Author's Note: When we started this project two years ago, we picked some of our favorite bits of unfinished business to comment on. On the first pass, only eight of the twenty-two first season episodes were dealt with, though a couple of the others had already undergone some serious epiloging via other stories.

Now we're back for another strafing run. Here's Epilogophilia 2.0—The Ones That Got Away.

Epilogophilia: Man in a Glass House

Written by Stephen J. Cannell, this was the first regular episode of the first season.

Retired mobster Joe Cadillac goes public with a controversial autobiography. In it he slams Hardcastle. Turns out he and the judge have quite a bit of history and even met once, after hours, to duke it out over an insult Cadillac made to Hardcastle's wife.

But Milt isn't the only guy being dissed in the new book—Cadillac also takes on some of his old mob cronies. Hardcastle is certain that this means Joe has some 'insurance' in the form of evidence he's stashed away. Despite Mark's misgivings, he sets out to track the goods down.

An unexpected car chase (though we should always expect those) leads to an iffy acquisition of Cadillac's car which is impounded, pending a ruling as to whether or not it can be searched. Not long after, Cadillac goes to Hardcastle for help. His old business partners have kidnapped his son, a priest, to force Joe to fork over the papers that are in the trunk of the impounded car.

Hardcastle heads out to do a little midnight evidence liberation, only to find that Mark is waiting for him by the car. The two of them break into the impound area and, the next morning, bust the bad guys at the meet to exchange the papers for the priest.

When the dust settles, Hardcastle insists on confessing to Lt. Carleton. Again against his better judgment, Mark joins him in Carleton's office only to discover that they aren't going to be busted—the search warrant for the vehicle had already been approved and time-stamped before they entered the impound yard.

Epilogue—by L.M. Lewis

Mark had snagged him by one arm and almost forcibly dragged the man out of Carleton's office, all the while listening to Hardcastle's fervent protestations of guilt. Thank God the lieutenant didn't seem to be buying any of it. Mark knew for a fact that the judge could be damn persuasive. Hadn't he wound up in that office 'fessing up right alongside of the man only a few minutes earlier?

He didn't really feel the full weight of the relief until they were outside, and then, only a fraction of a second later, that was swallowed up in a backrush of fear. Hardcastle was still muttering—it was some damn thing about 'mens rea'—nothing that made any sense, of course.

Mark shook his head, trying to clear it. He realized his hands were shaking and he tried to cover that by stuffing them into his pockets as he strode off toward the Coyote. He didn't say a word to the judge—didn't even look back to see if he was following. If the guy wanted to stand there and shake his fist at the kinder Fates, he was welcome to it.

He pulled one hand free and noticed with some relief that the tremor had subsided. Anger had swept fear away and Mark had learned, a long time back, that anger had to be kept under tight control.

"Get in," he said stiffly, as he swung his own legs over the frame of the Coyote and slid down into the driver's seat. He didn't think his tone had revealed much but he was aware that the judge had fallen silent and was gazing at him from just outside the passenger door.

"What'sa matter with you?" Hardcastle finally asked, as he eased into the passenger side of the vehicle.

Mark kept his face on straight. It was a lot of anger for a very tight space and just because the State of California wasn't looking for its pound of flesh this morning, didn't mean Hardcastle himself couldn't take it out of him if he provoked the man.

"Nothing," he finally said, keeping it very flat as he reached down to start the car.

"Hmmph," the judge snorted, "shoulda thought you'd be tickled pink having it turn out this way."

McCormick couldn't help it, his head turned to his right in absolute astonishment. He thought for a split second that the man was joking but, no, the look on the judge's face was unmistakably irritated.

He looked forward again, fully intending to simply drive. Get home, say nothing more. But he heard the words came out, of their own volition.

"Not enough," he said. It was a low mutter of his own, at least at first, though in the confines of the Coyote, the judge could hardly fail to hear. "It's never going to be enough for you. We got the bad guys, we saved the good guy, we got out of it in one piece, and with nobody the wiser, but, no, you gotta get right with the system. Fine. It's your system, besides they probably woulda let you plead diminished capacity because, let's face it, Hardcase, you are nuts. But good old Mark, here, I'm what is known as a career criminal—a recidivist. They throw the book at people like me and then pat themselves on the back."

He stopped and drew in a deep breath. He still hadn't set the car in motion. He sneaked a quick glance, corner of the eyes only, at the man alongside him. To his surprise, the judge hadn't tried to break into his diatribe. He was merely looking intense, maybe a little surprised.

"The hell with it," Mark finally added with a sigh. "Okay, I'm chortling inside because I got another felony on my resume." He looked up, over his shoulder, in the direction of the police building, and Carleton's third floor office. "Damn," he added in a near whisper, "that was close." The tremor was back. He clutched the steering wheel tighter.

"You want me to drive?" Hardcastle asked in a tone which was surprisingly calm.

McCormick gave him another quick glance. "No," he said sharply and then, a moment later and a little apologetically, he added, "I'm okay."

There was another 'hmmph' from the judge. "And you thought I'd wiggle out of it and leave you there, holding the bag?"

"No." Oddly, even through the haze of remaining anger, Mark didn't even have to think about that one. "'Course not. You were looking forward to being charged. 'The System in Action'." Mark shook his head. "It wouldn't be your fault that you'd get the benefit of the doubt and I'd get the mandatory sentence for repeat offenders. That's just the way the system is."

He felt the anger seeping out of him, slowly giving way to resignation. He almost didn't hear the judge clearing his throat in a way that seemed half apologetic for what was following.

"Yeah," the older man said, "I suppose I can see how you'd see it that way."

Mark turned slowly to look at him full-on.

"And of course I couldn't've made you any guarantees," Hardcastle said quietly, "which is why I didn't, up there in the hallway, before we went in to see Carleton."

Mark wasn't exactly sure, but he thought there'd been a slight emphasis on the word 'we' in that sentence, and a simultaneous look of barely-concealed pleasure on Hardcastle's face. He said nothing. He didn't want to point out that they hadn't exactly gone into Carleton's office shoulder to shoulder.

Hardcastle nearly ignored the brief silence, only permitting it the punctuation of another sigh and then saying, "I figured, being the one in charge, and you under my direction and guidance—"

Mark's snort went more or less ignored.

"—I could've eventually convinced them that there was tacit coercion involved. I woulda taken the hit. Not sure how that would've gone down. I'd like to think the system has a little room for flagrant necessity, but sometimes it's a crap shoot."

Mark felt his jaw drop open. It might've been hearing the terms 'crap shoot' and 'the system' being used in the same sentence. He finally collected himself and thought it all the way through. Arriving at the other end of the judge's logic, he frowned.

"But then what would've happened to me?"

Hardcastle shrugged. There was nothing light or nonchalant about it. "I suppose they would've saved you from my bad influence. Maybe that's all. No more running around after the bad guys, that's for sure."

"But . . ." Mark frowned down at the steering wheel, looking for a safer protest that the first one that had sprung to mind, "it wasn't," he finally said. "Coercion, I mean. I was waiting down by the car for you."

"Sure it was," Hardcastle nodded. "There's always some of that when one guy has all the cards and the other guy—"

"Doesn't," McCormick finished for him, with glum intensity. He thought it over for a moment and finally came back around to where he'd started. "Not enough. Never will be. If I do the right thing, you'll think it was because I had to." He wasn't even sure which right thing he was talking about any more—the risky plan to save Joe Cadillac's son, or confessing to it afterwards.

"No," he finally mustered a protest, "it's not always coercion. Sometimes I do the right thing because it's the right thing to do."

"Yeah," the judge shrugged again, "if you ask me, you don't coerce all that easy . . . and it's not like I haven't tried." The shrug had a rueful grin tacked onto it. "But there wasn't any reason for them to know about that." He gestured in the direction of the police building with his chin.

Mark glanced up at the sturdily intimidating structure behind them, The System made flesh—or at least brick and mortar. He had a sudden and odd notion that Hardcastle might have enjoyed his little romp outside the confines of it, even if the penalty afterward was a certain amount of unrequited guilt.

He shook his head, the last of the anger finally gone. He even smiled slightly. There was a tinge of conspiracy to the air. He would continue to do the right thing from time to time, and Hardcase would occasionally do the wrong.