A Drink Between Friends

by Aeiu

An unfortunate death,and wagging tongues have McCormick questioning whether he should continue law school.

A DRINK BETWEEN FRIENDS

By AEIU

Mark McCormick, current first year law student, was walking back to his car after a late night session of at the school library. He breathed in the cool night air as he trudged to the far end of the lot where he had parked the Coyote. It was a long way to walk but he knew it was the best way to protect the vehicle from the unfortunate dings which seemed to occur so frequently. As he reached the car, his ear's perked up when he heard the strange sound.

"Oh god, that hurts," came a soft moan from inside the tree line near the red car. McCormick turned toward the sound and cautiously moved toward it. He heard another soft moan and realized someone was in trouble. He walked slowly into the tree line allowing his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. He estimated he had walked about fifteen to twenty feet before he saw the crumbled figure lying on the ground.

"Hey," McCormick shouted out, "are you okay?" Original stupid question, McCormick thought as another painful moan came from the ground.

As he knelt by the crumbled figure his nose wrinkled in disgust at the strong smell of alcohol which wafted from the man and the bottles of beer strewn on the ground. He observed that the person who lay on the ground was a young man dressed in the traditional college clothes of blue jeans and a t-shirt. The man's pulse was rapid and his breathing appeared to be shallow but no injuries were visible.

"Your buddies ditched you, huh. Come on, let's get you out of here." McCormick turned the man on his back and gently pulled him to his feet. Even though the man was thin, McCormick had difficulty walking him out to the parking lot. The man vacillated from a drunken stagger to dead weight, all the time mumbling incoherently. After many long minutes, McCormick reached the Coyote.

"All right, let's see who you are and where you live," McCormick said as he carefully lowered the man into a sitting position on the ground so his head could lean against the car. The man began to waken as McCormick pulled out his wallet.

"I know you," said the man as he focused his bleary eyes on McCormick. "You're that convict. You guys are everywhere." His eyes dropped to the wallet in McCormick's hand. "Stealing my wallet?" he accused. "You won't keep it. I know people. I know things. Knowledge is money. Guys like you don't deserve to be here."

McCormick stood and looked down at the drunken man. The words stung; a bitter reminder of a past that he was trying to leave behind. But it seemed no matter how hard he tried there was always someone to remind him. McCormick considered letting the drunken man sleep it off in the grass when he noticed the man's shoulders start to heave.

"Get away from the car," McCormick said as he pulled the vomiting man away from the expensive race vehicle. He held the man's head up and away to prevent him from choking on his own vomit. He grimaced as the foul smelling gunk splattered on his pants and shoes.

After several long minutes, the man lay limply in McCormick's arm. McCormick debated what to do with the unconscious drunk, when he felt the man stiffen in his arm. The man began to twitch uncontrollably and he realized the man was going into convulsions.

Despite the dead weight, McCormick quickly moved the man into the Coyote. He knew the convulsions were a bad sign and immediate medical attention was needed. Without any regard to the speed limits or traffic laws, he raced to the hospital while the man continued to twitch and vomit in the nearby seat.

The ride to the hospital seemed to take forever, but he soon pulled into the emergency entrance of St. Mary's. The adrenaline which had helped him get the man into the car was gone and McCormick was unsure if he would be able to carry the drunken student into the hospital. McCormick left him twitching in the passenger seat as he ran to the front desk.

"Why, Mr. McCormick," said the elderly nurse, "what brings you into the hospital today? Is it the Judge?"

McCormick realized that it did not speak well of his life style when he was on a first name basis with most of the emergency hospital staffs of Los Angeles. "Rosie, I found a guy who's been drinking. He's having a seizure. He's out in my car."

Rosie nodded and called for the response team. A few moments later, they had extracted the man and were wheeling him behind the closed curtains of the treatment area. McCormick watched with mixed emotions as he reached for the man's wallet that he had shoved into his own pocket. There were calls he had to make.

Milton C. Hardcastle, retired judge, allowed his eyes to stray to the clock on the wall of his den. He had been watching it all night as he waited for McCormick to come home. He knew McCormick had planned nighttime study group at the school's law library but it was getting too late to use that excuse.

He sighed as the feelings of worry and anxiety continued to grow within the pit of his stomach. He hoped McCormick wasn't pushing himself so hard that his health suffered like he did last school term. He, also, worried that McCormick had fallen victim to some madman out for revenge or just gotten himself into trouble by being in the wrong place at the wrong time as so often seemed to happen in the past. Truth be told, he just worried whenever McCormick was out of his sight for too long. Just like he was your son, thought Hardcastle as the phone rang.

"Where the hell are you, McCormick?" Hardcastle shouted in the phone as he allowed his worry to morph into anger.

"Hello to you two, Judge. I found a guy in the parking lot that was pretty sick so I brought him to the emergency room. Officer Daniels will probably want to talk to me," McCormick answered referring to the on-duty officer at the hospital. "I'll probably be another hour, so don't worry."

"Who was worried? I was already in bed when you called."

"I'll talk to you later," McCormick said, the amusement evident in his voice as he sensed the lie.

Hardcastle hung up the phone and looked up at the clock again. It was nearing one a.m. He thought of his friend sitting in the cold impersonal waiting room waiting for the police to take a statement. It was a situation he, himself, knew all too well. He remembered McCormick's tendency to worry too much and to feel guilty about things he had no control over. McCormick was likely to brood if left alone too long with his thoughts. He might need someone to be there.

If he found the guy at the school, Saint Mary's would be the closest, Hardcastle thought. He sighed as he reached for his jacket. What does it say about me, when I know every emergency room in the city?

It was less than an hour later when he walked into the emergency room of Saint Mary's Hospital. He quickly spotted the curly-haired law student in deep conversation with a uniformed officer. He quietly walked up behind them so he could hear their conversation.

"I never saw the guy until tonight," explained McCormick his voice containing a strange timber that Hardcastle didn't recognize. "I think he knew me though."

"What makes you say that?" asked Officer Daniels.

"Just some of the things he said. What about his parents?"

"Don't worry, we'll contact them," Officer Daniels said as he finished his preliminary report. "These things happen. I'm sure there wasn't anything more you could have done, he added as he patted McCormick's shoulder and walked away.

"Hey Hardcastle, I thought you were going to bed?" McCormick said without turning around, not surprised the judge would've left his home in the middle of the night to give Tonto moral support.

"Yeah. Well, after you woke me up I couldn't get back to sleep and I didn't have any place else to go," Hardcastle responded as he walked over to sit across from his friend. He paused when he saw the lost and confused look in McCormick's eyes.

"He died, Judge. His name was Barry Hohenstein, he was only twenty, and he's dead."

Hardcastle moved to the chair next his friend. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not much to say. I was headed home when I found him near the parking lot. I thought he was just drunk. I was going to take him to his home when he started having convulsions. I brought him here but it wasn't enough."

"Did you say you knew him?"

"No, but I think he knew me. He said some things when I first found him. I'm kind of famous on campus; more like infamous," McCormick said with an air of regret.

"What do you mean infamous?"

McCormick snorted. "First off, I'm a lot older than most of the students on campus. I'm an ex-con whose name is always being reported on the news with some involvement with criminals and I was responsible for a popular professor for going to jail," said McCormick referencing his involvement with Professor Kenneth Malcolm. "It seems everyone knows me or knows of me."

"What did the guy say?"

"The usual. Called me a convict and accused me of trying to steal his wallet. I really thought about just leaving him there," McCormick looked over to Hardcastle with guilt in his eyes. "I hesitated, Judge. If I had been quicker, he might be alive now."

"You don't know that, McCormick. Come on, I'll give you a ride home," Hardcastle said reluctant to leave him alone when he was feeling so bad. "We can pick up your car tomorrow."

"Well, I don't have to worry about someone trying to steal it with it smelling like it does," McCormick said trying to lighten the mood. His attempt at a grin melted from his face as he realized he was talking about damage to his car when someone had lost their life.

Hardcastle understood and patted his back. "Don't worry; it will look better in the morning."

It was about noon when Hardcastle arrived at the doors of the Los Angeles Police Department. He walked quickly through the halls exchanging greetings and small talk with the many officers he had worked with over the years until he reached the door of Lieutenant Frank Harper. He knocked loudly.

"Come on in, Milt," Harper called out.

Hardcastle wondered if he was getting too predictable as he entered the office and said, "Hi, Frank."

Lieutenant Harper put down the file that he had been reading and looked over at his friend with a small grin. "Let me guess, you were in the neighborhood and noticed it was about lunch time and decided to invite me to get something to eat. Then sometime during lunch you're going to ask a few questions about the death on campus last night."

Hardcastle shrugged sheepishly. "You forgot to add that it was going to be my treat."

"I've been waiting for you. How's Mark?"

"You know McCormick. He's been second guessing himself."

"Yeah. Come on, let's go and we can talk."

Since Hardcastle was fishing for information, Harper thought he deserved more than a hotdog from a street vendor, but given the circumstances of his friends' involvement in the young student's death, he decided on a moderately priced diner near the station. He chose a booth at the far end of the restaurant and they ordered burgers with all the extras. They ate in relative silence, only making small talk about sports and the recent political activities of Police Commissioner Emhart. As their meal settled, they ordered extra coffee and allowed the conversation to turn to serious matters.

"There's not a lot to tell you, Milt," Harper said as he sipped his drink. "The guy's name was Barry Hohenstein. He's a second year student who recently transferred down here. The initial medical report is death by alcohol poisoning. His alcohol level was about three times the legal limit."

"What was he doing there by himself?" asked Hardcastle.

"He probably wasn't. The scene suggests there were several people in the area where Mark found him. It looks like they had a party and they left him after he passed out."

"Any suspects?"

"No identifiable prints on the bottles we found at the scene. Unless we get something else, it's going to be listed as a 'death by misadventure'."

"And that's going to be the end of it?"

Harper sighed. "It's something we're seeing more and more of these days. Young kids drinking too much. Sometimes they do something stupid and wake up with a bad headache and sometimes they don't wake up at all."

Both men shook their heads as the contemplated the many follies of youth.

"Tell Mark there wasn't anything he could have done," said Harper.

"Yeah, I just hope I can get him to believe it."

The afternoon, like the morning, crept by for McCormick. It was the same old story with new material. He could feel the stares of the other students as he walked across campus or sat in the classroom. He could hear snatches of the whispers on the latest gossip about the campus' ex-con/student and the death of another student. He was sure that the conversations would eventually turn into a recap of his entire history; real, exaggerated and totally made up. A few students had given him thumbs up and a shout of when's the next party while others frowned in disapproval. A few pressed him for details so they could add to more to the gossip mill. He had given them his nicest smile, explained that the police were still making inquiries, and then left them to their incessant mutterings. It was too much like his early days of elementary school where he was the bastard son of the woman who had lived in sin. He was grateful for the few friendly smiles and words of support from the people who really knew him.

He chose a seat near the back of his tax law class. He pulled out his notebook and pretended to be a typical dutiful student only interested in the history of the Tax Codes. He felt a burning sensation on the back of his neck as a new set of eyes fixed onto him. He turned to stare back.

He didn't recognize the two students that sat in the last row of the class room. Obviously they were so interested in gawking that they didn't mind sitting through tax law class to do it. Unlike most of the others, they did not look away when he stared back, nor did they talk between themselves. Instead they sat with arms crossed, studying him. They, obviously, intended to approach him. He hoped they would, at least, wait until after class before they pestered him with their questions.

The tax law class finally ended; as he didn't have any scheduled classes for a couple of hours, he decided to stay seated for the upcoming attempted interrogation. The other students quietly filed out of the classroom. No one gave any indication that there was anything unusual about the three students who stayed behind.

As the last student left, McCormick turned to the two men and asked, "Can I help you?"

They seemed slightly surprised that he had made the first move. Without speaking they got up and took desks on either side of him. McCormick noted that they were years younger than him. They dressed in normal clothes but there was something about their bearing that suggested they came from money. Both had the muscular physiques of college athletes. McCormick imagined they were what were known as 'Big Men on Campus'. However there was something about them that wasn't right. As they got close, they failed to make direct eye contact with him. He thought there was an air of guilt around them.

"Are you Mark McCormick?" asked the one on his right. "I'm Jonathan Ellis. My friends call me Johnny. This is Alan Griffith," he said as he gestured to the man on the left who merely grunted in acknowledgement. "We understand that you took Barry to the hospital last night."

McCormick put on his patented nice-guy smile. "I did. The police are still making inquiries."

"I understand, but Barry was our friend. He had just pledged to our frat. It all seems pointless. He was our age and now he's dead. We were hoping you could tell us something."

McCormick sighed as he tried to rub the tired from his eyes. This was the first set of grieving friends that had approached him. He wondered how many others had known and liked Barry before his unfortunate death. "There's really not a lot I can tell you," he explained.

"Was he unconscious when you found him?" asked Johnny.

"Did he stay unconscious?" asked Alan with a note of hopefulness which seemed out of place.

"What Alan means is did Barry suffer much," explained Johnny.

"He was pretty sick and pretty drunk when I found him," said McCormick suspecting the two had a motive other than concern for their deceased friend. "It looked like some people had a drinking party out there and your friend got left behind. It was an accident but if you know anyone who might know something you might want to have them talk to the police."

"I don't know anyone who would do something like that," said Johnny as he quickly stood up from his chair. "You'd have to be pretty low to just leave someone there." He looked over at Alan who grunted his agreement as he, also, got up. "If you hear anything, you can contact us at Alpha Phi Beta."

McCormick watched them leave and felt a little sad. A picture had already formed in his mind about Barry's last hours. He and his potential frat brothers had engaged in a late night party which had included drinking games and hazing. They didn't realize how drunk Barry was or how dangerous it was to leave him alone in the woods. It was probably supposed to have been a joke on a new pledge. But things had gone too far and now someone was dead. He knew he would have to tell the police but he hoped he was wrong. It would be a shame for the men to have to live with the guilt of killing a friend and the fear of being discovered. McCormick sighed, gathered his books and left the class room.

McCormick had just left his last class when he heard a discreet cough behind him. He turned and recognized the well-dressed and bespectacled figure as Professor Abernathy.

"Mr. McCormick, might I have a word with you?" he asked as he turned away and headed for his office confident that his instructions would be obeyed.

McCormick followed the professor to his office. He had only had Professor Abernathy for one class. He was known as a liberal professor who often spoke disparagingly on the current prison and judicial system, someone who favored alternatives to jail.

McCormick had expected to enjoy the class but had found it an unpleasant experience. He had a lot of knowledge about prison and the prison system but the professor had been unwilling to let him talk. In fact, the man always appeared to be uncomfortable in his presence. McCormick suspected he was a hypocrite. Someone who wanted to be the champion of people that they didn't want to associate with. He wondered what the professor wanted as he pulled up a seat in front of the man's desk.

"Mr. McCormick," said Abernathy in a sympathetic voice, "I understand you were with Mr. Hohenstein last night."

"Yes," said McCormick confused about the professor's interest.

Abernathy sighed as he removed his glasses and began to clean them on his jacket. "I knew the boy and his family. It was my idea that he come here to school. I even sponsored him in Alpha Phi Beta. Such a waste," he said as he shook his head.

"I'm sorry about your loss, professor."

"I'm sorry too, Mark. It couldn't have been easy for you finding him like that."

McCormick remembered the details and nodded. "It was difficult," he admitted, "but I'm not the one that died or who lost someone."

"I tried talking to the police but they couldn't tell me much. I'll be talking to his family soon and there's so much that I don't know. He left behind parents and a younger sister. They'll want to know if he suffered, if he had any last words."

"He was pretty out of it. After he got sick, I don't know if he was feeling much of anything," McCormick lied as he thought back on the pitiful moans that still rang in his ears. "He said some things but nothing that made any sense."

"Like what? It might mean something to his family."

"Um, knowledge is money and knowing things. Stuff like that," McCormick grimaced hoping he wouldn't have to repeat Hohenstein's rambling accusations.

Abernathy nodded. "Barry's father thought an education was the best way to a bright future. Do the police have any theories on his death?"

"Probably a drinking party that got out of hand. What do you know about Alpha Phi Beta?"

Professor Abernathy looked up with a sad smile. "I know all of the boys in the fraternity. I am one of their sponsors. They all feel very bad about Barry's death."

"I'm sure they do but you might want to tell them that if they know something they should talk to the police before the police talk to them."

"Thank you, Mr. McCormick. I'll talk with them. And if you ever need anyone to talk to, please remember that I'm available."

Professor Abernathy turned his head away as he started to work on the papers that covered his desk. McCormick could feel the unspoken dismissal and left the office. He thought about what had been said and unsaid in his recent conversations with the professor and the frat brothers. He felt it meant something but didn't know what.

McCormick was deep in thought as he drove back to the estate. He didn't notice the older model blue pick-up truck which followed behind him. His head snapped up when he heard the revving engine and watched as the truck sped up and squeaked past the security gate as it closed.

Stupid, McCormick, really stupid, Mark thought as he wondered which enemy had he allowed into his home grounds. McCormick leaned on his horn to warn his friend that their security had been breached. He was all too aware of the number of people that wanted to harm them.

The driver's door of the pick-up burst open and a large older man with greying temples and bristling muscles stormed over to the parked Coyote. He yanked open the door, grabbed McCormick by his shirt and yanked him out. In the blink of an eye, McCormick found himself standing upright but bent back against his car.

"Why did you do it, punk," he demanded as he brought his face close. McCormick could smell the alcohol-laden breath of the angry man.

McCormick clenched his fist, prepared to drive it hard into the man's face until he saw the grief in the man's eyes. "Mr. Hohenstein?" he asked as his will to fight drained from his body.

"That's Sherriff Hohenstein to you. And I asked you a question, punk. What did you do to my boy?" he said as he slammed McCormick hard against the vehicle.

"I didn't do anything to him. I found him and I took him to the hospital"

"That's not the way I hear it. I heard that you and a bunch of your friends thought it would be funny to get a sheriff's kid drunk. So you liquored him up and left him there. Left him there to die."

"I didn't even know him."

"That wouldn't matter to a crook like you. I've heard all about you. Was it some kind of revenge for the times you spent in jail?" He pulled his arm back and made a fist.

McCormick realized he would need to defend himself or take a beating from the enraged father. He prepared to make his move when another hand reached out and grabbed the clenched fist. Hohenstein was spun around and thrown to the ground. The sheriff looked up into the furious eyes of Judge Hardcastle as McCormick allowed himself to begin to breathe. The Lone Ranger had ridden to the rescue again.

"Leave him alone!" seethed Hardcastle. Hohenstein rose from the ground. Both men eyed each other prepared to carry on the fight.

"Hold it!" shouted McCormick as he held his hand in a plea to stop the violence before it progressed. "Judge, this is Sheriff Hohenstein," he explained. "Barry's father."

"I don't care who he is. He doesn't have the right to trespass on my property or assault you!" bellowed Hardcastle. "A man of the law should know better."

"I've heard all about you and your little experiment!" spat Hohenstein. "You think a leopard can change his spots. I've arrested people like him my whole life and there's never been any good in any of them. They're all filthy crooks."

"McCormick isn't any of your business."

"He killed my son!"

"You don't know what you're talking about. He took your kid to the hospital. He tried to save him."

"Did he tell you he tried to steal my son's wallet?" demanded Hohenstein.

"Where did you get that idea?" challenged McCormick. "I didn't try to steal anyone's wallet."

"The police took it from you," sneered Hohenstein.

"I took your son's wallet to find out where he lived. I turned it over to the police at the hospital," explained McCormick.

"That's not what I'm hearing," said Sheriff Hohenstein.

"I want you off of my property!" demanded Hardcastle. "And the only reason I'm not calling the police is that I know you're grieving. But understand McCormick didn't have anything to do with your son's death."

Sheriff Hohenstein knew he had missed his chance to extract revenge. He turned to face Hardcastle and jabbed a meaty finger into the judge's chest. "Just keep your thieving con away from decent people."

As he climbed into his truck he turned back shouted out, "I hope one day you learn what it's like to lose your only kid."

Oh God. Not that, thought McCormick horrified that the judge's deceased son had been used as a weapon against him. Hardcastle was a private man who never talked about his son. McCormick hoped the sheriff hadn't reopened an old wound.

"I'm sorry, Judge," said a subdued McCormick.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for, McCormick. None of this is your fault. The man's grieving and doesn't know what he's saying."

Supper, like the rest of the evening, was a quiet affair. McCormick wondered who had told such lies about him while Hardcastle reflected on the past.

The next day things took a turn for the worse. McCormick hoped it was his imagination but the mutters and the stares seemed more hostile. He swore some conversations ended in mid-sentence when he entered a room. About mid-day he located his friend Marcus and pulled him into the café to find out what was being said.

"There's some talk going around about you and Hohenstein," Marcus said as he sipped his coffee. "Some are saying that you got him drunk to steal from his and some are saying you did it as a joke because he was a sheriff's kid. I've heard his dad pulled up your record and complained to the campus president."

"I didn't have anything to do with his kid's death," protested McCormick.

"I believe you. Getting drunk isn't your style but Hohenstein's dad is saying that you shouldn't be a student much less a law student and there's more."

"What?"

"Some are saying you're the cause for thefts and drugs showing up on campus. The dad heard about that and is demanding an investigation. I've heard that he's saying he'll make sure you'll never be a lawyer."

"How would he do that," demanded McCormick.

He's supposed to have some pull with the California State Bar. If they decide you're not morally fit to be a lawyer then you don't get your license."

McCormick's breath caught in his throat. He knew he would have to face the California State Bar for his Moral Character Determination Application. He didn't think he would have to worry about it for a couple more years. His official past on his criminal record was bad enough but how much sway would unproven allegation and gossip have on their decision.

Marcus looked at his watch. "I got to go. Don't worry. It's just a lot of talk. It'll blow over." Marcus quickly finished his coffee, patted McCormick on the shoulder and walked away.

Part of him knew he was over-reacting but McCormick allowed his fears and doubts to cloud his mind. There had been many times in his past when he held the prize in his hand only to have fate snatch it away at the last minute. That had been one of the reasons he hadn't initially told Hardcastle about his law school plans. Now when he was confident that he would succeed it looked like he could lose it all again. He hadn't done anything wrong but people didn't always need proof to pass judgment. It could make a hard job of becoming a lawyer impossible.

The rest of the afternoon crept by slowly. McCormick kept part of his mind focused on his classes but the other part was fixated on his past and his possible future. He wondered if the State Bar would be able to pull his juvenile records which were filled with a long listing of criminal and delinquent activities. Most were minor offenses but a few could raise questions. His adult record wasn't much better, two convictions for car theft. Maybe three as the Statue of Limitations hadn't run out for his theft of the Coyote from Cody. He didn't think he would be found guilty as Cody had stolen it from Flip and he had restored it to his deceased owner's daughter. But given what had happened when he took his own car from Melinda he realized he wasn't sure how a court rule or how the State Bar would view the impulsive act when he made his application.

Plus there were all the semi-legal things he had done working with Hardcastle. Would the State Bar know about them? Would they understand what he and Hardcastle were trying to do or would it damn him in their eyes? He was sure Hardcastle would be behind him. The judge had influence and would, probably be willing to use it to ensure he got a fair hearing. But Hardcastle's maverick ways had, also, raised a lot of eyebrows and created enemies over the years.

He thought back to the men he knew in prison who had done everything the system asked of them only to have their parole denied because one member of the Board of Parole had a long memory and a grudge. Could it happen here?

It was late afternoon by the time he pulled into the estate. He had a couple of hours before he was supposed to meet with his study group, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to face anyone. He had done a lot of thinking. He still didn't have any answers but he had reached a decision. Law school was a large risk he was taking with Hardcastle's money and the judge had a right to know what they were up against.

"Judge, we need to talk," McCormick as he walked into the den and sank into his favorite chair.

"What it is, McCormick?" said Hardcastle looking up from his papers as he sensed the young man's unease.

"There's been a lot of talk on campus," McCormick said unable to meet the judge's eyes.

"What type of talk?"

"It started out about me being involved in Hohenstein's death and now it's about me being responsible for drugs and other crimes on campus. A complaint's been made to the school about me being there. They might be thinking about kicking me out?"

"Kicking you out!" shouted Hardcastle as he slammed his papers against the desk. "Don't be ridiculous. You got great grades last semester. You're one of their top students."

"But that won't mean anything if they think I'm a bad influence."

"Has anyone from the school talked to you about this," challenged Hardcastle.

"No," admitted McCormick, "but everybody's talking."

"Everybody," snorted Hardcastle. "Everybody doesn't know you, McCormick. Let me guess you overheard a few yoo-hoos wagging their tongues and now you think everybody is against you."

"I've heard them talking."

"So a few people were talking about this and in a couple of days they'll be talking about something else. I know you got friends there. You can't let your paranoia get the best of you."

"They've been talking about the Moral Character clause and how I won't qualify," McCormick said. He knew this was an exaggeration but felt it was an issue they would have to face. "I've got a lot of things in my past. Bad things. The State Bar's not going to overlook them. Without their okay, you're going to be spending a lot of money for an overeducated law clerk."

"It's true, you got a past but you've done a lot of good since then. The State Bar's going to see that and they're not going to be listening to a lot of gossip and innuendo."

"We need to face the fact that this might just be a pipe dream."

"It's not a pipe dream," shouted Hardcastle as he pointed his finger at McCormick's chest. "It's your dream and you're going to make a damn fine lawyer. "

"You're betting a lot of money. I don't want it to be wasted."

"It's not going to be wasted. You're always looking for trouble even when nothing's there. Let me ask you, do you want to this? Do you want to be a lawyer?"

"Yes, I want it," admitted McCormick, "but not if it is going to waste your money."

"Don't worry about the money. If you don't want this then I'm not going to force you. But if this is something you want then it is worth fighting for. Don't let a few jabbering idiots stop you. Show 'em some of that McCormick spunk and stare 'em down. They'll scurry off and find something else to talk about."

"McCormick spunk, huh?" Mark said as the corners of his mouth twitched into a grin.

"Yeah, you got loads of it when you're trying to get out of your chores."

"What about the Moral Character Application? Do you think I can do this?"

"I know you can. Now stop acting like a dang-burn overgrown teenager."

"Thanks, Judge," McCormick said as he got up from the chair and headed to the kitchen for a quick bite before he returned to campus. "I appreciate it."

"Well, don't be making a habit of it. I got better things to do than act as your cheer leading squad, Hardcastle grumbled as he turned back to the papers on his desk.

After dinner McCormick returned to the gatehouse to collect his books. He felt better after his talk with Hardcastle. He realized that he had let his insecurities get the better of him and he'd needed one of the judge's unique pep talks. He was ready to face whatever obstacles fate was waiting to throw at him and he knew he'd overcome them. As his hand reached for the door, the telephone rang.

"Hello. McCormick here," he said as he answered the phone.

"Mark, I'm glad I caught you. This is Alex."

"Hey Alex," said McCormick with a smile, thinking of his friend from the study group. "I'm just headed out the door. I'll be there in a bit."

Alex hesitated. "About that Mark. We've been talking together and we think it might be best if you sit out of the group for a little bit."

"What!" said McCormick incredulously. "Why?"

"It would just be for a short time," Alex said as he tried to placate his friend. "Just till this whole thing quiets down."

McCormick felt his knees weaken as he sat down on the couch in shock. "I can't believe you're letting some gossip get me thrown out of the group."

"You don't understand. It's not what they're saying; it's what the professors are saying. Look, you didn't hear this from me but Professor Abernathy's been talking. I was in his class today and he started talking about the high standard behavior expected from lawyers and law students. How we're known by the company we keep and how one black mark can ruin the best student's chances when they get in front of the State Bar. Particularly if they were involved with someone who was dealing drugs on campus."

"He accused me of dealing drug!"

"He didn't use any names but we knew who he meant."

"You know me, Alex. I'm not dealing drugs."

"I know that, Mark. But he's not a teacher you want as an enemy. I've seen him fail students over nothing. There are three other group members are taking his classes this semester and he gave the same speech on all of their classes. It's not right but we need a good grade from him."

"I understand."

"I'm sure it'll be over soon and you'll be able to come back to the group. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, so am I," McCormick said as he hung up the phone.

He stared blankly into open space as the tether on his temper slowly began to unwind. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not really out to get you, he thought. It was unfair that one man with a little bit of power could try to run him out of school without evidence and cause. Someone who thought everyone else needed to kowtow to his will.

Enough, thought McCormick as he banged his book on the coffee table. If you're going to try to railroad me out of school, you're going to have to do it to my face. You're going to see McCormick spunk, he promised as he grabbed his car keys and stormed from the house.

McCormick was glad the light was still on at Professor Abernathy's office. He wanted to say his piece while he was still angry. He stomped through the empty hallway and slammed open the professor's door with a bang.

"Why Mr. McCormick," said Professor Abernathy with a hint of fear in his voice, "What brings you here?"

"I want to know what's going on with you?" demanded McCormick. "Why are you trying to blackball me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, but I think you'd better leave now."

"Oh no," said McCormick as he sat down on the chair in front of the desk. "I'm not going anywhere until I get some answers. You've been talking to others about me. You're probably the one who told those lies to Sheriff Hohenstein. You're holding my past against me and I want to know why."

Professor Abernathy leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. "Mr. McCormick, I am sure that given your colored background, you have a lot of personal knowledge that you could share with the other students. And it's even possible that you could be an asset to the profession if your past doesn't prevent you from getting your license. But none of that has anything to do with me. I don't know what you've heard but I am not trying to hinder or stop you."

"No," said McCormick as he refused to be placated by the man's patronizing tone. "Someone is trying to run me out and I think it's you."

"I can't help you through your paranoia, Mr. McCormick. I swear you're as bad as Rolland and his space aliens…" Abernathy cut his sentence short as he realized what he was about to say.

McCormick's ears pricked up as he listened to the half-sentence. There was something in those words which niggled at the back of his memory. Abernathy sat stiffly in his chair as he watched with horrified eyes as McCormick began to remember.

Rolland. Rolland Marshall, McCormick thought. I knew him at San Quentin. He was a big brute but slow mentally. He was convinced space aliens came in his cell at night, leaving strange messages, moving his stuff, and shocking him with radar beams. He finally decided to protect himself by wrapping his head in aluminum foil that he stole from the prison kitchen. Whenever the guards confiscated the foil, Rolland would file a grievance claiming they were in league with the aliens. The guy who told Rolland to use aluminum foil was in the cell next to him. His name was … McCormick's eyes widened as he took a closer look at Professor Abernathy.

"Kinne?" he asked in a shocked voice as he considered what Abernathy would look like with black hair, a mustache, and a few minor physical changes.

Jack Kinne, former inmate at San Quentin and current law professor, sighed as he pulled a gun from his desk and pointed it at McCormick. "You had to figure it out, didn't you? You couldn't just go quietly?" He reached over with his free hand and grabbed the phone. "Johnny. I need you to bring some of the boys over. I'm afraid Mr. McCormick has become a problem."

McCormick leaned back in his chair as he watched the gun in the faux professor's hand. He wondered how long it would take before Hardcastle realized that he was gone and in trouble, again.

Lori and Patty Cooper were headed by to their sorority house after an early movie. As they approached Alpha Phi Beta, they heard some strange sounds coming from the alley behind the fraternity house.

"Lori, look," said Patty as she spotted a familiar head of curly hair, "Isn't that Mark?" She smiled as she thought back on their recent outing to the drive-in.

"Yeah, but what's he doing with the APB boys?" asked Lori with a frown.

The girls stood silently in the encroaching darkness as they watched the strange scene. They couldn't hear the words but McCormick seemed to be trying to reason with the four stone-faced college boys that held him between them. Mark did not appear to be walking with them as much as he was being pushed and pulled towards the dark house. As they reached the back fence, one of the frat boys left the posse to open the gate. The girls watched as McCormick made a lunge to the right in an attempt to get away but he was quickly grabbed and shoved through the gate. As the others rushed in, the gate was slammed shut. The fraternity house which had looked so inviting in the daylight suddenly seemed ominous.

"That didn't look right," Lori said as she turned to her sister. "Something's wrong."

"APB is the one where that new pledge died," recalled Patty. They had both heard the talk about the young man who had died of alcohol poisoning. They had heard the gossip about the young man's death and Mark's possible involvement in the death. Talk which they considered absurd and had done their best to stop.

"I don't think Mark wanted to go with them," said Lori.

"What should we do? Should we call the police?"

"I don't know? What about that guy that Mark works for? Isn't he some sort of lawman?"

"Yeah. We could call him."

Lori and Patty jogged back to their sorority and hoped their worries were unfounded.

"You guys are making a big mistake," said McCormick as he was dragged into the kitchen and forced into a wooden chair. Two of the frat boys stood behind McCormick while the other two faced him.

"I didn't agree to any of this," griped Griffith as he glared at Ellis. "We were just supposed to get some easy money by selling drugs and moving some merchandise for the Professor. Now he's got us committing murder. We're just lucky that the other guys are gone for the weekend."

"I never heard you complain about the money," countered Ellis. "Besides it's like the Professor said we wouldn't have to be doing this if we had done it right the first time. And I'm not the one who left before Barry was dead."

"It was creepy staying there with him," grumbled Robert Head as he stood behind McCormick clenching his fist. "He was making all sort of weird sounds."

Ellis studied Mark as if he was a distasteful lab experiment. "This time we'll have to do it the right way."

"It's murder," said Daniel Gray. "We're not the one Barry was trying to blackmail so why should we be taking the risks?"

"Your friend's making a lot of sense," agreed McCormick. "Why should you be the ones doing Kinne's dirty work?"

"Because, McCormick, they don't want their mommies and daddies to know how they've been earning their extra money," Kinne said as he strode into the room. His slightly stooped and nervous gait replaced with a more confident and menacing stride.

McCormick searched his memory as he recalled his time in San Quentin. Kinne had been a small time drug pusher and a fence for stolen property. There had been allegations that he had killed business rivals but nothing that had ever been proven. He had escaped during an inmate transfer and never been found.

"No one was supposed to get hurt," said Griffith.

"I admit," conceded Kinne, "that it's been an unlucky series of coincidences. First Hohenstein transfers to the school. It was a long time ago since I lived out there. I had several run-ins with his father. It was a fluke Barry came here and recognized me. Then when you boys tried to take care of that problem, you didn't finish the job and McCormick found him. Unfortunately McCormick, also, recognized me.

"What about Barry's dad?" asked Heart.

"You keep feeding him lies and I'll stay out of his way. Once McCormick's dead, he won't have a reason to stick around."

"How should we do this, Professor?" asked Ellis.

"The same way, I think," answered Kinne.

"The same way?" responded Griffith. "That's too dangerous. Someone will figure it out."

"No one's going to believe I drank myself to death," scoffed McCormick.

"But they will," replied Kinne. "The boys have already told everyone about how, despite their warnings that you were a bad influence, Barry continued to hang out with you. The pressure of school has been too much for you and you've been drinking to handle the stress. Barry was your drinking partner. Something happened, and Barry died. People were holding you responsible for the death. Then they started accusing you of returning to your criminal ways. You realized you couldn't leave you past behind. All of your dreams were going up in smoke. You were depressed so you went on another drinking binge. Your last one."

Ellis pulled a package of long-necked beer from the cabinet and set it on the table in front of McCormick. He tugged out the first bottle and pulled off the cap.

"Make sure he's good and drunk before you take him out of here," cautioned Kinne. "That way if anyone sees you, you can say you're taking him home and no one will listen to what he tries to say. Take him to the same spot as before. That'll make it look like he was feeling guilty about Barry's death. Then give him the rest of the beer but stay with him. When he starts to vomit make sure he's down and on his back. He'll choke soon enough. And remember," said Kinne as he walked out of the room, "don't mark him up more than you have to."

Ellis took a swig of the warm beer and started to approach McCormick. Heart grabbed the curly hair and pulled it back. Mark clamped his mouth tight and tried to struggle from the hands that held him to the chair.

Hardcastle glared at Lieutenant Harper as the officer tried to make small talk while they waited for McCormick's return. It was bad enough that McCormick was suspected of involvement in Hohenstein's death but now people were claiming he was a one-man college crime lord. All based on the unsubstantiated words of a bunch of college-aged brats.

"You know," explained Hardcastle, "it's probably coming from the students from Barry's fraternity. They want everyone looking at McCormick so no one will look at their involvement in the boy's death."

Harper could sense the underlying irritation in the judge's voice. The students at Alpha Phi Beta claimed on the day of his death, Hohenstein had last been seen leaving with Mark who was his frequent drinking partner. This had been followed by anonymous calls from people claiming Mark was involved in the recent upturn of drug sales and thefts in the area. McCormick was going to have to be questioned about the allegations. Harper thought it would be better for him question Mark rather than allow another officer to face Hardcastle's wrath. "I agree that it's ridiculous to think Mark's got the time much less the inclination to be drinking every night. And, off the record, I don't believe Mark's all of a sudden decided to turn to a life of crime. Once I get his statement, we can go back and re-question the members of APB."

"If he wanted to drink, he wouldn't need to go on campus. I've got plenty of liquor here and I've never seen him take any."

Harper's eyebrow went up as he remembered a Friday night poker game and a fortunate purloined bottle of rum which had saved his life.

"Okay, seldom ever," admitted Hardcastle. "But if he was drinking I'd know about it."

Before Harper could voice his opinion, the phone rang. Hardcastle quickly picked it up. "Is that you, McCormick?"

"You don't know me," said a soft hesitant female voice at the other end of the line, "but my name is Lori. I'm a friend of Mark's. I think he might be in trouble."

Hardcastle sat up straight and leaned closer to the phone. "What do you mean?" he asked in a softer voice.

"My sister and I saw some guys from Alpha Phi Beta take him into their frat house. It didn't look like he wanted to go with them."

"When was this?"

"Not more than ten or so minutes ago. We didn't know if we should call the police or not. They could have been goofing around but we're not sure."

"Where is the house?" Hardcastle wrote down the address and thanked Lori. He promised to let her know what he found. He hung up the phone and cast a worried look to Harper.

"What do you have, Milt?"

"They've got McCormick," Hardcastle said as he explained the situation to Harper. "We've got to go get him, Frank."

"That's not enough information for a warrant."

"Who needs a warrant? They made some allegations against McCormick and you need to ask them some questions. Come on, we'll think of the questions on the way down there," Hardcastle said as he grabbed his jacket and gun. Harper wondered how much trouble McCormick had gotten himself into this time.

McCormick didn't know how long he had been in the chair. When they had started Daniel held his arms down while Robert held his legs. His head had been pulled back and his nose pinched shut so he had to open his mouth to breathe. An open bottle of beer had been shoved so deep into his throat that he had choked. Reluctantly they had removed the beer causing it to spill over him and the floor. As soon as he had been able to breathe, they started again. Through trial and error, they had determined how to force the alcohol into his mouth. Now only one held him in the chair, more to keep him upright than to prevent escape.

He didn't know how much he had drank. They had almost finished the second case of beer. A lot of it had been spilled as he struggled against them but he knew it was a losing battle. The more they got into him, the harder it was to fight. He had already heaved once but another bottle had been forced down him before he'd been able to clear the vomit from his mouth.

McCormick's chin rested lightly against his chest as he sucked in air. The young killers were taking a break from their torturous murder attempt. They seemed to be talking about him. He tried to focus his bleary eyes and make out the words but everything seemed jumbled. The alcohol mixed with his blood as it burned its way into the cuts inside his mouth. It felt like, at least, one of his teeth had been chipped by the hard edge of the bottles. He hoped the coroner would tell Hardcastle about the injuries. He knew the judge wouldn't believe the lies and would find his killers. He regretted the money that had been wasted on his first semester. He hoped Hardcastle would know that he had appreciated everything that had been done for him. The knocking in his head got louder as his head was pulled upright and a hand was roughly placed across his mouth.

"Who the hell is that?" asked Ellis as he heard the incessant knocking on the door. He gestured to Heart. "Keep him quiet and we'll get rid of them. We should be ready to move after they're gone."

The first thing Ellis saw as he opened the front door was the shiny police badge. He didn't recognize the officer holding the badge or the older man who stood behind him. "Can I help you?"

"Yes. I'm Lieutenant Frank Harper with the Los Angeles Police Department. I'm helping out on the inquiry regarding Mr. Barry Hohenstein's death. I understand you have some new information."

"It's getting late and we've already made a statement to the police."

"Just a few questions," said Harper.

Ellis had to admit that the old guy was a lot more agile than he looked. In a blink of an eye, he had slipped into the house and was sniffing the air suspiciously. Ellis decided it would be quicker to cooperate than argue. "Won't you come in?" he offered.

"It smells like a brewery in here," said Hardcastle as he walked deeper in the house trying to sense the whereabouts of his missing partner. "It smells like someone's been sick." He eyed the closed kitchen door where two of the house members casually stood guard.

"A couple of guys were here earlier and were drinking. One of them got sick. He's sleeping it off."

"After what happened to your friend, you should know that could be dangerous," said Harper. "Maybe we should check on him."

"He's fine and I'm sure he wouldn't want the police involved. Why don't I tell you what I told the other officer and you can get on your way."

Hardcastle and Harper mentally reviewed the drinking laws hoping to find a reason to search the house when they heard a mumbled shout and a crash in the kitchen.

"Sounds like someone's in trouble, I'd better check it out," said Hardcastle as he moved toward the kitchen.

Griffith lifted his fist and swung as the judge approached the door. Hardcastle sidestepped the blow and grabbed the young man by the arm and hurled him to the side.

"That's assault," said Harper as he unbuttoned his jacket and exposed his holstered gun. "I'm going to ask you to sit on the sofa while we check this out," he ordered.

Ellis' eyes darted between the kitchen and the lieutenant's gun. "I'd like to make a statement," he said.

McCormick heard the voice through the dark alcoholic haze which clouded his mind. It was the same voice which had pulled him out of many a deep sleep. A voice that demanded response. He tried to call out but a large hand covered his mouth. He could feel the meaty heel of the hand as it pushed against his teeth and held his head against a solid chest. He bit down hard on the hand and jerked his head to the left. The taste of fresh blood wetted his lips as he felt the grip loosen and the hand pull away.

"Hardcase!" he shouted in a voice that didn't sound like his own. He tried to get to his feet but fell as feet got tangled in the chair. He scrambled up on his hands and knees and tried to shake the cobwebs from his head. He heard Heart cursing nearby and knew he still had to fight his way out.

McCormick sprang to his feet and felt the room lurch violently. Through squinted eyes, he was able to focus on the approaching Heart. He saw the jagged open bottle in the enraged student's hand. The room continued to spin as he felt his knees weaken. He tried to move his arms but it felt like he was fighting against a sea of molasses. The dull haze which clouded his mind sparked with color as something sharp slashed against his upper arm. He grabbed the shirt of his assailant as his knees collapsed. He felt Heart's body slam into him as they hit the floor. He struck out wildly trying to knock Heart off. Instead of the bottle, he felt Heart's solid fist slam into him, the alcohol only partially numbing the pain. He didn't know how long it continued until he became aware that he was lashing out at air. Then he heard the familiar gruff voice.

"Are you okay?"

Stupid question then and stupid question now, he thought as the adrenaline fled his body leaving it limp. The bile in his stomach began to rise and he surrendered to the darkness.

As Hardcastle entered the kitchen, the putrid scent of alcohol and vomit assailed his nose. He pulled out his gun as he saw the two men struggling on the floor. He watched as a large young man straddled atop McCormick clinically struck him across his face and chest. Despite the obvious force of the blows, the curly-haired assistant appeared unaffected as he struck upward in a vigorous but uncoordinated effort.

"Get off him!" Hardcastle shouted. But the words didn't have any effect on the fighting men. To Hardcastle's eyes it appeared that McCormick was beginning to falter.

"I said get off him or I'll shoot!" he repeated in a louder and more threatening voice. The promise of retribution appeared to penetrate the assailant's conscious as he pulled back from the attack and climbed to his feet. Hardcastle gestured with his gun until the man moved to the far side of the room, his hands in the air.

Keeping one eye on the prisoner, Hardcastle knelt down to McCormick who continued to strike out blindly. He could see McCormick was not in good shape. He was soaked with sweat, beer and vomit. Blood was smeared along his face and caked along the corners of his cut and bruised lips. Fresh blood ran down from an uneven cut along the top of his arm.

As Hardcastle viewed the spilled beer and empty bottles that littered the floor, he deduced the cause of Barry's death and the planned fate of his friend. McCormick stopped flailing and fell back against the floor with a pitiful groan.

"Are you okay?" he asked as Mark continued his soft groans unaware of his surroundings. Though he hated to do it, Hardcastle realized he would have to leave McCormick untreated on the floor. The young man flinched when he saw the hate and contempt in the judge's eyes. He started to cry as if he had just realized what he had done.

"None of this was my idea. It was all Kinne," sobbed Heart.

"Save it for your attorney," snarled Hardcastle as he marched him out to join his fraternity brother on the couch. He called for an ambulance, followed by a call to the police as he explained the situation to the desk sergeant and Harper.

When he returned to the kitchen, McCormick had started to puke. He was weakly trying to turn on his side but didn't appear to have the strength. His body began to heave as he tried to pull air into his blocked throat. Hardcastle grabbed a towel and quickly dropped to his knees. He turned his friend on his side as he wiped the vomit away from McCormick's mouth and face. Mark's weakened gasps sounded like cries of pain as he slowly pulled oxygen into his tormented form. Hardcastle pressed the cleanest part of the towel against the wounded arm and muttered encouraging words until the ambulance team arrived.

McCormick stifled a groan as he woke up and carefully opened his eyes. The room wasn't exactly dark; instead the lighting was subdued with large heavy curtains covering most of the windows. As his eyes began to adjust, he realized he was lying in one of the guest bedrooms at Gull's Way. His mouth felt dry and his tongue felt two sizes too large for his mouth which was too sore to hold it inside. Despite the risk to his pounding head, he decided to get up.

The mission of pulling off the covers and swinging himself to a sitting position had taken all of his reserved strength. He decided to sit quietly for a few minutes and allow his rolling stomach a chance to calm. All of his muscles ached horribly. He looked down at the fresh pajamas he wore. He wondered where they had come from and how he had gotten into them.

He allowed the pain to wan to a dull throb as he prepared for his second part of his mission. He slowly reached out with his right hand but stopped when he felt the painful pull of a healing wound under the white bandage on his upper arm. He decided to use left hand and managed to grasp the pitcher which stood on the night stand. He clumsily poured the water in the nearby glass. At first, it seemed as if his stomach would rebel but it soon greedily accepted fluid as he quenched his maddening thirst. He cautiously ran his wetted tongue around his mouth and mentally counted the open sores.

The room was quiet, for which he was infinitely grateful as the pounding in his head continued. He debated whether he should continue his mission or lay back into the bed and seek oblivion. His empty stomach was in the delicate balance between hunger and nausea so he decided to move forward.

He carefully rubbed the budding whiskers on his face as he gently felt around the bruises. He knew he would need to shave but was surprised that he didn't seem to need a bath. Somehow during the time he had been unconscious, someone had managed to clean him.

He found a soft robe and slippers on the chair by the bed. You think of everything, Hardcastle, he thought. He put his hands on either side and pushed himself to his feet. A tolerable pain shot through his right arm as he stood on his feet. A moment later, he collapsed back onto the bed. Things seemed to work if he moved slowly. He counted to ten and tried again. This time he was pleased as he stood up and began his long staggering trek out of the bedroom.

He was glad that Hardcastle had put him in a first floor bedroom as steps sounded like an insurmountable task. He saw all the lights were turned down low and the blinds were drawn as he continued his self-forced march to the kitchen. As he passed the den he saw the judge watching TV with the sound down so low he must've been reading the actors' lips. McCormick tried to be quiet, but Hardcastle's head snapped up as he neared.

"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly.

McCormick flinched at the sound. "If you keep shouting like that I'm going back to bed," he retorted.

Though he wanted to, Hardcastle had the decency not to laugh. "Come on," he said in a quieter voice, "let's get some food in you."

"Coffee," croaked McCormick.

"Later. We need to start with some water or orange juice and then get some toast or scrambled eggs into you."

McCormick didn't attempt a nod as he trudged to the kitchen. He sat down at the table with a thud and a low groan. He kept quiet and still as Hardcastle prepared food. He was partially convinced that if he moved too much his head would fall off. He was trying to decide if that would be a good or bad thing when Hardcastle placed the juice and food in front of him.

The smell of food enticed his appetite but the juice was too acidic for his sore mouth. Hardcastle replaced it with a glass of water and a sheepish grin of apology.

"So what happened after you got there?" asked McCormick.

"You were lucky," said Hardcastle as he ignored McCormick's snort. "You were. You didn't have alcohol poisoning. You were just drunk and the wounds were superficial. After a couple hours of observation, they let me take you home."

"What day is it?"

"Saturday afternoon. You've been sleeping about ten hours."

"What happened at the frat house?"

"When the police got there, they did a search and found a cache of drugs and some stolen goods. The school's closed it down pending an inquiry. Ellis and company couldn't wait to start making deals so the police were able to pick up Kinne with enough evidence to send him straight back to the slammer. After his trial, he'll be headed right back to the Big SQ."

"How did he convince people he was a law professor?" McCormick asked as he tried to focus on the judge with partial success.

"He's not talking but as near as they can figure out, he was a drug supplier for the real Professor Abernathy. He knew Abernathy had a job interview in California. He was there when Abernathy overdosed. Kinne wanted to start somewhere new so he decided to ditch Abernathy's body and step into his shoes. Evidentially he was able to con his way through the interview because they gave him the job. Once he got settled, he decided to start up his old business. He found students in his classes that were looking to make some easy money and recruited them."

"What about Barry Hohenstein?"

"Kinne came from the same place as Hohenstein. Their families had known each other for a long time. When Barry transferred here, he recognized Kinne and decided it would be better to blackmail him than contact the police."

"So how did he end up dead?"

"Barry didn't know that Kinne had recruited members of the fraternity to be part of his gang. Kinne started paying Barry off but he got Alpha Phi Beta to ask Barry to join. The kid considered it an honor. During the initiation they got him drinking and they kept him drinking. The idea was to make it look like it had been an unfortunate drinking accident."

"Then I had to find him before he died."

"Yeah. I guess they were scared that Barry had told you something before he died."

"He did," agreed McCormick as he remembered what the unfortunate student's last words. "I just didn't know what he meant."

"Don't worry about it. You didn't have all of the pieces."

"How's the school explaining all of this?"

Hardcastle gestured to the telephone which was off the hook. "Not too well. The press has descended and they're asking a lot of questions. You're lucky it's Saturday. Hopefully things will calm down by Monday."

"That's great," McCormick muttered, "more for them to talk about."

"You're the good guy, McCormick."

"I don't think the school is going to think so when they're trying to explain how they hired an escaped felon with stolen identity to teach at their law school. Plus there are going to be at least few people who think I was part of Kinne's gang and I cut some sort of deal. Face it. People are going to talk and they aren't going to be saying nice things."

"Are you starting that again?" complained Hardcastle.

McCormick sighed. "It's always something. There's always going to be something."

Hardcastle's voice turned serious. "Do you regret what happened?"

McCormick considered the question. "No. Hohenstein didn't deserve to die like that. Kinne and the others had to be stopped. "

"You do the right thing. That's why you're going to make a fine judge."

McCormick didn't comment on the slip of the tongue. "It's going to be a hard road."

"Yeah, but remember you're not walking it alone."

I got years of classes, the State Examiners to face and you're already measuring me for a robe. Thanks for believing in me, McCormick thought as he sipped his water. "Then let 'em talk because I'm staying right here."

THE END