Disclaimer: They're not my characters; I make no profit from them.

Rated: PG

Author's notes: A continuation of the issues raised by "A Fork in the Road". This time out, it's getting Mark qualified for the bar. He is, ahem, still a felon.

Thank you Cheri (who even caught a misquote from the Certificate of Rehabilitation) and Susan (see footnotes), betas extraodinaire.

Rule X

By L. M. Lewis

It was almost ten-thirty when he finally pulled in to the drive of the estate and parked the Coyote. McCormick climbed out wearily. He shivered in the January chill as he went around to the passenger's side to off-load an armful of books. The light was on in the den, looking warm and inviting.

He thought about it for a moment; he was tired, he had to be up at seven and he still had two chapters to review for contract law. But still, what would be the harm of going in? Catch the tail end of the John Wayne double feature, maybe the sports scores? Listen to the judge grouse about the way the new yard-service guy did the front hedges.

While he was considering, his mind was made up for him as the front door opened and he saw Hardcastle silhouetted in the light from the hallway. "Hey, kiddo, I need you to take a look at something."

He put the books back on the seat and strolled up. Hardcastle gave him a quick look as he stepped onto the porch. "Long day, huh?"

"They're all long days, Judge," McCormick grinned. "Don't you remember?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Go ahead, cheer me up; tell me it gets harder."

"Nah, contract law is about as bad as it gets, in my opinion." Hardcastle shut the door behind them and gave McCormick another appraising look. "I've got something you need to sign." He pointed towards the den.

McCormick followed him in. The TV was off. There was an open file folder on the judge's desk. Hardcastle pushed it across to his side. The top page read "Petition for Certificate of Rehabilitation" and, above that, "People of the State of California vs. Mark McCormick." His name had been inked in neatly by a familiar hand.

He sat down abruptly.

"I left the attorney section blank," the judge said quietly. "I didn't know if . . . you wanted someone else." Hardcastle studied the younger man intently.

"You mean," McCormick leafed through the pages slowly, "someone besides you?"

"Yeah," the judge replied gruffly, "that's what I'm asking you."

McCormick looked up with a wry smile. "I'd say you're pretty much up to speed on this case. I hope you don't want a big retainer. I'm on an allowance."

"Jeez, McCormick, don't they teach you guys anything? An attorney can't charge for these petitions. There isn't even a filing fee."

"I know," McCormick put the file down, all the lightness gone from his voice. "I paid a lot of attention during that lecture. I just hadn't thought about it for a while."

"Well, you need to start thinking about it now; if you want take the bar you're going to have to pass the moral character determination, all that Rule X stuff," Hardcastle picked the file up again, and held it out to him. "They're going to look at everything. Do you want to sit through four years of guys like Horrible Henry Hinklemann droning on about contracts, just to be somebody's law clerk?"

"Hinklemann was there when you were a student, too?" McCormick asked incredulously.

"Nah, back then it was his father, Oscar Hinklemann. Now are you gonna sign this or not?"

McCormick sat frozen for a moment, saying nothing.

"Okay," he finally exhaled as he turned to the last page, "I'll sign it." He took a pen from his pocket. "During the period of my rehabilitation," he intoned authoritatively, "I have lived an honest and upright life, conducted myself with sobriety and industry, (no kidding there, I never let those hedges get as raggedy-assed as they are now), and exhibited good moral character; I have conformed to and obeyed all the laws of the land." Well, we'll just leave off a couple of midnight raids on impound and--"

"One," the judge interrupted. "One raid on impound, and you were with me, and I am an officer of the court, and there was a search warrant . . . sort of."

"—and two pounds of raw steak for the security dogs," McCormick grinned, as he signed his name. He closed the file and looked down at it. "Now what happens?"

"Now," the judge stood up and slapped his hands together, "I get the affidavits together and ask Judge Jenkins how soon he can get us a hearing."

"The fix is in?"

"No fix, dammit, you are rehabilitated. You have been for . . . for a while now. We just gotta show 'em the paperwork."

00000

On a bright February morning, a little over a month later, they stood in front of the Superior Court Building. McCormick was wearing his most sober and industrious suit. He wasn't sure if he felt calm, or merely resigned.

He'd known all along that if he were to have any hope of qualifying for the bar, this would be necessary. Why had he put it off? At first he had chalked it up to uncertainty; maybe he'd fall on his face in law school and never have to worry about the bar. But now, with two years of classes behind him, the possibility of failure was slipping through his fingers.

But all this bowing and scraping, this begging for forgiveness, and all with the potential for a cold slap in the face. Did anybody who sat on that side of the bench give a rat's ass about what he was trying to do? There were days when he thought if one more person said "No, you can't" to him, he was going to throw it all back at them and walk away.

"Come on, kiddo, you don't want to be late," Hardcastle was halfway up the steps and had turned back, interrupting Mark's thoughts with an impatient gesture to get a move on.

Yeah, there is one other person who thinks this is important, McCormick smiled to himself. He'd seen the light on in the den late into the night the past few weeks; he'd seen the judge poring over files, cross-checked things, making phone calls. And he's nervous, too, McCormick thought, though the signs might not have been noticeable to anyone but him.

He followed the judge up the stairs, through the security check-in, and down the labyrinth of halls to the hearing room. To Mark's eye, his friend's step was brisker, now that they were inside. He's home.

Hardcastle flashed him a smile before they went through the double doors of courtroom 112A. "Don't worry," he said, "it's nothing, just a formality," then he added, "and don't slouch."

The hearing room was nearly deserted, with only a court stenographer, the bailiff, and a handful of people from the case before. Jenkins was there as well, leaning forward over the bench having some words with a lawyer who looked none too pleased. After he had sent the man off, he waved Hardcastle forward.

"Eleven already, Milt? I can't believe it. We'll be ready to go here in a couple of minutes. Why don't you grab a chair?" He pointed them both to the defendant's table and McCormick took a seat uneasily.

You're going to have to stop associating sitting here with getting sentenced, he thought. Then the bailiff announced the case and Hardcastle went forward to present the petition.

"You're going to have your client sworn in for testimony?" Jenkins asked.

"I don't think we'll need to," Hardcastle replied. "I have affidavits here, from the District Attorney, as well as the Chief of Police; there's a citation from his office as well, from a couple years ago--an undercover investigation into corruption. There's also a note of appreciation from the ex-governor."

Jenkins's eyebrow went up a notch, "Which ex-governor?" he inquired mildly.

"The one who is in Washington, Your Honor," Hardcastle replied, with the look of a man who pulls rabbits out of a hat routinely. "It was for the petitioner's assistance in apprehending an escaped murderer."

"Well, I certainly remember your client's contributions to several cases I've presided over in the last few years."

"I thought you might, Your Honor," Hardcastle smiled.

"Well, pick out what you want to be read into the record, Counselor. Looks like you've got enough to choose from there." He waited as Hardcastle riffled through his papers and, separating off a few sheets, handed them to Jenkins, whose eyebrows went up again. "The State Department?" He glanced over at McCormick, who was trying not to slouch. "You have been a very active young man."

"That was with regards to a ring of international arms dealers siphoning off American military supplies," Hardcastle nodded at the piece of embossed stationary, "the petitioner assisted in their apprehension about five years ago."

Jenkins handed the pile over to the stenographer and turned back to Hardcastle. "Counselor, would you care to join me in my chambers?" Hardcastle nodded. As he turned to follow Jenkins out through the side door, he flashed a quick thumbs-up to the man at the table.

McCormick slumped, then jerked up, startled by a hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry," Frank Harper said, as he leaned forward from a seat just behind the rail. "I shoulda figured you'd be a little jumpy in here," he added.

McCormick looked over his shoulder at him, and then swiveled halfway around, wondering how long he'd been back there. "S'okay Frank. I was just watching my life flash before my eyes."

"Yeah, he was showing me some of it the other day. He put together a nice little collection for you."

"Well, I guess I can skip my funeral now; I've already heard the eulogy." McCormick shook his head in bemusement. "I wish he'd told me what he was up to. Hey," he frowned slightly, "What do you suppose they're doing back there now? You don't think he overplayed it too much? They don't have any old grudges or anything, do they?"

Harper laughed, "Nah, Milt ran the numbers. He showed me; Jenkins was the presiding judge on six separate cases you two were involved in, all convictions. He wanted to make sure he was preaching to the choir. That way he figured all he had to do was give him the big picture." The detective patted his shoulder.

"You know, Frank, that sounds suspiciously like an angle. I didn't think old Hardcase believed in using the angles in a trial."

"It's not a trial, Mark."

McCormick looked around the room for a moment and said, "Yeah," softly, "I guess it isn't. Kinda felt like one though, when I first came in." He slouched down, a little more relaxed. "So what are you doing here, anyway, got to testify at something?"

"Nope, I'm taking you two out to lunch after this is over." Frank nodded in the direction of the Hardcastle, who was now emerging from Jenkins's chambers, behind the man himself.

Hardcastle eased back into his own seat next to McCormick. He leaned over and asked, "How ya holding up? Almost done now."

Jenkins was back at the bench, studying the paper before him. He cleared his throat to give the stenographer a heads-up, and then began, "In the matter of the Petition of Mark McCormick to the Superior Court of California, County of Los Angeles, for a Certificate of Rehabilitation," Judge Jenkins smiled, "I do so order said certification. Congratulations, Mr. McCormick."

The ending had come so abruptly, that it almost took him by surprise. Frank was pounding his back, and Hardcastle was saying something to him that he couldn't quite make out, and they were all on their feet for the departure of Jenkins.

"Judge--?"

Then he was sitting down again, and the bailiff, all smiles, was handing him a glass of water, saying, "Happens sometimes."

"No breakfast," Hardcastle added, "I'll bet you didn't sleep much last night, either. You okay now, kid? White as a ghost for a minute there."

00000

They had lunch near the court building, at a place much frequented by lawyers. Once they were seated, McCormick found himself lapsing into silence, in the bustle of the restaurant, while the other two talked around him. He felt as though things had taken on momentum of their own, like that time he'd been caught in the rapids of that river up in Oregon, and he was almost as much at risk of drowning now as he had been then.

He gradually became aware of a silence at the table; someone, the judge, was waiting for him to answer a question he hadn't heard. "Ah . . ."

Hardcastle shook his head, smiling. "I said, 'Do you feel any different now?'."

Leave it to the judge to come up with a question he didn't know the answer to. Mark hesitated for moment, thinking about it, and then finally answered, "No, I don't think so. Lighter maybe," he smiled, "but not really different."

"Well, good," the judge replied, looking him in the eye, "because you're not. It's just a piece of paper. Like I said, you were already rehabilitated, and if …" he let the sentence trail off, but McCormick could hear the subtext, as clearly as if the judge were speaking it out loud--if something happens, if the rest of the pieces don't fall into place, if some high hoo-haw says 'no'; it doesn't matter.

"I know, Judge," Mark said quietly, letting him off the hook, "I know."

00000

They rode home that afternoon in companionable silence. Hardcastle seemed to understand that Mark needed some time to work through it all. It was only when they'd gotten within a mile or so of the estate, that McCormick finally brought up the question that had been nagging him in the courtroom.

"What'd he call you back into chambers for? What did you guys talk about?" he asked. "I thought maybe we were in trouble there for a minute."

"That?" Hardcastle glanced aside, looking surprised, obviously not aware of just how shaky McCormick had thought his chances were. "Ha, no, old Jenkins just wanted to say something way off the record."

"About me?"

"Sort of." Hardcastle looked embarrassed. "He wanted to congratulate me for 'reforming' you."

McCormick nodded.

"They do that, you know, mostly the same guys who told me I was nuts five years ago, though Jenkins wasn't one of those. But, anyway, I told him what I tell the rest of 'em." Hardcastle glanced aside again; McCormick was still staring straight ahead. "I tell them it wasn't me. You did all the work."

00000

Three months later

It was noon when he turned in the drive at Gull's Way--one of those perfect early-summer, southern California days, made even more perfect by the knowledge that he had faced down Hincklemann's contract law final and, if there was any justice in the world, would never have to sit in a lecture hall and listen to that man again.

Hardcastle must've seen him pull up. He was opening the door before Mark was even up to the steps. "How'd it go?"

Mark shrugged casually, "It went." By now the judge probably understood the younger man's morbid superstition about not jinxing these things.

Hardcastle smiled. "Good. You got some mail, came right after you left this morning." He held out the envelope, a certified letter in a heavy cream-colored envelope with a return address in Sacramento.

McCormick looked down at it for a long moment before taking it from the judge's hand.

"And will you please sit down before you open it." Hardcastle took him by the elbow and led him into the den, pointing him at a chair.

McCormick sat where instructed, fumbled with the envelope for a second and then handed it back up to the judge, "Could you . . .?" he said, with a panicked look.

Hardcastle took a letter-opener off the desk and slit the top with a quick stroke. "There." He handed it back.

"I mean . . ."

"No," the judge said quietly, "it's yours; read it."

He took the sheets out, setting the cover letter aside and flattening the second page nervously. The judge was hovering next to him, waiting for him to say something. McCormick finally held the page up for him to see.

Hardcastle's voice made it real, "'By the laws of this state it is proper that I, as Governor of the State of California, give testimony that, by successful completion of his sentence and subsequent exemplary conduct in and service to his community since his discharge more than 5 years ago, MARK MCCORMICK has paid his debt to society and earned a full and unconditional pardon.'" He grinned broadly. "Congratulations, kiddo, you did it."

"Thank you," McCormick said very simply, hoping the judge understood.

00000

"I'm going to have a whack at that hedge later," McCormick said as the judge turned the steaks. "It hasn't been trimmed straight once in the last three months. I don't think that guy knows which clippers to use."

The judge looked over his shoulder, "You feeling okay?"

McCormick thought for a moment, "Dunno, maybe it's a side effect."

"Well, long may it last." The judge pulled the steaks off the grill and carried them to the table. "And maybe now that you have a couple weeks off, you can do something about the gutters."

"Yeah, I'll call the gutter service. There's no esthetics in good gutter maintenance; it's not like hedges. Anyway," McCormick shook his head, "if I fall off the ladder, you're out two-and-a-half years of law school tuition."

"It'll have been a real waste of Hinklemann's efforts, too." Hardcastle added.

McCormick made a face as he stabbed one of the steaks onto his plate.

"So," the judge went on, "you gonna fill out that application for the moral character review now?"

McCormick paused in mid cut. "You know," he said slowly, "I've read those Rule X requirements a few times." He put the knife and fork down carefully. "I've spent some time looking at section 4853, too." He saw Hardcastle twitch a smile at this, as though it still surprised him when McCormick showed his deepening familiarity with the Penal Code. "Even a pardon isn't a guarantee of qualifying for the bar."

"I know, kiddo. There'll probably be a hearing. I wouldn't worry about it too much though if I were you." Hardcastle reached for the bottle of steak sauce "You've got a good lawyer."

"Yeah," McCormick smiled, "I do," and he shook his head as he picked up the knife and fork again.

Author's postscript: Yes, it's fan fiction with footnotes. For those of you who just can't get enough of the State of California pardon system, the following links may be interesting:

The document that Mark is reading from at the beginning of the story is on line under 'forms' at the Superior Court of Orange County website, which stubbornly refuses to cooperate with any attempts to link to, or copy address .

The pardon process is described here:

http:www.bpt.ca.gov/applyforpardon.pdf

The bits about the state bar and moral character determinations are

http:calbar.ca.gov/calbar/pdfs/admissions/Moral-Character/sfMC-webform-instructions.pdf

(Sorry, hyperlinks disabled to avoid annoying the nice folks at FFnet. Just highlight and copy into your browser bar.)

Susan will soon, I hope, be putting up a file at the Yahoo Gull's Way BB, which is her annotated comments on the 'Rule X' qualifications for the California Bar, that explain why Mark will be approved, especially if she has any say in the matter. I, on the other hand, think I may be able to wring another 35K of angst from this situation. If you aren't a member of Gull's Way (and why not?), and you want to see this, e-mail me.