Sessions—Chapter 11

Despite the audible reluctance of the day before, Mark McCormick was ready promptly at noon the next day. Westerfield saw him standing by the desk in the very unornate waiting area of the store-front law office on Pico Street. He was bent slightly in close discussion with a practical-looking woman who was apparently both receptionist and secretary.

He glanced up at the opening of the door. A ghost of a smile flashed across an underlying look of concern and, in place of a greeting, he said, "It's about Cartori, huh?" and then, "Nobody associated with either of them is allowed to contact you. Not so much as a phone call. If they try it, you call me, day or night." Then he frowned suddenly. "And if you can't reach me, then Frank Harper." The frown had gone slightly apologetic. "You weren't trying to reach me since, um, Friday, were you?"

Westerfield shook his head, still holding the door open. Mark looked puzzled, then more worried. He gave the woman at the desk one last nod and said, "Won't be too long."

"Nothing to hurry back for." She smiled and made a slight shooing motion.

Westerfield thought he might have seen a quick grimace, not there quite long enough for him to be certain. By the time they were out on the sidewalk it was pure worry again.

"Not one of the Cartoris' lawyers, huh? Yeah, I kinda thought they might leave the whole thing about the medical notes alone. I was hoping they would. No reason to bring up something that would be a motive for him to send a hit man after you." He paused, and then said, "Somebody from the DA's office? Some of those guys aren't too keen on me and Hardcastle."

Westerfield shook his head again. They were at the curb. Mark looked like he was entertaining second thoughts about getting in the car.

"I'm in the mood for Chinese," the doc said casually. "Know any good places around here?"

McCormick stood there a moment, looking grimly defiant about even giving up that much information. Then he pointed vaguely in an easterly direction and said, "Yeah, 'bout a mile or so."

The psychiatrist gave that a nod, and climbed into the driver's seat. Mark, hesitating for only a moment, opened the door on the passenger side and got in as well.

The silence was getting a little thick. Finally McCormick spoke. "I am sorry about rousting you out in the middle of the night last Friday." From the tone it seemed obvious that the regret wasn't entirely about disrupting Westerfield's sleep.

He didn't comment on that, just shrugged and said, "It's what I'm here for."

This got another quiet pause, then a nod of acknowledgment, then a little more silence until Mark said. "Here, the one on the right. There's a lot in the back."

Things got quiet again until they were inside, and seated. Even Westerfield, who had turned waiting people out into an art form, was starting to wonder if all he'd be getting from this would be a spring roll and a plate of chicken lo mein. As for the man across from him, he was studying the menu with a level of attention usually reserved for serious decisions.

There was a period of patient silence that ended with the ordering of food. When it looked like it might settle in again, the psychiatrist finally risked an opening gambit.

"I talked to Paul."

The sudden, sharp stare from the other man, and the look of concern on his face, made Westerfield hastily add, "He thought you might be worried."

"Did he call you?"

Westerfield nodded.

"Is he okay? I mean, why did he call?" Then his face clouded abruptly. "Never mind, dumb question. I know you can't talk about him."

"He told me to tell you he's okay."

"Yeah," Mark said doubtfully, "but is he? You should have seen him." He shook his head. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Well, he sounded like he was okay on the phone. As for the rest," Westerfield kept his expression completely, entirely non-judgmental, "that's hard for me to say. You haven't really told me what happened. Lieutenant Harper—"

"You talked to Frank?"

"Yes," the doc admitted. "He called yesterday. He seemed a little worried about you, as well."

"Hardcase called you too, I'll bet," Mark said thinly. "That whole 'I think I'll just stay home and put my feet up today' routine. I shoulda known. I've been set up."

The doc shrugged lightly. "Maneuvered maybe. Very slightly. Maybe you owe me one for the midnight consultation—how 'bout that?"

McCormick looked as if he was trying to work up some resentment, but the end result barely qualified as sullen. His shoulders finally dropped a notch.

"I don't think I ever told you about that place."

"San Roque?"

"Yeah, and, ah, Roca Triste—the prison there."

Westerfield shook his head. "No."

"Yeah," Mark repeated nervously. "It was five years ago. Happened before I met you."

Nothing else came out for a moment and Westerfield finally said, "Lieutenant Harper called it a dungeon."

Mark nodded.

"You were in it?"

Another nod. "Went down to San Roque. Got in the middle of something I didn't even know I'd gotten in the middle of and, the next thing I knew, I was thrown in there. Didn't know exactly why. Didn't know what was happening. They beat the crap out of me when I tried to ask."

"How long?"

"Oh, only five days. Couldn't tell then, though. No day, no night. Pitch black." Mark frowned. "But not for long. I started hallucinating."

"Sensory deprivation. That's what happens."

"Nothing nice." Mark's tone had gone a bit flat, but still almost matter-of-fact. "All bad stuff. Seemed very real, though."

"Human imagination is a very powerful thing."

"Yeah," McCormick agreed quietly. "Funny thing was, in the middle of all of it, the door to the cell opened and there was Hardcastle."

"He got you out?"

"Ah, no. I mean, that's what I thought then but, no, I just heard him say one word, and then he was gone, the door shut. All black again."

"It was real?"

"Yeah . . . and this is the weird part; I thought that part was a hallucination. I tried to convince myself it was, because the alternative was . . ."

"Abandonment?" Westerfield suggested gently after a long moment of silence.

A nod. The silence stretched out.

"But he did get you out."

"Yeah, I think it was about a day later. The door opened again, lots of light that time, guards. I'd pretty much convinced myself I was already dead, and then I realized I wasn't, but they'd just forgotten to do it. I'd thought all kinds of crazy stuff in the time it took them to haul me out of there and upstairs. Hardcastle was there, and Harper. I found out I was being extradited."

"A scam?"

"No, not really. There were outstanding charges, stuff that had never been settled. It was pretty real. And it made perfect sense right then."

"That you deserved it?"

Mark glanced up again, out of what might have been drifting into reverie. "Yeah." His gaze sharpened. "Exactly. And I thought I was thinking clearly. I thought Hardcastle was angry. I figured I was going back to prison, but at least it wasn't going to be Roca Triste." Mark shook his head. "Only five days in the hole, and it reduced me to that."

Westerfield managed a low whistle. "Plenty of post-traumatic stress to go around."

"Is that what it was? Huh." Mark shook his head. "I dunno. But, anyway, it took a while before I got my head straight."

"And the charges were cleared, I presume?"

"Yeah, that helped." McCormick frowned thoughtfully for a moment and then added, "But it wasn't just the charges, the going back to prison. It was him. It was me believing that he meant it, which is what I thought at first. I know that was crazy, but that's what I was thinking." He slumped back and sighed slightly. "So, that's what I mean . . . five days. I was pretty messed up."

"And that was where the judge was last week?"

"Yeah." Mark nodded. "Nobody was sure. That was actually the best case scenario; at least it would mean he was still alive."

"So, how did you get him out?"

"Oh . . . we ran a little scam of our own."

"We?"

There was a quick flash of guilt and then McCormick backtracked slightly and said, "'I' . . . it was my idea. I dragged Frank into it, and Kathy, too. And, damn, the thing with Paul. I swear, it never even occurred to me—his mom and the casino and all."

"I would imagine it never occurred to Milt, either, that getting you out of prison the way he did might have some negative associations for you."

Mark seemed momentarily startled. Then he fumbled. "Well, yeah, but . . ."

"It was a necessary means to an end. So he did it. And you're okay. Paul's okay, too."

McCormick swallowed once, then said, "We all just got lucky."

"Paul even thinks it might have been a good thing. Who knows, maybe he's right. It doesn't usually help to ignore the bad stuff. It doesn't make it go away."

"Is that why you dragged me to lunch today?"

"Do we have some more bad stuff to talk about? Frank said someone died."

"Before we got there, yeah. In the cell across from Hardcastle's. One of the other advisers." Mark shook his head. "The judge looked pretty bad, too, but at least he still had his head screwed on straight."

"Everybody reacts differently; everyone has different fears."

"I don't think he has any."

"Different fears."

McCormick looked doubtful. "Okay," he finally nodded, still dubious, "maybe. Never seen any."

"And different ways of showing them."

"I'll take your word for it." Mark sighed. "And you're right. All over, everything back to normal. Got out of it by the skin of our teeth and kept the list of felonies to the absolute minimum required."

"So . . .?"

"'So' what?" Mark asked suspiciously.

"Avoidance, a certain degree of unusual pensiveness, and people lining up to tell me you need to be talked to."

"I dunno." The younger man's eyes narrowed a bit—annoyance, but with an element of slight evasiveness. "Maybe it's like I said, we all just got lucky."

Westerfield waited patiently for more.

Another sigh, this one a bit wearier. "Look, I dragged all of them down there with some half-baked idea. I was targeting a mobbed-up casino that was supporting the coup. I'd even tapped a thief named Farnell—a guy Hardcastle had been trying to bust for years—I was going to try and work my way through the security system, clean them out of some serious cash, then hold it for ransom. Kathy came up with a better idea—a little less criminal, faster, too."

"Teamwork." Westerfield smiled. "Though Harper said you were the one calling the shots."

Mark grunted, and then, "Yeah, and I never want to be in the position again. I could have gotten them all killed, or thrown into that hell-hole."

"Sounds like it was an all-volunteer army."

"Well, I don't want to be a general. Tonto is fine for me. I've even coped with 'partner', but I'll be damned if I'll let him push me into being a general."

"Who?"

"Hardcase." Mark frowned. "He started talking about being a judge—me being a judge. Well, actually it was Farnell who was talking about it, which oughta tell you right there what a lousy idea it is, but when Hardcastle heard—you know, he hates this guy—he said I ought to think about it. I don't want to think about it, and I don't want him to think about it, either."

He pulled up short, a little flushed, and looked around nervously as though he wasn't sure just how much volume he'd achieved.

"Anyway," he ducked his head down, his voice lower, tighter, more even, "once he starts thinking about something, it usually doesn't end there, but I'm not giving in on this one."

"Fine."

Mark sat back, looking at him with an expression of surprised relief.

Westerfield shrugged. "You're, what, two years out of law school? Isn't there some sort of minimum requirement to be even considered for a judgeship?"

"Yeah," Mark said, now sounding slightly more suspicious, as though it might be a trick question. "Ten years."

"So, are you going to spend eight years debating a moot question?"

"He will."

The doc gave that one a considering nod and then said, "Yes, you might be right. But even he'll have to realize that you've got the law on your side, at least for a while yet."

"Yeah," Mark muttered.

"And eight years is a long time to get used to an idea."

McCormick looked at him; the suspicion appeared to be deepening.

"Him or me?" he finally asked.

"Well," Westerfield smiled, "where were you eight years ago?"

There was a brief pause for subtraction and then McCormick's face went slightly rigid in recollection.

"San Quentin. I still had two months left."

"And if someone had told you that eight years from then you'd be Milton Hardcastle's law partner—"

"I'd've spat in their face," McCormick said ruefully. He sat, brows knitted. "So, you're saying I might be wrong about this, too? No—"

"Not necessarily."

"Good," Mark said, a little less firmly than before, "because I'm not." He hesitated briefly and then said, "So, how do I convince him?"

Westerfield shook his head. "I don't think you will, but I wouldn't argue about it with him too much, if I were you. Like I said, eight years is a long time."

"Is that psychiatric advice?"

"No," Westerfield grinned, "more the practical kind. The fewer times you insist you're right, the less embarrassing it is if you finally turn out to be wrong."