Chapter 24

Nicola Gobbo and the OPI

Anti-corruption judge Tony Fitzgerald was asked by the Office of Police Integrity (OPI) to question Nicola Gobbo about her involvement with the myriad characters on the periphery of the Hodson murders. Right from the start, it was clear to investigating officers that Nicola Gobbo was playing too many sides of the fence. Indeed, when Murray Gregor had given a statement in the office of the State Ombudsman in February 2005, he’d observed that she was connected to many of the people involved in the Oakleigh drug-house break-in and the murder of the Hodsons.1

Gregor said that in the days following the break-in, he had a meeting with Nicola Gobbo and Terry Hodson. Terry agreed to wear a covert listening device at all times in case Dave or I contacted him. Afterwards, Terry told Gregor that the best way to prompt contact with me was to use Nicola, because she and I were friends. And he said Nicola was happy to organise a meeting between Terry, Dave and me.

It was around this time that I asked Nicola for legal advice – after my first arrest – and I began to suspect things were happening behind my back. Murray Gregor said in his statement that the day after the Melbourne Cup in 2003, he’d spoken to Inspector Peter De Santo, who told him he’d bumped into Nicola at the Cup and had a drink with her. It was De Santo’s opinion that Nicola was fishing for information on whether I was a suspect or not.

Gregor told the OPI investigator interviewing him that Nicola’s legal advice to Terry Hodson was for him and Dave to roll over on me.2

I met with Nicola Gobbo a bit around this time, and I had no idea that this was going on. Even the fact that she was acting for Terry when she’d also acted for people like Abbey Haynes was probably a conflict of interest. To be giving me legal advice as well – then again, she was the lawyer.

By July 2007, Carl Williams had told police that Nicola had arranged phone calls between me and him to organise the so-called hit. Nicola expressed her opinion about that to the media in no uncertain terms. She was quoted in the Weekend Australian as saying: ‘Any suggestion or inference by a pathological lying serial killer as to me having knowledge of any plan to murder anyone is preposterous. It is appalling that police enthusiastically accepted the ravings of a psychopath who was prepared to say anything about anyone for a reduced sentence and financial gain as well as holidays from prison and prostitutes.’3

I’d hazard a guess that by then, things weren’t looking good for Nicola Gobbo and her legal career.

Years later, I subpoenaed the transcript of her interview with the OPI on 19 July 2007 for my own legal defence. When it finally arrived, much of what she said was blacked out. At the beginning of the interview, there is a lot said about secrecy and privacy, so I probably can’t tell you the line of questioning. Instead, I’m going to pose a hypothetical. Imagine that when questioned, a lawyer revealed connections between clients that were cause for concern. Then imagine that, after hours of questioning, the lawyer was told to come back the next day at, say, 2 p.m., but there are no further transcripts until over a month later. And then imagine that the first thing the lawyer is told at that visit a month later is that some of the previous testimony was evasive and untrue. Then imagine the lawyer is suddenly advised to seek legal representation on account of this. And then imagine turning over the pages of the transcripts to read the next thrilling bout of questions to find… nothing. No more pages of transcripts. No further questioning.4

But away from the hypothetical and back to the real Nicola. She was a barrister earning hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, but suddenly she agreed to a career-busting move – wearing a wire to record a conversation with me when I met her to seek legal advice.

There are so many repercussions from this, it’s not funny. First, lawyer–client privilege is one of the cornerstones of justice. I was meeting her to seek legal advice. She’d said right from the start that she’d act for me pro bono. And I’d met with her regularly to talk about my case. She’d later deny ever acting as my lawyer, despite meeting me at court when I was first arrested, being an integral part of the first meeting with me and my police lawyer, giving advice about the case, and even visiting me in prison as a lawyer before I was allowed regular visitors.

But in December 2008, Nicola Gobbo wore a listening device to record a conversation she had with me at a café, breaking the cardinal rule of lawyer–client privilege. She must have known that if it got out that she was helping police by trapping one of her clients, there would be rumblings among her other clients, which included the cream of the crop of Melbourne’s underworld drug barons, and that this would effectively end her lucrative legal career.

My wife dropped me off at a cafe for a meeting with Nicola to discuss the legal implications of what had happened to me. I’d recently been called for another interview with the Australian Crime Commission, and it was pretty clear that Victoria Police intended to charge me with something. Nicola knew all the players. She’d represented some of Australia’s major criminals. I knew she’d be able to advise me.

Sitting opposite me, Nicola looked as she always did. There was nothing to indicate that she was wearing a wire and taping our conversation. She was very attentive – no more or less than normal – and listened sympathetically to me rambling on and on about my situation. I suppose I made things seem more grandiose because she was a top lawyer – just in case she looked at my situation and thought, Jeez, Dale, it’s an ACC hearing. Get over yourself!

I went on about all the allegations that had been put to me about meetings with Carl Williams. I presumed that Williams must have made a statement, because where else would this come from? I wondered if he’d kept a diary record of our meetings. I suppose that I also wanted to suss Nicola out on what she knew about all of this, because these people were her clients as well.

My wife, Ditty, arrived at the cafe later. She sat with us for a coffee. She and Nicola walked into the cafe to order while I waited outside. Later, my wife told me that Nicola had said something strange while they were waiting to order. She’d asked Nicola how she was going, and the lawyer had replied in a low voice that she soon had to do something that she didn’t want to do. Then it was their turn to order coffee, and Ditty didn’t get to ask what she meant.