Justice and Utu (4 page)

From then on, the ‘friendly' game became a war. The Roosters players threw themselves at Kikitoa at every opportunity, and he danced away. Every tackler, though, was met with a subtly raised elbow or knee, or an oh-so-accidental clash of heads that left Kikitoa unharmed but his opponent writhing. Mat saw the way he threw tiny little blurs of light into the faces of tacklers just before contact, causing them to position poorly for impact and come out battered. As the Roosters' discipline failed, their organization faltered, and the Warriors ran in four more tries. By the time the final whistle blew, the crowd was exultant, baying for blood and tries in equal measure.

Mat simmered with rage.

The powers of an Adept or a tohunga were a gift — Mat fervently believed that. Yes, he could choose to do the same things he saw Byron Kikitoa doing, but he didn't. It was cheating — no, worse than cheating: it was immoral. Sport was supposed to be a fair contest. What Kikitoa was doing was worse than if he took performance-enhancing drugs or bribed officials. And to hear him acclaimed as the next messiah by ten thousand people was galling.

When the final whistle blew, Mat forgot himself. He leapt over the seats in front of him and onto the pitch. He had no plan, just a boiling sense of injustice and anger.

‘Mat?' Damien called after him in surprise, and Mat
heard his friend chasing him through the crowd. All about, others were flooding onto the playing field to congratulate the players, get autographs, or simply experience what it was like to be on the hallowed turf, to be at the heart of the stadium. Mat swept through them, heading straight for Byron Kikitoa.

He didn't get there first, of course. There were children sprinting ahead, screaming for attention. Mat was jostled and pushed back as he joined the scrum about the Warriors' new star. The press of fans moved forward, and Mat got within a few yards, as close as he was going to get. He projected his voice straight to Kikitoa's ears.
‘I know what you did, makutu!'

The Warrior's eyes sought Mat's. For a split second, he saw fury and power there, and also fear. Then a mask of contempt came down over the young man's features.
‘What did you say, shithead?'
Kikitoa stormed through the press of children, knocking two over, and all at once Mat found himself eyeball to eyeball with him, breathing in a cloud of hot sweat and liniment. He steeled himself to stand fast as Kikitoa put a hand on his chest.
‘Piss off, loser!'
Kikitoa snarled. The player shoved hard, and Mat found himself catapulted backwards through the crowd. The sky tilted and he was on his back in a thicket of legs and staring faces.

He sat up angrily. ‘I know what you are!' he shouted back, into the press of bodies. Then a security guard stepped in and kicked him in the belly. He could have stopped it if he'd expected it, but he hadn't, so next moment he was clutching his stomach and vomiting his cheeseburger onto the pitch in a crowd of unsympathetic strangers. ‘Piss off, white boy,' a big Islander hissed at him, his eyes glazed over as if someone else
were directing his actions. Which might well have been the case, Mat realized as he gasped and crawled away.

By the time he got to his feet, there were police moving in. Damien helped him up. ‘Mate? You OK? What happened?'

Mat swallowed an acrid mouthful of bile, and straightened painfully. ‘The bastard!' he groaned.

‘Who? What happened?'

Mat didn't answer. His eyes sought Byron Kikitoa. The young Warrior was backing off through the crowd, signing autographs among the dozens of fans now clustered about him. The security men were still around him, and the one who'd kicked Mat was watching menacingly.

Then a tall blonde cheerleader slipped into the press about the young league player, and kissed him.

 

‘Byron Kikitoa?' Ngatoro's voice rumbled down the cellphone.

Last year, Mat had made mental contact with Ngatoro, and that link had been instrumental in rescuing Ngatoro from Te Iho, Puarata's lair. Now such contact was much harder, but instead they could meet in person, or talk on the phone. It seemed weirdly normal after what had gone before.

‘Yes. He's using makutu to mess with his opponents, and hurt people.'

‘Hmmm.
Kikitoa
,' Ngatoro rumbled. He seemed far more focused on the name than on the deeds. ‘And Venn is buying a stakeholding in the club. It can't be a coincidence.'

‘Do you think Kikitoa works for Venn, or is even his apprentice?' Mat asked.

‘Perhaps, Matiu. But it's also possible that another is
involved. Toa means “warrior”, as I'm sure you know: Kikitoa — “Kiki's warrior”.'

‘Kiki?' The name rang a small bell with Mat, now that he thought of it.

‘Kiki was a tohunga makutu from the earliest days of New Zealand. Tamure and his daughter slew him, but he was reborn in Aotearoa. They say Puarata and Kiki were rivals, but Puarata was the master, so Kiki hid lest he be slain.'

‘Or was hooked up to Te Iho,' Mat added.

‘Or that,' Ngatoro agreed, in a sour voice. Ngatoro himself had been imprisoned in Te Iho too long for the mention of that place to be pleasing. ‘You will recall that when you freed me last year, we also released an old man and a young woman: that was Tamure and his daughter.'

Mat remembered the two tohunga whom Ngatoro spoke of. Even in repose both had had an imperious quality that was not easily forgotten. ‘Do you think Kiki is back?'

‘Quite possibly.' Ngatoro ruminated for a few minutes before speaking again. ‘You were asked not to act, Matiu. It was foolish to reveal yourself to Kikitoa. You may have brought danger upon yourself and yours. Take care for yourself and those close to you.'

Mat hung his head. ‘Sorry. I was just so angry.'

‘I understand, but you must not allow your judgement to become clouded with emotion.'

‘Yes, master.'

‘Good.' Ngatoro went on, ‘Take care. Keep your wits about you.'

A question he'd been wanting to ask popped into Mat's mind. ‘Master, is it right for Dad to defend Donna Kyle?'

Ngatoro was silent for a few seconds. Then he replied. ‘It is right that all people have a chance to defend themselves. Apart from that, it is up to society and what it deems to be just. Justice is what society wishes it to be, Matiu. It changes from age to age. A punishment contains elements of atonement, correction and vengeance. Among the tangata whenua, there is a thing we call “utu”. It is based upon balance, of reciprocation of like deeds with like: of kindness with kindness returned, and of evil with revenge.'

‘Like an eye for an eye?'

‘Similar. But in a positive way, too. Good for good, ill for ill.'

‘If it is an eye for an eye, where does Donna Kyle's surrendering fit on the scales? I mean, it did stop Asher Grieve from seizing Te Iho.'

Ngatoro again thought for some time. ‘Matiu,' he said at last, ‘if it were only about “an eye for an eye”, then she would have to be blinded many times over. But the fact she rescued us all by her actions at the end — yes, that does matter. If the courts of Akarana are just, this will be weighed and taken into account. You should not feel ashamed to defend the apparently guilty. They, too, have their tale.'

It sounded like something Dad might have said. ‘Thanks. I guess.' Mat had never liked the courtroom scenes on TV and at the movies: they always seemed full of hidden pitfalls and emotional cruelty. He was absolutely not looking forward to his turn in the stand.

‘Be honest, and do not let the lawyers twist your words, Matiu. It is what they are best at, so be careful.' Ngatoro always seemed to know what Mat was thinking. ‘You will do well.'

‘Uh, thanks.'

After they had hung up, Mat stared about his hotel room. It was after nine o'clock at night. Damien was at his own digs and Dad was with Wiri, preparing his final case notes somewhere in Akarana. Mat hadn't gone there yet, but he would tomorrow. It felt weird that his dad was spending more time in Aotearoa lately than he was. Ironically, he was worried for him.

He thumbed through the list of contacts on his cellphone. He still had Lena's number programmed in. It was tempting, but she had not looked happy to see him and Damien. And she had kissed Byron Kikitoa …

He put the phone down, and went to bed.

A
KARANA
, M
ONDAY TO
W
EDNESDAY

M
at stared at his father, impressed and intimidated in equal measure.

To Mat, Tama Douglas was ‘Dad', a strange amalgamation of friend, mentor, role model, rival, and despot. Someone who vanished for large chunks of his life to a place called ‘the office', or even to ‘the court', places Mat never saw or even thought of. At home Tama was slobbish and informal, jocular and occasionally dictatorial. He drank and smoked and shouted at the television, especially during the news and, of course, when rugby tests were on.

Here in the courthouse Tama was someone else entirely, a person Mat didn't know, could scarcely even recognize. Well-dressed, professional, polite and formal. Strong-willed and quick-tongued. An orator. A speaker for those who needed defence from the hand of justice, whether justly or not.

Mat felt somewhat proud, somewhat awed. This was his father, a star in his own galaxy. Nothing, it seemed, could
throw Dad off-balance. Not even the appearance of Royston Belsworth QC, recently deceased, as chief prosecutor — although Mat had seen Tama blanch and curse under his breath when the cadaverous (even in the afterlife) opposing lawyer was announced.

‘Your Honour,' Tama said, ‘my client has repeatedly asked her gaolers for an improvement in her conditions. Her cell is subhuman! The whole gaol is! By modern standards—'

‘Modern standards do not apply,' interjected Belsworth sarcastically. ‘This is Akarana, not Auckland,' he said, as if he'd been here all along.

Mat could see the back of Donna Kyle's head at the extreme left of the defendants' booth. Her father, Asher Grieve, was sitting beside her, although she seemed to be going to great lengths to avoid looking at him. When seen together, they looked alike — both had a lean, arrogant cast to their faces, and pale hair that fell in a similar way, though Asher's was long and Donna's short. But while she was bowed and broken-looking, Asher sat tall, unrepentant and sneering.

As if she sensed Mat's gaze, Donna turned slowly and looked at him. Her eyes were black, and so were the circles beneath them. The moko on her chin seemed more pronounced. She had not seen the sun for months and was very pale. She half-nodded at him, but did not await a response before her eyes shifted to Wiri, then away.

Mat glanced across at his friend beside him. Wiri was listening to the lawyers, his expression distant. The scar on his temple was the only flaw in his handsome, timeless face. It had been his death-wound, before Puarata resuscitated him as a deathless slave. Now he was mortal again. His wife, Kelly,
and their young son were in Wellington.

A newspaper from the real world lay between them — the headline on the back read:
Kikitoa routs the Roosters
. Mat yawned as the court ‘action' unfolded slowly …
very slowly
… before him. He'd been up since five o'clock that morning …

 

Mat was woken by the jangling alarm clock. He showered in a stupor, changed into old-time clothing, and then joined Tama for a breakfast of yoghurt and toast. Wiri was there by six, resplendent in a colonial-era black jacket and white cotton shirt, looking composed and capable.

‘Hey, Mat, how was the league?'

‘Crap.' Mat told Wiri about Kikitoa, and his friend listened with growing anger at Mat's description of the young player's antics. ‘We need to do something about him,' Mat finished with a growl.

‘First things first. Are we likely to be called today, Tama?' Wiri asked Mat's father.

‘No telling,' Tama replied. ‘Normally witnesses aren't allowed in court except during their testimony, but those rules seem not to apply here, so I'd like you to come, and get a feel for the place.'

Tama left soon after, to be with Donna for her transfer to court, while Wiri stayed with Mat, to get him to court on time. They climbed up from Queen Street to Albert Park, where Wiri touched a carved symbol on a tree three times whilst grasping Mat's shoulder. In the blink of an eye they were in the same park, but everything else had changed. Auckland was gone, replaced by older, smaller buildings.
Distant hills that had been packed with houses were now farmland or forest. The air tasted different, and the colours seemed more vibrant.

Aotearoa
.

The High Court was a huge red-brick building that had been modelled on an English castle, right up to having a tower and mock battlements on the façade. All the window and door frames were white, and, as he and Wiri stood outside in the drizzle, Mat grudgingly had to admit that it was pretty impressive. In the modern world there was a futuristic-looking annex that looked kind of out of place, but in Aotearoa the building was in its original state. Mat and Wiri joined a large crowd outside the court. The gathering was growing by the minute, with top-hatted gentlemen arriving in carriages and street urchins crowding about, ragging the guards. The atmosphere was a strange mix of menace and celebration: two of the most hated and feared of Puarata's warlocks were on trial, and the crowd wanted a spectacle — and a hanging. To die in Aotearoa was to die forever.

Wiri touched Mat's shoulder as the most ornate carriage yet arrived, surrounded by soldiers. The men in the crowd doffed their hats, peering at the tall, dapper man who emerged. He had a high forehead and a lofty manner, his whiskers were trimmed and his hair gleamed with pomade. The governor, Sir George Grey; New Zealand's most famous pre-democracy ruler and, by whatever machinations, the current ruler of the northern reaches of Aotearoa. Grey shook a few hands, and then he was gone, surrounded by acolytes and hangers-on.

‘He wants her dead,' Wiri warned Mat in a low voice. ‘He
won't be terribly friendly to those who might thwart that desire. Including ourselves.'

Mat nodded, trying to maintain his cool as his body began to swelter despite the morning chill.

Wiri touched his sleeve. ‘Come on, let's get in. The prisoners were brought in at dawn. Your dad will be inside already.'

The guards read their papers — each stamped
Witness for the Defence
— with unfriendly eyes. Old-fashioned cameras flashed as men in brown cloth caps, court reporters, swarmed about them shouting questions.

‘Are you Matiu Douglas?'

‘What is your relationship with Miss Kyle?'

‘An interview, Mat? A sovereign for an exclusive!'

‘Wiremu, how does it feel to be human again?'

Beyond them the hostile crowd rumbled. ‘Hang the bitch, and any who speak for her!' someone shouted, a sentiment it seemed everyone shared. It was a relief to get inside intact.

After that, it all seemed to take forever. Jury selection. Challenges, recesses, private words in the judge's chambers. The judge, Joshua Strange Williams, turned out to be a thin man with a high, nervous-sounding voice, but a firm and polite manner. He looked like someone who could be bullied, but, when Belsworth tested him, quickly proved he wasn't. Wiri said Williams had presided over the hanging of Minnie Dean, the Dunedin baby-killer. That didn't make Mat feel any better about being there. Lunch break had to be taken in a tiny room out the back, to keep them from the press. Tama came in briefly. ‘Be ready: you could be called this afternoon,' he told them.

So they sat all afternoon on the edge of their seats, as arguments and counter-arguments were wrangled over matters of jurisdiction, validity of written testimonies and the like. And then all of a sudden it was over for the day, without them being called. Mat sat dazed as everyone began to leave.

Asher Grieve turned, and fixed him with his eyes.
I'm going to get out, and I'm going to come for you
, those eyes said, as the guards led Grieve away. His superior manner was such that even the guards feared to manhandle him. They had no such fears of his daughter, though, shoving Donna Kyle along callously. Her expression barely changed, but Mat could see the way she clenched herself, refusing to give way to anger. The part of him that empathized with the underdog felt pity. He looked away.

Dad didn't join them for dinner, back in Auckland. Mat struggled to find his appetite, nauseous with unreleased tension. Wiri didn't press, and, after the food had settled, took him down to the squash court in the basement of their hotel, where they bashed a ball around for a while to work off their energy.

‘So, how're you doing?' Wiri asked him as they changed.

‘Scared shitless,' Mat admitted.

‘Don't be. Just speak up, don't say any more than you need to, keep your temper, and stay cool.'

‘The crowd outside will lynch her if she's not sentenced to hang anyway,' Mat observed.

‘They might try,' Wiri nodded. ‘But that isn't our concern. We're just here to tell what we saw. The rest is up to the judge and jury.' He patted Mat on the shoulder. ‘Don't sweat it, Mat. You'll be fine.'

 

On Tuesday afternoon, Tama called Wiri to the stand and took him through what he had seen at Te Iho. They dwelt on Donna's refusal to consume the heart-blood that would have fuelled her magical energies and enabled her and Asher Grieve to seize that magical place as her own. The court heard him out in stony silence, apart from mutterings in the gallery at his sympathy towards Donna Kyle. Mat was just thinking that this testifying business might not be so hard when Tama handed Wiri over to Royston Belsworth QC for interrogation, and it all got ugly.

‘Wiremu … It is just “Wiremu”, isn't it? No family name, such as civilized men would have?' Royston Belsworth asked in a condescending voice.

‘I have been known by other names,' Wiri admitted.

‘Hmmm … Such as “Toa”, as you were known when you served Ranginui Puarata for five centuries or more? Or how about the false legal name you use in New Zealand?' A murmur went around the courtroom, and several people shouted abuse from the gallery; ‘Hang him, too!' seemed to be the main sentiment.

‘I am Wiremu, son of Rata, of the Ngati Maungatautari,' Wiri stated.

‘How many men did you torture and murder at Puarata's behest, Wiremu?' Again the hostile clamour rose, causing the judge to demand silence.

‘Objection!' Tama shouted. ‘The witness has been pardoned by Governor Grey himself! Everyone knows the circumstances of his service to Puarata.'

Governor Grey did not seem to appreciate his name being invoked by Tama. His expression darkened.

‘Objection sustained,' the judge replied grudgingly. ‘The witness is not on trial here, Mr Belsworth.'

‘Your Honour,' Belsworth bowed slightly. ‘So,
Wiremu
… What is your relationship with the defendant, Miss Kyle?' A lascivious murmur rose from the gallery.

‘There is no relationship,' Wiri asserted firmly. ‘We were both subject to Puarata for a time; that is all.'

‘I have heard that you and she used to
dance
for Puarata's entertainment,' Belsworth proclaimed in a loud voice. The gallery erupted with abuse directed at Wiri, who shook his head dismissively.

‘Order!' shouted Judge Williams.

‘Objection!' shouted Tama.

‘Lying prick!' shouted Mat rashly.

Belsworth turned his aristocratic gaze upon Mat. ‘Wait your turn,
child
,' he sneered. He turned back to the judge. ‘I merely seek to establish whether we can trust a word this witness says, Your Honour.'

Tama rolled his eyes. ‘Your Honour, even if this were true, it has been established before the governor himself that this witness was under compulsions of sorcery and makutu whilst in Puarata's service. The governor was quite prepared to accept that and pardon his service to Puarata on that basis.'

‘Can a man truly be compelled to do something he doesn't, in some small way, want to do?' Belsworth countered.

‘Your Honour, this is absurd! Unless they have concrete proof to back these insinuations, could the prosecution make a major change of policy and stick to the facts?' Tama's voice
dripped outrage and sarcasm at once. Mat felt like whooping in support.
Go, Dad!

Judge Williams nodded emphatically. ‘I concur, Mr Douglas. The facts, Mr Belsworth, if you please?'

Belsworth lifted his nose slightly. ‘
Mr
Wiremu, I refer to your statement, in which you claim to have bargained your way out of a tight spot on Mokoia Island in return for a promise of aid should the defendant Miss Kyle surrender to the authorities. Is that so?'

‘More or less,' Wiri replied.

‘So your statement was obtained under coercion?'

Wiri opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again. ‘No,' he answered, eventually. ‘I am here by choice. We never reached agreement, but I was moved to volunteer testimony by Miss Kyle's actions subsequently.'

Belsworth moved to face the jury. ‘You were moved, you say?' He smirked at the nearest juror, a hog-like man who'd laughed loudest at all of Belsworth's remarks. ‘What parts of you were moved the most?' he enquired in a slimy voice. ‘Your head, or your heart? Or something a little lower, perhaps?' The fat juror beside Belsworth guffawed, as did his fellows.

‘Objection again!' Tama was on his feet. ‘This sort of conduct would not be tolerated where I— would not be tolerated in any court, Your Honour!'

‘Then go back where you came from,' growled the big juror. ‘Mr Fancy-pants Modern Man.'

Judge Williams hammered his gavel several times. ‘Mr Douglas, you are not in your world. You are in my court. My world. Pray do not forget it!'

Tama gritted his teeth. ‘Your Honour.'

‘And as for you, Mr Belsworth, I expected better of you, sir! This is a gentlemen's court, and I will not have the attorneys resorting to such tap-room humour. Am I understood?' Judge Williams looked like no-one's pushover now.