Okay, I think I got threatened with bodily injury here.

I'm just joking, but I am glad to hear you like it so far. I was actually working on the next part too many errors. At least I got someone interested in the story, anyway! But hey just wanted to make sure I wasn't boring any of you to death with this hokey storyline that keeps popping up in my head. Again, many, many thanks to Cheri for trying to lead me in the right direction, I know I'm difficult at best, thank you.

Hope you guys enjoy, I'm putting the story all up tonight, all complete: 8 chapters. Please be honest and let me know what you think, hopefully I'll keep some of your attention to the end.

Thanks,

Lyn

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The next week seemed to progress slowly. Hardcastle had attempted to nonchalantly bring up the package, the photograph, and even Pat Martinelli at one point, but McCormick wasn't having anything to do with it. Instead, Mark threw himself into his work; a case which was approaching a trial date, the jury selection period was drawing near, and preparation had to be made. Mark even sidelined the judge, when he asked advice on different tactics for picking the jury when Hardcastle had attempted to broach the subject of uncle Pat.

"You're the one who's always telling me that I need to concentrate on the important parts of life. I have a job to do and I have to do it right or someone innocent suffers. This one is going to be a slam dunk, I'm not dropping the ball," Mark offered as his reasoning.

Each night, Hardcastle watched as the lights went off in the gatehouse. Then, he would slowly make his way upstairs to his bedroom. Maybe he was wrong, maybe McCormick had finally grown up, he had thought that McCormick was chomping at the bit to find out about the photograph and was just trying to hide his feelings with the work-a-holic act.

On Sunday evening Hardcastle again watched the light go out and made his way to bed. Tonight was to be the exception, after an hour or so, his suspicions were confirmed; he heard McCormick's car take off down the Pacific Coast Highway.

That son of a bitch, he lured me into a sense of security and figured I was asleep.

Mark had done just that; he waited until Hardcastle had gone to bed. He gave him an hour or so to fall asleep, then drifted the Coyote down the drive, started the engine at the bottom and took off down the highway at a high rate of speed.

If anyone was going to try to follow him, he was going to give them a run. He was not sure whether the FBI was still watching him. He jacked the Coyote up another gear and hit a conservative sixty cruising down the PCH, as traffic was almost non-existent at this time of the night. He headed southeast towards Santa Monica, and then took an off ramp from CA 1, to I 10. Once on the Interstate, he topped the Coyote at a hundred for a few minutes.

He kept looking in the rear view, to make sure there were no attempts to tail him and to be warned if he stirred up a police cruiser. After ten minutes, he slowed and took an illegal emergency cross-over and headed back the direction he had come from.

He held the Coyote to the speed limit; down the highway he took an off ramp into the streets of Santa Monica. He then took multiple turns and side streets, to end up at a bar called "Ryan's." He had been in the bar once before, several years ago, after an argument with Hardcase, and felt the need to get away and cut loose.

He entered the dimly lit establishment and surveyed the inside while walking up to the bar; he ordered a beer from the bartender, then headed toward the back where the bathrooms were located. On the wall in the hallway leading to the bathrooms were pay phones. Pulling one of the ten-dollar bills from his wallet, Mark used the numbers to call his uncle. After several rings, the phone was answered by a gruff male voice. Mark asked for Pat, explaining who he was. He was told to hold for a moment.

"Yeah," snapped a curt response.

"Uncle Pat, hey, it's Mark," answered McCormick.

"Mark, I thought I would be hearing from you, so how did you like the picture I sent you,"

"Well I don't mean to sound stupid, but who exactly is it?"

"Your grandmother, sorry, I thought you would figure that one out by yourself."

"Oh, no wonder she looked familiar, now that I think about it I can see some of the family resemblance."

"That's exactly why I sent it to you. You would have liked her and she would have spoiled you rotten, I'm sure . . . Anyway I hear that you won your first big case. A little birdie told me that you pulled the rug out from under the District Attorney and made a big name for yourself with the news media.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far. I think I tried something that they were not expecting and had no idea how to counter attack me on.

"So, you're staying at the Isle de San Pietro. Bet it's beautiful there."

"Yep, I have a beautiful villa here; you need to come visit for a while. It's oceanfront with a pool and everything. I'm sure you could find things to do, possibly even entertain a young lady for a while.

"What young lady? I don't have a current girlfriend."

"Oh, last I heard, I thought you and Katrina were getting along pretty well."

"Uncle Pat, you don't need to pay for me a girlfriend. I don't think a relationship is something that you can buy, anyway."

"Who said I was paying for you a girlfriend? And where did you get that crazy idea, anyway? Oh, wait a minute here; let me guess; the honorable Judge Hardcastle, right? He really doesn't like me, does he?"

"Just leave the judge outta this. Now, you're really gonna tell me that you weren't paying Katrina to come and see me?"

"No, actually I wasn't. Katrina had told me that she was going to go see you to make sure the FBI was leaving you alone. And I told her to give you a message, but that doesn't mean I was paying her to see you. You must think I really stoop pretty low here. Of course, it doesn't surprise me that the judge wouldn't want me to get close to you, but he really doesn't need to fill your head with that kind of nonsense."

"Well, I did see Katrina a few times, but I thought you were still paying her. And by the way, the judge didn't fill my head with anything."

"Now, Mark, you mean you turned away that beautiful girl just because she worked for me in the past? I would think that you of all people would be able to forget someone's past and not hold it against them, unless of course . . . someone else was influencing you."

"Okay, now I feel really stupid. And stop the crap about the judge, okay, enough already."

"Well, get past it. It's up to you whether you see Katrina again; I'm staying out of that one. You are the one who needs to explain it to her, or then again not . . . Enough on that subject and onto another, has the FBI checked in on you lately? I understand that they were harassing you. Katrina said when she went to the judge's estate that they were there . . . Is there anything I can do for you? I really don't like them picking on my nephew."

"Hey, your nephew has been taking care of himself for a long time now. I think I can manage; besides you're my client and with attorney/client confidentiality and privilege, they can't touch me.

"Didn't think of that one, that's pretty good, you're pretty darn smart. Just be careful, they have some fairly smart ones at the bureau too."

"So, you think they are smarter than me?" Mark chuckled.

"Well, maybe they are just as smart. You have impressed me, although you may have made some bad decisions early on, you have made some adjustments and hopefully learned a hard and long lesson."

"Of that you can be sure," Mark mumbled.

"Okay, I need to let you go, and don't wait so long to call again. Mark, make some plans to come down and visit. I would really enjoy having you . . . and you can even bring the judge along. After all, he and I should have a good heart to heart conversation. And . . . maybe you could even bring a female companion along, hint, hint."

"Now, I know it's time to hang up, take care and I'll call again," said Mark in closing.

"Take care, Mark," Pat stated as he disconnected the line.

Mark listened to the dial tone for a second before hanging up the phone; he then slowly made his way back to the bar and his waiting beer. He again surveyed the inhabitants of the bar.

He checked for anyone who looked out of place, or who seemed especially interested in him. He sat down on a stool. The bartender motioned to him, asking if he needed another beer. Mark nodded his head, dug money out of his pocket and placed it down on the bar. A beer was quickly exchanged for the money.

After finishing his beer, Mark exited through the front door, while looking around for any suspicious vehicles or anyone paying too much attention to him. Feeling that he had not been followed, he climbed into the Coyote and headed toward home.

Cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway, he thought of the conversation with Pat. He was glad that he had finally made contact with him. He had thought about calling different times, but thought that Hardcastle would have a fit if he knew he was in contact with his "gangster" uncle. He could hear the lecture he would get about a promising attorney with mob ties and screwing up his life again and on and on.

He entered the driveway and parked the Coyote in front of the garage. Unlocking the door to the gatehouse and stepping into the dark interior, Mark was startled when Hardcastle spoke. "It's about time you got home."

"Geeze, Judge, what are you trying to do, scare me half to death?" Mark said breathlessly.

"Where have you been?" Hardcastle grumbled.

"Out, Judge, it's late can we go to bed, please?" Mark whined.

"You went to call Pat Martinelli, didn't you?" Hardcastle snapped

"Judge . . ." I can't lie to him . . . "Okay, yeah, I called Uncle Pat, and he was the one who sent the photograph of my grandmother," Mark admitted.

"McCormick, you gotta think here, you got in trouble with the FBI the last time you had contact with Pat. Do you think they are going to keep letting this ride?"

"Judge, he's my flesh and blood; the FBI has no right to stop me from making contact with him."

"He's a wanted felon, McCormick!" Hardcastle yelled.

"But, Judge, he's also my client, that can keep the FBI at bay."

"Believe me, the FBI can eventually find a way around that smoke screen," Hardcastle snapped.

"McCormick, damn it, you have too much to lose here! You finally have a law practice that is starting to take off. You can help so many people, but you can't do that behind bars yourself," the judge pleaded.

"Okay Judge, let me think about all this. There has to be a way around all this mess."

"It is pretty late, okay, stay put . . . on the estate and get some sleep. We'll talk about this again in the morning, we both will be thinking a little clearer. And by the way, don't you have a jury selection in the morning?" Hardcastle grumbled.

"Oh man, I forgot about that, I need to be in court at 8:30, and it's already past two," Mark whined.

"Now you're cookin'" Hardcastle grinned, knowing that Mark would regret his late night foray.

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Mark tried to get his exhausted body awake first with a cold shower, and then with some of Hardcastle's coffee, which could have floated bullets. He still felt like there was gravel under his eyelids.

He had tried to forget about the events of the past several days and get some sleep, but the photograph of his grandmother . . . his grandmother, has a nice ring to it . . . he smiled . . . and the conversation he had with Pat kept playing over and over again in his mind, so sleep was very elusive.

He shoveled down his breakfast, while Hardcastle berated him about having to choose between running around all night, and his duties as an officer of the court. Nodding his acknowledgment as the lecture continued, McCormick grabbed his briefcase and made for the Coyote. He knew he had to get moving in order to make it to the court on time.

The ride to the city was refreshing, but he realized regretfully that he would be inside the courthouse for the rest of the day. He slowly made his way across the parking garage toward the elevator. He was caught off guard as two men grabbed his arms, he felt a prick as he was injected with something; as the needle was removed, his vision was already fading to blackness.

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