THE ‘START-OFF POINT’ for sentences for murder in New South Wales is 20 years, ‘a brick’ in prison slang. Using that as a reference, judges weigh the objective seriousness of the circumstances surrounding a murder in relation to that of previous cases to ascertain the most appropriate sentence. Going by what I had learnt in 30 months of prison, I knew that for two convictions of murder I was looking at a minimum of about 50 years, and the distinct possibility of life in prison.
But to me, sentencing after both trials was merely a technical hurdle I had to vault to get to the next step in the legal process – the appeal. I had been woken from the defeatism of my initial reaction to the conviction by the love and support of family and friends. Now, my preparations for the appeals took priority because I considered any sentence meaningless when I disagreed with the verdicts themselves. I was not ignorant of what I faced, and perhaps I was so eager to occupy my thoughts with the appeals because I went in when I was 25 years old, and it was unpalatable to contemplate for any prolonged length of time the prospect of spending at least double that time in that place, in those conditions.
Either way, my laissez-faire attitude was a source of wonder for fellow inmates at the MRRC, some of whom would sweat and fret over single-digit sentences.
As the months wore on after the verdicts, I started to wonder if the legal system had overlooked the fact that I had not been sentenced. Even my lawyers could not explain the extraordinarily long wait.
I had tried to make it as easy as possible on my part for Justice Michael Adams by instructing my trial lawyers to ask for life. However, they, like the lawyers for the appeal that would follow, were completely against that course of action.
The NSW courts rise in November barring crucial proceedings, of which sentencing is not a part, and I had started to suspect that my sentencing might be delayed to 2007. I believe it was mid-October when I was finally informed that a date had been set – my sentence was to be pronounced on 6 November 2006, five months after the verdict.
On the morning of the day, I felt more curiosity than anxiety. There was a sense of dread, too, reserved for the nightmare of the prison truck ride. When I arrived at court, my lawyers met me and gave me what I can only describe as a pep talk. In anticipation of the heavy sentence that was going to be set upon me, they reminded me that the day was only a formality in the process and that we had very good prospects for an appeal. In short, all the things I had been telling myself for five months. Undoubtedly, they said and did those things out of concern for me and their actions were based on their experience with previous clients. I appreciated it all, but I silently wished that they would stop treating me like such a weak-minded individual.
In the court room, Justice Michael Adams summarised the trial evidence for my conviction in about 20 minutes. He then proceeded to sentence me to 25 years for the murder of Chow Lyang, and to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole for the murder of Tony. Running concurrently, of course.
I joined the 20-odd other inmates in NSW on the ‘Never-to-be-Released’ list.
I was not surprised. After the shock of conviction, sentencing was simply a procedural checkpoint. The intervening five months had been spent in preparations for my appeal, not the sentencing.
Justice Adams finished by reading out a little passage about youth, passion and some other suitably meaningful things. I am not aware if he wrote it himself, or if it was an extract from published poem or prose; I only remember this part:
“Gone is the passion…”
Either way, it seems he took that extraordinarily long period of five months in intense debate with at least himself, and probably others, on whether the imposition of a life sentence was warranted. And it seemed that he was quite conflicted with his final decision. I still wonder if there was something in the words of that passage he wanted me to ponder on personally as I did my time, or if it was simply an expression of the struggle he had had with his own thoughts and emotions.
Personally, I would have liked to have written to him and said, “Hey, you did the right thing,” and wish his family and him well, especially as Christmas approached. The only reason I did not was because I realised how suspicious it might sound if I started asking for the contact details of the judge who had just sentenced me to life in prison.
Over the years, when I discussed my sentence with other inmates, a lot of them said very unpleasant things about Justice Adams, probably out of a sense of solidarity with a fellow prisoner. But I disagreed with them, and said so every time the matter was broached. Justice Adams, to me, is the epitome of what a Supreme Court judge should be.
He conducted the trial in a manner that inspires in me a great respect for the legal profession, and stands in stark contrast to what seems as the rather less commendable conduct of the DPP Senior Counsel at both trials. Justice Adams’ hands were bound by what the jury had accepted as fact in pronouncing a guilty verdict and that was the basis of his considerations for sentencing, as is a judge’s duty, as are his limitations.
The sentences he imposed were wholly appropriate for the crimes of which the jury convicted me.