Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators.

Rating: K+

Author's Notes: The next installment from volume three of the STAR for Brian CD 'zines. And, for those who might not be aware, last week in Hollywood, Brian Keith's star was finally unveiled on the Walk of Fame. For those who were there, it was a moment we'll likely never forget. I offer my sincere thanks to everyone who made it possible.

Last Tuesday in October

by Cheride

"Seriously, Judge, I'd just as soon order in a pizza, or something." The slightly pained expression on McCormick's face gave extra credence to his words. He threw in the final pitch. "And I'll be right here when you start pounding the backboard tomorrow morning." He gestured around the gatehouse. "I promise; I won't budge all night."

Hardcastle grimaced. "This isn't about not trusting you to stay home, McCormick; this is about wanting you to have dinner with me and my friend."

The younger man could tell already this was not an argument he was going to win, but he wasn't ready to give up. "Your friend doesn't want to have dinner with me, Hardcase. Most people aren't quite as open minded as you are about sharing the table with an ex-con."

The judge arched an eyebrow. "I'm not sure if that's an insult to my friends, or a compliment to me," he mused. Then he shook his head. "Besides, you don't even know Sandy," he continued, "so you shouldn't judge him."

"I shouldn't judge him?" McCormick snorted. "And anyway, I met him already, a couple of weeks ago, remember?"

"That doesn't count," Hardcastle said, waving a hand, "he was working. He didn't have time to make nice."

"We were working, too," Mark pointed out, "just trying to get some information about that Blanchett case. But I couldn't help but notice that he didn't seem too keen on having me anywhere near his crime scene."

"He just didn't want you wandering into the camera shot," Hardcastle defended.

"And how do you think he's gonna feel about me wandering into his snappy dinnertime repartee?"

The grimace on Hardcastle's face was deepening. "Listen, McCormick, I shouldn't have to explain myself to you, but the fact is that I've been helping keep an eye on Sandy Knight ever since his dad died back when we were cops, and I think he's come through some things no one should have to and turned out pretty much okay. But it's important to me that I'm still around for him, just like I promised his dad. And now that you're here, it's also important to me that you get the chance to spend time with some different people."

"Some better people, you mean," McCormick retorted bitterly.

"Different people," the judge repeated firmly. "It's called networking, kiddo, and it wouldn't hurt you to have some friends on the legal side of the legal system. It really does come in handy once in a while."

McCormick thought about that for a second. In the less than two months he'd been at Gulls Way, he'd already seen the wrong side of a cellblock a couple of times. From his perspective, Hardcastle was the only guy who'd made the difference in keeping those occasions short term visits, but it was definitely true that the judge had his own network of friends that might've been called into play. He supposed the old guy might have a point. He let out a silent breath, then offered a small grin.

"You said it's just one night a month, right?"

Hardcastle let out his own breath, seeming to recognize the battle was over. "Yep. Last Tuesday of every month."

"All right. What time do you want me to start dinner?"

The judge was smiling as he rose from the sofa and moved toward the door. "I'll cook, kiddo; you just be there by six. Oh, and wear a jacket, would ya?"

"A jack—?" Mark bit off the objection. "Okay. Six o'clock, with bells on."

It was only after Hardcastle had vanished out the door that McCormick realized he'd already spent one 'last Tuesday of the month' at the estate and had managed to avoid dinner with Sandy Knight on that occasion. He wasn't sure what test he had passed in order to earn an invitation today, but he found himself making a silent promise that he wouldn't do anything to mess it up, even if he would rather stay in and order a pizza.

00000

When the bell rang at five minutes before six, Hardcastle was still puttering in the kitchen, leaving McCormick to answer the door. He took a breath and hustled up the steps to the entryway. Pulling open the door, he smiled heartily at the man standing on the porch. Not that even his heartiest smile could hope to compete with the dazzle coming from the too-perfect man in front of him, but he was determined that for one night a month he could deal with anything. "Hi. Come on in." He stepped aside to let the visitor pass.

But the other man hesitated, and the dazzle faded. "Ah . . ."

"The judge is still getting things ready," McCormick explained. He gestured into the house, and Knight finally stepped slowly into the entryway. "We met a couple of weeks ago," McCormick continued, as he closed the door and turned back to the guest. He offered a hand. "Mark McCormick. I'm Judge Hardcastle's . . ." The introduction trailed off as McCormick realized two things. First, Sandy Knight didn't seem in any hurry to shake his hand. And second, he didn't have any idea just how he was going to introduce himself anyway. Judge Hardcastle's what? Someday he'd have to give that some thought. But Knight seemed to have an idea to share.

"His con," the officer said bluntly. "His latest con."

McCormick took a second, remembered his earlier promise to himself, and arched an eyebrow. "Ex-con," he corrected calmly, then started toward the den. "Come on in," he repeated. "The judge'll be out in a minute."

"And you're staying for dinner?" Sandy asked, following the other man.

"That's the plan." Mark had a sudden thought. "None of the others have been invited before, huh?"

"No," Knight answered simply.

McCormick grinned as he twisted to face the visitor. "Well, don't worry; I don't bite."

But Knight seemed to be getting past some of his early surprise. "That's not what I meant," he said, almost conciliatorily. "It's just that it's been just me and Milt for a long time, ever since his wife died."

"I understand," McCormick replied, and didn't try to force a more honest answer.

"Hey, Sandy!"

The young men looked around as Hardcastle came in from the dining room, smiling heartily. "How are ya?" the judge continued.

"I'm good, Milt," Knight answered, smiling in return. "Good to see you, as always."

"And you got a chance to talk to McCormick, huh? He's gonna be havin' dinner with us tonight."

"Yeah, he heard," McCormick said blandly.

"What can I do to help, Milt?" Sandy asked, and McCormick was pretty sure Hardcastle didn't miss the fact that there had been no hearty welcome coming from their dinner guest.

But if the jurist had registered any sort of implied discontent, he gave no indication. "Nah, nothin', everything's all ready." He rubbed his hands together and jerked his head back toward the dining room. "Nothin' fancy," he went on, motioning the others to their seats as he took his own spot at the head of the table, "just pork chops tonight."

"Everything looks really good, Milt," Sandy said, surveying the table appreciatively.

"Yeah," McCormick grinned, "nothing even looks burned, or anything."

"That's not what I meant," Knight objected, throwing a quick glare across the table.

McCormick fought back a retort and started the serving. "Salad?" he asked, then dished greens onto each of the plates.

From there, it was easy to get absorbed in passing the food and filling the plates, which led to a few minutes of conversation surrounding Hardcastle's choice of baked chops over grilled ("didn't really want to be messin' around outside today") and why he'd opted for macaroni salad rather than potatoes ("cuz I felt like it"), but after that initial burst of activity, a lull fell over the room as the three of them simply focused their attention on eating.

After a few moments of silence, Hardcastle spoke first. "How's the job going, Sandy?" He looked over at McCormick, then added with a touch of pride, "He was specially selected for this position as department spokesman."

McCormick nodded. "He certainly has the looks for it," he said with a small grin. But Sandy didn't seem amused, so he added quickly, "But I'm sure that wasn't the only consideration."

"It does still require being an officer in the Los Angeles Police Department," Knight said haughtily.

"Sure it does," Hardcastle said smoothly, "and you're doing a fine job."

"And it's important," Mark continued amicably, "to keep the citizens informed. Better that the public get the right information straight from the source rather than relying on rumors about some of this stuff." He surveyed the others quickly and thought Knight seemed mollified, and Hardcastle seemed okay with it all, so he scooped up a forkful of macaroni and shut up.

He was content then for a while to focus mainly on his meal, letting the conversation go on around him, throwing in just the occasional remark while the other two talked about football, the Knight family plans for the upcoming holiday season, and the latest cases down at the department. Then the talk turned to how retirement was treating the judge, and that grabbed his attention a little bit more.

"Things are really going pretty well on the cases with McCormick," Hardcastle was saying. "It's good to be keepin' my hand in, doin' my part."

"Well, you're certainly stirring up a lot of talk down at the department," Sandy said with a small smile, "especially after that Joe Cadillac business. We've been trying to get Nate Reems and that crowd for a long time. They'll all be going away now because of you."

Hardcastle jerked a thumb toward McCormick. "Because of us," he corrected lightly. "I really doubt anybody ever expected a mobster to turn to a judge for help, but we turned out to be a pretty good team."

"Yeah, well," McCormick piped, "that's probably because most people would never have figured you for such natural criminal aptitude."

"What?" Suddenly, Knight didn't seem so pleased with the direction of the story. "Criminal aptitude? What are you talking about?"

"We're not going to talk about that," Hardcastle said gruffly, waving a silencing hand in McCormick's direction.

"C'mon, Judge," McCormick teased, "you were practically a natural. Spend a little more time with me, and you could be an expert."

"Natural? Expert?" Sandy clearly didn't like being out of the loop.

But Hardcastle was taking the kidding in stride. "Hah. I might take my lessons from someone else, kiddo; I'm not sure most of the experts have San Quentin listed in their residential history."

McCormick pointed his fork at the judge with a grin. "That's more your fault than mine, Hardcase."

"Judges are hardly responsible for the felons they convict, Mark," Knight broke in patronizingly.

"Well, maybe not before," McCormick conceded, "but he kinda is now." He sawed into his pork chop again, but not before tossing a quick wink toward Hardcastle, who simply shook his head with a grin.

There was a slight pause, and then Sandy asked, "So how long have you been out, Mark?"

McCormick chewed slowly, not at all misled by the casual tone of the question. Finally he met the officer's eyes and answered clearly, "About seven months."

"And how's everything going for you?"

Mark paused, suddenly wishing he'd taken a little longer with that pork; here was a loaded question if ever he'd heard one. And though Hardcastle was continuing with his own meal, he was also obviously very interested in the answer, as his eyebrow climbed up inquiringly. McCormick thought this situation definitely called for complete superficiality. "Things are fine."

He thought Hardcastle seemed a little disappointed, but he figured if the guy had questions, he should ask them himself. But Knight didn't seem deterred by the lack of detail.

"Fine? Even though a month ago you were arrested again on the same charges that got you convicted last time?"

Mark grabbed a roll and tore it apart roughly, forcing himself not to send an accusing glare in Hardcastle's direction. He supposed the judge had a right to talk about his case—it's not like it wasn't all a matter of public record anyway—but he had somehow just assumed that he wouldn't. And he himself had no desire to discuss the issue with Sandy Knight. Again he kept the response brief.

"The judge and I worked that out."

"By bringing you here."

This time McCormick did chance a look over at the judge, only to find that he seemed genuinely surprised by the line of questioning. The ex-con made a calculated assumption. "You pulled my sheet," he accused, looking back at Knight.

"No he di—" Hardcastle broke off quickly, almost as if he had realized Sandy wasn't issuing a denial. He turned to his dinner guest. "Did you?"

Knight shrugged, and directed his answer to McCormick. "I am a police officer."

"I'm not sure that makes it any of your concern," McCormick told him, but he kept his tone mild, for Hardcastle's sake.

"You're living and working with a friend of mine," Sandy replied, as if that should explain everything.

And, much to McCormick's surprise, he found that it really kind of did, so he took another bite of his roll and didn't offer any further comment. And he let the dinner conversation wind down around him.

With the plates pushed away, and everyone simply sipping on iced tea, McCormick rose from the table. "I'll clean up, Judge," he said, and began gathering the dishes.

"Let me help, Mark," Sandy said amiably.

And though McCormick would've been just as happy to escape the man's presence for even a few minutes, he just smiled and said, "Thanks."

00000

Hardcastle watched quietly as the young men cleared the table, then disappeared behind the kitchen door. All in all, he thought the evening was going okay, though he wished McCormick had been more engaged. Still, it was clear the young man was working hard to be on his best behavior with Sandy, and while that wasn't exactly what the judge had had in mind, he did find that he appreciated the effort. The ex-con had even dealt well with the idea of Knight checking up on him—though Hardcastle wished that had never taken place.

He thought it was possible that he'd made a slight miscalculation. He'd invited McCormick here this evening thinking it would be good for him to be involved in something besides crime-fighting and hedge-clipping. But the kid was unlikely to begin feeling any more comfortable about expanding his horizons if everyone he came in contact with kept reminding him that he had a past to overcome. He grinned to himself. Better if that message only comes from me. But he supposed it was at least a start, and maybe the young men would become friends over time. He took a sip of his tea, and sat back to give them time to get acquainted.

00000

There hadn't been much conversation as the plates were scraped and loaded into the dishwasher, but suddenly Sandy said, "This conviction would've been your third."

McCormick answered unflinchingly. "Yes."

"You seem to have a problem keeping your hands off other people's cars."

Setting a plate down deliberately, McCormick looked back at Knight. "And you seem to have a problem minding your own business."

"I told you why it's my business," Sandy said, no trace of apology in his tone.

McCormick leaned against the counter and gazed at the officer levelly. "And I thought that made a certain amount of sense, but it isn't going to carry you very far before my patience wears out. So whatever questions you have, you probably ought to get them out right now."

"It's really only one question," Knight answered just as plainly. "What kind of game are you running?"

"Well, based on my past experiences, I'm pretty sure someone like Hardcastle would call that 'assuming facts not in evidence', but I think I get your point. But like you said, the judge's deal kept me out of prison, so what makes you think that's not enough motivation?"

"You've been there twice already; apparently you haven't found the motivation for staying out."

McCormick felt his jaw clenching, but he still managed to keep his tone steady. "I'm more motivated than you might think, and there's more to those other stories than you know."

"I read your file," Sandy reminded him derisively. "Blaming Judge Hardcastle isn't much of a defense. Did you blame your first judge, too?"

Mark sighed wearily. "Let me ask you; do you really think Hardcastle needs you defending him?"

"What I think is that Milt really wants to do a lot of good for a lot of people, and he doesn't think too much about the risk to himself."

From what McCormick had seen so far, he wasn't sure he could argue with that assessment, but he didn't know how he was supposed to convince people that he didn't fall into the list of 'risks'. That task seemed especially daunting with someone like Sandy Knight, whose opinion he personally didn't give a flying damn about. But he knew he was going to try. "I met J.J. Beal," he said suddenly.

Knight raised an eyebrow. Apparently he hadn't heard that story yet. All he said was, "Really?"

McCormick nodded once. "I already knew there had been others before me; Sarah told me that right from the beginning, and the judge never tried to deny it. He told me some of them didn't work out, but he never went into any details. Then a few weeks ago, Beal broke out of jail and came after him."

"Dammit." Knight shook his head and roughly placed the last pan into the dishwasher, then slammed the door shut. "That's what I'm talking about," he said, turning back to McCormick. "Cons." He practically spat out the word. "Milt brings criminals into his home and thinks he can trust them." He glared a challenge across the small space. "Why are you any different?"

00000

Hardcastle stood frozen in a split-second of indecision. He hadn't intended to eavesdrop; it just seemed like it had been taking the boys a long time to do the dishes, so he was going to the kitchen to see what was going on. He had hoped to find them involved in friendly conversation about any number of topics, or maybe out on the basketball court for an impromptu game of after-dinner hoops. Nowhere in his wildest dreams would he have expected what he actually heard.

I met J.J. Beal.

It had stopped him in his tracks, standing with the swinging door pushed open just a fraction of an inch, allowing the conversation to waft over him. And though he was immediately angered with Knight's insinuations toward McCormick, he could admit the attitude wasn't all that different than his own from a few weeks back, even if he and McCormick had mostly talked things out after the fact. Still, what had he said to the kid? Gonna be six months before I trust you, McCormick. Even at the time, he'd had an inkling he was speaking mostly from habit, but now, standing here, listening to his friend being so blatantly distrustful, he felt a twinge of guilt. But he couldn't deny that he was interested in McCormick's response, and so he waited.

"Different?" McCormick repeated the word incredulously. "For starters, maybe because I'm actually still here. No crime sprees, no escape attempts, and not even once have I tried to kill the old coot. What more proof do you need?"

Personally, Hardcastle thought the simple response held a lot of truth, but Knight didn't seem too impressed.

"Milt seems to think you're a funny guy, McCormick, but I think you're just a punk with a smart mouth. You're gonna have to do better than that."

McCormick paused for a moment, then offered a thin smile. "Actually, I don't. When you get to know me, you'll probably find that I'm a fairly reasonable guy, but I don't have anything to prove to you. Hardcastle's really the only one I'm too worried about, so if you have concerns, or questions, you should probably talk to him about that." He grabbed a cloth to wipe down the counter top, then draped it over the sink before starting for the back door.

"I'll leave you two alone now," he said as he grabbed the handle. "Maybe you can get some of those questions answered." He was through the door and had it mostly pulled behind him when he paused and turned back with a grin. "Oh, and I'll see you next month." Then he closed the door decisively.

Hardcastle had almost stopped him from leaving, but as the grin spread across his own face, he had to admit the kid had a way with an exit. He would talk to McCormick later.

He waited a few more seconds while Knight puttered around, straightening a last few items, then he bustled through the swinging door. "Hey, what's takin' so long in here?"

Knight looked around quickly, a small look of surprised guilt on his face. "Ah, nothing, Milt; all done." He dried his hands and moved toward the judge, but Hardcastle was headed for the fridge.

"How 'bout a beer?" the older man asked. "And where's McCormick?"

"Ah . . . beer's fine, Milt. And Mark left. Said he'd give us some time alone."

"Oh." The judge handed over a beer as he passed the younger man. "Okay." He led the way down the hall and into the den. "He's a pretty good kid, don'tcha think?" he continued, as he situated himself in one of the leather armchairs. Might as well get this out now.

Sandy put the bottle to his lips as he seated himself in the opposite chair, pulling a long swig. Hardcastle didn't consider that a good sign, but he really was interested in what the young officer had to say.

"He may not be as bad as some you've brought here," Knight allowed after a moment.

Hardcastle grimaced. Not exactly a glowing recommendation. "There's nothing bad about him at all," he countered.

The other man looked back at him skeptically. "He's a criminal, Milt, and I don't know why you continue to put yourself in jeopardy like this."

"He's not a criminal, Sandy," the jurist said. "He made some mistakes before, but he's paid for 'em. He's done his time."

"Not really," Sandy disagreed. "He should be behind bars right now. The only reason he isn't is because you stepped in and made some deals. That doesn't show a lot of rehabilitation. And besides, that means his freedom's hanging by a thread, which has got to make him a little desperate. You never know what he might do."

Shaking his head, Hardcastle answered, "You know, you'll make a better cop if you learn to keep a more open mind about things. You should get your facts together before you make decisions."

Knight set his beer bottle aside, then leaned forward and looked at the older man sincerely. "What kind of decision do you want me to make, Milt? That it makes sense for you to bring convicted felons into your home? I'm sorry, but you're not going to convince me that's a good idea. I've told you before; there are plenty of people who'd be willing to work with you on your retirement project. I'd even do it myself."

"I wouldn't ask you to give up your career, Sandy."

"There's always time for my career, when you're really ready to retire. And I'd be honored to do it."

The judge raised an eyebrow as he took a slow drink of his own beer, wondering if maybe they weren't getting closer to the actual problem. But asking Knight to be his fast gun had never crossed his mind. And now that it had come up, he wasn't sure it would've been a good idea, anyway, not that he'd say that to his young friend. And, besides, he did like the idea of helping someone get their life turned around. Sandy didn't need that. He finally offered a response.

"Well, I appreciate the thought, Sandy, but I'd never let you make that kind of sacrifice. And anyway, I think I can do some good for a kid like McCormick."

"Whether or not you'd be good for him has never been my concern," Sandy said disdainfully.

"He's already been some help to me, too," Hardcastle said with a small smile. "It might actually turn out to be almost a partnership."

"With a convicted felon?"

"I didn't exactly expect it," the older man admitted. He shrugged. "But if things are going well, why go looking for trouble?"

"Because you need to be ready before trouble comes looking for you," Knight insisted. "You're taking unnecessary risks." He took a breath. "Mark told me about J.J. Beal."

"It wasn't that big a deal."

"Someone that you once brought here—to your home—trying to help out. They break out of prison and try to kill you, and that's not a big deal?" The young man shook his head in exasperation. "Milt, you should've learned your lesson after Beal was here; there should never have been another one. But now, now you sure should understand. Criminals belong in jail, not at Gulls Way. You need to put an end to this."

Hardcastle's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What are you saying, Sandy? That I should send McCormick back to prison?"

Sandy backed down slightly. "Not necessarily. If you really think he ought to get a break for that last auto theft deal, fine. But he can do his parole anywhere. Heck, if you want to be some kind of mentor to him, or something, you could probably still even be his parole officer. But he doesn't have to work with you; he doesn't have to live here. It isn't safe for you to have him here. You need to make him leave."

Hardcastle examined the man in front of him for a long moment. This certainly wasn't the first time Knight had expressed misgivings about the idea of bringing ex-convicts to the estate, but the young man had never been this worked up before. He would've thought actually getting a chance to meet McCormick would have caused the opposite reaction, maybe reassure the officer. It seemed he had miscalculated all around.

"McCormick and I made a deal," he finally replied. "He hasn't done anything to make me back out of it."

"Yet," Knight intoned solemnly.

The judge shook his head. "Maybe you should tell me what this is really about. You don't know McCormick, so you don't have much reason to doubt him."

"You don't know him," Sandy shot back, "and you've got no reason to trust him."

"That's where you're wrong," Hardcastle said firmly. "I'll grant you that I may not know him well just yet, but he's given me plenty of reason to trust him."

"Like what?" Knight challenged. "Stayed here instead of running off into the night?" He leaned back into his chair and gazed at the older man. "I never said he was stupid, Milt. Even he probably realizes Gulls Way is a pretty nice half-way house. At least until he gets his plans worked out."

Hardcastle could feel the grip on his beer bottle tightening as he felt the grip on his temper giving way. He spoke slowly and deliberately, doing his best not to give in to the anger. "This is not a half-way house; this is his home now. And maybe part of the reason he's hung around is because he hasn't been made to feel like he's simply traded one prison for another. I could tell you about the way he helped me catch J.J. Beal, even though I mighta been treating him pretty bad at the time. Or when he stood by my side in Lieutenant Carlton's office and risked his parole just to tell the truth. Or I could tell you that the only reason he was ever identified for the Coyote theft to begin with was because he rescued a cop from a burning car when no one else could get to him. I could go on. In less than two months, I could give you a list of the things he's done to make me trust him, but I shouldn't have to defend him to you. I shouldn't have to defend myself to you."

"You don't—"

"I'm not done," Hardcastle interrupted. He leaned forward, elbows resting on knees, clasping the bottle firmly in both hands, and cast a steely gaze toward the other man. "I invited him here for dinner tonight because I thought it would be good for him to start meeting some new people. Hell, I even thought it might be good for him to spend some time around you. But not because you're better than him," he continued quickly, "just because I thought it might do him some good to see that you're really not that much different. It never occurred to me you might need to see that, too."

"Are you done now?" Knight asked tightly as Hardcastle leaned back into his chair and took a drink from his beer. Getting a silent nod in return, he went on. "I don't know how you would've thought we're anything alike, me and Mark. Even discounting the most basic difference of I'm a police officer and he's—" he broke off as he saw Hardcastle's eye start to twitch. "And he's not," he finished, "then you've still got some pretty fundamental differences. And not the least of those differences is the way he treats you. My God, Milt, he's completely disrespectful! You can list off whatever you want about the things that he's done to try and make himself look good, but what about what he does every single day? He runs his mouth to you and about you. That day you were working on the Blanchett case, I thought he'd never shut up. Why do you put up with that? And to have that little respect for you, I still don't know how you can believe that he's got any true intentions of making this arrangement of yours work for any length of time."

Hardcastle found his anger giving way to an unexpected laugh. "Respect? This is about respect?"

"No, not entirely. It's mostly about the idea that I think you probably can't trust the man as far as you could throw him, but I don't think it would hurt him at all to tone down the attitude."

The judge was still grinning. "He's got a smart mouth; I'll give you that. But I think there's more respect there than you might give him credit for. Or at least, he seems to know what would be going too far, and he hasn't crossed that line yet. That's good enough for me."

"You cut him too much slack, Milt," Knight answered bitterly. "It's gonna get you in trouble, and I don't intend to allow that to happen."

The grin faded from Hardcastle's face. "Look, Sandy," he began sternly, "I appreciate your concern in this situation, even as misguided as I think it is. But there isn't anything for you to allow. I asked you about McCormick because I'm interested in your opinion, not because you have any say in my decisions regarding this arrangement. I hope we're clear on that."

Sandy's jaw clenched as he forced out an answer. "So I'm just supposed to stand back and watch some two-bit punk take advantage of you, and wait for him to finally give up this sham of cooperation that he's putting on? I'm not supposed to worry about you? Not supposed to try and protect you?"

"You're supposed to trust me," Hardcastle told him. "Trust my judgment."

"You've been wrong before."

"Not as often as I've been right," the judge said stubbornly. "And besides, I'd think you could have at least as much faith as that 'two-bit punk' you're so worried about." He didn't slow down for the look of incredulous anger that passed over the younger face, just offered an explanation. "It's not like he wanted to come over here and hang out with you tonight, ya know. But he trusted me when I said it would be a good idea; trusted me not to put him in a position to be judged and belittled. I let him down on that end of the deal, but he tried hard tonight, because he believed me when I said this could work." He raised an eyebrow at the officer. "So how is it that the ex-convict that I sent to prison—the one I shouldn't trust as far as I could throw—how is it that he has more faith in my judgment than you do?"

Sandy sat silently for several long seconds. Finally what he said was, "That's not fair."

"You're not being fair," Hardcastle said, jabbing a finger toward him for emphasis. "McCormick hasn't done anything to deserve the accusations you're throwing around tonight. He's done his time, and he's serving his parole. He's keeping his end of the bargain with me, and he's doing what I ask. That's all that I ask. I'm not looking for him to be perfect, any more than I'd expect you to be perfect.

"But, Sandy, you need to understand this; McCormick is going to be here now. You're gonna have to find a way to accept that, because I won't have him treated like a common criminal in my home. In his home. Is that clear?"

Hardcastle hadn't exactly expected an immediate agreement, but he also hadn't expected the silence to stretch this long. He sincerely hoped this wasn't going to come down to some kind of ultimatum; that's not what he wanted. And, perhaps most unexpected of all, he realized that he wasn't prepared to choose. Fortunately, Knight saved him from that decision at last.

"You really think it might be good for him to spend some time with me?"

The judge worked to hide the smile. Trust Sandy to boil down everything he'd said into that one idea. But if that's what it took to get him on board . . . "I really do."

Sandy nodded. "And, it'll give me a chance to keep an eye on him." He held up a hand. "I'm not going to stop worrying, Milt, but I will stop badgering. And, anyway, all I really meant was, it'll give me a chance to see for myself whatever it is you see. But no more interrogations or accusations, I promise." He offered a thin smile. "And besides, it's only one night a month." He paused, then asked, "And how long's he going to be here?"

Hardcastle grinned at him. "Indefinitely."

Knight grimaced slightly, but didn't respond, which Hardcastle considered something of a victory. Instead, the young man simply leaned over and reclaimed his beer bottle. After a slow, steadying drink, he said, "So, tell me about Joe Cadillac."

And Hardcastle let the conversation be turned to other matters. "Well, it started like this . . ."

00000

McCormick was semi-dozing when he finally heard the front door opening. He'd gone back to the gatehouse after leaving Knight standing in the kitchen, but after about an hour, he'd realized there was something he should tell the man, so he'd slipped into the passenger side of the visiting Alfa Romeo, tilted the seat back to look up at the stars, and waited. He didn't change his position until the last goodbye had been called across the drive and Knight had reached the car; better if the judge not know he was out here.

"Nice car," Mark said from the darkness, moving the seat into the upright position as Sandy opened the driver side door.

"What the—?"

"Of course," McCormick went on conversationally, "you probably shouldn't leave the top down; makes it a pretty easy target." He grinned, but he doubted if Knight got the joke.

"What do you want, Mark?" Knight snapped as he slid behind the wheel.

McCormick let out a silent sigh. This might've been a mistake. But this guy was important to Hardcastle, and the judge had wanted them to get along. He twisted to face the other man. "Look, Sandy," he began, "I might've been a little, um, hasty, before. I mean, I still don't think I owe you any particular explanation or justification or whatever, but I do sort of get the idea that your concerns about me aren't exactly personal. I mean, I suppose you'd feel the same way about any ex-con the judge brought here, right?"

"I would," Knight said slowly, "and I have. I've never thought it was a particularly good idea. But most of them were only intended to be here for a very short time, just get themselves started out on the right path again. Milt really has helped a lot of people. But you—and that Beal character before you—you're different. He thinks you're going to be around for a long time."

"And I am," McCormick said, offering the reassurance that was clearly being sought, though he doubted it would be believed. There was a moment of silence, and then he tried again to say what he'd come here to say. "Anyway, like I said, not that I owe you an explanation, but you did ask me about motivations earlier, and I've kinda been giving that a little bit of thought." He took a breath. "Your dad died when you were young, huh? That's what the judge said. Line of duty?"

Sandy seemed puzzled by the sudden question, but he nodded silently.

"Did they get whoever did it?"

This time the nod was accompanied by a single word. "Yeah."

McCormick nodded in return. "I bet Hardcastle had something to do with that, didn't he?"

One more nod. "He got a good enough look at the guy to make an ID. They found him and they put him away. He probably rode the detectives a little, just to make sure they were doing things the right way."

"Yeah," Mark grinned slightly, "he's good at that. So, anyway, he helped get your dad's killer, and then he was around for you after that, right? To help take care of things if you needed it?"

"Is there a point to this?"

"Yeah, there is. See, what I figure is that you probably feel like you owe Hardcastle a lot, because of everything he did for you and your dad." He took a breath, not waiting for confirmation, just trying to force himself to get these words out.

"Well, Flip Johnson—you read about him in my file, right? The guy Martin Cody had killed?—well, Flip wasn't my dad, but he was my best friend. And Hardcastle's the guy who found a way to get his killer. And me, the way I tried to go after the guy was stupid, no arguments there. But Hardcastle found a way to fix that, too. He was there for me, when he had no reason in the world to be. That's why I have a pretty good idea of how you feel about the old guy, because it's probably not that much different than how I feel."

The moon gave enough light to clearly see the surprise written across Knight's face. "I know I haven't known him long," McCormick went on quickly, not wanting to offend, "but he did a good thing for me, and I won't forget that."

"He sent you to prison," Knight said plainly.

"Yeah, he did, and I'm not likely to forget that, either. But nothing is ever going to change what he did for me, and for my friend, Flip. I owe him something for that, and if what he wants is for me to be here, playing sidekick in his goofy crime fighting crusade, then that's what I'm gonna do. Even that's probably not enough to repay him, but it's a start. That's my motivation, and maybe that's why I'm different from J.J. Beal and all the others who've come before me."

Mark sat silently then, letting his words sink in. After a couple of moments, it became clear that no response was forthcoming, though he thought maybe the lack of a rebuttal might actually be something of a success. He slipped out of the car, latching the door quietly behind him. He was just about to walk away and leave Knight to the silence, when the officer spoke.

"He told me about the Cadillac case, about the impound lot."

McCormick couldn't hide the surprise. "Really? I didn't figure he'd ever tell anybody about that."

"You shouldn't have let him do that, Mark; you should've stopped him."

"Stopped him?" McCormick hiked an eyebrow into his hairline. "You know, even if I'd thought it was a mistake—which I'm not sure it was—it isn't my place to tell him what to do. My job isn't to tell him when he's wrong."

"Then what are you here for," Knight demanded in exasperation, "if not to protect him? His mistakes can get him into trouble."

"They could," the ex-con agreed easily. "That's why my job is to watch his back and make sure they don't."

Sandy seemed to give that some thought, and McCormick wondered if Hardcastle had told him the whole story, including the ridiculous confession. That was a bigger mistake than going into the impound lot had ever been, but even then, he'd found it within himself to stand at the judge's side. He really did owe Hardcastle a lot, even if Sandy Knight never believed it.

But then Sandy was leaning down and turning the key in the ignition, bringing the Alfa to life. He looked back at the passenger side and offered a final comment. "So, next month, then?"

McCormick twitched in surprise as he pushed himself away from the car, but he didn't let his perplexity slow his response. "I'll be here."

He watched as the Alfa disappeared down the long driveway, shook his head in puzzlement, then turned toward the gatehouse.

00000

McCormick had barely laid his head on the pillow before he heard the unmistakable thumping from beneath his window. He groaned slightly and closed his eyes, thinking he could block out the offending noise. But after five minutes of burying his head under a blanket, he realized the futility of it all and rolled back out of bed. He slipped back into his recently discarded jeans, snagged a t-shirt from the back of a chair and pulled it over his head, then stuck his feet into his sneakers and trudged down the stairs. He reached the court area in time to see Hardcastle's latest shot hit the backboard, wide of the net. He leaned himself against the brickwork and put on a stern expression.

"This weekend," he began seriously, "I'm giving myself a chore."

"That'll be the day," Hardcastle scoffed, not even looking over at him. He tossed another shot toward the basket, but it hit the rim and bounced away.

"Really," Mark went on. "I'm gonna find a spot, like way out by the gardener's trailer, and pour a slab of concrete. Maybe if I put your basketball goal far enough away, I might actually get some sleep once in a while." He watched another shot hit the rim and fall away. "You're losing your touch, Hardcase," he commented. "Maybe this is the time to go for twenty."

"Hmph. I'm losing my touch about as much as you're losing out on any sleep around here. Sometimes getting you going in the mornings is like trying to wake the dead." Then he threw another shot wide of the goal.

McCormick moved quickly to retrieve the ball. "What is your problem?" he demanded. "That's four in a row."

"I don't have a problem, McCormick," Hardcastle snapped, "except that you're distracting me. Now gimme the ball."

The younger man shook his head. "Uh-uh. You never miss four in a row, and I'm usually trying to distract you. What gives?" Then he twisted slightly, and easily tossed the ball through the net. "But if you want to stick to your story that nothing's going on, we really could go for twenty." He grabbed the ball again as it rolled along the ground then turned back to face the judge. "So?"

Hardcastle glared for a moment, then huffed out a short sigh. "I dunno," he finally replied. "Dinner didn't exactly go like I'd expected."

"Really?" McCormick grinned as he gave the ball a couple of dribbles. "If it's any consolation, it went almost exactly like I'd expected."

"No, that's not a consolation, sport." Hardcastle closed the distance between them and grabbed the ball from the young man. He bounced it forcefully against the concrete, creating a harsh rhythm. "You expect my friends to treat you like . . . like . . ."

"Like a convicted felon?" McCormick supplied. He shrugged. "Yeah. I do. It's more amazing to me that more of them haven't."

The judge stilled the ball and looked back suddenly at McCormick. "That's ridiculous."

Mark shrugged again. "For most of them, it would be," he agreed. "But for Sandy . . . he's honestly worried about you. I am a convicted felon, Judge, and that could present some element of risk. How's he supposed to know?"

"Because I taught him better than that," Hardcastle complained. "Taught him not to jump to conclusions and not to judge people on preconceived ideas."

"And he probably listened to you," McCormick assured him. "He's a cop; got himself a nice promotion and all; he must've learned pretty well. But this is different; it's personal; it's you." He shook his head with a grin. "You're such a donkey. The thing you just can't understand is that you're not like most people. Hell, I'm pretty sure you're not like anybody. Sandy'll probably come around, Judge, when he finally realizes that you haven't had to lock up the silver and aren't standing armed guard in the night to protect yourself. But even if he doesn't, it doesn't matter; not to me. So don't worry about it."

Hardcastle gave the ball another thump into the ground. "But I didn't invite you over to get the third degree."

"Yeah, I know; you invited me over to rub elbows with Mr. Fancy Pants and maybe get some lessons in good dental hygiene."

The jurist grinned. "Sandy really is a good kid."

"I'm sure. Not to worry, Hardcase; it's only one night a month."

"And you're really okay with it?" Hardcastle was dribbling the ball more quickly now, changing hands as he spoke.

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Judge. The only thing that really matters to me is that you didn't lock up the silver. Now, you got me out here, so are we gonna play some basketball, or what?"

The older man gave the ball one last bounce. "I think you said something about going for twenty?" he said as he jumped and sent the ball flying.

McCormick grinned as he watched it sail perfectly through the net. "Better make it ten."