Examination of Conscience
by
Georgi

Father Atia sat there, the candle in the confessional having long since burned out. He lost all track of time as the aromatics of the incense worked to soothe him while his thoughts continued in a circular fashion. He knew what needed to be done, but was unsure of how to accomplish it. And at what cost would this accomplishment come?

Mark McCormick completed another application of fertilizer to the vast lawn of Gull's Way. He and Judge Milton C. Hardcastle had a running argument of how to appropriately apply fertilizer; in the circular pattern that Mark employed or the back and forth pattern that the judge preferred. If Mark were to be completely honest, it didn't really matter to him how it got applied, he just liked to see Hardcase's face turn three shades of red as he argued his point to his young charge.

Today, however, the judge had not said a word. No advice or instructions at all. Maybe after three years he realized he would never win the argument. Or, maybe something else was occupying his mind.

Recognizing that without the judge's constant yammering, the application of mere fertilizer had lost its attraction, the ex-con-turned-law-student inexplicably changed his pattern of application to back and forth. A small grin formed on his face as he watched Hardcastle stomp towards him. Finally—something brought him out of the house.

Bracing himself for the verbal onslaught, McCormick stopped pushing the applicator and waited for the judge with his hands on his hips.

With no preamble, he bellowed, "McCormick, I need you to run an errand. Frank has some files for me. Go down and pick them up for me, will ya?"

The kid just stood there eyebrows up to his hairline. "You want me to go see Frank right now? Can't it wait until I finish with the lawn?"

Rubbing his hand under his nose, the judge dropped his voice just the slightest amount, "If it could wait, I would've waited to ask you, wiseguy."

Mark pulled the bandanna off his head, shaking it slightly, "Do I have time to shower, Your Honor?" Surprised that the judge actually had to think for a moment, he realized that the files in question must really be important.

"Just make it quick, McCormick." With that, he abruptly turned on his heel and walked back to the house.

McCormick was still contemplating this strange behavior as he pulled out onto the PCH and headed downtown to see Lieutenant Frank Harper.

The judge watched McCormick depart, checking his watch impatiently. If he spent any more time in the shower, this jig would have been over. And, as if summoned by thought, a dark sedan drove up the long driveway, circled the fountain and parked by the front door of the estate.

As the visitor climbed out of his car, the judge walked up the three steps leading from the den to the foyer. His hand outstretched as he opened the door, he smiled easily as he shook hands, "Nice to see you again, Father. I was surprised when you called—but it was good to hear from you."

Father Atia smiled broadly as he grasped the hand in both of his. "Judge, thank you for seeing me on such short notice. And…" he glanced around the grounds, lingering on the breathtaking view of the ocean, "I appreciate your discretion."

Motioning Father Atia in through the front door, the retired jurist followed him down the stairs into the den. After motioning the priest to the sofa, he took a seat across from him. "To tell you the truth, it isn't that difficult to get rid of the kid when what I'm interrupting is yard work."

The silence that followed was brief, interrupted by a deep and exhaustive exhale that led to the simple, yet cryptic statement, "Judge, I'd like to talk to you about a hypothetical situation."

"Well, I get a lot of practice running hypotheticals with the kid," was Hardcastle's quick response. Then, his face turned to one of concern. "We're not talking about McCormick here, are we? Has something happened?"

Smiling, the priest put the judge at ease immediately, "No, Judge, Mark didn't do anything. The reason I asked to meet you alone is because I didn't want him to do anything. He has turned into a good friend, and I don't want to put him in any more danger."

The judge immediately picked up on the language that he suspected was meant to be left unspoken. "Any more danger?"

Father Atia's expression froze immediately as the tension in the room increased. The silence that followed was more than Hardcastle would tolerate given the topic of discussion.

"Okay, Father, we're way past hypotheticals here. You've got my attention. If you need a confidential conversation, let's just say this is covered by attorney-client privilege. But now I really have to insist that you tell me what the hell is going on." After a brief pause, the judge continued more softly, "I'm sorry, Father, but you did come to me. There must be something you need to discuss."

Father Atia sat back consideringly. The small grin that played on his lips seemed out of place in this conversation. His years as a priest had taught him how to put others at ease, and how to get others to talk. He knew that cops, lawyers and judges must have that same skill set. Shaking his head, he began, "I guess I'm not very good at these kinds of discussions. I've never been in this position before, and I need for you to understand just what is at stake here."

The judge waited patiently as Father Atia closed his eyes in apparent prayer, crossed himself, and took a deep breath. His decision made long before this moment, he met the judge's eyes and began, "I am risking excommunication, Judge, and while I certainly don't take that lightly, I could never continue knowing what I know…or at least what I think I know. I really don't have much experience in this area, despite what you may think considering who my father is."

The judge waited out another bout of silence. He finally cleared his throat and offered what small advice he could manage, "I think I can understand your position, Father. I certainly understand the sanctity of the confessional. I have ruled on several cases that…"

He was interrupted before he could complete his statement. "Your Honor," Father Atia spoke in an openly conflicted tone, "I am not talking about a legal matter here. I am well versed in my responsibilities in the matter of capital crimes. This is different. No crime has been committed. Yet. And the crime that is planned is not, in itself, a capital crime." He buried his head in his hands and shook his head vigorously.

But just as suddenly, he stopped, and once again met the judge's eyes. "I knew what I was doing when I came here. Once I tell you what I know, I know what you will need to do. And, if I am to be totally honest, that is exactly why I am telling you this."

The judge waited one moment before asking his final question. "Just exactly what are you telling me, Father?"

The hesitation that had been present since Father Atia's arrival had disappeared. He now sat upright in his chair and slowly and carefully articulated the reason for his visit.

Mark arrived at the station in record time. If the truth were to be honestly told, he didn't mind running errands anymore. He rarely had time to enjoy driving the Coyote as course work had taken priority over his other activities with the judge. But on those rare occasions when he had the time, he enjoyed both the yard work and driving in any direction except campus. He loved law school, but he also loved the time for reflection that walking behind a lawn mower, or spreading fertilizer, or running errands provided. His self-reflection these days centered around his future, and how he finally felt he was headed in the right direction. He would never quite feel he deserved the break he got when the judge made him that 'offer' over three years ago. And while he may never admit that out loud, he was certain he knew nonetheless.

He walked into Frank's office with just a cursory knock. Seeing Harper was on the phone, he assumed his usual position leaning against the wall by the map. Hands in his pockets, he tried to look like he wasn't eavesdropping.

Frank hung up the phone and motioned for Mark to take a seat. "So, a day off from class and you have to do the running for Milt? I thought you guys were taking a break from law and order so you could study law and order!" Grinning at his own joke, he fumbled under the smallest pile of folders on his desk to extricate the two target files to handoff to Mark.

Taking the proffered files, he opened them for a quick review, "Nah, these are just to complete his own files. Both these guys are still in jail, right?"

Nodding the confirmation, Frank stood, "Hey, you want to grab a bite to eat with me? I'd love to hear what you're studying in your ethics class. I've always wondered just what they teach lawyers when dealing with clients they know are guilty."

Mark didn't even have to consider the offer. He enjoyed discussions with his favorite police officer friend, "Yeah, but only if you let me buy. I've got a few questions I'd like to ask you about procedures. Not how they are supposed to be done…but how they actually are done." Grinning easily, he added, "I only know this stuff from one side of the law."

Lieutenant Harper did a double-take. He rarely heard Mark make those kinds of jokes anymore. His criminal past was so far behind him, it actually seemed like a different lifetime to Frank. Maybe it didn't yet feel that way to Mark. He continued walking as he accepted the lunch terms.

Mark returned to the estate a little after two o'clock and walked immediately into the den to pass off the files. He stopped abruptly on the second step and spoke in a somewhat accusatory tone, "What was Father Atia doing here?"

Hardcastle momentarily froze, thinking quickly. "Who said Father Atia was here?"

"Come on, Judge, who else smells like incense? They don't market it as an aftershave, you know. The place smells like a confessional."

Grinning slightly, the retired jurist should have realized that Mark's deductive powers had come a long way over the years of their acquaintance. He knew it would be difficult to keep his visit with Father Atia a secret, but he hadn't realized until this moment just how difficult that task would be. He was hoping not to actually tell a lie when he finally answered, "Yeah, kid, you just missed him this morning. He stopped by to see how we're doing."

Mark completed his trek down the stairs and placed the folders on the desk. Taking a seat in the wing back chair, confusion was already written on his face. "That's weird, we're supposed to be having lunch tomorrow. Why would he come over now?"

It was apparent that a lie would be necessary here. Hardcastle believed that this was indeed flagrant necessity since he still wasn't sure just what they were dealing with. No need to involve McCormick with only a few days of class left before final exams. During the semester break they would have plenty of time to investigate. After all, no crime had been committed, and the information indicated that nothing would be until after the new year. Mark would be safe until then. His rationalization took merely a second before he responded, "Oh, sorry, he had to cancel lunch tomorrow. Church duties. He couldn't really go into details." His mind wandered briefly, was that one lie or three?

Mark's frown deepened, but the concern was not for the canceled lunch. Something was off in Hardcastle's demeanor. Something he hadn't seen in quite some time, but recognized instantly. He was being lied to. Unsure whether to confront him now, or just wait and talk to Father Atia, Mark slowly and deliberately pushed himself up and out of the chair. "Well, I've got a case to brief for tomorrow. Last one of the semester. If you don't need anything else, I think I'll get started. Can you believe they assigned me Hardcastle v County of Los Angeles?" With that, he walked out of the den and headed towards the gatehouse.

As soon as the front door closed, the judge pulled his rolodex close and flipped through the cards until he found the number for Father Atia. He dialed quickly to give him the heads up that he had canceled his lunch date with the kid for the following day.

As Mark walked towards the gatehouse, his thoughts wandered from the case he had actually intended to study to the odd behavior of the judge. He knew his older friend had agreed to give up his crime-fighting ways—at least during the semester—only to appease him. He trusted him. And, after all, Hardcase himself had added a few guest lectures at the law school to his docket along with tutoring for some of the more difficult cases they were studying. All in all, he believed that the bad guys had taken a back seat for both of them. But still, he would make it a point to check in with Frank, just to make sure.

Frank…

The thought came out of nowhere, but as he reflected back to their lunch conversation, it did seem a bit stretched. Frank's interest in his ethics class had quickly and gratefully been dropped when Mark brought up his own questions about police procedures and due process. While the conversation flowed freely, Frank didn't appear to be in his usual lunch-hour rush.

He had been stalled…and he fell for it.

Tomorrow after classes he would head back downtown and talk to the good Lieutenant. He knew he wouldn't get anywhere with Hardcase, but Frank may just spill if provided with the proper inducement.

Father Atia had agreed to meet Hardcastle at the police station the next morning. Having called ahead, the jurist knew Frank would be in, and available. Mark had classes all day—his last before final exams. He understood the pressure well as final exams counted for 100% of the semester's grade. Participation, attendance, diligence didn't matter up until the point at which the timer started for each exam. Many students can't handle the stress, but the kid seemed to do well with it. In comparison to what he's been through in life, this isn't even a blip on the radar, he thought as he entered the building. Two years in San Quentin compared to two days of exams every few months. In the time he served, he would earn a law degree. Interesting how life turns out.

The judge was snapped out of his thoughts when he heard his name being called over several parked cars. Looking around, he spotted the priest. With a broad smile, he approached him with his hand outstretched, "Father, I'm glad you came. This is the right thing to do."

"I believe it was the only thing to do. So does my father."

The judge stopped in his tracks and looked curiously at the cleric. "You spoke with your father about this?" He tried to keep the disbelief from his voice.

Father Atia looked confused. "Well, of course I didn't give him specifics. He accepted the hypothetical conversation better than you did." The last part was said with a slight grin forming.

"No doubt. He spent a good portion of his adult life dealing with 'hypotheticals', but that's not what I meant. I'm surprised we would even come up in a conversation you would have with your father."

"You know, judge, I'll never really understand the relationship between you and my father. He respects you yet he is in diametric opposition to so much of what you have done."

"That's redundant." The judge grinned.

Father Atia stared at him as if he'd grown a third eye. He would never understand this man, or his relationship his father for as long as he lived. "Redundant?"

The judge slapped him on the back. "Diametric…opposition...?" Realizing that McCormick was probably the only one who could follow his train of thought—or understand his humor if you could call it that, he sighed, "Never mind. I'm just surprised is all."

"My father often asks about you and Mark. He still believes I would be dead today if you two hadn't intervened. And, intervened in exactly the way that you did. I suppose he would not like my methods today, but this is the only way I can do business." Now it was Father Atia's turn to sigh.

They had reached the door to Frank's office, and Hardcastle asked one final time, "Are you sure you're willing to do this? I can go to him with what you told me in a more…hypothetical…way."

"I appreciate your concern, Judge, but Mark is a friend of mine. Even if I didn't know you, I believe I would be carrying out these same actions. I understand what it could mean for me. But I also understand what it would definitely mean for Mark." He met the judge's eyes, "and you." Having said his piece, he reached for the door knob and opened the door.

Lieutenant Harper looked up from the pile on his desk, and immediately stood to offer Father Atia his hand. Nodding to Milt, he gestured for both of them to sit. After sitting back down in his chair, eyebrows raised, Frank finally spoke, "Well, I have to admit, you've had me curious since you called. What's going on?" On an afterthought he continued, "and why isn't Mark with you?"

Father Atia looked first at Judge Hardcastle before turning his gaze to the lieutenant, "to be honest Lieutenant Harper, we planned this so that Mark didn't know we came to see you. I'd appreciate it if this could remain among the three of us" and after a very brief pause, "only for the next few days."

"Well, if I wasn't intrigued before, I certainly would be now."

Father Atia abruptly began to speak, "About a week ago, a man entered the church and walked directly to the confessional. He is not a regular parishioner; in fact I've never seen him before. Or since. He had been drinking, and I'm not sure he would have otherwise been so forthcoming with the detail of the information he shared."

After a deep cleansing breath, he continued. "He had agreed to 'set up a friend' to get out of a pretty serious gambling debt. He told me he had no choice but to accept. He felt his own life was on the line. Fifty thousand dollars was more than he could ever hope to come up with."

After he stopped again, Lieutenant Harper spoke slowly and deliberately, "Father, if you heard the confession of a crime—whether it has occurred yet or not—" but he was not allowed to finish before the priest cut him off.

"With all due respect, Lieutenant, as I told Judge Hardcastle, the crime we are talking about is not a capital crime. In fact, it may not even have been deemed a crime. If he was successful—or is successful—it would simply appear that Mark committed a crime."

The concern on Harper's face was apparent, and it was also clear that his patience was being tried. "Father, with all due respect to you, I have to ask you to provide me with all of the details you have."

"His instructions were to wait until New Year's Eve. There is a party Mark is supposed to attend, along with most of the students in his cohort. He is supposed to drug him, and cause an accident. If Mark is seen to be the perpetrator, given his background he would be sent to prison."

Frank rubbed his chin. "But Mark has a pretty damn good lawyer" he said as he nodded towards the judge. "They can't think he'd stay in jail."

The judge's gravelly voice was low and ominous. "It doesn't matter, Frank. Their plans continue in prison. He isn't meant to survive it."

"Who the hell are these people?" Harper demanded.

"I honestly don't know." The despair in the priest's voice was obvious.

Harper was on the phone immediately, "Carson, I need you to pull some mug books. Let's start with gambling, and throw in drug arrests going back four years."

Father Atia's confusion was apparent, and he turned to the judge, "I don't understand, why is he requesting drug arrests?"

"That's how some gamblers support their habit; selling or making drugs. It's one way to make quick money, and lots of it. A lot of gambling is legal, so that's not what they usually get arrested for."

Enlightenment dawned, and the priest nodded. "Is there someplace discreet that I can look through the books? It may look a bit odd if somebody sees a priest going through mug shots."

For the first time that morning, Frank sported a grin. "Of course, Father, you can stay right in here. I'll set you up at my table here when Carson finds what we need."

Within fifteen minutes, the books had been delivered, coffee had been poured, and the judge and his long-time friend were in the hall watching Father Atia though the window meticulously working his way through each mug shot, carefully considering the photo on the page.

"Milt, there's just one thing I don't understand. Why the hell aren't you telling Mark?"

"Oh, don't worry Frank, we're going to tell him. In a few days when he finishes final exams. We have plenty of time between now and New Year's Eve. After his last exam, we'll tell him everything and make a plan. But, since we have some time, we thought we'd do the leg work." The judge nodded with an expression of total confidence that he did not quite feel.

The next few hours passed the same way. The cop and the judge ran scenarios, while the priest considered black and white photos of souls in need of saving. Nobody recognizable at the end of the day, but troubled souls nonetheless.

Mark found a parking spot in the city lot kitty-corner from the precinct. He preferred parking where there were few other cars to minimize the risk of a door ding. He knew it was ridiculous—especially since most of the damage to his car had been done with bullets over the past three years. Nonetheless, he continued his tradition.

He hadn't completed the trek across the parking lot when he was stopped by the vision of the judge and Father Atia walking down the front steps of the building. Overcome with the sudden desire to become invisible, he chastised himself for his childish instinct to duck. He didn't, but he did find himself wandering behind a pick-up truck where he felt a little more sheltered. He watched, intrigued by the fact not only were they there together—but they were there at a time when the judge had previously indicated that Father Atia had 'church business' to attend to.

He watched as they turned left, heading away from the parking lot.

Curiouser and curiouser.

He quickly abandoned the idea of talking with Frank so soon after his friends had left the building. He feared it would appear as if he were following them. Instead, another idea came to him—an idea he thought would serve several purposes. In only three short days his semester would be over—and his exams behind him. He would have time then to take a short trip.

ACT II:

Father Atia arrived at Gull's Way three days later as planned. He and the judge had decided to talk with Mark about the threat on his life after final exams were behind him. The pressures at the end of the semester were difficult enough and they didn't want Mark to be looking over his shoulder each time a car backfired. Although, since they had teamed up, the ex-con may very well argue that he was always looking over his shoulder—and the judge's shoulder as well.

The sun was shining brightly, and Father Atia moved the chair by the pool under the umbrella for shade. He had been talking amiably with the retired jurist and found him well versed in a variety of topics that related to the church. He smiled inwardly at the noticeable avoidance of all talk about his father and any of his activities.

By the time three o'clock rolled around, and the judge had checked his watch for about the fourteenth time, Father Atia could sense his distraction. "You seem worried, Judge." It was a simple statement, but navigated right to the heart of the problem.

"The kid's exam was at eight o'clock this morning. It was property law, and the exam would probably be multiple choice. Can't figure out what's keeping him."

The priest smiled warmly. "I know he likes to drive to a certain lookout point and reflect. It wouldn't surprise me if the city created a parking spot just for him."

The judge reflected on the statement, obviously meant to reassure him. "Yeah, I know, but this is long even for him. I told him you'd be coming by for an end-of-semester celebration. I guess I wasn't clear on the time."

"I have nothing else to do today. In fact, I kept the entire day open just to spend with Mark. He'll be here soon. Is there something else bothering you?"

The judge smiled at the intuitiveness of the priest. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his stomach. "Well, Father, to be honest I think the kid will be a little miffed that I kept this from him."

"I don't know Mark as well as you do, but I do know that intentions are very important to him. He will see the reason why we kept this from him. I don't believe there will be any blame."

The judge snorted loudly and then looked abashed at this outburst. "I only wish that were true."

00000

There were few things that Mark McCormick loved more than driving. Except maybe driving fast.

Very fast.

One perk of working with the judge all these years was that police officers rarely took notice if he sped by them. Their assumption was probably that he was working on a case—and he hoped they never learned the truth. Usually the trip to San Quentin on the I-5 took about six hours, or maybe a bit longer when the judge was a passenger. Today he was able to make the trip in a considerably shorter time.

His last exam was easy for him. He was certain he now understood the law as it pertained to personal property. He had actually been taught that difficult lesson years ago by a different instructor. An instructor that changed his life—in a positive way. But today's exam marked the completion of his first semester in law school. He was surprised at how much he liked it—once he got used to the rigorous schedule and got over the fact that he was older than the other students. What may have initially appeared as insecurity and fear of failure, was in fact fear of disappointing the judge. Once they got over that and Mark could relax, it turned out that he had an aptitude for it. Finally, his past experience was helping him in life. He had the unique ability to see the law from multiple perspectives and understand risk and resilience as it applied to offenders. But now he was looking forward to a well-deserved break between semesters.

Now it was time to do some detective work and figure out just what Father Atia and the judge were up to. He could, of course, ask them. But that wouldn't be much fun. He realized that he missed the work he did with the judge—and while he would never give up law school, he hoped to find a compromise.

He pulled into San Quentin a little after three pm. Having used some contacts in the law school, he had already arranged a meeting with the gentleman he wanted to talk to. An individual who he felt confident would help.

After signing in and proceeding through security, he was seated in private room, feeling pleased that he knew just which names to drop. Within ten minutes, Joe Cadillac was escorted in.

With an amused expression on his face, the inmate held out his hand, "Mark McCormick. I was surprised to hear that you requested a visit yesterday."

He accepted the hand quickly, "Mr. Cadillac, I appreciate that you agreed to meet with me. I know you didn't have to."

"I never thought a law student would want to interview me, but I didn't have anything better to do. I trust that Milt is fine? I must admit, I'm surprised he let you come to see me alone."

Mark seemed to have found a fascination with the table top, but quickly looked up to meet the gangster's eyes. "Well, Mr. Cadillac…"

"Joe, Mark. Please call me Joe. You don't work for me."

"Ah, okay, um…Joe. Hardcase, um, sorry, Hardcastle doesn't know I'm here. And, there is no interview for class. I just needed to ask you a few questions."

"Well, let's sit and see what I feel like answering."

00000

Cruising in the Coyote back to Malibu, Mark had time to process the few facts that Joe Cadillac had told him. He was not surprised that Father Atia would confide in his father, but was surprised that specific details were not available.

So, somebody was going to be set up. But why was he involving the judge?

McCormick thought briefly about calling the judge to let him know he'd be late. He may be worried, but he was angry with Hardcastle for keeping him out of the loop. He should have learned from past experience. He'd be home by midnight, and he knew the judge would be waiting to talk with him. That would be soon enough.

He leaned back farther into the leather bucket seat, accelerated around the next curve and began sorting through his mental rolodex to see if he could fill in any missing pieces. They had a few weeks before the new year to figure this out.

As he was nearing the turnoff for Bakersfield, nature called. He thought he could make it to Mama Tosca's. Not only did the thought of a late dinner from his favorite Italian restaurant sound wonderful, but he also knew that the judge would be mad—and admittedly worried—due to his late arrival.

He pulled into a gas station, topped off the tank, and walked towards the restroom. The last thing he remembered was opening the bathroom door.

00000

By seven o'clock, the judge had called Frank and an APB was issued. The jurist knew that wouldn't sit well with the kid, but he couldn't worry about that right now. There were enough other things to worry about.

Father Atia waited with the judge to hear the result of the APB. If he was near the city, the call would come back within a few hours.

The phone in the den rang at exactly nine o'clock and Hardcastle moved to answer it before the second ring. Father Atia watched as the expression on his face changed to quickly to concern. "What do you mean they found his car? Where the hell's McCormick?"

He listened for only a moment longer, then slammed down the phone and turned to the priest. "The Coyote was found on a rural road near Bakersfield. What the hell would he have been doing up there?" The judge was momentarily distracted by that thought, but quickly re-focused. "They didn't just find the car—it appears to have been in an accident." After a brief pause, he lowered his voice and met the priest's eyes, "They found some drugs in the car. "

The silence was thick, and finally Father Atia spoke, "Was anybody hurt?"

The judge shook his head, "The Coyote has only minor damage, but McCormick is nowhere to be found." After only one beat, he continued, "There is absolutely no way the kid would have been involved with any kind of drugs. No way. Never. He didn't even like taking his pain medication when he was shot."

"Are you sure Mark drove the Coyote up there? Could it have been stolen?" It was a possibility that must be considered, but Father Atia did not know whether that theory would bode well for his young friend.

"We don't have many details, yet. Frank is coming over to pick us up, and we can drive with him up to Bakersfield. But first I want to make a few phone calls."

Thirty minutes later, with all the calls completed, they headed north with Frank, complete with lights and siren.

When they finally arrived, they found three squad cars waiting and technicians scouring the crime scene. Hardcastle was the first out of the car, heading directly to the group of officers watching the technicians. "What's going on here?"

Before the oldest officer could question who he was, he recognized Lieutenant Harper walking quickly up behind him with his badge in his hand. "We're checking for more evidence, sir,"

"More evidence? What've you got so far?" The concern in the judge's voice was apparent.

"Besides the cocaine, we found several sets of prints in the car…"

"Probably McCormick's and mine." The judge cut off the officer in mid-sentence.

"Sir, there was also some blood, just a few drops, really. It was fresh though. And what looks like cocaine dust. Not a lot, but we swabbed it. Who knows…maybe there is some saliva on it that we can use. We're trying to see if there is anything else that can go to the lab."

Frank gently guided Milt by the arm away from the officers, "Let them do their jobs. We don't want to delay anything here."

00000

Mark opened his eyes—at least he thought he opened his eyes. There was nothing but darkness. It was so dark he wondered if he had lost his eye sight. His anxiety began to grow, just as his eyes began to adjust and he realized he was actually lying in wet grass, outside. He was cold. He didn't feel right, but he couldn't explain it. A combination of wanting to climb out of his skin and wanting to fall back asleep. He opted for the latter as he closed his eyes.

00000

The investigators couldn't rule out the theory that Mark took off on foot after the accident. He could have either hitched a ride, or started walking. It was only about twenty minutes later that the van with dogs arrived. After giving them a scent from the car, the two dogs immediately headed northeast.

As Hardcastle watched them go, he debated following. Since McCormick would probably not miraculously appear at the accident site, he opted to tag along. The dogs were keeping up a fairly good pace while keeping their nose to the ground.

The canine team leader halted the pack with one quick raised hand. He didn't bother to think about his next words or what impact they might have on those who were following him when he yelled out, "We have a body!"

ACT III:

Hardcastle paused reflexively and looked to the ground only briefly before he took off in a run. Frank was close by his side, keeping up rather easily. Hardcastle was older, sure, but he was in great shape and running on adrenaline, and that was a great equalizer.

Frank grabbed him by the elbow just as they arrived at the circle of officers standing around a shape in the grass. A shape with curly hair.

One officer was leaning over Mark and as he was reaching out to check his pulse, Mark quickly bolted upright as if caught in a nightmare. The same nightmare the judge had just been woken out of.

Mark looked around like a caged animal, not recognizing any of the faces he saw. Are these the same guys who jumped me at the gas station? As his eyes focused, he saw the uniforms and brightly colored vests with the LAPD logo.

The judge barged through the line of officers roughly, "Let me in there, would ya?" He was at Mark's side in another moment, and was down on one knee—rather ungracefully.

"Kiddo?" he ventured quietly with his hand on Mark's shoulder.

McCormick looked up to see the judge there and sighed a deep breath. "You're not going to believe what just happened to me." He looked around pensively, confusion and a little pain written on his face, "but then I guess I'm not totally sure what happened to me."

"Can you get up—or do we need an ambulance?" It was a practical question that Frank asked, even though he knew what the answer would be.

Mark gave him a look of disbelief and quickly got to his feet—only to lose his balance immediately. The quick actions of both the judge and Harper prevented him from falling flat on his behind.

"Ah, maybe you want to rethink your answer, Mark?" Harper continued, "At least let somebody check you out."

McCormick met the judge's eyes with an unspoken message. Hardcastle hadn't seen this look since the early days of their relationship—a message meant to indicate Mark's desire to talk with him without any police presence.

The judge sprang into action. "Don't just stand there, somebody bring me a blanket and bring a car closer. I want to get him back to the scene."

"Judge, we'd like to ask him a few…" one brave officer ventured, but was cut off immediately.

"He's in no shape to answer questions right now. I want him looked at. I'm his lawyer, and he'll be available to talk as soon as he is cleared and coherent."

Mark visibly relaxed, and it wasn't only the judge who noticed. Frank was frowning, having just caught on to the game.

"What gives, Milt?" It was a question, barely audible, from his long-time friend.

Hardcastle leaned in and spoke quietly, "I'm not sure yet, Frank, but let me have a few minutes with him. Something seems off."

"As long as he isn't on something." Frank didn't think it was possible, but he had to consider all possibilities.

"You know better than that, Frank. We both do." The judge was beginning to show his anger at what he thought was an accusation.

"Hey, don't get defensive, Milt. I didn't say Mark would do it intentionally, but given the facts about the threat we're working on it's a possibility that it wasn't willful. Geez, Milt, what did you think I'd think?"

"Sorry Frank. You're right, of course." The judge was embarrassed at his outburst to his friend. He knew Frank had just as much trust in Mark.

Frank simply patted Milt on the shoulder. No apology was necessary. He knew they were both worried.

The older officer, Jager, came back first with a blanket. Instead of handing to the judge, he wrapped it around Mark's shoulders himself. The officer had appeared many times in Judge Hardcastle's courtroom, and had a healthy dose of respect for him. Most judges didn't care about the 'cop on the beat', but that was not true with Hardcase. He had earned his nickname, but usually for his actions that supported the police officer. He didn't tolerate sloppy police work to be sure, and a cop would know it if they screwed up, but they never made the same mistake twice. Hardcastle's lectures didn't come from arrogance, but rather from a love for the law. If this Mark McCormick was important to the judge, then he was important, and earned the right to be treated with respect.

Hardcastle watched him as he took care of Mark. He then watched as the officer walked towards his younger colleague whose previously misspoken words about 'the body' had caused a tense moment for all. Pulling him aside from their peers, he talked to him about the proper time to use the term 'body' vs. 'victim' vs. 'unidentified man.' Hardcastle watched with a grin on his face. When the lecture was done, he called Jager over.

"Tim, thanks for your help. And thanks for giving that young whippersnapper a lesson."

Office Jager smiled crookedly, "He's a rookie, Milt, and I don't think he'll ever make that mistake again. Did you see his face when Mark bolted upright? I thought maybe he'd need a new uniform!"

Both laughed out loud, a testament to the fact that the tension was easing.

But there was still work to be done.

Father Atia brought Frank's car around and they got Mark situated in the back seat. The judge climbed in beside him and spoke quietly, "I'd really like to get somebody to take a look at you, McCormick. We're not sure what happened here."

"Judge, I'm not sure I want an exam by somebody 'official.' I think I was given something—I don't feel right. I'm crawling out of my skin here. Look at my eyes and tell me what you think."

The Judge tilted his head back to allow more light into the kid's eyes. He didn't like what he saw. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were using. Or had been using."

"Well, I appreciate your faith here, judge, but I gotta tell you, I'm not so sure. I feel like I've been slipped a mickey."

"Well, then we'll need some evidence, kiddo. Let's get some bloodwork done." The judge was being practical in an impractical situation.

"Juu—uuuddge, what are you thinking? I'm an ex-con and a law student. How's it gonna look if I turn up on drugs! This could get me kicked out of school. And, God forbid I would have had any on me, I could go back inside." Mark thought for a moment and quickly checked his pockets to be sure nothing had been planted on him. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, so it's not as bad as I thought…they can't trace the drugs to me if we just let this go."

He immediately noticed the expression on the judge's face. "Oh God, tell me what I've missed."

The judge took a deep breath and wiped his right hand over his mouth before speaking. "They found nearly half a kilo of cocaine in the Coyote."

The silence was only punctuated by the look of sheer panic on McCormick's face.

Father Atia spoke quietly. "That was the whole point, Mark."

Mark blinked hard. Twice. "What point? What are you talking about?"

Not waiting for a response from Father Atia, McCormick turned to the judge, but didn't see a look of confusion on his face. Obviously, whatever was going on, he was the only person out of the loop. "Judge, what the hell is he talking about?"

The judge took one look at Father Atia and saw the subtle nod.

"Mark," Father Atia began, "last week, I was approached by a stranger with some information about a plot against you…"

"Against me? What the hell for?" He paused for only a brief moment before he asked, "And why would he approach you—how would somebody even know we were friends?"

The silence spoke volumes, and Mark picked up on the significance immediately. "You weren't just 'approached' were you? This was somebody coming to…" before Mark spoke the word, he looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody would overhear him, "confess?"

The priest met Mark's eyes. "Yes, Mark."

Mark closed his eyes and rubbed them with his right hand. He realized he had spent a little too much time with his eyes closed when he felt somebody, the judge, take his elbow and lean in to ask if he was alright.

He opened his eyes slowly and nodded. He was growing tired quickly, but desperately needed to hear the rest of the story. He stayed with them until the last of the details was complete.

Mark looked accusingly at Hardcastle, "You knew about this last week but didn't tell me? Even after what happened two months ago? You keeping me in the dark has never worked out well for me…"

Mark paused suddenly, and reached for the door handle. Milt made a move to stop him, but McCormick elbowed his way rather vigorously, "I'm gonna be sick." With that he just barely made it past the car.

The judge was immediately behind him with his hand on his back, just in case he needed physical support. He wondered now if Mark had a concussion—he had just assumed that he was drugged. He realized now that he may not yet have all the facts. Perhaps the kid's decision not to see a doctor was not a good one after all.

The judge started tentatively, "McCormick, how long were you unconscious? Do you remember if you hit your head?"

Mark stared at his disbelieving. "Think about what you just asked me. How the hell am I supposed to know?"

"Okay, let me ask this a different way. What's the last thing you do remember?" The judge was able to maintain a somewhat calm exterior. After all, this wasn't McCormick's fault and he didn't want to treat him like it was.

Mark looked up at him, appreciating the change in demeanor. He sighed loudly. "The last thing I remember was getting gas at a station outside of Bakersfield. I filled up, and was going to go to use the facilities. That's the last thing I remember.

"Frank, you got that?" The judge asked the question over his shoulder.

"I'm on it." Frank was back in motion, contacting his officers and shouting orders. "Mark, do you remember which gas station it was?"

"Ah, yeah, the mom n' pop store, 'Erickson's' I think it's called. Right off the first exit, just at the light." He thought for a moment, then continued, "I'll go with you and show you."

The judge was about to object, but realized that the kid needed to be included from this point out. No more was he going to leave him out of the picture. Never.

It was only about ten minutes later when the police contingency—led by one Milton C. Hardcastle—arrived at the gas station. A bewildered young clerk came out just as the fourth squad car pulled under the awning.

"Um…is there…something wrong?" Tony was the name on nametag, written in bright blue scripted letters. His eyes were scanning each car.

Upon seeing Mark, he shouted loudly, "Hey, hey, he's the guy who stiffed me on the gas. He tore out of here and never paid. The owner made me pay for it last night."

Mark started to get out of the car, but was stopped by Father Atia. "Let them handle this, okay?"

"No offense, Father, but what is there to 'handle'? I want to talk to this guy to see what he knows. Remember, I don't remember what happened." Mark's frustration was evident, as was his growing exhaustion.

"Mark," it was Frank now that was responding, "It doesn't do any good to have a suspect talk to a witness before the police can get a statement. Let's try to keep this as clean as we possibly can."

Frank, Jager and the judge approached the young man and began asking very carefully worded questions.

"Son, can you tell me exactly what you saw last night?" Officer Jager began.

"That guy," he pointed excitedly towards Mark, "drove this hot red car in here about nine o'clock last night. He put $12.85 in premium gas…"

He was quickly interrupted by the judge, "That's a pretty good memory you've got there, Tony. Do you remember all sales to the penny?"

"The ones I get stuck paying I sure do! Do you know how long it takes me to make $12.85, just to have some jerk stiff me?"

Mark could hear the exchange from Frank's car, and couldn't keep quiet any longer. He was out of the car, and standing next to the judge before anybody could stop him, "Hey, I was gonna pay, but I went to use the bathroom first. I don't remember anything after that. Did you actually see me drive away?"

Tony paused long enough for the judge to jump on his indecisiveness. "You didn't actually see him leave, did you?"

Nobody noticed that Jager had wandered towards the station's men's bathroom. "Hey, Frank, call the team over here, we may have some evidence."

As Milt took a step towards the bathroom, Frank grabbed his arm, "Let's let the team go first, we still have some questions to ask here."

Thirty minutes later, the evidence team had completed their work. Several items had been bagged, and more samples and prints were taken. The judge caught sight of one particular bag, and quickly grabbed it out of the hand of the stunned technician, "Hey, Your Honor, that is police evidence…"

"He knows that, Ben, he's going to give it right back to you," it was Frank who interrupted the conversation this time. Although he was addressing the young technician, his words and eyes were aimed at his older friend.

Milt held the bag up to his face for closer scrutiny, and after noting the curly hair in the bag was a perfect match to McCormick's, he handed the bag back with no further conversation.

The technician took the proffered bag and went on with the update as if he were never interrupted, There were some marks on the door, near the bottom, and a broken pair of sunglasses." He pulled out the other bag and got a quick nod in return from the judge.

"Our working theory goes like this: Mr. McCormick stopped to fill up his gas tank. Upon doing so, ah, he spent $12.85 at the pump, he headed to the restroom. Just as he opened the door, we think he was hit from behind…right about here," he indicated a spot on the ground where one small splatter of blood remained.

"Then, see here," he continued "he must have fallen forward because see these scratches on the door, it looks like it could have been metal from the pair of sunglasses." He looked at the sunglass bag again. "It looks like we got a good partial print on the glasses."

Then there was a pause, and the judge's annoyance grew, "And?"

"And, nothing sir. That's all we have that's supported by evidence. The rest would just be a guess."

The judge wiped his hand over his face in frustration, "I'm wantin' to hear all guesses here—even if you are just going on instinct."

"Yes sir. Well, see, even though this is a gas station and cars pull in and out of here all day long, there is a set of skid marks off to the left there…here…let me show you."

The judge and Frank both followed the young technician around the side of the building where he stopped abruptly and said, "See."

In fact neither Frank nor the former jurist saw anything. The look on their face must have registered with the young man and he quickly squatted down and showed them with his hand, "See here. All of the other marks are near and around the pumps, or in the main parking area. This guy must have had his car parked here—out of sight from the bathroom and pumps. Makes me think he may have thought his car would be recognized." He nodded to emphasize that last point and then continued, "And see where the marks go? They go in the opposite direction of any of the others. Away from the street, and towards the back. I bet if we spent some time looking back there we might find a trail."

The judge couldn't help a small grin. This young technician reminded him of McCormick and his keen ability to notice right away anything that didn't fit the regular pattern of things. And, of course, when it came to cars, and the logic of the people who drove them, he knew McCormick would be impressed with the technician's take on things.

"Well done, son. You've given us a lot to think about. Do you think you could spare some men to take a look and find out more about that second car?"

"Yes sir. Right away!" It was obvious the young man was pleased to have been given a compliment from the judge. Most who knew him also knew that these types of comments were few and far between.

When all the work was completed at the gas station, several casts were taken of the tire marks, and more finger prints were found. Now all they could do was wait until the lab results were back. And waiting was something neither the judge nor McCormick was good at.

ACT IV:

Frank followed his team back to the station to help expedite the lab in any way that he could. Father Atia accompanied Hardcastle and McCormick back to the estate. No warrant was issued for Mark's arrest yet—but he was ordered to stay at the estate.

Once settled in the den with freshly brewed coffee, the judge addressed a question to McCormick that had been bothering him. "You never told us what you were doing out around Bakersfield." It wasn't a question, simply a statement. The implication was that it was to be answered. Immediately.

"Oh, well, that I do remember. I went to see your dad, Father."

"What?" It was a unison response from both the priest and the judge.

But Mark would not be intimidated. "Don't give me any grief, you were the ones working on a case without me, and lying about it. I had had enough and wanted some answers. You guys weren't giving me any. I figured for you to be working with the judge, you must have spoken to your father first. Turns out I was right." Mark nodded smugly to the two men.

The judge was perturbed. "Then why the hell did you just sit there and let Father Atia tell you the whole damn story?"

"Watch it, Judge, there's a priest in the room."

Hardcastle was not amused. And maybe he deserved an answer.

But before he could answer, Father Atia spoke up, "As I told you last week, Judge, I only gave my father hypotheticals."

Frustrated, Mark looked between both of his friends, "I wanted to make sure there were no more secrets, Judge." Mark gave him an extended, meaningful look. "Ever."

"Message received, McCormick. Never. I promise. I want you to believe that, kid."

"Good, 'cause I'm too tired to argue any more. I'm going to lie down; let me know as soon as you hear from Frank, okay?"

The judge shot a concerned look at his young friend, "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, fine, really. I'm just tired. But, I'm trusting you to wake me up as soon as Frank calls."

The judge went to the front closet and pulled out the spare blanket and pillow. Tossing them at Mark, he replied gruffly, "Yeah, as soon as he calls."

00000

The ringing phone broke the nervous silence in the den three hours later.

Hardcastle picked it up and spoke quietly in deference to his sleeping friend, "Yeah, Hardcastle."

He listened intently to the voice on the other end. All that could be heard was Hardcastle's whispered, "Damn bastard."

By this time Mark was wiping the sleep from his eyes as he sat up on the couch. He mouthed the question who? to Father Atia sitting across the room.

Father Atia shrugged and was about to take a guess when Hardcastle answered the question for both of them, "What's the next step, Frank. Is he in custody yet?"

After a brief silence, he continued, "Well, let me know when you have him. We can come on down tomorrow and make formal statements."

One more response from Frank, and Hardcastle wound down the conversations, "Yeah, I'll tell the kid. Frank, thanks for sticking with us on this. It means a lot."

With that, he hung up the phone and turned to see Mark sitting on the couch. "You feelin' okay, kid?"

"Yeah, Judge, just fine. Tell me the end of the story." He paused, and looked between the judge and Father Atia. "It is the end, right?"

"Yeah, we think so. You better sit back down, kid, you're not gonna like this."

Mark sighed loudly, "I hate to tell you this, Hardcase, but I haven't liked this for over a week now…"

The judge motioned with his hand for the kid to sit down, as he sat on the corner of his desk. All he needed to say was one name. "Quinlan."

Total disbelief was written on McCormick's face. For the first time in nearly four years he was speechless. When he finally was able to speak, it was barely a whisper, "Quinlan?"

"Yeah, kid, it seems he got enough people riled up about you. We have to remember that he now lives with a lot of people we also sent to Quentin. And, it wasn't only you who was on his 'hit' list."

"You too?" Mark was obviously concerned.

"Nah, not me." The judge paused for effect, "Teddy."

Mark shot off the sofa and headed for the phone, "Oh, God, I gotta call Teddy and make sure he's okay."

The judge was able to intercept Mark on the way to the phone. "Teddy's fine. Frank sent a car over to keep an eye on him until everybody is in custody."

"So, it's over?"

"It's over, kid."

Mark looked over to his other friend. He had nearly forgotten the sacrifice he made on his behalf. He found himself struggling for his next words, "Father…"

The young priest met his eyes and took the words from him, "Mark, it's over. I'm just thankful that you, the judge are all right."

"But Father, you sacrificed your career for me. Your life."

"Mark, it isn't that dramatic, I promise you. I will be talking with my superiors. What is meant to happen will happen. There is no scenario in which my silence would have been a real possibility for me. I will be fine."

Their eyes met, and Mark simply nodded.

"Well, it's been a long night for all of us. I'll call you in a few days. Get some rest, okay?"

The judge walked the priest to the door. "Father, thanks just don't seem enough. I owe you. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you. Ever."

Father Atia clasped the judge's extended hand in both of his, "You are welcome, judge, and as I told Mark, there was really no choice to be made. No matter what the consequences. I'll be in touch, though. Just take care of Mark and make sure he is okay."

"I've been doin' that for the past four years…no reason to stop now."

And with that, the priest left.

EPILOG:

Two weeks later, Mark returned slowly from getting the daily mail. He walked towards the pool and sat down heavily in the closest lounger. The judge found him staring at the water.

"Well…did they come?"

McCormick was brought out of his reverie by the gruffness of the tone. "Ah, yeah, they came."

"And?..." The judge's impatience was showing. It wasn't like he was unsympathetic to the tension, he had certainly experienced it before. But, he had to admit to a high level of curiosity. After all, he had a lot at stake here, too.

"And… what? I haven't opened them yet" he replied still not meeting his friend's eyes.

Sitting down across from him, the judge tried a different tactic. "McCormick, I won't insult you by telling you they are 'only' grades; that they don't mean anything. We both know better than that. But, no matter what, I know the work you put into all of your coursework. You know this stuff."

Mark looked up into his friend's eyes. "Thanks, Judge." Slowly and carefully he opened the envelope and unfolded the white parchment paper.

The judge watched as his young friend read the words; a small grin growing larger as the seconds passed.

"Are you going to tell me, or am I supposed to guess."

"Guess" was the smirky response.

"McCormick!"

"Four. Point. O." McCormick couldn't contain himself any longer. He jumped out of his chair and danced the grade report over to the judge.

The judge took the paper quickly, sporting a competing smile. "Straight A's…no kidding…that's great, kid. I knew you could do it!"

Their celebration was interrupted by the sound of a car coming up the drive. A moment later, Father Atia rounded the corner by the pool, "It sounds like a celebration is going on over here."

"McCormick's grades are in—and he couldn't have done any better!" the judge boasted.

"Congratulations, Mark. It's wonderful when hard work pays off." The priest's façade was not lost on either Hardcastle or McCormick.

It was Mark who addressed the unspoken tension first, "Father, can you tell us what happened with the bishop?" His concern for his friend was evident—and these last two weeks had been spent waiting not only for his semester grades, but for word of his friend's future."

"I am officially on sabbatical for three months. During this time I am to reflect on my actions and prepare a defense from both sides. Upon successfully presenting these cases—with equal diligence—I will return to work. I will be able to continue hearing confessions. For that, I am very thankful."

Mark put his hand on Father Atia's shoulder, "I am so sorry. I will always be grateful for the decision you made, but your actions shouldn't have come at such a high price for you."

"Oh, Mark, please don't misunderstand. I was already scheduled to go on sabbatical. This is not so much a punishment as a decision on the focus of my time away. There is always some focus—every few years we are to learn and experience something in an in-depth manner. I am looking forward to this time. I just wanted to come and say good-bye in person. I'll be out of touch for awhile, but you know how you can always reach me."

Father Atia had long ago given Mark his private phone number. He had used it sparingly, but valued his friend's advice and support. "And you know how to reach me."

The judge reiterated Mark's invitation, "if you need anything, please call either one of us. We'll look forward to getting together when you return."

The priest simply nodded and waved as he turned to leave.

The judge heaved a long sigh. "Well, kid, we need to celebrate. Everything turned out as well as it could—and you have a 4.0 average. That's hard to beat!"

McCormick smiled as he followed the judge off the patio. These last three years had certainly been worth it. Although their relationship had started in an unorthodox manner, it had grown into something neither one could have anticipated. "Now you're cookin', Hardcase."