Disclaimer: They're not my characters; I make no profit from them.

Rated: G

Author's notes: I was quite pleased when a recent string of notes on the Gull's Way BB discussing the possibility (indeed inevitability) of Mark becoming a family guy produced no calls for smelling salts or a fainting couch. I personally think the unseen Kathy in this story is nee Kasternak, but you, dear Reader, may suppose anything you like.

I think I am a bit of a contrarian on the subject of Mark as a judge. I see him an excellent advocate, but somebody who would not be so comfortable sitting in judgment. Cheri strenuously disagrees, and Liz has already posted a wonderful story about the Honorable Judge M. McCormick and the gavel, so consider this merely a bump in the road, not a Jersey barrier.

Okay, here's the background for becoming a judge in California: In '97 there were about 800 Superior Court judges. It's an elected office but many, if not most, start their careers as appointees to vacancies, and then go on to run in the next election scheduled for that judgeship. Qualifications require ten years in good standing with the state bar. And why are they called 'superior'? Up until the late nineties, California also had a system of municipal courts, with municipal judges. This has now been subsumed into the superior courts, leaving California judicial system somewhat like Lake Woebegone, where all the children are above average.

Thank you beta-Cheri. Yes, I do believe he will eventually get to use that gavel for something other than cracking walnuts.

This Far and No Further

By L. M. Lewis

It had all the hallmarks of destiny, in Hardcastle's opinion; the conjunction of events was so perfectly timed. First, Judge Jenkins' retirement, coming unexpectedly in mid-term, and Jenkins himself an old supporter of McCormick's who had always been kindly disposed towards him. Add to this the Governor's current gratitude towards Hardcastle for his part in tagging the man responsible for a series of bombing incidents. Then there was McCormick himself, who mostly stayed below the radar these days, pushed into public view recently when the neighborhood law clinic he directed had won a couple of high-profile cases.

There was little doubt in Hardcastle's mind, that with Jenkins's and his backing, along with a half-dozen or so carefully selected supporters from the DA's office and the police department, McCormick would be a shoo-in as the Governor's appointment to replace the retiring jurist. Then, with a couple of years on the bench before the next election, his retention would be almost a certainty.

There was only one problem, as far as Hardcastle could see. That would be getting the consent of the man himself. Gentle suggestions, floated over the past couple of weeks, had been more or less ignored. Hardcastle had figured at first that this was just Mark wanting to sort things out with Kathy, maybe with himself as well. Of course there'd be a certain reluctance to leave the law clinic, but surely he could be made to see that a place on the bench was a chance to have an even greater input into the system. Anyway, the clinic had a terrific support staff, and was attracting some of the best and the brightest, at least the ones who didn't care so much for the bottom line.

And so the invitation to spend the weekend, made with Kathy's cooperation, was more than a chance to catch up on things. Hardcastle had every intention of tackling the topic head on, and using his full force of persuasion to get Mark to accept the judgeship that he was sure he could get the governor to offer.

He heard the car coming up the drive and broke off pacing to go to the door. Mark had the car parked, was out and opening the door for his son, who was waving madly and shouting something as he scrambled out of his seat. Matthew McCormick, all of five, and absolutely irrepressible, was up the walk and onto the steps saying, "It's a really good rock, see?" and holding up a flat, smooth stone, the size of the palm of his hand.

"Looks darn near perfect," the judge said, examining it closely. "Looks so good we might want to tie a string to it so we can get it back."

"That's silly," Matt protested, "it won't skip if you do that."

"Don't worry," his father smiled, "there's a lot more." He put down a canvas bag that appeared to have some heft. "Everywhere we went, for the last two weeks, he's been looking for them. I think there isn't a flat rock left within a mile of our house. Kathy's not looking forward to the day you tell him you'll teach him how to fish. She has issues with worms."

Matthew was pulling at the judge's hand, "Can we go try? I've been practicing."

"Yup, no wind and slack tide," the judge smiled as he picked up the bag. "You comin'?" He looked up at McCormick. "Got plenty of rocks."

"Nah, it'd just break my heart to see you throw them all in the water. And somebody has to fire up the grill. You guys go."

Matt had already been up and down the steps twice during this brief exchange. His father snagged him on the third pass and knelt down in one movement, whispering something in his ear and tousling his hair. The boy nodded and was off.

"The burgers are on the middle shelf." Hardcastle headed after the boy.

"Don't let him wear you out." McCormick shouted, and if the judge had turned back to look, he would have seen the man's smile turn to something more pensive.

00000

They found a quiet inlet where there the water was as still as it ever got. Hardcastle reached into the bag and pulled out a likely prospect. "Watch, it's gotta go low, like this." He skimmed it into the water for an easy three skips. Matthew pitched his own rock in. Plop. His face was transformed in an instant to wistful disappointment.

"We shoulda tied a string to it," he sighed.

"Nah, even a perfect rock is just a rock. Here, try this one." The judge handed him a second. Plop. The boy frowned. "Lower, use your wrist." The judge coached as he handed him a third. Plop.

The boy's face had now taken on a look of fierce concentration that seemed out of place on a five year old but somehow perfectly familiar to the man watching him. He handed over the rocks, one by one. The twelfth one produced a sullen half-skip, and much rejoicing. By the time they reached the bottom of the bag, there had been at least five double skips and Matt had to be strongly discouraged from trying to go out and fetch them back in for another try.

"Nope, kiddo, one rock, one throw. The ocean is deeper than you think." The judge had him firmly by the hand. "Besides, you don't want to get me in trouble with your dad."

The boy looked up and shook his head solemnly. Then his face took on a thoughtful expression, as though he had just remembered something. "Dad said I should ask you . . ."

"Ask me what?"

Matt was walking slower now, looking down. Hardcastle realized he was searching for rocks. It seemed like whatever he was going to ask had been forgotten. Then, just as suddenly, the boy looked up at him again. "I was supposed to ask how you and daddy got to be friends." The boy frowned. "I asked him. He said to ask you."

Hardcastle stopped dead in his tracks. He had known this kid from the cradle up and if his middle name hadn't been Milton, it surely could have been 'Persistence'. The boy was looking up at him steadily, expecting an answer.

"Well, um," it occurred to Hardcastle that he had no idea what Matthew knew, or didn't know, about his father's younger years. McCormick had always been unabashedly straightforward about being an ex-con, but would the subject have ever come up with a child who was barely in school?

"Well," he began again, "You know how, when you mess up, your mom has to give you a time out?" The boy nodded. Hardcastle forged ahead. "When grown-ups do something wrong, then a judge gives them a time out."

Hardcastle was hoping for the glaze-eyed look of boredom; he hoped in vain. "You made him sit in a chair?" the boy said consideringly.

"Not exactly," Hardcastle couldn't help grinning, "but sort of. And then when he was done, he came and stayed here and helped me look for bad guys."

Matthew smiled broadly; now the story was on familiar turf. "Batman and Robin, and the Batmobile was red," he let go of the judge's hand and ran forward a few steps to pounce on a likely-looking prospect, then turned and pitched it sideways into the water, two short skips and a hoot of victory.

Hardcastle allowed himself a little sigh of relief, crisis passed; he wouldn't be explaining just yet how and where grown-ups did their time outs. He stepped forward and captured the hand again. "Come on, kiddo; if we don't hustle, your dad will eat all the burgers." And they started up the beach side by side.

00000

They ate at the patio table, with Matt seated on the Los Angeles Yellow Pages and a copy of Black's Law Dictionary for extra height. The conversation had been in the direction of starting t-ball, and having a real bike with training wheels. It wasn't until halfway through the ice cream that the droop became evident.

"Naptime," Mark announced.

"Don'wanna," came the automated response.

"Hah, rules is rules," his father replied quietly, scooping the boy up, "but if you're good and promise to stay where you're put, it'll be the sofa. Otherwise it's all the way upstairs."

Hardcastle got up from the table, too, bringing in the stack of dishes and putting them down in the sink. He watched Mark open the hallway door and grab the pillow and blanket one-handed off the top shelf, the boy's head already cradled on his shoulder.

The sink was half-filled with hot water when he heard McCormick return. "He's out cold." Mark grabbed a dishtowel off the rack. "He was up early this morning."

"He's a busy guy." The judge handed over the first plate. "He learned how to skip rocks, and still had time to put out a few mines."

"Ahh . . ." McCormick had a hint of a smile on his face as he wiped the plate and put it on the shelf. "Well, join the club. He blindsided me with it yesterday."

"What did you tell him?"

"Easy," McCormick flashed a cockeyed grin, "I told him to ask you. I figured if anybody could explain it, it'd be you. Besides," the grin was gone now; he picked up a second plate and looked at it absent-mindedly, "I thought he should hear it from you first. It's just never come up before." There was a short pause. "So what did you tell him?"

Hardcastle leaned on the sink, stared out the window for a moment, and then turned to face the younger man. "I told him I gave you a time out."

There was a guffaw of laughter and the grin was back. "A time out? You know how much he hates those? Five minutes in a chair doing nothing-he thinks it's some sort of horrible torture his mother and I invented. I hope to God you didn't tell him it was for two years."

"Nope," the judge shook his head, "we moved right along into the Batman and Robin phase." He handed over the last dish.

"Yeah, well, that won't be the last time. But it's a start, I suppose." McCormick sighed. "It's only a matter of how soon, and how much, and who he hears it from."

"So maybe it should be from you, and now," the judge suggested gently.

McCormick cocked his eyebrows. "Judge, he's still on the fence about Santa Claus. You want me to explain prison to him?"

Hardcastle said nothing. Mark went on after a long moment's silence. "See, if I got nominated to the vacancy, well, maybe it would be okay for now. Maybe. But in two years, when the term expires, I'd be running for election—"

"Probably unopposed. Jeez, McCormick, there are eight hundred superior court justices in the State of California."

"It doesn't matter, unopposed or not. There are thousands of reporters in this state and they're all looking for some kind of angle on something. It wouldn't even matter if they thought it was some kind of Horatio Alger story. I won't have any control over it. He'll be in second grade and he'll hear from somebody just what it means to do your 'time out' in San Quentin.

"Anyway, like you said, there are eight hundred superior court justices in this state. I only have one son. I'm not screwing that up."

Hardcastle nodded reluctantly. "You know I think you'd make a very fine judge."

"Maybe." McCormick shrugged. "I'm not sure. Not yet, anyway. Maybe in a few more years."

"I had hoped-"

"I know. But not yet, okay?" He was looking at the judge very intently.

Hardcastle said nothing for a moment, but he finally nodded. "Okay, I understand."

00000

It was late Sunday afternoon, and McCormick was putting their bags into the trunk of the car while the judge showed Matt the finer points of the lay-up.

"Just about ready," Mark shouted over his shoulder. He got the expected "Aww, just one more," in two-part harmony. He let them have three more, and then went over to collect his son, and make promises to return.

"Wait," Hardcastle held up a finger, "there's something I need to give you." He ducked up the steps and back into the house, emerging a moment later with a box, rectangular, only about ten inches long, and not even half as thick. He handed it to McCormick, who looked at it, puzzled, then lifted the lid.

"But it's yours," he protested quietly.

"I'm retired. I don't need it anymore."

"What is it?" Matthew was on tiptoe, hanging from his father's arm, trying to get a look.

"It's something judges use," Mark said, tipping the box down a little so his son could see inside.

"It's a hammer"

"Not exactly," his father smiled, "it's called a gavel." To Hardcastle he repeated, "It's yours."

""You may need one eventually. Maybe." The judge added, "If you do, I'd like it to be this one."

"If?"

"Yeah, 'if'."

"Judge, you sure know how to lean." McCormick shook his head in bemusement.

Hardcastle shrugged. "Just consider it a small, constant, nagging reminder."

"And I can always use it to crack walnuts at Christmas time."

"Well, that's what I've been doing with it for a few years now." Hardcastle smiled.

"Okay." Mark closed the lid slowly and put it in the trunk next to the bags, then helped Matt into the car. He finally turned back to Hardcastle and said, "I'll . . . look after it. That's all I can promise."

"I know you will." Hardcastle replied and, without quite knowing why, reached out and shook the Mark's hand, an oddly formal farewell for two people who had known each other as long as they had. It was as if a deal had been made. As McCormick got into the driver's seat, the judge reached down to give the younger version a hug. "Rocks, lots of 'em, for next time," he said.

The boy nodded back. "Lots and lots," he promised, and then he waved madly as the car pulled away down the drive.