Highway Justice

By Ray Porter

Leaving behind the military special forces, John Eastman settled down into civilian life as a defence lawyer. Over the past five years, he has built a reputation for himself as one of the best defence lawyers in the country. Winning on logic and facts, the long list of thankful clients secured his place at the law firm where he works. Newly married and about to become a father, life couldn’t be better, that is, until the darker side of his background comes knocking, threatening everything he now holds dear.
When John Eastman’s life as a lawyer is turned upside down, he returns to a life he thought he had left behind. Now, if you cross him, calling on all the training learnt as a special forces operative, he dishes out a different kind of justice, his justice, highway justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Porter
• Release date: Sep 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463196908

Ray Porter

Raymond A. Porter: born in New Zealand in 1960, he grew up living on farms.Coming from a transient family, as a young boy he spent a lot of time on his own, exploring the farms and surrounding countryside. His time was spent climbing hills and tramping in lush native forests, which may account for his vivid imagination that has led to his writing career.Up until recently, he divided his time teaching martial arts, writing a regular column in a local newspaper, and writing manuscripts and screenplays. Now, he focuses on writing books, film scripts, and producing and directing films.

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Raymond A. Porter

Highway Justice

Copyright © 2019 Raymond A. Porter. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Silver Ghost Productions

New Zealand

Chapter 1

Across the City of Sails the sun sank into the autumn mist like a softly weeping angel as the demons came out to play. The hazy troubled light of Auckland hid a multitude of sins from the unbidden stroke of naked flesh to the heart-stab of a shimmering steel stiletto. Auckland was considered a safe place by those who did not know her dark alleys, those who walked in the daylight and the brightly lit suburban streets.

Roxanne Ballentine was a sharply intelligent woman. Severely attractive with ice blue eyes and hair so blond that it was almost white, she managed to be easily overlooked with her carefully nurtured smile of apologetic self-deprecation. She had a way of lowering her gaze and melting into the background becoming instantly forgotten like the fork of lightening when the thunder has passed. From an alarmingly early age she had been clinically diagnosed as having psychopathic tendencies; it proved to be a diagnosis which served her well in her chosen profession. She was mad, bad, and dangerous to know as someone once observed about an entirely different person.

Ballentine flipped open the lid of her laptop. There was a folder protected by a Rivest-Shamir-Adleman encryption algorithm which meant that no one without authorised access or with less than a few billion years to spare in running a de-encryption programme, would ever be able view the contents. The folder went by the seemingly innocuous name of 'Pending'. Entering the fifteen-digit password the screen flashed for a moment and then prompted for the secondary password.

This was a very secure file.

Ballentine tapped in the second set of fifteen digits which she had long ago committed to memory. This may have been a tedious process but one which her employer demanded. Roxanne Ballentine was a 'contractor', or that was how she saw herself; selling her specialised skillset to those who were unwilling to dirty their own hands with the unpleasant details of the tasks they needed completing. In this case the contractor was the New Zealand Security Intelligence Service, Grey Operations Department. Of course, no such GOD. section was ever officially acknowledged as existing by The New Zealand Security Intelligence Service or Te Pa Whakamarumaru as it is called in Maori. It was rumoured that even the director general was unaware of GOD. Certainly, its existence was never revealed to the hapless stream of elected ministers who naively assumed that they were in charge of the NZSIS.

Ballentine tapped at the computer's keys with her polished but neatly cropped nails and brought up contract number NZSISGOD0037 and after opening the file, spent a few moments scrutinising the three photographs that glared at her from her screen. A brief description accompanied each image as did the code X91. X91 was the code for elimination. Elimination in the sense of the complete removal or destruction of something or someone, that is to say: their execution. The New Zealand statutes strictly prohibited capital punishment, the exception still being for an act of treason. It was an escape clause that GOD used at its unobserved discretion.

It was with a feeling of mild satisfaction that Ballentine clicked the 'completed' button under the details of a certain Lieutenant Joseph Fitzwilliam NZ Army. The image was marked with a red 'deleted' sign signifying completion of one third of Ballentine's contract. Fitzwilliam had suffered from lifelong diabetes which had been kept comfortably under control throughout his life until the recent 'overdose' of insulin which had inexplicably entered his bloodstream. A tragic self-administered accident, no doubt.

The other two images which peered from Ballentine's screen went by the names of Sergeant Hemi Ropata, NZ Army and Major John Eastman, NZ Army retired, currently working as a lawyer in Auckland. As with Fitzwilliam the executions were preferred to appear to the Grey Operations Department as nothing more troubling than accidental deaths. Sometimes Roxanne Ballentine found arranging accidents to be difficult, but she did try. She really did.

On a rain-swept May afternoon, as the early days of autumn started to draw a misty canopy across Auckland, John Eastman left the Waitakere District Courtroom and stood waiting in the vestibule for his client. It had been a good day, a day half full rather than half empty, and the day was not yet over.

John Eastman had a history, some of it was shaded uncomfortably dark and he had spent many fraught hours trying to forget the shadow that his years in the SAS had left hanging over him. He was almost forty now, still remarkably fit and despite the lawyer's demeanour that now framed his stance, John was still burley enough to stand his own ground. In fact, his SAS years had left him trained in unarmed combat to a degree that in a less well composed man might have been considered dangerous.

He was good at his current occupation and his gaze, as he stood before the court defending his clients, was as steady and potentially lethal as a sniper's. Gifted with an easy and persuasive fluency of language and an intellect sharp enough to draw blood, he had once again demolished the inadequate prosecution's case. Over the last few days he had been representing a strikingly elegant woman who had been charged with petty fraud. The flush of her youth was several decades behind her, but she wore her age well as it cloaked her with sophistication like a finely cut dress. There was still a magnetism in the way her eyes smiled over her crimson lips. She insisted that John call her Adriana and despite his strong advice attended court wearing a series of ostentatiously elegant outfits; a mark of her confident contempt of the charges.

The voices raised against conspicuous consumption these days, is as vocal in the Waitakeres as it is anywhere else in the western world, and choosing to dress in designer clothes with an expensive display of jewellery would hardly engender sympathy from the jury. John made this very clear to her, however Adriana was not to be brow-beaten on the point and John had to rely on a distracting and well executed set of arguments to support the evident truth of her innocence. Naturally the jury was readily convinced by John's skilfully formulated assertions.

In little more than five years as a defence lawyer John Eastman had already crafted a reputation that left the benighted prosecution groaning when they discovered that he was to represent the accused. Less than kindly they had started calling him 'The hit man' which seemed perverse as he was totally committed to acting as a defence lawyer.

Gathering his papers, he held the swing door for Adriana and pausing only for a brief shake of hands with the defendant and her family, John found his way to the carpark where his modest MG hatchback was waiting patiently for him. The car did the job that was asked of it well enough. It was easy to park, easy to navigate through the fraught Auckland traffic, frugal in its use of 91 unleaded and satisfyingly inconspicuous. These qualities could hardly be applied to his other two forms of personal transport. In a rare act of self-indulgence, he had become the proud owner of a fully restored '69 T top Corvette. The car was painted in a lustrous shade of burgundy and had a big block 427 engine harnessed between the front wheels. This car was neither frugal nor in the least bit inconspicuous, but it gave John pleasure to, on occasion, escape down the highway in it. The car gave John almost as much pleasure as the Harley Davidson low rider that had a year or so ago taken up residence in his garage. The beast of a motorcycle was precious to him having been previously owned by a man whom he deeply respected, a man who's untimely death still hung as a sadness over him.

Except perhaps for the gentle presence of his sweet young wife whom he adored; the bike put a smile on his face like nothing else could. It may have guzzled more fuel than his commuter car but offered a wind in the face escape from the humdrum, from the haunting shadows of his SAS past. It gave him access to an alter-ego who was not necessarily constrained by the niceties of the legal profession that had given him the wherewithal to indulge in his material pleasures. At heart the feral energy that had made him such an outstanding SAS officer still flowed through his veins and called for an outlet that could not be realised from the conservative atmosphere of a law office.

After his uneventful drive home, the lawyer eased his car into his garage and paused for no more than an instant to run his fingers along the fuel tank of his low-rider – a sensual impulse that only another biker could really understand. His wife Monique danced along the passage to meet him. As John lifted his eyes to her, he was stopped short by her beauty, his breath caught in an involuntary gasp. After little more than a year of marriage he had still not quite come to terms with how blessed he was to have successfully wooed such a woman. There was something special about her on that particular evening, some extra gaiety, an amused unrevealing smile caught on her lips.

How was your day? Monique cooed.

John's eyes settled on her; his head slightly bent to one side in an inquisitive manner.

Yes, perfect... We won the case.

Aha – this is the attractively sophisticated Adriana that you have been taunting me with?... Should I be worried darling?

Oh yes very worried... John said with a smile that made Monique's heart flutter. So just what is it with you tonight?

Monique took his hand, he could feel the coolness, the softness of her delicate fingers as she led him to the dining room. From the kitchen came the scent of something special, evocative aromas simmering over a low heat. On the table was a bottle of Moët & Chandon and two crystal flutes.

Have I forgotten something, a birthday, an anniversary?

It's better than that... way better.

Her smile had broadened now showing the whiteness of her perfect teeth against the natural pinkness of her lips.

Not... John let his hand slide gently down the soft curve of his wife's belly.

Monique pulled John close until she could feel his breath on her cheek.

Yes... I saw the doctor today, She whispered, She gave us the best news ever... you're going to be a daddy.

Oh my God... that's just fantastic.

So, would you like to eat now or... I could put the Champagne back in the fridge for an hour.

Is it safe... you know? Actually, I was going to read over some important case-notes this evening.

Monique smiled, a gentle seductive tinkle of laughter rose from her slender throat and made John feel weak with desire.

Of course, it's safe darling, I'm only a few weeks gone... but if your case notes are more important...

Well, no, maybe not... we could maybe put dinner on hold for a while.

If you really want to. Monique said as she undid the knot of her husband's silk tie and started to unbutton his shirt; her soft pink lips already searching eagerly for John's eager mouth.

A week later John stood outside the Courthouse again, this time he was accompanied by his colleagues Bill Mason and Charles Garwood. Both men were competent lawyers in their own right but generally stuck to conveyancing and minor civil law. Neither had the flare nor the confidence necessary for criminal law; they were happy to leave such matters to John.

John turned and saw his client at his shoulder clearly wishing to express his gratitude. John took the offered hand and shook it with his usual firm clasp.

You done a great job for me Mr Eastman.

You're entitled to justice Simon, that's what you pay me for; it's what I do.

Simon nodded, he knew that entitled or not, justice did not always seem to come his way and without his lawyer's talents he may have been facing an altogether more uncertain future.

I don't expect you'll need me again Simon, but you know where you can find me if you do.

That's awesome John... thanks again.

The three colleagues watched as Simon made his way across the busy street, taking him back to the normality that had been stolen from him by nothing more compelling than a capriciously mistaken eye- witness.

Well done John, so you up for a quick drink. Charles and I are off to the Dandelion to wet our whistles.

Yes, sounds good... I might be tempted to join you for half an hour.

As they spoke a guy came out of the courthouse clearly bristling with indignation.

Hey, you John Eastman is it? You made me look like a total fricking idiot in there.

I think you did that without any help from me; there's no way you or anyone one else could have identified two people clearly while driving past a corner Dairy in the twilight... only a congenital optimist could try and sustain that argument.

Yeah and up yours mate.

Having successfully concluded his argument by having the last word, the witness, whom John supposed had some hidden agenda of his own, walked off with no further comment beyond the raised middle finger which John chose not to see.

So, the pub... John said with a contented smile.

Right behind you John.

All three made their way in their own cars the short distance to the Dandelion's car park. John's hatchback was at the dealers for its routine service, so he had taken the Corvette. He felt a little conspicuous as he parked up and switched off the engine after blipping it with a throaty snarl. He could see eyes turn to look at the burgundy beast, whether in admiration or contempt, he was not quite sure. He emerged from the warmth of his car into the chill of the air; the light was already starting to fade as John made his way across the flushed autumn Auckland evening towards the pub's entrance. He took and held a deep breath as he crossed the poisoned air that hung in a visible fug over the huddle of smokers who gathered to shiver just outside the entrance. Autumn was normally John's favourite season but this year the cold southerly wind drawing air straight from the Antarctic seemed to have arrived a little too early.

When he crossed into the entrance, he found that Charles Garwood and Bill Mason were already standing by the bar, drinks in hand.

It was warm and softly lit in the bar. From the public bar he could hear a live band tuning up their guitars, practising a few riffs. It was going to get noisy later.

What are you drinking John? Bill Mason called.

Ah thanks Bill, I'll have a small scotch, dash of water, no ice.

Coming up.

So, John, we were just saying, it was the best thing that happened to our practise when you came knocking on our door looking for a place to hang your hat. Charles said. I guess it must be all of five years ago now.

Yes, I sort of came late to the game... you know my story, got my LLB and then on a whim decided to join the army. The fact is I was not sure if I had what it took to cut it in civilian life after the SAS.

Well you took to the role of defence lawyer like a duck to water. If they ever catch me out, touch wood they won't... then I'll be calling on you John.

There was a burst of congenial laughter as Bill returned with John's scotch.

So, what is it you've been up to Charles? John asked.

Oh, there'll be hundreds of offences to be taken into consideration. He laughed. Just ask the wife... out late drinking at the Dandelion, failure to take out the recycling – with malice aforethought, aggravated failure to mow the lawn, still not hung that god-awful picture she bought in Ponsonby... the list goes on and on mate.

There was laughter from all three.

Talking of wives, how's that drop-dead gorgeous lady of yours John?

Yes... she just fine. John said carefully avoiding spreading the happy news too broadly too soon.

I should say so. You really are one lucky bugger.

Now Bill, you must know luck had nothing to do with it. When you've got a face like mine the women just drop at your feet.

John sipped from his glass with a smile lighting his eyes as the laughter once more spilled across the room.

Yeah John you really ooze luck.

John smiled, it was true that he was riding a wave of good fortune at the moment, but it had not always been so. His life in the SAS had brought him more than his fair share of grief and those days were still apt to haunt him on sleepless nights when the wolf howled at his gate.

John was brought back to the present by a bump on the shoulder. A young guy already unstable on his feet had made a lunge for the bar apparently in a somewhat desperate bid for a refill.

John turned in the guy's direction quite happy to accept the expected apology. What he got instead rather surprised him.

Hey dumb ass... you made me spill my drink.

Well excuse me... I guess me just standing still doesn't cut it? John said.

His hands stiffened, and he instinctively bent his arms as if to ready himself for combat.

Without a word of warning the unhappy guy swung a punch towards John's face. It was over five years since John had waved goodbye to his SAS training, but he was still a potent adversary and with little effort caught the man's fist in his palm before it could do any real damage. The guy's heavy signet ring making a shallow cut into the flesh of John's palm. John spoke with narrowed eyes, the quiet menace in his voice palpable.

Now that my friend is assault... assault with intent. That carries about 6 to 12 months and if you had connected with my face it would have been 12 to 18 months.

What the fuck?

Indeed... Now you look to be an aggressive sort of a guy and if I had hit the deck, I assume you would have put the boot in... now with intent that's 3 to 5 years... Not a happy picture for you. I'll tell you what... Say I swap you that 3 to 5 years for a twenty and you can buy yourself a drink and get out of my face.

The guy tried to work out what had just happened. He was only partially stupid–maybe 80, 85 percent so he was eventually able to see where his best option lay. He chose well and, in the end, snatched the offered note and turned away to the bar with a stupefied expression on his face.

If that's not luck, I don't know what is. Charles said knowing that John's controlled aggression was no more dependant, on luck than the rise of the sun on a spring morning.

John drained his glass and slipped a twenty dollar note into Bill's hand.

My shout, but I should be going, Monique will be expecting me. He said.

OK night John... see you tomorrow.

As he walked across the car park, John could not help admiring the Corvette's curves and the low crouched stance like a big cat gathering its strength for a pounce. The pub's lights seemed to intensify the burgundy paint making it sparkle like a show car. He fired up the engine and let it settle into a steady throaty idle before easing out of the carpark. The commuter traffic was still heavy, and he could hardly get the car out of second gear as he rumbled along the Auckland streets. There was a black SUV, looked like a Porsche Cayenne, that seemed to be following him. He knew that it was only his paranoia but... it was a game he liked to play... If he cut at the next left onto Walker Road, he could meld back at the following intersection and bring himself behind the Cayenne... unless he really was being followed. Checking his mirrors, he blipped down a gear and peeled off laying a thin line of rubber as the 427 snarled its basso profundo chorus. He checked his mirror again and saw that the Cayenne had gone straight on. It took him maybe three minutes to cut across the backstreets but when he re-joined the main road the Cayenne was nowhere to be seen. He smiled at himself but then, from a recess of his mind he felt the familiar stir of the wolf as he wondered just where the Cayenne had vanished to.

Chapter 2

By the time John got home, the incident with the black Cayenne was nothing more than an amusing footnote to his day. He noticed that the MG Hatchback was back and assumed that Monique had been able to pick it up after finishing her morning at the day-care centre.

So handsome, how was your day? She said as their eyes met.

Well, pretty good sweetheart. As you know I was in court again today and think I had the prosecution backed nicely up against the ropes.

Well done, is this the supposed child abuse case?

Now you know I can't talk about my cases.

No sorry... so, give me the dirt. Monique said with a chuckle.

You'll get me struck off... Let's just say that I had a nasty little uppercut all waiting to be unleashed and when it came, I'm pretty sure they didn't see it coming... Actually, all I had to do was tell the jury the truth and destroy the trumped-up evidence with a little logic.

There's my boy... one of these days, with me keeping you pointed in the right direction, you might make a half decent lawyer.

You cheeky little vixen...

John made a grab for his wife and as he caught her, she melted into his arms and kissed him.

Oh, I picked up your MG as requested by the way. All done, no problems with the service and they gave it a new warrant of fitness.

So, they should, the car leads an easy life.

I guess so... Talking of cars John I will need some transport tomorrow. I'm planning on going out to Maraetai to spend the day with my cousin. I want to tell her about the baby... are you going to need the 'vette?

I sometimes wonder if you married me for my good looks or for my car.

Well OK I admit it... It was the car.

I knew it. John said as he drew his wife's fingers up to his lips and kissed them.

Well that plus the fact that you're smooth, cool and sexy... but mostly the Corvette.

John laughed.

OK you win, I'll need the hatchback tomorrow anyway; Charles needs a huge stack of files moving and he doesn't want to sully the inside of his new Mercedes...

The poor baby.

"Yeah... So, what are we doing for dinner? I get the ominous feeling it's my turn to