Author's Note: This follows on Chapter 11, which follows 'The Martingale'.

Sessions—Chapter 12

Westerfield showed up at the Law Clinic promptly at noon on Friday, too, this time parking around back, in the small lot. Mark had assured him the spot normally reserved for Hardcastle's truck would be empty—he was picking up the donkey and driving him to work and there wasn't going to be any argument about it, either.

He tapped on the back door. There were sounds from the other side, and a casually half-hollered, 'I'll get it.' That was Mark's voice. Then, when the door opened, McCormick, coffee cup in hand and cuffs rolled up, looked over his shoulder and said, to the man further up the hallway, "Your turn."

Hardcastle scowled very briefly, and mostly in the direction of his rather pleased-looking law partner. For Westerfield there was a slightly thin, possibly surprised, smile.

"Wasn't expecting company," he said dryly.

"Everybody's gotta eat," Mark said with a slight chuckle as he turned and eased past him.

The judge pointedly checked his watch. "Might be kinda tight for time today."

"Nonsense," Mark grinned just before he ducked back into the first door on the left, his voice still quite audible, "nothing important on the board this afternoon. And who's in charge here, anyway? Take a break."

The scowl was back, again momentary, but it looked like some tongue-biting was involved before the judge got control over his face again. Another brief smile for the company and then they both heard the parting admonition, 'And don't forget your coat.'

"He's bossy," Hardcastle said, and then gestured to the back door, very definitely leaving his coat behind. Westerfield raised one eyebrow. "I'm fine," the older man added, though not loud enough to provoke another set of cautions from the man inside.

In fact, to Westerfield's eye he looked fairly himself, some stiffness to his gait and the faint shadow of a bruise on his right jawline, all subtle, nothing overt. Still, the answer surprised him when he said, "Your pick."

"Is Santa Monica too far?" Hardcastle asked.

"No, that'd be fine. You've got a place in mind?"

"Yeah, north of the pier. Good sandwiches. They've got a veranda."

Westerfield jerked his chin back in the direction of the now-closed back door. "You sure about the coat?"

"I'm fine."

00000

The midday traffic wasn't too bad and the veranda sparsely occupied, though it felt like the temperature might just crack seventy with a bit of luck. Hardcastle had requested the outside seating and was taking in the ocean view with an expression of genuine appreciation.

"I never get tired of it," he said. "You might think so, looking out the kitchen window and seeing it every day, but, no, it's always a little different." He took a deep breath.

Westerfield looked out at the winter sun, the long white rollers in the stiffening west breeze. He nodded. "It is beautiful . . . Not too chilly, though?"

This got him a crooked grin. "Not you, too? Listen," the judge lowered his chin and leaned forward a little, "I'm just letting him get away with it for a couple of days because it seems to make him feel better."

"Right, you're fine."

"Well, I am. Couple little aches and pains, that's all." There was a quick grin, just as quickly extinguished, replaced by a more sober look. "I'm not saying it was a picnic." His face clouded with a frown. "Mendoza, he was one of the advisers—"

"The man who died?"

Hardcastle nodded. "McCormick told you about that?"

"No, the lieutenant did."

"Frank? You called him?"

"He called me. That must've been the day you got back."

"Hmmph." It was a noncommittal grunt, probably intended to add a grain of salt to anything Harper might've said, without actually acknowledging that there might be anything to deny.

"And Mark, he told me something about the place."

That was obviously going to be a tougher description to get around. McCormick had spent some time on the other side of the cell door.

"Well," Hardcastle said, quietly resigned, "like I said, no picnic." He broke off eye contact and looked down at his menu with a studied air. Then, after a moment of silence, he spoke again, unprompted. "But the kid worries too much."

"Doesn't sound like it this time."

The judge looked up at him, then past him, at the ocean again. "Listen, we talked at first. That helped some. Mendoza, he kept saying he couldn't breathe. The guards came down, told him to be quiet, but that just made him more panicky. I think they probably hit him. Then we all started shouting. I was hoping they'd open the doors, give us a chance to try something but . . . they didn't even bother." He paused, shook his head. "We didn't hear him any more after that. The rest of us stopped talking, too." He frowned, still looking down. "Never been anyplace so dark. No light at all."

"Mark said that, too."

"Yeah, well, he knew what it was like. That's what kept worrying me the whole time. We'd even talked about it, being in prison. Me and him, I mean, the last time we'd been together." The frown settled in. "Christmas. Yeah. Seems like a long time ago."

"Last year," Westerfield said with a hint of a smile.

"Yeah." Hardcastle returned it, then looked thoughtful for a moment and added, "You know, I've been in jail more times than the average retired judge. This made, ah, the fifth . . . no, the sixth."

The doc felt one eyebrow rising. He very conscientiously forced it back down again, but too late.

"Well," Hardcastle's look had gone somewhat chagrined, "I'd done a pretty good job staying out of trouble until I retired." There was another grin. "And, anyway, one of the other times was down in the Caribbean, too, place called San Rio, pretty close to San Roque. Somebody framed me and I got tossed in the clink." He was staring back out at the ocean again. There was a deep breath and a quick swipe of the nose before he continued. "Mark came and got me out. Crazy stunt, used a helicopter."

This time the eyebrow went up and stayed there.

The judge glanced back at him, gave it one sharp nod, and said, "Yeah, crazy. And he'd only been staying with me for a couple-maybe three months then. It wasn't like we were buddies. I couldn't figure it out."

Westerfield kept his mouth shut and both eyebrows steadfastly neutral.

"Okay, well, not right away, anyhow."

"You did figure it out eventually?"

Hardcastle shrugged lightly. "Yeah, I think so. What do you call that, projection? You know, when you have a certain feeling about something, and you think it must be the same way for somebody else."

"Projection," Westerfield nodded, "yes."

"Well, that's what it is with McCormick. Prison is one of the few things that scares him, and San Roque, well, as prisons go, they don't get much worse than that one."

"Were you afraid of it?" the doc asked curiously.

"Afraid? Hell, yes, some. Be stupid not to be." Hardcastle frowned. "But, you know what scared me the most?"

Westerfield shook his head just once.

"Well, I kept thinking, 'What the hell crazy stunt is he gonna try this time?' I was worrying that he'd do something that would land him in one of those cells with the rest of us. But that was bad enough, at least I wasn't thinking he'd get Kathy and Paul and Frank involved, Aggie, too—she's the one who helped him that other time, in San Rio; shoulda figured she'd get in on it, huh?" He shook his head. "I dunno how to explain it to him. I'm old, see, I've had a pretty good life. Some ups, some downs, but maybe better than I deserved."

Hardcastle's smile was wholly sincere. "Not that I'd mind hanging around a while longer, to see how things turn out, ya know?"

Westerfield nodded.

"But if I did have to go, well, that wouldn't be some damn tragedy."

"Not for you."

The judge frowned and finally said, "He'd be okay. He's got a life."

"And you're part of it."

"Yeah, well, not indefinitely. He ought to understand that. And I sure as hell don't want to take anybody else down with me."

"I don't think you can control how much other people are concerned about you . . . especially when their concerns seem well-founded."

"Maybe so," he said and took a deep breath, then looked sharply at the other man again. "Did he tell you what he did?"

"Not really. He said it was a half-baked idea."

"Hah. I backed Frank into a corner at Aggie's place, after it was all over. He told me the whole story. Half-baked, huh? McCormick put it together on the fly, wormed his way into the operation over at San Roque's dirtiest casino, used their crooked financial records to nail the local guy at the top, and then got him to put the lid on Ruiz—he was the one running the coup. Then he got arms to what was left of the ousted government, and coordinated with them to spring the president—he was in the cell two down from mine." Hardcastle sat back with a look of mildly aggravated satisfaction. "I gotta say, it was pretty slick."

"Sounds that way."

The judge smiled, then seemed to recollect himself after only a moment and added, "Not that it wasn't also risky as hell."

"It sounds like he did what he could to minimize the risks. At least he worked with some back-up."

"Yeah," the judge shook his head, "he's come a long way from swooping in with a helicopter and getting shot at." Then he frowned again. "Though he mighta showed a little more judgment with the back-up choices."

"Paul's okay."

He saw Hardcastle shoot him a sharp glance and suddenly realized that the lieutenant might not have been quite as forthcoming as the judge thought.

"Frank didn't do too much explaining about that," the judge said slowly. "Something about card counting—which isn't actually illegal, you know, though Paul's not legal to gamble anywhere." He sighed. "Nah, that wasn't who I was talking about. There's this guy, name's Farnell, lives over in San Rio. A thief. We nailed him once, but he got out, fled the country.

"McCormick asked him to help. Said he needed someone on the spot, right away." The judge looked troubled. "Can't trust someone like that—lots of charm but no integrity. The kid doesn't always get that."

"He's not a good judge of character?"

Hardcastle frowned. "No, I didn't mean that. It's just that he tends to see the good in people, if there's any there at all."

"Is that so bad?"

"Well, it is if you let someone like Farnell get a hook in you. And if Mark felt he owed him . . ." He let the thought trail off to a shake of the head.

"What's the worst that could happen?" Westerfield inquired mildly. "Sounds like this guy can't even put in an appearance here."

"Yeah," Hardcastle grimaced. "That's a good thing, too, I suppose. If I did manage to have him hauled back here, the next thing you know, he'd be leaning on McCormick to be his defense attorney."

"Just to annoy you?"

"Hell, no, because Farnell can spot talent when he sees it."

"Aah."

"But, nah, that wouldn't be so much the problem—everybody's entitled to an attorney, even Farnell."

The grimace was stuck in the on position. Westerfield gave him a moment and finally asked, "What would be the problem then?"

Hardcastle's lips had thinned out a little. "Might be that maybe Farnell's thinking he's entitled to more than a lawyer. Maybe he thinks he's entitled to a judge."

"You?"

Hardcastle shot him another quick glance. "Not till hell freezes over . . . Anyway, I'm not a judge."

"Aah." Westerfield paused. He wasn't all that good at pretense. He finally said, "Mark mentioned something about that. He seemed to think it was all highly unlikely."

"Well," Hardcastle grumbled, "it will be if he won't even consider the idea."

"And it's not as if it could happen anytime soon."

"Yeah, 'nother eight years, at least. But it wouldn't hurt for him to give it some thought. He said 'no' like I'd suggested he take up snake handling. There's nothing wrong with being a judge."

"Not for you," Westerfield agreed. "But it might not be something everyone is comfortable with, especially someone who tends to see the good in people."

"It's not like judges only see the bad in folks."

"No, not that, but sometimes they have to make some tough calls, I imagine, pass sentence on people who aren't all bad, aren't even much bad."

Hardcastle turned his gaze back out on the ocean again, but this time he looked very focused. There was a long pause before he spoke, very certain, very even. "That's the part he understands better than anybody else I know. That's part of why I think he'd be a good judge. But, yeah, I do know it's not always easy. Some of those decisions are damn hard."

"Then you do understand his position—that he's not rejecting you when he says no?"

The older man looked stiffly out to sea for a moment longer, then nodded once, slowly, and finally said, "Yeah, I get that."

"Good," Westerfield said, with a certain amount of finality as he picked up his menu and scanned the choices. "Guess you're going to have to."

"Have to what?"

"Try and stick around to see how it turns out."