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: This comes from the second volume of fic published for the S.T.A.R. for Brian Keith campaign (with our fifth and final volume due out any minute now). Thanks to your unwavering support, we're very close to our goal, and well on track to see Mr. Keith immortalized on the walk this summer. As always, if you've got questions about the campaign or would like to keep up to date with what we're doing, you can find all the information on our site, www.starforbrian .com.

As for this story, it's just a glimpse of Mark, pre-Rolling Thunder. There are a few references to cellmates, named and unnamed; 'Teddy' is from The Crystal Duck. But the others belong to L.M. Lewis, and I appreciate the loan. If you want to know more about their story, check out Sins of Omission. It's a nice look at 'Dark Mark'.

Adaptation

by

cheride

March, 1981

Mark McCormick sat stiffly in the metal chair. The thin cushion on the seat provided very little padding, though that had nothing to do with his discomfort. His eyes roamed the small office, taking in the gray metal file cabinets along the gray wall, and the gray metal desk that held two black metal stack trays. The in-box had a lot more work in it than the out-box. The only other items on the desktop were a stapler, a pen, and a black rotary dial phone. That, and the open manila file folder. The whole thing screamed 'government issue'.

The man behind the desk did nothing to belie the image. In his forties, the man was an average height, mostly average build, though maybe slightly overweight. His brown hair was thinning, but neat. His gray, off-the-rack suit was clean, but rumpled, and the tie had been pulled loose sometime during the day. And in his face was a weariness that McCormick recognized all too well. It's not that the man didn't care; it's just that he was tired. Government issue, indeed.

Not that McCormick really cared about any of that. He sized the man up out of habit, nothing more. They had completed the initial introductions—Lancaster, the man's name was—a couple of minutes ago, then he'd said, 'Let me take a look at your file,' and lapsed into silence. McCormick thought it was probably some kind of mind game, just trying to put him on edge—like that was a stretch—but maybe not. There were an awful lot of papers in that in-box.

Finally the man looked up from the folder, leaned back slightly in his chair, and gazed across at McCormick. "So how's it going?"

McCormick forced back a sigh. He had never cared for the relaxed, friendly approach, even when it seemed fairly sincere. "It's going," he said flatly.

Lancaster gave that a nod, as if it had been an actual answer, then leaned forward and scribbled something in the file. McCormick tried not to think about that.

But then Lancaster didn't seem to have anything else to say. When the silence had stretched to several minutes, McCormick said, "Look, I don't have to be here, right?"

"You don't have to talk;" the other man corrected, "you do have to be here." He glanced over at the clock on the wall. "But it'll be a long half-hour if you don't have anything to say."

"Well don't you have some questions for me, then?" McCormick asked. "Or some ink spots to stare at, or something?"

Lancaster almost smiled. "No ink spots, but maybe a few questions. Though you didn't have much to say to my first one."

McCormick rolled his eyes. "'How's it going?'" he mimicked sarcastically. "That's not a question; that's an insult. It's prison. How the hell do you think it's going?" He continued angrily, not giving Lancaster a chance to respond. "A few months ago, I was minding my business, just living my life, maybe even catching a few breaks now and then. Next thing you know, a cop comes and hauls me away for having the audacity to drive my own car. No one will listen to me when I tell them the charge is bogus, so I spend the next three months in county stir, waiting for trial, only to get the most hard-assed judge in the history of creation, and then wind up here for the next two years of my life. So I'll sit here for thirty minutes, and you can take whatever notes you need to take, but please, do not ask me how it's going."

Lancaster was back to scribbling in the file. "So you're innocent?" he asked without looking up. "Not very original."

"Probably not," Mark agreed flatly, the anger gone from his tone as quickly as it had come.

"Are you appealing?"

"No point in that."

"So you're just going to do your time?" The pen paused and Lancaster looked back up at the prisoner.

McCormick thought they were getting close to the real question. "Without causing trouble, you mean? Yeah, I'm just going to do my time."

"This isn't your first incarceration?"

McCormick would've thought he couldn't get any more tense; he realized then he was wrong. "No. Why?"

Lancaster gave a half shrug. "You seem to know the routine here with me, even if you don't like it."

"That's a fair assessment."

"My other assessment so far," Lancaster continued, "is that you're very angry."

"That's because I'm innocent," McCormick reminded him.

"Ah. Well, it's my experience that angry people are the ones who cause trouble. Since you've been through this before, you probably understand that my job in this initial evaluation is to determine how you're going to adapt to your life here, and whether or not you're a threat to anyone—including yourself."

"I'm not going to cause any trouble for anyone."

Lancaster seemed to accept that at face value. He glanced back at the file in front of him. "You haven't listed any family on your visitor list," he began.

"There isn't any," McCormick said shortly.

"And this . . ." he consulted the file quickly again, "Johnny Johnson. Who's he?"

"Like it says, a friend." McCormick hoped they wouldn't dwell too long on the visitor list, or lack thereof. He didn't really expect anyone he knew to make the effort to visit him, but if anyone would, it would be Flip. Only Flip.

"You don't want to add anyone else?"

"Look, like you said, I know this routine. I know you think I'd be a lot more stable with a whole slew of family and friends around for support, but that's just not the way this one's gonna play out. So you're just gonna have to trust me on this, Lancaster. I'm going to 'adapt' just fine. I'm not a threat to anyone."

"Not even yourself?"

"Not even myself." Even before the pen started moving again, McCormick knew he hadn't spoken with enough conviction, but he figured it was enough to keep him just this side of a suicide watch. Barely.

Looking back across the desk, Lancaster spoke again. "I conduct a weekly group session; plenty of room for one more. Or, individual meetings can be arranged."

McCormick thought he'd do a lot of things to get out of his cell on a regular basis, but a weekly counseling session just wasn't making the list. "Are you telling me I have to?" he asked warily.

Lancaster seemed to consider that carefully for a moment, then answered slowly. "No, not right now. But two years is a long time."

"You don't have to tell me that," Mark said with some feeling.

Again the almost smile. "I just meant you might decide you want someone to talk to."

McCormick shook his head. "I doubt it," he said, the dullness returning to his voice.

Lancaster made one final notation, then closed the file. "Okay, your choice for now. You are required to meet with me for an evaluation every six months of your time here, but, other than that, as long as there are no problems, it'll be up to you." He paused for a moment.

"Just as a word of advice, though, I'd say that anger is never very productive; it's even less so here. You already know that you'll find a lot of people who'll agree with your take on your situation, plenty of guys who'll listen to you bitch about your judge and life's all 'round injustices. But you're not going to accomplish anything by dwelling on that, and your time here is going to be hard enough without making it harder."

Mark thought about that a minute. "Just forgive and forget, huh?" He knew the touch of anger would probably just prolong the conversation—or lead to more note-taking—but it had slipped out. "It isn't supposed to matter that the justice system is robbing me of two years of my life? That the guy who's supposed to be able to recognize the truth of the situation seemed to think it was perfectly reasonable to send me up for stealing a car I already owned? No offense, but I think I might stay pissed about that for a while."

Lancaster shrugged. "That's your choice, too. But you're here, one way or the other. Adapting is about figuring out how to make the best of it, whether it's where you belong, or not."

McCormick nodded. "I'll keep that in mind," he said without much inflection. And that's when he realized something he hoped Lancaster hadn't already noticed and entered into the file: when he wasn't angry, he didn't feel anything at all.

September, 1981

"So, has it been six months already?"

McCormick looked across the desk in disbelief, and wondered if he should say what he was thinking, but it came out before he'd reached a conscious decision. "I can't believe it's only been six months."

Lancaster offered a small, sympathetic smile. "The first year can be really hard." He opened a file folder and flipped through a couple of pages. "I'm glad to see you're getting involved in some of the groups."

"Anything to pass the time," Mark answered. He looked briefly around the office and wondered how long the small space had remained unchanged. "You know, you really need something in here to brighten this place up a little. It's worse than my cell." He paused. "Well, almost. The door opens when you want."

The counselor seemed surprised by the comment, though McCormick supposed there hadn't been many lighthearted quips the last time he'd visited.

"Well, it's not much," Lancaster finally responded, "but it's home." He continued to look through the file folder. "Looks like you're staying out of trouble."

"I told ya it wouldn't be a problem. I'm doin' my time."

"Maybe you've had some help?" Lancaster suggested.

Not for the first time, McCormick wondered just what all was in that file, though he had learned long ago that there really was no such thing as a secret inside. "I've got a really good cellmate," he admitted, but that was all he said. Doing his time might include a forced half hour in this office every six months, but he had no intention of actually telling this man anything of importance.

"And what about everything else?" the older man asked rather vaguely.

McCormick thought about that for a moment, then smiled slightly. "You mean, 'how's it going?'"

"Yeah, maybe," Lancaster conceded with a small smile of his own.

But McCormick's smile vanished. "It's still prison," he said coldly, "and I still shouldn't be here."

Lancaster nodded and made a few notes. "Fair enough. Thought any more about joining our weekly group?"

McCormick shook his head. "I've got the book club, and basketball, and I might even join the glee club. So thanks for the offer, but no thanks."

"Well, you know, adapting isn't something that just happens and then stops; it's a constant process. And I still say anger isn't the best way to go about it."

But contrary to all his intentions, McCormick made an honest admission. "That's because you've never had to look at things from this side; the anger gives me something to hold on to. Hatred can be a pretty strong anchor."

He watched as Lancaster scribbled more notes into the file, and wondered when he would adapt to the point that he didn't worry about what they said.

April, 1982

This time, there was no waiting while Lancaster reviewed the file. The door had barely closed when the counselor looked up and grimly said, "You're late."

"No," McCormick contradicted, pointing at the clock as he dropped stiffly into the metal chair, "it's three o'clock, right on time."

"That's not what I meant," Lancaster said sternly. "You should've been here two weeks ago."

McCormick looked a little sheepish. "I've made some friends," he smirked, "got my dance card all filled up. I was a little busy."

"You were confined," Lancaster corrected.

Mark shrugged minimally. "It happens."

"It doesn't have to happen. And it didn't use to happen to you."

McCormick shrugged again. "What can I say? I'm learning to fit in—adapting. That's what you've been wanting, right?"

"You don't have a better answer than that?" Lancaster prodded.

"Probably nothing that you want to hear," he answered lightly. Then the tone went a little more grim. "Certainly nothing that you would understand."

"Try me."

McCormick sighed. The basic problem with prison counselors, he thought, was that they honestly seemed to believe that they understood what it was like to be in prison. They thought that because they worked inside these walls for eight hours a day, it allowed them to know the minds of those who lived inside for twenty-four. They might be easier to talk to if they even came close to being right. He put an answer into the simplest terms possible.

"I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"So it wasn't your fault? You're still innocent?" Lancaster seemed disappointed.

McCormick thought about that for a minute. "I could've walked away," he finally admitted.

The file folder opened and the pen came out. "Why didn't you?" Lancaster wondered.

Mark pondered a little bit more. "Maybe," he said slowly, "because adapting shouldn't mean just giving up." He thought that ought to be good for at least a paragraph or two. Lancaster seemed to think so, too.

After a moment, the older man looked up from the page. "What else is going on?"

McCormick was glad of the change of topic, though he hadn't expected it to be quite so easy. But there was one thing he had intended to tell the counselor about.

"Did you know Hardcastle came up here last week? Said he wanted to see me." He had actually practiced saying the words in his cell; wanted to be able to get them out without Lancaster hearing the pure loathing that would likely lead to another lecture on anger management. Judging by the expression on the counselor's face and the quick scribbling on the paper, he hadn't been altogether successful.

"I did know that. But you didn't see him?"

"Hell, no," McCormick said adamantly. "You must be as crazy as he is. What would I possibly want to see him for? And, why in the hell would he want to see me, anyway?"

"He said he just wanted to check on you," Lancaster said simply. "See how your first year had gone."

"You talked to him?" McCormick asked, surprised. "About me?" He leaned forward and glared across the desk. "What about doctor-patient confidentiality? Or is that just another one of the rights prisoners give up?"

"You don't have many," Lancaster said bluntly. "The fact is, these sessions are state-mandated, and their results are part of your official prison record. Any officer of the court with a legitimate interest could find out about my assessments, at least in the broad sense."

"That sucks," McCormick said flatly as he leaned back again. "He doesn't have any right."

Lancaster examined him for a moment, then spoke calmly. "He seemed genuinely concerned."

"I'll bet," McCormick snorted. "Probably just trying to figure out if there was a way to tack a few more years onto my sentence."

"I don't think so." He made a few more notes. "You do realize he could've forced a meeting?"

McCormick's eyes jerked back to the counselor. "What?"

"Officer of the court, remember? All he had to say was it was official business, and he could've had your butt hauled to a conference room, with or without your consent. He didn't have to request a visitation."

McCormick hadn't thought about that, though he had no intention of conceding anything. "He still couldn't've made me talk," he said stubbornly.

"No," Lancaster agreed, still writing. "I think you've been pretty clear that you're in charge of that."

Mark pulled a hand through his hair in frustration. "You know what I think your problem is, Lancaster? You've been telling me for a year now that I need to 'adapt', but I think you've got a pretty narrow idea of exactly what that means. Hell, I'm not even sure exactly what your idea of it is, but I can tell you about mine. 'Adapting' in a place like this just means finding a way to stay alive. You join a few clubs, crack a few jokes, whatever it takes. But mostly," he looked intently back at the counselor, "and this is the important part—mostly, it means knowing who you can trust, and knowing when not to talk."

"And you think your way is working?" Lancaster challenged.

McCormick didn't back down. "I'm still alive," he said defiantly, and realized he really didn't care what the man wrote in his notes or who might see them.

September, 1982

McCormick stood just inside the doorway, making no move into the office. "You had me brought here in cuffs?" he demanded angrily, holding up the hands that were still bound in front of him.

"You stood me up twice this week," Lancaster said unsympathetically.

"I don't want to be here today."

"And it's no more your choice now than it's been any time before," the counselor replied, pointing at the chair.

McCormick considered remaining defiant, then decided there wasn't much point, and crossed the room to the straight-back chair. He sat rigidly, and didn't bother asking to have the cuffs removed; if Lancaster wanted to throw his weight around, he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of arguing about it. He took a calming breath.

"This isn't exactly the way to get your name added to my Christmas card list, ya know."

Lancaster looked up in apparent surprise from the notation he was already writing. It didn't seem he'd been prepared for anything other than the anger, which, as far as McCormick was concerned, meant he hadn't been paying attention. He smiled slightly. "Figured that was a long shot at best, anyway."

"Probably right about that." McCormick forced a smile of his own. The trick, he'd learned long ago, was to be the one steering the conversation. He let his eyes travel around the office, and, for just a moment, he was angered that Lancaster chose to exist in a grayness that he himself would give anything to escape from. He pushed down the feeling, and steered.

"So, how's it going?"

Lancaster's smile grew. "Isn't that my line?"

"Yeah, but it gets boring if I'm the one always doing all the talking. Surely you've got something worth mentioning in the last year and a half?"

But apparently Lancaster could not be so easily led. "Not today. Today I think there's something you need to talk about."

"You think wrong," Mark said evenly.

Lancaster didn't look at his file this time; his eyes were only for McCormick. "You lost a cellmate recently . . . suicide."

"I'm not talking about that," Mark told him tonelessly.

"You know that's what I'm here for, right?"

And for an instant, McCormick thought that was maybe the nicest thing he'd ever heard, or at least in the last eighteen months or so. But just as quickly, he remembered that Lancaster was part of the system that almost tacitly allowed Benny's death—not to mention part of the system that allowed hard-assed judges like Hardcastle to send innocent people to prison to begin with, where you were lucky if you didn't become the guy hanging from a bed sheet instead of just knowing the guy.

His voice was cold as steel as he repeated the words, "I'm not talking about that."

Lancaster nodded slowly, then jotted a few more notes. After a moment or two of silence, he posed a broad question. "Is there anything you do want to talk about?"

McCormick shook his head. "Nah. You know," he added after a second, "I'm almost down to short time."

"Six months," the counselor concurred, "definitely the downhill slide."

"Bet you didn't think I'd make it, did ya?" Mark asked, working diligently to recapture the lightness he'd managed earlier.

"I've had some concerns," Lancaster admitted. "You did another stint in isolation."

McCormick's jaw clenched. The man was making the lighthearted approach harder than hell. But he managed a fairly dismissive reply. "Just a coupla days."

Lancaster shook his head. "And still you've never come to my group."

McCormick shrugged slightly. "Don't take it personally. I'm trying to get caught up on all the Stephen King before I get out. I have to use my time wisely, you know."

"Getting out is another thing I wanted to talk to you about."

Mark flashed a sincere grin. "My favorite topic."

"Yeah, well remember how I told you before that adapting never really stops? You know it starts all over again when you're back on the outside. You gotta get a job, and a place to live. And meeting people, well . . . that's a whole art in itself. What do you tell them and when? How much detail is too much? And even the people you knew before, they won't know exactly how to treat you anymore."

"That's a real cheery picture you paint there, Lancaster, you know that? But don't worry; I've been through this before. This isn't my first time inside, remember? So what's your point?"

"My point is the same as it's always been; you're wound up tighter than a cheap alarm clock, and you're madder than hell at the world. Now something bad has happened, and you think you've got a reason to be madder still. And I don't know, maybe when you get out, all that anger and tension will just go away, and you'll just slip right back into whatever it is that's 'normal' for you, but I don't hold out much hope for that. You need to learn how to deal with your emotions."

"I deal with them just fine," McCormick told him woodenly.

"Shutting down doesn't count. And I'm not even too sure about this snappy comeback routine you seem to be working on. It might be getting you by in here; might not hold up so well on the outside. You need to learn something more productive than that. I want you to start coming to group."

"Gonna have me dragged here in cuffs every week?" McCormick muttered angrily.

"I might," Lancaster threatened. "But I shouldn't have to. Don't you want to succeed when you get out? Let's face it; being left to your own devices has landed you in prison twice already. You need to do something different."

McCormick could feel his face reddening as he clenched his jaws to keep from blurting the first thing that sprang to mind. He forced himself to remain seated, though flying across the desk and pummeling the smug face in front of him also seemed like a pretty rational response right about now.

Finally he spoke, low and dangerous, though he knew it was the wrong response. "You listen to me. My own devices, as you put it, have landed me inside exactly once. My only mistake this time around was believing for even a minute that the criminal justice system had any justice to offer to someone already labeled a criminal. I. Do. Not. Belong. Here. And I don't care how unoriginal that sounds, or what you put in that damn file about it, because that's that truth.

"You think I'm gonna have problems on the outside? I dunno. I'm pretty pissed off, I'll grant you that. But I'm not really mad at the world; I think you're wrong about that. I think I've got my anger directed in a pretty well defined and rational direction. Your problem is that you can't see the value in hanging on to that anger. I'm not sure what you think it's like out there," he gestured awkwardly, indicating a world which Lancaster couldn't hope to understand, "but it's not a goddamn Disney film. You might manage to make a guy let go of his anger, but that's not gonna turn the sky blue and make little forest animals come out and sing a song. It's hell out there, Lancaster. People get beat; they get raped; they die. You stay angry, you stay alive. It gives you a fighting chance."

McCormick stopped talking abruptly and leaned back in the chair, glaring defiantly across the small space, daring the other man to question what he'd just said. Not that there was much chance the guy would just let it go, but maybe he could bully his way through without having to give up anything else. He really needed to learn when to keep his mouth shut.

"So . . ." Lancaster seemed to be sifting through the pieces of information. "You're telling me it's an act? A survival technique?" He didn't seem very convinced.

McCormick sighed heavily. He should probably let it go at that, except for the almost incomprehensible idea that he'd at least like those damnable notes to contain the truth. "Not entirely."

There was a pause while Lancaster consulted the notes, then he said, "I don't really think your anger is pointed in such a well-defined direction, by the way. The criminal justice system. Kinda broad, don't you think?"

"It narrows down," McCormick assured him.

"Ah. The judge."

McCormick didn't try to deny it. "He should know better. And besides, he was arrogant, and demeaning, and cold."

"So you blame him."

"Damn straight." And then, though there was no more hint of judgment in Lancaster's expression now than there had been any time before, the frequent scribbling suddenly seemed ominous. "I mean," he backpedaled with a grin, "that's what I tell the guys out on the block. But if anyone else should ask, like, say, the parole board, well, to them I would say that I'm grateful to him for steering a wayward young man back onto the straight and narrow before he got into real trouble."

The grin faded. "Seriously," he added, "I'm not gonna go hunt him down or anything when I get out. It's not like that."

Lancaster studied him for a long moment, apparently considering something of great importance.

Finally, Mark couldn't stand the silence. "What?" he demanded.

"I was just wondering," the counselor said slowly, "if even you can tell sometimes."

McCormick raised a questioning eyebrow. "Tell what?"

"What's the real you," Lancaster explained, "and what's the act."

The young man didn't have to give that much thought. "I'm not sure it matters."

March, 1983

"So, it really is short time now, eh?"

"Less than two weeks," McCormick agreed happily. "Got the official paperwork just a few days ago." He shook his head. "Still doesn't quite seem real. Kinda weird, that way. You want something for so long, and then when it finally comes . . . I dunno."

"Almost like you're afraid you'll lose it again?" Lancaster suggested.

"Yeah, maybe." Mark grinned. "Though even I would have a hard time screwing it up now, I think. I'm behaving. Really."

Grinning in return, Lancaster answered, "Yeah, I hear you had to reign in the going away bash your cellie was planning for you."

McCormick laughed. "You don't miss much, do you? Anyway, not the bash, just the gift. Teddy was planning a gold watch with a brand none of those guys can afford; said he 'knew a guy'. I had to explain that a Rolex for someone in my position just sort of screams 'possession of stolen property', which isn't exactly the right message to be sending for the first meeting with your new PO." He laughed again. "Ted's not always the most forward thinking guy around, but he means well."

A moment passed, and then McCormick said casually, "And speaking of meaning well, and meetings with POs, you know I won't find out about any special conditions until I meet with him, but I know they take a lot of recommendations from the staff here, which I figure is primarily gonna mean you."

"Ah." Lancaster leaned back slightly in his chair and appraised the other man. "You're wondering if I'm going to make you keep seeing a counselor."

"Well, are you?"

"You don't want to."

McCormick shook his head. "No offense."

"None taken," Lancaster chuckled. "But no. We agreed to six group sessions, and you kept your bargain. Heck, you even participated enough once or twice that it might've been helpful to you."

"Maybe, a little," Mark said grudgingly.

"Or you just got better at hiding your anger from me," the older man added.

"Maybe that, too," McCormick agreed with a wink.

"Anyway, you know how I feel about the transition back into the outside; it's going to be almost as big a change as it was coming in. I think it's a good idea to have someone to be a sounding board through some of that. I've put together a list of referrals, and it'll be in your discharge paperwork, so if you need someone, you'll know who you can call. But that's up to you; I'm not going to force you into it."

"I appreciate that," McCormick said sincerely. He lapsed into silence and let his eyes roam the small office one last time. "Still awfully dull in here, Lancaster," he commented after a while. "Want me to bring you some of my posters or something?"

"No, thanks. I've kinda gotten used to it like this."

"You've adapted, huh?"

"Right," Lancaster laughed.

And that's when McCormick noticed. "Hey, you're not taking notes today."

"Nope. All done with that."

"Yeah? So does that mean I'm cured? Or hopeless?"

Lancaster laughed again. "Definitely hopeless, though probably not like you meant."

"Well, we all know that's not the worst indictment I've ever had against me," Mark said good-naturedly, "so I guess I can live with it." He paused for a moment, then added, "But do I ever get to know what you really wrote?"

The counselor looked suddenly surprised. "In the notes? I didn't know you cared."

"Why wouldn't I?" McCormick asked, surprised himself. "It's part of my permanent record, and God only knows exactly what that means, anyway, but it sure as hell sounds ominous. You told me once any officer of the court could take a look; I'd just like to have some idea what they'll be seeing."

"Maybe I should be more clear about what's in your file; I don't think I realized how important it was to you. The actual notes I took during our sessions are in my own files. I used them to complete the official assessments that are contained in yours. Not that my personal notes are completely sacrosanct—I told you, mandated sessions and all that—but for the most part, there's just no need for anyone to see the specifics of our conversations."

McCormick was somewhat relieved. Obviously the assessments weren't too damning, or the man would be insisting he see someone on the outside. But he asked anyway. "So what's the official line on Mark McCormick, then?"

"Nothing I haven't said to you," Lancaster said with a small smile. "I think you've done a good job at staying relatively sane in this place, with my only concern being your lingering, somewhat misdirected anger. But overall, I think you're going to be fine."

"Hah. Misdirected anger. I thought we agreed to disagree."

"Mostly," Lancaster confirmed. "But what I think we really agreed was that once you were released it would be a lot easier for you to truly start putting some of that anger behind you, especially the whole thing with Judge Hardcastle."

McCormick nodded. "I'll keep working on it," he promised. "And you're right; it should be easier when I'm out of here, and I can put all thoughts of Milton C. Hardcastle behind me."

December, 1983

Lancaster was surprised by the return address on the small box; it wasn't often he got a package from one of the ex-convicts. In the box was a card with several pages of a hand-written letter inside; he set that aside for the moment and picked up the package underneath the card. He removed the bright red paper and found a framed cross-stitch rendering of a Chinese proverb: Adapt yourself to changing circumstances. He laughed aloud as he placed the frame on his desk and picked up the letter.

Lancaster-

What do you know, you finally made my Christmas card list. You really needed something for that office of yours, and I met this lady, Sarah, who thought it was 'sweet' that I wanted to send something to my prison counselor, so she helped me out.

Anyway, you will never believe where I am . . .