Standing behind the defense table beside PBA lawyer Jack Fowler, Mike Stone, still in his prison grays but no longer handcuffed, kept his head down as Judge Charles Stanton looked through the papers ADA Gerald O'Brien had given him moments before.

O'Brien glanced over his shoulder at Jeannie, Steve and Dan, who were sitting in the gallery behind the defendant; they were the only onlookers the judge had allowed. His brief half-smile was encouraging.

He had delivered the petition for pardon from the California Board of Prison Terms to the judge two days before. It had taken over two weeks from the day of Gordon Mercer's arrest in Maryland for the petition for pardon to be approved by the Board and then receive the Governor's consent and signature.

During that period of time, the 1970s had ended, and a new decade had begun. Mercer's extradition to San Francisco had been slightly delayed because of the holidays, so Steve and Dan had been forced to spend the New Year back east. Leaving their prisoner under the watchful eyes of the Hagerstown, Maryland Police Department, they had returned to Philadelphia with Detective Stan Rogers, checking into a cheap hotel near the airport.

The Philadelphia homicide division was holding a New Year's Eve party at an Italian Hall near the substation Rogers worked out of, and the San Franciscans were invited. As fellow members of the thin blue line, current and former, they fit right in, swapping war stories and comparing scars.

But no matter how enjoyable the festivities had been, the young men couldn't stop thinking about their mentor, the man who meant so much to them both, spending his New Year's Eve and New Year's Day in a small cell on the top floor of the building in which he had spent most of his life in selfless public service.

On New Year's Day, while Steve and Dan spent the majority of the day with Rogers' extended family, enjoying the sumptuous meal and the Phillie hospitality, Jeannie cooked a turkey, invited some friends of hers and her dad's over for a midday meal, then packed up a picnic basket and went downtown to visit her father.

They sat on his bunk and she watched him eat as he savored his daughter's cooking and her company. He told her he wanted her to return to Seattle and her studies. She demurred, of course, but his argument was that he didn't want her to miss any more time and she could return easily when he went back to court for his release.

She reluctantly agreed and on the Wednesday morning, January 2nd, 1980, as Steve and Dan returned to Hagerstown with Rogers to pick up their prisoner then drive to Baltimore for their return trip to San Francisco, she made arrangements to fly to Seattle.

The American Airlines DC-8's back tires touched the runway at SFO just after 5 p.m. PST and by the time they reached their unmarked sedan in long-term parking it was close to 6. Traffic was mercifully light getting from the airport to the Hall and Dan drove the tan LTD into the underground garage.

Steve, who was sitting in the back with the handcuffed Mercer, felt a pang of longing along with a strong dose of déjà vu as he opened the back door and helped the subdued accountant slide across the seat and out into the exhaust laden air of the cavernous expanse.

With a dry chuckle, Dan, who had circled the car, pocketed his keys and put his hand on Mercer's elbow. "Here, I better do that. We don't want some shifty lawyer saying I let a civilian bring Mercer in for booking."

With a soft laugh, Steve took a step back and raised his hands. "Sorry, old habits, you know…"

More than one head turned in their direction as the trio made their way up to the lobby, then across to the banks of elevators on their way to booking. Neither of the younger men were sure if the confused looks were for their prisoner or the fact that Steve seemed to be in on the arrest. They chose to ignore everybody until Mercer was standing in front of the booking sergeant.

The requisite paperwork out of the way, they once more headed to the elevators and up to the seventh floor. As Dan escorted Mercer down the short hallway to the guard's desk, he glanced back at Steve and knew they were both thinking the same thing.

They stopped at the desk. The stocky grey-haired sergeant looked up and a wry smile almost lit his granite-chiseled features. "Is this the guy?" His voice was as rough as his face.

Dan smiled grimly and nodded. "Yeah." He handed over the paperwork.

Sergeant Frank Gleason looked at it, grumbling as his eyes took in the significant details. "All right, let's get him in there," he said gruffly as he got to his feet and reached for the large ring of keys attached to his belt. His grey eyes flicked towards Steve. "I didn't think you were a cop anymore?"

Steve smiled. "I'm not. I'm just an interested bystander."

Dan managed to smother his chuckle as Gleason froze and stared at the former Homicide inspector. A deep crease appeared between the older man's eyes then he just shook his head and mumbled something under his breath as he turned towards the heavy metal door and slid the required key into the lock.

Dan glanced back at Steve, his shoulders shaking in a silent laugh, as Gleason opened the door and stepped into the institutional beige concrete corridor with the line of metal doors on the left.

"The one at the far end is empty," Gleason muttered over his shoulder as he led them down the corridor. As he got near the fourth metal gated door, his somewhat brisk stride faltered and he slowed his pace. Both younger men knew why and did the same, but Mercer was unprepared and stepped on Gleason's heel. "Hey, watch out!" he glanced behind, almost shouting.

"Sorry, sorry," Mercer apologized quickly and Dan pulled him nearly to a stop. Within two more short steps, they were in front of the fourth cell. Gleason slowed even more but kept looking straight ahead. Both younger men stopped walking, turning as one to look into the cell. Dan pulled Mercer to a halt and the handcuffed man stopped abruptly, turning to look at the detective who had a firm grip on his arm.

Staring through the metal bars of his cell door, Mike Stone slowly rose from the bunk and took a couple of steps towards them. His eyes fell on Steve first, then Dan, then settled on Mercer. No one said a word.

As if suddenly aware of the eerie silence, Mercer turned to look where the others were focused. Through the heavy metal bars, his eyes met Mike's and he froze. Under his touch, Dan could feel the now accused murderer begin to shake.

Gleason, glancing back and taking in the tableau, said loudly, "Let's get him into his cell," and continued down the corridor. Dan, who had been staring at his partner, looked at Steve and nodded in an 'I've got this' gesture. Steve nodded back, barely taking his eyes from Mike's face; the blue eyes hadn't left Mercer, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

When Gleason, Dan and Mercer moved out of his line of sight, Mike stepped to the door and put his hands on the bars. Steve moved closer and their eyes met. Mike swallowed heavily, his eyes asking the question. Steve nodded slowly and, closing his eyes, Mike laid his forehead between the bars and sighed, as if a heavy weight had been lifted.

With a relieved smile, Steve reached his right hand through the bars and gripped the back of his former partner's neck, then leaned forward so they were forehead to forehead. "It's over," he whispered, and heard Mike take a deep, unsteady breath.

That had been almost two weeks ago. It had taken O'Brien and his team of lawyers until now to get all the necessary paperwork and approvals, and a few extra things that the ADA thought might help in persuading the San Francisco Circuit Court judge to not only ratify the pardon of the former, and highly decorated, Homicide detective, but would go a long way in his bid for reinstatement.

Judge Stanton glanced up from the raft of papers before him and almost smiled at the defendant. "Mr. Stone," he started, then stopped and almost laughed. "Okay, I admit, I'm having trouble with that." More than just his bailiff stared at him in confusion. The jurist looked at the defense bench with a self-deprecating smile. "You've testified in a lot of cases in front of me and I've always known you as either Sergeant or Lieutenant Stone. I can't seem to wrap my head around this Mister stuff so, if it's okay with everybody," he glanced quickly around the almost empty courtroom, "I am going to continue to do that."

Everyone knew it was rhetorical question but it still elicited a few chuckles and nods.

"All right then." With another chuckle, Stanton looked down at the papers again.

Jeannie looked at Steve with wide eyes and a confused but happy half-smile. This could only bode well, she was thinking; a sentiment they all seemed to share. She looked at her father's back but he wasn't moving and she couldn't tell how he was taking this unusual but encouraging turn of events.

Stanton rifled through the pages again. "I have to tell you, Lieutenant Stone," he emphasized with another little chuckle before the smile left his face, "I have never seen a more compelling case for dismissal of charges and the granting of a pardon in my career." He looked up at Mike. "This is a remarkable story of selflessness that I'm sure none of us have seen before. I'm truly astonished, not only that it happened to begin with but that it went on for this long. I realize it's only been three and a half half months and in the course of a lifetime three and a half months can seem like… a hiccup.

"But when an innocent man is incarcerated, for years, months or even hours - it makes no difference because any amount of time is too long. You can never get that time back and that, to me, is the real crime here."

He looked down at the papers again and held a couple of them up. "Even more remarkable is the work ADA O'Brien has put into this. The man that is supposed to keep you locked up it seems has been extraordinarily busy compiling this impressive stack of tributes to your sacrifice in this matter." He met Mike's eyes. "There are letters here from the Mayor, City Supervisors, the District Attorney, the Chief of Police, the Chief of Detectives, the City Attorney, the Public Defender…

"Hell, there's even a letter here from Warden Kennedy at CCI, lauding you saving the life of a guard and another prisoner and almost getting yourself killed in the process."

In the gallery, Jeannie froze in shock and her wide-eyed face snapped in Steve's direction. He had felt his heart constrict when Stanton had first mentioned Warden Kennedy and his own eyes were riveted on the back of his former partner's head. He saw the very subtle sagging of Mike's shoulders and knew they were now both experiencing the same inevitable dread.

Jeannie knew.

He resisted glancing at Dan, who was on her other side, but he had a feeling the young inspector was feeling exactly the same. A trap door had opened beneath their feet and all three of them were falling through. Well, Steve thought with an internal sigh, at least we're all falling together.

Not wanting to move, to indicate in any way that he was aware of her angry, searing glare at the side of his head, he felt her lean slightly towards him and heard her clipped and angry whisper into his ear. "What did he mean about Mike almost getting himself killed?"

There was no ignoring her now.