Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.
Author's Note: A small meditation on the notion of trust.
Trust Me
By L.M. Lewis
October, 1983
"Trust me, Judge." He'd said it with his best insouciant grin, intended to be disarming.
"It'll be six months before I trust you," the man had growled back, not even missing a beat.
The swiftness of it had unsettled Mark for a moment, especially since he knew his next action would be interpreted as an absolute violation of trust. But unsettled or not, he'd made up his mind. He had a plan and it wasn't one he could ask for prior approval on. Hardcastle would never give it. He gunned it, leaving Hardcastle on the shoulder of the road, out of reach, and pausing only long enough to shout back a couple of instructions. He was pretty sure the old donkey would hunt him down in the lock-up, if only to have the personal satisfaction of extraditing him back to California himself.
Why the hell are you doing this? He had half a notion, but it was more annoying than insightful. It was third and long, and he had an incurable desire to make the big play, to win one for the Gipper.
That's nonsense. It's all this crazy talk about Beal. Like he's some kind of hot-cheese super criminal. He shook his head. Maybe Beal did have the right idea. There was no pleasing Hardcastle, most of the time. Maybe it just took more time for some guys to figure that out—guys who weren't as quick on the uptake as J.J.
Mark sighed. He was already exceeding the limit by a solid thirty miles an hour. Where was an alert cop with a radar gun when you needed one? He wasn't sure if his reckless impulse was good for that many more miles, but he thought it was too late to turn back. He'd have to have something to show for it all, and he somehow doubted that even that would be enough.
The strobing flash of mars lights in his rear view mirror saved him from the abyss of self-doubt.
April 1984
Another prison. He walked across the field, trying to carry himself in the self-possessed but never overtly threatening way that he'd been schooled in by his old cellie at Quentin. It was strange how a set of denims and the oppressive atmosphere of gray walls and concertina wire could snap him back into the role as though the intervening year had never been. He'd tried to joke with Hardcastle, when Conners had put them both in a cell for temporary safekeeping, but it had been fear, plain and simple. Bad enough to be in prison at any time, but with the inmates in charge . . .
He walked between the edgy clusters of men, trying not to hear the whispered threats. Out beyond the shadows near the fence were glints of light on metal—state police cars, and prison guards, all focused on the only person moving toward them. He had a feeling, almost surreal, of moving out of the frying pan, and into a place far hotter.
He was received. He tried not to hear the suspicious mutters from the guards. It was the truth; he belonged to neither group—to those guys inside he was a snitch, a narc. An informant. To these out here he was an ex-con. No one on either side trusted him.
He wondered if Hardcastle was still okay. He didn't think Connors wanted blood, but how much longer could he control this madness?
It might have diminished his powers of persuasion. No amount of sincerity could compensate for the distraction, and when he finally realized there would be no compromise, all he wanted to do was get back inside.
They told him he didn't have to go. He understood that on some intellectual level, but the real answer was that he had no choice. He turned toward the gate and, under the suspicious eyes of both sides, he walked back inside. There was no way he could explain it. They wouldn't have understood if he'd told them it wasn't quite six months yet. One more week.
He wasn't sure either one of them was going to make it.