance at happiness and hope.
He had adopted both methods at times, although some inner grace had given him shame at his misdeeds and a little ray of hope in the world--some gleam of something good in his future if he had the patience and will to wait. So, he had taken the opportunities in San Quentin to try and improve his education--reading as often as he could in the prison library, going to chapel services, and trying to learn how to master his anger and resentment into something constructive. He really wanted to amount to something--and wanted someone to see what he could do--to approve and praise his work, to respect and love him the way he had always dreamed someone would do.
So, years and years of clipping the hedges, taking out the trash, cleaning out the fountain, vacuuming the house, and washing the cars had not given him a fancy suit or a Rolex, but the labor, even though he griped about it loudly and frequently--usually whenever Hardcastle came near--had begun to start a feeling of responsibility and work ethic in him, not to mention the great muscles and tan. When he first stepped into the luxury of Gulls' Way and saw the thousands of dollars of furniture and possessions the Judge had, he felt overwhelmed at first, then resentful and jealous, then slowly a respect. He had never seen such wealth except on shows like Dynasty or Dallas. Boy, what a gold mine to a thief! Sarah, the Judge's housekeeper, had warned him on the first night that everything in the Gatehouse was inventoried and they wouldn't have to go far to find the criminal if anything came up missing. He came back with a kidding smart-ass remark, but the Judge had brought him voluntarily into this environment and seemed to silently both warn him against any tricks while at the same time showing trust that he could make the right decision. Somebody trusted him--for the first time in a long while. He had the power to knock out the Judge and drive out of the gate in the Coyote--out into "true freedom", but he knew that the cops would find him sooner or later (and "The Fugitive" didn't look like he was having an enjoyable existence!), and somehow he felt this was a better situation than many he had recently experienced, and maybe his patience and hope would actually develop into something good.
So, between the lawn care, housework, and driving the Judge all over creation chasing the bad guys, he began to consider doing more with his life. The Judge had been a cop, a lawyer and a judge in several decades of his life--doing good things for others even through hard personal times and secret pain and loneliness. Mark considered the words "public servant"--the true meaning--to serve others and improve life. That's what he wanted to do--give his gifts, little as they were, to make a difference. To not be a loser--an "ex-con" no good for anything but menial labor. When the Judge was out, he snuck into his study and began to read the history and legal books. He was impressed with the Revolutionary leaders who were willing to risk life and possessions to fight for a better way of government--the rights of every man against illegal acts and oppression. The Judge was fighting for the rights of the public against criminal rule. McCormick slowly began to feel that under the gruff exterior of the bluster and criticism Hardcase presented to the world, that he was "one of the good guys"--someone who was developing into a hero to him and someone to copy in living.
In the last few months of his parole, Mark took a chance and enrolled in law classes at the University, unbeknownst to Hardcastle. He wanted to try it on his own, just in case he failed, so the Judge wouldn't ever know that he couldn't make the grade. No, that wasn't quite right. By now, Mark knew that the Judge had developed confidence in McCormick's abilities and intelligence--although he often griped about Mark's brain cell getting lonely--but the risk was his to take so he wouldn't let the Judge down. If he wasn't good at school, no one but himself would ever know, and the guilt and shame at failing a friend and someone who was a father to him would not also be a weight on the Judge. Maybe it wasn't an honest way to face something, but Mark felt that he couldn't hurt the man who meant the whole world to him--so much that he was following his path.
For several weeks, he studied textbooks, attended debates and lectures, and had several private conversations with Frank Harper and some of Hardcastle's judicial colleagues--who he swore to secrecy--about legal procedure and the justice system. Hardcase had a few things to say--usually "Out again all night with Sheila...or is it Julie this week?" Or, "You're using more gas in that car of yours than a non-stop flight to London! Where are you off to this time?" Mark came up with some creative excuses to explain his absence, but he knew that the Judge wasn't buying all his baloney. When he got a "real job" in a law firm run by one of his senior professors, Mark felt the sense of responsibility and pride in work come out in force. However, when that professor was caught running a scam to rob nursing home residents out of their savings, Mark's part in the firm came out and Hardcastle learned about his "covert" education. Mark waited for the explosion and "third-time loser" lectures. But they never came. Sitting in a jail cell with the Judge after they had gotten arrested for "repossessing" a car (the Judge, in one of his dizzy spells, had bought a repo/repair shop with a Class One Idiot mechanic named Leroy included in the deal, who wrote out the wrong "pick-up" address!), Mark felt all his hopes fall to the ground just as they had always done before. Dejected and ashamed, he confessed to the Judge that he was taking law classes but was caught up in the criminal scam and was going to expose the guilty parties. Lost job---lost chances, he thought. He was shocked therefore when Hardcastle broke out into a pleased grin and praised him. He not only approved of Mark's choice--but, after they had been released and the case closed, challenged him to a basketball game to pay for tuition. Mark did his best in the game, but somehow got the feeling that the Judge had rigged it so he would have to pay.
He had done everything for Mark at that point--paying costs, arranging for on-campus dorm space (even though Mark came back to Gull's Way frequently so that the hedges were "clipped correctly" and the Judge had "decent food to eat" and a desk "free of three inches of dust") so Mark could have "quiet time" for reading and research, and quietly being a bulwark of support for the times where McCormick had worn himself to a frazzle and began to have doubts about his capabilities. It still was sometimes a shock to reflect on his past life in prison and to face both the pride of accomplishment at where he was now as well as the occasional times of self-doubt and guilt that he was trying to "get above himself"—trying to win a prize he didn't deserve. Those latter feelings became rarer as Mark worked hard in his history, political science, and law courses—not only for himself, but for the man who gave him back his life out the hole of deep hopelessness he once had dwelt in. He couldn't fail, he couldn't fail was his daily prayer, and pretty soon, as he found he could do well, he knew he wasn't going to fail!
Wow, Summa Cum Laude. Top of the Class. It was breathtaking, almost like a sharp punch in the stomach. And he knew, with an inward grin and some of his smart-ass attitude still intact under the professional and "serious" façade he presented to the world, what he had to do next.
He drove towards Gull's Way but parked out in the side road that led to the neighbor's beach. Sneaking on foot through the hedges and patio area, he kept an eye out for the Judge. Seeing him hunched over the Dodge pickup in the side yard, trying for the hundredth time to "fix it", Mark laughed silently. The Judge couldn't see him at the front door from that position. McCormick pulled out the letter he had resealed carefully--with a small note enclosed inside stating, "I'm really sorry, Judge. I tried, but this is the best I can do. Mark."--and placed it in the mailbox. That ought to get him good!
McCormick went around to the Gatehouse and found it unlocked. He picked up the phone, smothering giggles of delight, and phoned the number to the main house. After a dozen rings, during which he could imagine the Judge grumpily muttering "Okay, okay dammit, I'm coming", the line was picked up.
"Judge...hi, this is Mark," McCormick managed to say in a calm voice. "How are you?...Fine....I'm doing okay....Hey, Judge, the university is supposed to send me a letter with my test results, but it never showed up to my dorm. Could you look in the box there and see if it's come to you?...No, no...you don't have to right now...I'll phone you in a little bit to check. Thanks! Have a nice day." McCormick hung up the phone doubling over with laughter. Just wait a few minutes....
Two or three minutes passed, then McCormick heard a happy roar that nearly shook the whole estate--"MCCORMICK!" Mark went out to see the Judge jumping into the Corvette, ready to take off for the campus. "Hey, Judge, did you want to see me?" he asked innocently, his blue eyes sparkling.
"Dammit, McCormick...!", the Judge spluttered. "I...oh...damn!" He broke out in a grin and to McCormick's surprise grabbed him in a big bear hug. "You did it, kiddo," he muttered against Mark's shoulder, "you really did it. This is great!" He let Mark go and gazed up into his grinning face. "You did it," he whispered.
"Heck, Judge, I had a lot to live up to," Mark remarked wryly. "I had to do a good job, or you'd have hung me at dawn or something! Tonto follow big tracks in sand. You didn't have any doubts about it, did you?"
"Every damn day!", the Judge grinned, but Mark knew he wasn't serious. "Long shots don't win often in the game of life."
"Yeah, but when they do, " Mark grinned back, "they pay a bundle!"
The graduation ceremony was a bit breathtaking and solemnly impressive to McCormick as he climbed the steps to the platform. He thought of his Mom and how proud she would be of him. She had always supported and believed in him when he was young--caring and loving through the hardest times of not knowing his father, not having close friends, having to live in a dirty, dangerous neighborhood where life was cheap and happiness often only a word in a book. Her efforts to create memories full of beauty and excitement in such a world had shaped his soul--to not see the outward dirt and anger and ruin, but to focus on the inner spirit--to care for others, to see the best in each experience, and to never give up hope.
"I didn't give up, Mom," he whispered. " Look at me--I made it! I won!"
As his diploma was handed to him, he turned to the seats where Hardcastle, Frank Harper, and his other friends were clapping their hearts out, and raised a fist in triumph. The Judge's brightly-lit smile showed his deep pride and affection for the young man who eight years ago had seemed to be just another of the young punk losers off the streets who came through his courtroom to receive sentencing to the harsh and isolating world of prison. Revolving lives spent going in and out those doors; pain-filled existences--sullen, angry, or despairing--without hope for breaking the cycle.
Hardcastle reflected on the first days he had spent with McCormick at Gull's Way. The kid had been a tough case. Not violent or "really" disrespectful, but showing hints of underlying suspicion, resentment and anger, mixed oddly with a fatalistic depression, all covered up with a smart-mouth, cocky attitude. His protective wrap against the world--a wall against further hurt. The Judge knew about that himself, although he wouldn't admit it out loud to anyone. He had thought after Tommy and Nancy had died that maybe he wasn't worthy of being loved--that God was punishing him for unknown sins by taking the things away he loved the most. Well, he'd show God! He just wouldn'tlove anyone else--never get close to friends or co-workers. In that way, he'd be safe from God--not be vulnerable to more loss and pain. He could take care of himself--by himself. Isolating himself in a non-focusing gray cocoon of trips between the house (he stopped thinking of it as a "home"--"home" was someplace full of laughter, comfort and love.) and the courtroom, he lived through the days of "doing his duty". Until he met this kid.
As the weeks passed and McCormick got into the "flow" of chores and "rules of the house", Hardcastle slowly began to understand what caused the kid's feelings and attitudes, and, if he squinted a little bit, could maybe...possibly...see that this parole didn't have to have the same outcome as the others. There just might be a chance...just a little one...that McCormick had possibilities. To be a lazy, messy, complaining pain in the , it often turned out...but also, to be a brave, honest, and faithful friend; a person who cared (God knew how, given his life history!) about the welfare of others, who faced danger to life and limb without fear, who willingly sacrificed all he had for a good cause. Someone who came out of nowhere into his life as a God-sent blessing, he thought quietly, as he bent his head to hide the tears of happy emotion. Maybe God wasn't punishing him after all—maybe he cared enough to replace his loss with a new person to love.
The celebration continued after the ceremony to a steak dinner in a luxury hotel, and then finally quietened down as the Judge and Mark rode back to Gull's Way.
"Too tired to help me go though some boxes in the storeroom, kiddo?" the Judge asked as they climbed out of the Corvette.
"No, Judge, I don't mind," Mark replied, as the thought flashed through his head that this might be one of the last times for awhile that he and Hardcase would be a "team". Soon he would enter the professional world of law and have to limit the occasions he could spend in relaxing conversations and "quality time" activities with his mentor. God, how could he stand it? How could the Judge take being lonely again—without the comfort and support of "family" around him? He hadn't really thought deeply about this possibility during his studies. Looking at the Judge, he noticed the extra lines in the face, the thinning gray hair, and the decrease of physical energy. The slowing of his gait and the stiffness of his joints had started to show lately in recent games of "masher" basketball; however, even though McCormick had won several of them, he had to admit it wasn't by much. Had he been unconsciously "holding back" for the Judge's sake to avoid seriously injuring him? He didn't think so, and even if he had been, he wasn't going to let it show—just as Hardcastle in his turn would never admit to having any difficulty. One thing for sure, age had not diminished the Judge's mental or emotional capabilities—just last week, he had read McCormick the riot act about blowing a tire out of the pickup and running it into a small ditch.
He followed Hardcastle into the storeroom where the Judge started sorting through stacks of dusty boxes, grumbling about the filing system as he threw papers and books about.
"It's in the same shape as the rest of your life is in!" Mark quipped, and the Judge scowled and threw a mock swing at him.
Finally, Hardcastle pulled out a small box that he had planted there earlier in the day. He opened it to display an old antique gold watch. As Mark admired it, the Judge commented in an offhand, gruff manner," That's my grandfather's old watch, bought in 1872. It came down through my Dad to me." He paused for a minute, and then said quietly, "I was going to give it to my son when he graduated law school."
Mark lowered his head at that comment, feeling a wave of sadness and sympathy for the Judge's sake. He brought it up sharply at the Judge's next words.
"I am giving it to my son."
Mark's blue eyes met the Judge's in a startled look. Tears stung as he blinked rapidly, then he drew the older man to him in a strong hug. For once, Hardcastle didn't fight to get free or make embarrassed or critical comments at the gesture. He just held the younger man. "My God, Mark, I'm so proud of you."
"I couldn't have done it if it hadn't been for you," Mark replied, with a catch in his voice. "You bullied and ranted, but I knew you cared about me. It had been so long since anyone did. I owe you for everything I've become....I don't know how I can ever repay you."
"There's still the pool cleaning and the dusting," the Judge remarked wryly. "You'll have to come over every Tuesday and Friday for that, plus keep in shape with a few acres of mowing. You've become a real lazy-ass while you were in school!"
"Sure, Hardcase," Mark grinned, "as long as you don't make me eat any more of that Arkansas chili you dish up! I used the last leftovers to take the rust off the pipes in the kitchen sink!"
He ducked as the Judge gave his arm a shove, then they both stopped as the seriousness of the future took hold on their thoughts. Mark had his own destiny ahead of him now—a professional career, public respect, and future honors for the work he would do. The Judge reflected that he had originally considered McCormick just an "employee"—a "sidekick" to round up the bad guys—("I'm not looking for us to be buddies, here...")—an experiment in social rehabilitation that might "be nice if it worked out, but nothing too upsetting if it didn't". Somehow, through long days speeding through the streets of Los Angeles to catch a criminal, through long nights of sitting by each others' hospital beds with concern and love trying to be hidden by gruffness ("There's nothing good on TV tonight, so I might as well be here."), through the fighting over movie channels while monopolizing the popcorn bowl or the shoving matches and friendly arguments in basketball games, the relationship changed into friendship and later into as close to a real family as non-kin could be—a strong bond more powerful than any pain or sadness existing in their worlds.
Yes, there would be changes in the future, but nothing could divide or diminish that strength. Whatever heavenly influence had joined them as a team could not be put asunder by any earthly power. McCormick was the torchbearer that lit his flame from Hardcastle's fire—carrying on the work that was needed for the hope of society—protecting freedoms and rights, and creating a vision of life without fear of crime and violence—a promise of better days. It was going to be a good work to do.