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.

Author's Notes: Inspired by a few of the thousands of words penned by Billy Joel:

And you can't talk about it
Because you're following a code of silence
You're never gonna lose the anger
You just deal with it a different way
And you can't talk about it
And isn't that a kind of madness
To be living by a code of silence
When you've really got a lot to say

I send a very special shout out of thanks to him for sharing demons that could be anyone's, including Mark's.

Code of Silence

by

Cheride

"No," McCormick said icily. "I won't."

"Why not?" Hardcastle nearly shouted in exasperation. "Those guys are breaking the law. They're making it harder for the guys that are trying to do the right thing. They're—"

"They're his friends, Milt," Harper broke in quietly. He turned to McCormick. "Sorry, Mark; I shouldn't have asked. We'll figure it out another way."

But Hardcastle wasn't backing down. "Your friends?" he demanded with a glower. "Is that the problem?" He gestured broadly around the den. "Seems to me you've been livin' pretty good around here for the past few months or so. Maybe you oughta start deciding who your friends really are." And with those words, he stomped from the room.

McCormick didn't try to stop him. "He asks too much," he said bitterly, as he walked to the window. Sometimes outdoors still seemed like a welcome escape.

"You could do a better job of explaining," Harper said diplomatically.

"He wouldn't understand. You saw it. And besides, it's not really any of his business."

"Really?" Harper seemed surprised by that.

"Really," McCormick said sternly. "He put me there; he's the last person I want to talk to about what it was like."

The detective hesitated, then ventured, "Ah, would you want to—"

"No." McCormick finally turned back to the other man. "You really gonna let this drop?" he asked, "Or are you going to try and make it official?"

"I'm not going to force you into anything," Frank replied, "if that's what you mean."

"Good. Then make sure he understands it's over." And he strode from the room, leaving Harper to work things out with the judge.

00000

McCormick had slammed the gatehouse door behind him before realizing he really didn't want to be inside, not even to hide out. He quickly changed into work clothes and stepped back out into the late afternoon sunshine. Much as he professed to hate the chores—and sometimes he honestly did—at least they gave him a good excuse to be outside without "loafing", as Hardcastle would say.

Crossing to the garage, he grabbed the hedge trimmers, a rake, and a garbage can, and started back across the lawn. Situating himself at the row of hedges furthest from the main house, Mark set to the task of clipping the bushes into a standard and appealing size. But it didn't take him long to discover that what was supposed to be a mindless diversion from the recent argument with Hardcastle, was really doing nothing more than giving him time to dwell on that very thing.

The most disturbing thing, he thought, was that the judge was completely clueless about what things were really like inside. He sent people to prison, and he convinced himself that prison was where they belonged, but he was clueless. Not only about the bad stuff that happened, but about the things you used just to get through it all in one piece. He would never understand that there were a few guys—guys who watched your back, guys who understood the fear you could never admit to, and the hatred you couldn't let go of—those guys became more than your friends; they became your lifeline. How could Hardcastle ever understand any of that?

And—no matter what Harper said—how could he himself be expected to explain it? Hardcastle would certainly never understand the way he'd felt when he was inside, the way he'd hated. Not that he ever intended to tell the old guy that. Jeez, he'd end up back behind bars before the last syllable was out of his mouth.

He wouldn't do that.

McCormick stopped in mid-clip to examine his thoughts, and decided he didn't like where they were leading. It would be easier if he truly believed he had to keep silent out of fear, if he really thought Hardcastle would send him back just for uttering the truth. But, no. The truth was he thought the judge would probably understand all too well the way he had felt inside; the man wouldn't have any problem at all believing the hate. The real problem would be that once that kind of truth was spoken, what Hardcastle wouldn't be able to believe was that anything had changed. And explaining that would be out of the question.

He returned his attention to the hedge, clipping vigorously, and trying to forget.

"I think that might be short enough."

The gruff voice startled McCormick out of his thoughts, and only then did he realize he might have gotten a little carried away with the trimming. "Sorry," he muttered, tossing the shears aside with a disgusted shake of his head. He grabbed the rake and started to work on the scattered clippings.

"I didn't come out here to complain about the yard work," Hardcastle said to the other man's back.

McCormick gave a disbelieving grunt and kept raking.

"Don't you think we oughta talk?"

"Nope."

"And what if I say you don't really have a choice?" Hardcastle demanded when McCormick didn't say anything further.

"Wouldn't be the first time," the ex-con said angrily, pulling the rake forcefully across the grass.

"Dammit, McCormick!"

The judge didn't seem able to move past that sputtering invective, but it still got the kid's attention. McCormick whirled around to face him, gripping the rake tightly, somehow believing that would help him keep a tighter grip on himself. "What?"

And then Hardcastle hesitated. He began slowly. "Frank—"

"Frank said he was through with me," McCormick interrupted.

"Yeah." The judge nodded once. "That's what he told me, too." He paused. "He also told me I was a little hard on you."

Mark snorted derisively. "Nothing particularly new about that, either."

"Dammit . . ." Hardcastle began again, but McCormick didn't let him continue.

"No! You don't get to be angry about this, Hardcastle. This time, you're wrong."

"Why?" the jurist demanded. "Because I was stupid enough to think you'd be willing to help? Because I believed you when you said things needed to change?"

"You can't change it!" McCormick shot back hotly.

"Not if we don't even try!"

Suddenly weary, McCormick sighed heavily and shook his head slowly. Hardcastle's biggest problem was that he honestly believed the good guys would always win. "Judge," he said slowly, "you don't understand. So Frank picked up a guy who wants to make a deal by talking about the guards in Quentin. Maybe even the warden. So what? It doesn't matter. Even if you found every single dirty guy out there and locked them all away, at least half the new guys that took over would just pick up right where they left off."

"I don't believe that."

"I know you don't, but it's true, just the same. But here's the thing; some of the guys that you would call 'dirty' are making time inside a little bit easier on the cons. They're the ones who help make some of the deals go down, or arrange some special visitation, or whatever. No one wants them gone, but whatever kind of investigation you put together, they'd get caught up in it, just the same. And the cons that are running some business inside, they'd end up in a world of trouble; that would all come out, too. There's no way to protect the people you want to protect and go after just the really bad guys. It doesn't work that way. You can't ask me to help with this because there are people I wouldn't be able to protect."

"You're choosing sides?" Hardcastle asked, a little sadly.

"I always do," McCormick replied evenly. "You're just used to it being your side. But, hell, Judge, this isn't even your fight."

"Then whose fight is it?" the judge demanded, exasperation creeping back into his tone. "There are laws being broken."

"Nothing new about that, and nothing that's gonna change it," Mark said shortly, as he looked directly into the older man's eyes. "But you made a career out of sending people there. Maybe that would've been the time to worry about what you were sending them into."

Understanding dawned in Hardcastle's eyes. "Is that what this is about?" he asked dangerously.

"Not entirely," Mark said honestly, "though that oughta be enough." He took a deep breath. Deciding the rake had served its purpose, he took a moment to lean it against the hedge, jammed his hands in his pockets, then turned back to the other man.

"There are things you don't know, Judge," he said sincerely, but still firmly. "I'm not the guy for this."

Hardcastle seemed to consider that, then spoke slowly. "I know you think I wouldn't understand, so if it's because of me . . . I mean, if you'd be willing to talk to Frank, or someone else, I could stay out of it, if that's what it would take . . ."

The last of McCormick's anger vanished, and a small smile pulled at his lips. He shook his head slightly, surprised at what he was about to say. "I suppose if I was gonna trust anyone with it, Hardcase, it'd be you. But your not understanding is just the first part. I already told you, not all the bad guys are really bad." He paused very briefly, then made another admission. "And, besides, you have to give some thought to the idea that there are things I'd like to forget."

"Even if it means the really bad guys get to keep being bad guys?" Hardcastle asked.

"Even if," McCormick confirmed. He gave a small shrug. "I know what it's like inside, Judge, and I know what's gonna happen if you start nosing around with a lot of information that came from a con, and it's not going to be good. So I guess what I'm asking is if you could trust me this time, and let's just let this one be."

McCormick watched the other man, and waited. He hadn't really given much thought to what might happen if the judge insisted; he only knew he wasn't giving in. He couldn't. Not this time.

He was just getting ready to venture a hesitant question about dealing with the stalemate, when Hardcastle spoke again.

"You'll be finished up here soon? Sarah told me to remind you that dinner is at six sharp."

"Oh, yeah," Mark said quickly, accepting the out, and pulling the rake to him again. "I won't be late."

With a nod and a short grunt of acknowledgement, Hardcastle turned and started back toward the house. McCormick watched him go, then huffed a sigh of relief as he turned back toward the hedge.

After Hardcastle had gone, McCormick made quick work of cleaning up the mess he'd made of the hedges, then stored the tools back in the garage, and crossed to the gatehouse to get cleaned up for dinner. He could recognize being let off the hook when he saw it, and he didn't intend to do anything to make Hardcastle regret that decision. But as he padded across the lawn toward the main house, he was still thinking, even though he'd sworn to himself when the last branch hit the garbage can that he was done with it.

Still, that thing he'd said to Hardcastle, that if he were going to talk to anyone . . . McCormick couldn't quite get that out of his head. Where had that come from, anyway? He sure as hell didn't know, because the likelihood that he was ever going to say anything about his time inside was pretty damn slim, much less to the guy that put him there. But it had felt like the right thing to say at the time, and even now, it still didn't seem completely unreasonable.

He paused at the back door, still thinking. He'd been right to refuse this case; he was sure of it. But the guy he'd never expected to understand had offered to back out, and had ultimately backed down. He never would've expected that, either. Maybe . . .

Maybe someday, he finally decided, as he stepped into the kitchen with minutes to spare.