As Hardcastle navigated the highways toward the courthouse, he tried to push aside the nagging feeling that he was allowing himself to be manipulated. Not that he was a particularly easy man to fool, but he was slowly beginning to believe that if anyone could accomplish that task, it would be Mark McCormick, and that worried him just a little bit.
When he had taken McCormick into his chambers on that fateful day three weeks ago and proposed the unique pact that had caused the ex-con to be paroled into his custody, Hardcastle had been very clear that it was strictly a business proposition; he was not looking for them to be buddies. And yet he had been immediately impressed with the way McCormick's behavior had quietly insisted he be treated as an equal rather than as someone subservient; the judge had never anticipated that. Even more surprising was the infectious nature of the young man's quick grin and easy laugh. On more than one occasion, Hardcastle had found himself enjoying a moment with the other man that could only be described as camaraderie, and each time he had reminded himself that they weren't supposed to be friends.
The problem—as far as Hardcastle was concerned—was that McCormick was not the first felon the judge had taken into his home over the years. He had tried to help rehabilitate a myriad of young men over the years, with varying results. While a few might be considered moderate successes—he hadn't had to lock them up again—most simply had not worked out well, and a couple had been outright disasters. But even though he had been hopeful about them all in the beginning, it hadn't taken him long to become wary of first impressions, and, by the time McCormick came into the picture, he had developed a long standing measure of protection: don't trust them for at least six months. So far, none of them had made it to that milestone.
As he continued through the traffic, Hardcastle reflected that he had established a perfectly logical approach to the entire situation, so why was he straying from that approach now? Why was he pulled in by the charm of this latest con man? Why did he have to keep reminding himself to keep his distance? Why was he consumed with the idea that this one was different?
"I don't know," he said aloud, answering his own unspoken questions, "but I gotta get over it. McCormick's just like all the others—he's after what's in it for him."
He chuckled slightly. Gotta stop talking to myself, too, he thought. Retirement must be makin' me batty already. Of course, McCormick would probably blame it on the peanuts.
Alone in the truck, he grinned at his latest thought, then quickly decided he'd done more than enough thinking about Mark McCormick for one morning. He reached out and flipped on the radio, letting the jazz pour over him and drown out all the confusing thoughts about his latest ex-con in residence.
"Aldo's a weasel," Hardcastle grouched to the D.A. as they stood outside the courtroom, drinking too strong coffee. "It took me and McCormick about a day and a half to bust open his extortion business, he was so careless, and now he wants to pretend all that evidence doesn't exist. Bah!"
Gordon Levitt, the junior assistant district attorney assigned to handle today's hearing, just smiled. "It's okay, Judge. The evidence is solid. Weaseling is just what they do when they're caught."
The judge stared at the earnest young face before him. Was this kid—who looked like he was all of about twelve—honestly trying to tell him how criminals reacted under pressure? That was funnier than the weasel act he'd been watching all morning.
"I know how the game is played, Mr. Levitt," he assured the A.D.A. calmly. "And I know we'll keep playing this little cat and mouse routine all day at this rate. His attorney, Phillips, is inventive; I'll give him that. I've never seen someone cross so many witnesses at a prelim.
"You really should've included McCormick in this little show; it would've been fun to watch him just eat that Phillips fellow alive. The kid's really not too keen on games." Hardcastle grinned as he thought of how that particular cross-examination might've played out.
"Well…" Levitt was suddenly uncomfortable.
"Oh, don't worry about it. I understand you didn't want to risk having an impeachable witness when it wasn't necessary. McCormick didn't have any information I didn't have, and his testimony wouldn't have advanced the case. I got it. I'm just sayin' it would've been amusing.
"But, listen, I gotta use the phone before we get going again." He strolled down the hallway to the nearest pay phone.
Hardcastle paused before dialing, considering his motives. His conscious thought had been to call and check on how McCormick was feeling, but he could be honest with himself and admit he really just wanted to call and check on McCormick. But what did he think he'd find? The kid obviously hadn't been feeling well this morning, so why believe anything other than he intended to sleep the day away? And anyway, the kid's monster sports car, the Coyote, was in the body shop having a couple of quarter panels replaced, so it's not like he had a way to go anywhere, even if he wanted to. He's a car thief, Hardcastle's mind immediately reminded him; transportation isn't likely to be a problem.
Even so, the judge remembered how upset McCormick had been up in San Francisco when the Coyote had gotten damaged. He had almost become more concerned with that than he had been with catching the bad guys, and as soon as they had returned to L.A., the kid had insisted they find a garage and get the repairs under way. Surely he wouldn't take off and leave the car? The car's traceable, his mind chimed in again. Would make more sense to leave it behind.
Hardcastle shook his head and decided on a compromise. It had only been a few hours since he'd left the estate, so it was likely McCormick wasn't even out of bed yet. If not, he didn't want to wake him. But if he was up, it was a safe bet the kid wouldn't be far from the kitchen or the pool, no matter how bad he was feeling. So, the judge dialed the number to the main house rather than McCormick's private number at the gatehouse, and let it ring until the answering machine finally picked up. Then he slammed down the phone, disgusted. All that thinking and debating, and he still didn't have any more information than he had five minutes ago. He reached for the phone again, intending to call the gatehouse after all, but he stopped himself. He really didn't want to disturb the kid, and he sure as hell didn't want to try and explain to a grumpy McCormick that he was just calling to check up on him. And, even if there was no answer, that wouldn't prove anything definitively, and he would be left here to worry and wonder all afternoon.
Besides, he told himself, you're just being paranoid. There's no reason to think he's gonna take off.
No, another part of his brain responded, no reason at all. Just experience.