Mark awakened from his brief nap when the lock disengaged and the door opened, slowly rising to a sitting position as to not alarm the goons that now stood just inside the room. One of them indicated the he should come with them.

Mark ran a hand through his hair and asked, "Look, guys, what do you want with me anyway?"

Goon #2 then proceeded across the room to grab Mark by the arm and pull him along.

"Okay, okay, I get the hint . . . but honestly, guys, I think you have the wrong guy here," Mark said, trying to appear cooperative.

"Shut up," snapped Goon #2, as he forcefully guided Mark down the stairs.

"Shutting up now," muttered Mark almost under his breath, as he quickly navigated the stairs and was guided through the large house into a room that appeared to be an office.

Behind a large oak desk towards the back of the room sat a man talking on the telephone. Quickly assessing him, Mark determined he was approximately forty-five years old and dressed in a very expensive silk suit. Mark's impression was that he appeared to be in good physical shape. As Mark was pulled to a halt in the center of the room, he contemplated that this guy could probably kick some serious butt.

I just hope it's not gonna be my butt he kicks.

Mark tried to appear calm, stuck between the two huge goons who had released his arms. The man behind the desk glanced up at Mark briefly, but continued his conversation quietly.

Mark made an attempt, but was unable to catch any of the phone conversation, but was intrigued as the man behind the desk seemed vaguely familiar. Mark was running through his memory database trying to come up with how this man seemed familiar to him. It wasn't from Hardcase's files, or any of their past cases; he had a feeling it was from TV, actually a news broadcast in the past.

But why was he on the news? Was it a trial for something? Why can't I remember?

As he contemplated this thought, the gentleman concluded his phone conversation.

He looked up at Mark, stared at him really slowly, looking him up and down. This examination made Mark very uncomfortable; he suddenly felt self-conscious, almost like a bum caught stealing from a fancy restaurant's garbage can, as he realized he was dressed in his jeans and a t-shirt.

Gee, Mark, you gotta really be losing it, you are worried that you aren't dressed appropriately for this guy, who, by the way, just had his goons kidnap you. This is intelligence; no wonder you can't think of a way to get out of here.

After a few moments of sizing each other up, the boss motioned for the two goons to leave them; they obeyed without hesitation. Mark glanced over his shoulder at their retreating backs, then back at the boss.

"Okay, not to be rude or anything, but who are you and what do you want with me?" Mark questioned.

"No pussy footing around . . . get right to the point, I like that, Mark," he commented as he stood up and came around the front of the desk to lean back and sit on it. He still studied Mark as he added, "Understand you did two in Quentin for GTA?"

Mark silently appraised his appraiser.

"Pretty dumb, don't you think? . . . Then ended up with the judge who sent you up . . . playing yard boy . . . was that some type of extra punishment, or what?" he slowly lit a cigarette and drew on it, all the time studying Mark's face.

Mark had already put up his wall, closing himself off, showing no emotion, no reaction to the man's comments.

"And now a big time lawyer ready to take his bar exam, huh . . . what no smart assed comeback? I hear you're pretty famous for them, eh, Mark?" prodded the man.

He still received no reaction from Mark, who just kept looking straight ahead, giving nothing up, bottling up his emotions, as he had learned from experience how to survive.

"Well, Mark, I've been watching you for a long time. I actually thought Judge Hardcastle was doing all right by you, or I would have intervened. If that is not true, you let me know and I'll take care of him. Everyone was telling me that he was an okay guy, straight forward and honest; that true?" again the man paused.

Finally Mark had enough, "Just who the hell are you anyway? Take care of the judge. You have no right to talk about Hardcastle in any way, shape, or form; you're not even in his league. He is the most honest and upfront guy, he's given me more than I can ever repay," Mark angrily spat out.

Mark's sudden outburst brought the two goons running, who were obviously just outside the door.

Laughing, he waved them away, "Good . . . " came the barely controlled chuckling reply. "You do have some balls, even going to take me on? For a while there I thought maybe someone had used and abused you into submission, and that just wouldn't do. Well since you finally asked nicely, my name is Pat Martinelli," as he extended his hand, "It's nice to finally meet you."

The name sent a shiver down Mark's spine, Pat Martinelli, commonly known as Patsy Martinelli or Pasquale Martinelli, was one of the biggest crime lords in the country. He had heard a lot about him while doing his stretch in Quentin, and the news media had a field day making complete jerks out of the feds, with the way he had slipped through their fingers so many times. The last report Mark saw was a news report on how he had actually sued and won a large settlement when the feds had tried to set him up.

Mark looked down at the extended hand but did not attempt to take it, then asked, "What do you want with me Mr. Martinelli?"

"Well, first I want you to shake my hand and give me some respect," Mr. Martinelli said quietly, the threat hanging in the air.

Oh, good one, Mark, smooth move, really piss him off so he uses you for fish bait while you're still breathing.