Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.
Author's Note: It's another POV for "Nolo Contendere"
Thanks for the bunny, 302pilot.
The Truth
By L.M. Lewis
Milton C. Hardcastle wasn't a superstitious man. He didn't believe (as his mother certainly had) that "naming calls". He knew people who spoke routinely of the devil, without having Lucifer appear on their doorstep.
It wasn't any baseless folklore that kept him from even thinking about it: that McCormick's request to take the bar exam might be rejected on the grounds of moral turpitude. It was just sheer nonsense, that's all.
Besides, McCormick was gloomy enough on the subject for the two of them. It had really only been for the kid's sake that he'd spent some time going over the groundwork of what might be expected from the committee.
"You'll be fine," he'd said that morning, driving down to the Bar Association. McCormick had hardly looked convinced. He'd been off his feed for breakfast, and hadn't even insisted on doing the driving.
Now he gave the younger man one last inspection, there in the vestibule of the building. McCormick stood, not looking very eager to keep his appointment. He was making one last plea for back-up and the judge had to smile, just a little, that though he now rarely required one, the kid thought of him automatically as his attorney of record.
He tried to be reassuring, and that was followed by a thump on the shoulder and a few more encouraging words, and then McCormick was off. Flying solo.
He's been doing that for a while now. True, certainly, and the judge understood that he was no longer in need of a parole officer. A friend, though. He smiled, stuffed his hands back in his pockets, and ducked through the outer door. He figured waiting in the lobby might constitute hovering—across the street would be close enough for surveillance purposes.
He walked down to the light at the corner, staunchly refusing to look back over his shoulder and ponder whether McCormick had by now met his adversaries—"evaluators", he mentally corrected. Then he grimaced as he stepped out onto the crosswalk. His connections weren't what they'd once been. The powers that be seemed well informed, though. They certainly knew he had a stake in this case.
He'd at least been able to get the names of the committee members. Atterby was the big concern. Hardcastle knew there was a contingent in the DA's office who thought he'd slipped a gear, having ex-cons work for him in the past, but the 'judicial stay' episode that had launched McCormick into his custody had lost him even more support. At the time he'd hardly thought it mattered; after all, he was leaving the bench.
And for all the grief he'd taken from the prosecutorial side of the justice system, he didn't think there were too many defense attorneys who trusted him, either. He had no clear recollection of the woman on McCormick's committee besides that she'd been well-prepared and a tough advocate. How many of her clients had he found guilty? Would she even unconsciously consider this a form of payback?
He certainly hadn't wanted to add to McCormick's freight of worry by implying that his wasn't the only permanent record that might be weighed in the balance this morning. Still, he thought the kid was pretty savvy about these things.
He strolled back up the block toward a small park that fronted on the street directly across from the Bar Association's building. He headed for a bench that still had a good sight-line of the entrance.
The third one, Tepitt, had been more of a cipher. Young, rising fast, a six-figure man headed for a full partnership, it seemed. The judge cocked his head and pondered the fountain over on his left. Six-figures and a corner office, that might be Mark in a few years. They hadn't really talked about that. There'd been a time when McCormick had spoken with glowing envy of the executive life.
It might not be long, the judge thought grimly. They were living on the edge, right now, between what had been and something he had no way of predicting. He glanced up at the windows rising across the street, completely reflective, no way of knowing what was going on inside.
He thought he knew McCormick, though. When he'd stood there, in the drive two years back, and said, "I think I have something to contribute" the judge had been absolutely certain he hadn't been talking about getting into a higher income tax bracket. He'd seen it again and again, the younger man's passion for justice—kept burning, perhaps, by a banked but still smoldering resentment over his own conviction.
He grimaced slightly. They hadn't talked about that either, not in connection with this hearing. Hardcastle suspected that would be the one thing . . . God willing, no one would touch on it. He shook his head. There was no way that they wouldn't touch on it; it was the root of the problem, the reason for the hearing in the first place.
His grimace dropped into a frown. And why hadn't they gone over it, then? Because it would have done no good. He had more than half a suspicion that Mark would rather turn his back entirely on a career in the law that ever say that justice had been served in the case of The State of California v. Mark McCormick.
It's what you told him, though, to tell those people the truth. He wondered why he'd been so insistent on that, if some small part of him wanted the kid uncompromised at any cost. The first compromise would never be the last.
He sighed, and looked over at the fountain again, trying to bury all this worry under the certainty that McCormick had a pretty good track record for winning people over to his side—by strength of character if not by outright persuasion. Mattie Groves had a funny way of putting it; she called it "riding the elephant".
He wasn't sure how long he'd sat there, lost in thought and listening to the pacific trickle of water over stone. He caught a movement from the corner of his right eye and turned—not too fast, he didn't want to attract attention.
The three of them, exiting together but then parting ways without much conversation. He wished he's taken up his watch at the bus stop across the street; at least then he might have heard their tones.
But, no, they were off, Tepitt heading north and the other two south, no longer talking. They might have already made up their minds, he thought, though that seemed unlikely, even if they had, each individually, maybe even before they'd laid eyes on McCormick.
Hardcastle took a deep breath and let it out again, then decisively turned his eyes slightly away from the door. Hovering would imply a lack of faith, though he certainly was wondering what the hell was taking McCormick so long.
He shouldn't have gotten his dander up. The door was opening again, only moments after the other three had dispersed. Hardcastle remained motionless until he caught a glimpse of a wave from Mark.
The judge forced a smile, nothing unrealistically broad. Mark crossed the street with a dangerously distracted air and a calm look that bordered on resignation.
Hardcastle couldn't help blurting out the question. There was no immediate answer, which was pretty good evidence that what he did finally say was the truth.
"I think I muffed it."
For all the gloom and doom that McCormick evinced before exams and evaluations, he had a standing rule afterwards to say nothing, neither good nor bad. It was a careful walk on the narrows between hubris, and speaking of the devil. This admission was exceptional.
Hardcastle felt his heart fall. The problem of the corner office and corporate law faded into nothing compared with McCormick having no chance to practice his chosen profession at all. Yet despite this sudden shift of worry, he heard himself asking, in a surprisingly reasonable tone, just why Mark thought his chances were doomed.
And somehow the answer didn't surprise him a bit.
He smiled. He stood. He gave the younger man what passed for a gesture of affection; another hard hand to the shoulder which finally provoked a small smile.
The truth, he thought. It just might be the one thing that would work with those people.