LEWIS

Cast your mind back and picture a Saturday afternoon in any inner Melbourne pub in the 1960s and 70s. Sitting in one of the smoky corners would be the local SP bookie, servicing the drinkers at the bar and the odd punter who would wander in throughout the day. This all disappeared in the 1980s when the state government did a deal to ensure that all betting be done through the TAB, in return for which the government got a very healthy slice of their revenue cake. This also meant that the government no longer permitted SP bookies to trade and introduced stringent fines following a conviction for SP-ing, so over the following few years the SPs were essentially exterminated.

Lewis Moran grew up as a pickpocket and later became an SP bookmaker. If one looks at the Underbelly TV casting of Lewis, it couldn’t be further from the truth. The only thing right about it is that Lewis had similar straight dark hair to the actor who played him. In Underbelly Lewis is somebody a bit off the pace and not particularly smart. Both of those assessments couldn’t be further from the truth. I should know because I enjoyed a close relationship with Lewis from our introduction in the mid to late 70s until his death at the hand of a hired assassin on 31 March 2004.

I first met Lewis, when he was known as Lewis the Lout, with his brother, Desmond ‘Tuppence’ Moran. Called Tuppence, not because he was as big as tuppence but because he was tuppence short of a quid, or a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic, or so everybody said. Tuppence was quiet and took his time while thinking about something before answering, but this doesn’t necessarily mean he was stupid.

I met the two of them at the behest of Phil Dunn QC. It seems they were on the lookout for a new solicitor after their previous mouthpiece had police problems of his own. Apparently, during the height of the national forged ten-dollar note rort, the solicitor was the victim of a fire in his safe. Nothing else in the office was touched but the entire contents of his safe were destroyed. Forensics, not being what it is today, found no result after investigating the safe’s remains, but the coppers reckoned the safe was full of forged ten dollar notes. Naturally, such an allegation was strenuously denied and the matter went no further. The Moran boys didn’t like the attention all this publicity drew to the legal firm and, by implication, them. Both Lewis and Tuppy liked to stay under the radar.

My relationship with Lewis grew organically over the many years we knew each other. When we first met I had the distinct impression I was being sized up for a potentially long professional relationship. We met at the Flower Drum restaurant in Little Bourke Street and we chatted for some time. At that stage I was not yet thirty and Lewis would have been about the same age. The boys were clearly on their way up in the world and Lewis wanted to ensure that his life ran as smoothly as possible. His number one rule to the day he died was to keep a low profile — for himself and whatever he was up to. Do not draw attention to yourself — ever.

This first meeting was to see if they liked me. Little did I know that that first lunch would be the start of a personal and professional relationship that would last until his death. I think the strength of that friendship came about through mutual acceptance and respect. Lewis was not an effusive person, in fact he was the opposite; no high fives for him, he loathed public displays of what he considered to be false and insincere friendship. In fact we often didn’t shake hands when we met. His view was that if you’re mates you don’t have to show it to the world; the other person was the only one that mattered. When we talked Lewis spoke well — there was no shouting, not much swearing and he gave careful consideration to each point he would make.

Being a young man in a hurry, I jumped at the chance to act for these blokes and a couple of days later Lewis made an appointment to come to the office. I was on my way.

Lewis had first started making his name as a pickpocket. Pickpockets are almost a thing of the past now and, it would appear, with the advent of the credit card people no longer carry as much cash around on them. In those days though pickpockets were everywhere and Lewis had been taught by the prince of pickpockets, Mickey Mutch. Mickey was infamous as one of Australia’s best pickpockets, and his favourite place to work was the Collins Street tram. His fame grew after one of his arrests when his conviction was contested all the way to the Court of Criminal Appeal. In fact, the case is even reported in the 1928 Victorian Law Reports where the question of law was: ‘Can you loiter with intent to commit a felony on a tram?’

Mickey told a story not long before he died of working the Collins Street tram. The golden rule as a pickpocket is always to approach your victim from behind, though I’ve no idea how they can remove a wallet out of somebody’s coat pocket from behind without the victim knowing. In any case, Mickey lifted the wallet and after taking it the victim turned around. He didn’t realise his wallet had been taken and to Mickey’s dismay he noticed his mark was a Supreme Court judge. Not only that, the tram was fast approaching William Street where the judge would alight. In a great panic Mickey quickly bumped into the judge on purpose and put the wallet back. He knew that if he fronted at court on a pickpocketing charge, which was almost a racing certainty, he would receive little sympathy.

Years before Mickey Mutch retired he’d made a lot of money as a member of the famous Kangaroo Gang, travelling back and forth to Europe. Incidentally, Mickey referred one of his best mates to me, another old bloke and gang member by the name of Laurie Quick, who was the ‘cash register man’ — quick by name, quick by nature. These blokes were fascinating old crooks who delighted in reminiscing to an eager young lawyer who hung on to their every word. No doubt there was a fair bit of embellishment for my benefit. These blokes were the last of the real old school. The advent of the drug industry changed everything. Very few if any crooks now live by the codes of these old blokes, where today anything goes.

Pickpockets are, and always remain, addicted to large crowds, and even in retirement Mickey was unable to pass up opportunities if they presented themselves. One day, driving past a big house auction in Brighton he couldn’t help himself and stopped the car, left his wife in the Mercedes and wandered off into the crowd. Mickey was always dapper, wore a suit and blended in perfectly. He merrily relieved a number of people of their wallets as he wandered among them. Unfortunately for Mickey, though, in the crowd was policeman Ian (Tiny) Baker, who knew him over many years. Baker observed Mickey hightail it back to his car, whereupon wallet after wallet started flying out the window after the cash had been removed. Tiny then approached the car and tried to grab the car keys from the ignition to stop Mickey going anywhere. Mickey got such a fright he started the car, put it into gear and wound the window up driving off with Tiny Baker still holding onto the steering wheel. After a short distance, the car stopped and poor old Mickey was once again charged with pickpocketing.

Not much happened with Lewis and Tuppence after our first few meetings as they never seemed to get into trouble themselves. They were, however, surrounded by other people who did. Soon Lewis started to take an almost paternal interest in my professional progress. He had his finger on the pulse of Melbourne’s underworld and would advise me on whether a potential new client was no good or do what he could to make sure I got my fees up front. Occasionally he persuaded me not to act for certain people and his reasoning was always spot on. I nearly always listened to his advice and started to develop a practice with a better calibre of client.

Towards the end of 1982 things started to warm up. On 10 November, Lewis’s wife’s ex-husband John Cole was murdered as he got out of his car in his garage in Sydney. No one has ever been charged with his murder. Lewis wanted to go to the funeral but he had a case listed at Brunswick Magistrates Court that same morning. I said we would get him an adjournment but we better not mention Johnny Cole. He agreed and we duly appeared before His Worship Mr Pummeroy — known affectionately as ‘Autumn Brown’ after the Yalumba autumn brown sherry he delighted in consuming by the pot with his daily lunch in the pub opposite the court. We told Pummeroy that a friend had died and that Lewis wanted to attend the funeral. He was sympathetic and seemed to be the only person in the court who didn’t know specifically who had died. There were a few sniggers from others in the courtroom but the adjournment was granted.

On 26 November 1982 a far more important incident took place. At that time I was sharing a house with a mate in South Yarra. Only one person I knew had the phone number there and that was Lewis. This was well before mobile phones. I clearly remember having been out to dinner that night and arriving home late. Then very late the phone rang. It could only be for me. I jumped out of bed and answered it; no introduction but I immediately recognised Lewis’s voice. ‘They’ve killed Brian,’ he said. ‘His girlfriend’s at the Homicide Squad. Can you head down there, retrieve her and bring her back to my place?’ Then he hung up.

I knew exactly who Lewis was speaking about. Brian Kane, a well-known Painter and Docker, had been murdered and his girlfriend was now with police and about to make a statement. This meant that the police might get some useful information relating to the perpetrators of some of the murders that had been taking place around Melbourne at that time. Trevor Russell, the other person who had been with Kane at the Quarry Hotel in Brunswick, had seen what was coming when the two gunmen walked into the pub. He had dived through the window out into the street and escaped.

The St Kilda Road headquarters was just around the corner from where I was, and by the time I got there things were electric. Everyone was jumping up and down about Brian Kane’s murder. I told the homicide detectives that I was there to take Kane’s girlfriend home. They said no to that and told me firmly that she was there to make a statement, that she hasn’t asked for a lawyer and that I could piss off.

I replied that I had been instructed to act for her and that I wanted to see her. I was pretty insistent about it and they finally let me into the interview room. I spoke to her in private for a couple of minutes, at the end of which she declined to make a statement or say anything further. Understandably the coppers were very shitty with me, but that was my job.

We jumped in the car and headed out to Lewis’s house in Moonee Ponds. I drove down the unlit lane behind the house, parked the car and we walked through his backyard, also unlit. In fact, the house itself had no lights on. I knocked on the door and what greeted me was a sight to behold.

Lewis, Tuppence and Graham Kinniburgh aka The Munster stood there, each armed with machine guns. They were ready for war. This feud was obviously a lot heavier than I had realised. There was a whole lot of stuff going on that I had no idea about, directly related to whoever had killed Kane and his mates. Lewis asked me to come in for a drink.

‘No, I’m right,’ I said, backing away. ‘I’m out of here.’

Lewis walked me down to the back gate and pulled out a wad of notes that would choke an ox. ‘What do I owe you?’

Round about now I was starting to realise that I could be shot by somebody at any moment. There was no way I wanted to hang around for a second longer. ‘Mate, it’s on the house. See you later,’ I said and jumped in my car. I tore off down the back lane, kicking myself that I’d been such an idiot. I had put myself directly in the line of fire if other gangs were in the vicinity, and could easily have been shot. Sometimes you live and learn.

At that time there were two main gangs floating around in Melbourne and both of them knew I acted for both gangs. Somewhat surprisingly, though, nobody seemed to mind and I continued to represent both of them for many years.

On the following Monday I appeared for a bloke who I knew was in the other Melbourne gang. We stood on the steps of the Moonee Ponds court while he had a cigarette. Then he looked at me and grinned. ‘The snake’s lost its head,’ he said.

The first incident where Lewis really landed himself in trouble happened outside a 1970s city nightclub called The Galleon. Lewis and another crook, Nat the Rat, were leaving the club late on a Friday night. Earlier in the evening they had snared a park right out the front. This was so long ago that Nat was driving a brand new Fairlane that sported the first of the electric windows, very flash indeed. They were just about to pull out when a bloke dressed in flares, bodyshirt and chunky gold medallion wandered out of the club and on to the road, standing next to the car’s headlight. Nat beeped him. ‘Hop out of the way, mate.’

The bloke turned around. ‘No, I’m waiting for a taxi.’

‘Mate,’ Nat repeated, ‘just hop out of the way. I want to drive off.’

‘Aren’t you listening? I’m waiting for a taxi,’ was the reply.

Now, Nat and Lewis were not renowned for having long fuses.

‘Get OUT of the fucking way!’ Nat yelled.

The bloke turned around and said ‘Get fucked’, which was enough to set Nat right off. Lewis wasn’t too happy either. They were about to jump out and give it to the bloke when he walked from the front headlight across the front of the car and around to the passenger window on the footpath. He was now standing about three feet from the car.

The flash new electric window went down and Nat sneered: ‘What did you say?’

‘I told you to get fucked,’ he said.

Barely were the words out of his mouth when there was an almighty explosion. The bloke on the footpath had been shot.

It’s still not clear who shot him but it was very lucky for him that he saw the gun. Apparently he raised his right hand in an involuntary ‘stop’ motion just as the trigger was pulled. The slug entered his body at the inside wrist and ploughed up his arm until it hit his elbow joint, ricocheted off his elbow, miraculously hit the medallion leaving a huge dent in it and knocked the bloke arse over backwards. The slug continued on and shattered the shop window.

There was a fair amount of blood at this stage and a gunshot makes a lot of noise. Nat and Lewis hightailed it out of there and to this day the gun has never been found.

Lewis and Nat were arrested some time later and given a fearful thrashing by the coppers. I didn’t get a call from either of them until the Monday morning, a full two days later. When I saw them they were black and blue. They had been held by the coppers, not in the watchhouse but at Russell Street HQ all weekend, handcuffed to desks in different rooms and given gratuitous beltings by passing coppers. I asked why they hadn’t called me. Lewis said it was pointless as they weren’t going to get bail for a little while and they didn’t want to interrupt my weekend.

Both were charged with attempted murder.

It turned out that the victim was a bit of a knockabout himself and at the committal he wasn’t called to give evidence. There was, however, sufficient evidence for Nat and Lewis to be committed for trial. When the trial dates arrived the victim had a sudden case of amnesia. Clearly somebody had ‘spoken’ to him because he was unable to identify either Lewis or Nat, notwithstanding the fact that he had been no more than a metre from the car in a well-lit city street. As a result, no evidence was given against either of these two men and they walked from the Supreme Court. A lucky escape, indeed.

Another incident had Lewis drinking at his favourite watering hole, the Prince of Wales Hotel in Mount Alexander Road, Moonee Ponds. The bar there was circular and Lewis would sit on the side furthest from the door — he was a consummate creature of habit. On this particular occasion a group of young blokes and their girlfriends were on the other side of the bar. They’d come on from the local footy club and were all pretty pissed and pretty cheeky: full of grog and confidence as the saying goes. Lewis was looking around the pub, and one young bloke thought he was perving at his girlfriend. ‘What are you looking at you fat cunt?’ he yelled across the bar.

‘Excuse me?’ said Lewis in reply. And he would have reacted that way because he was so very polite in the way he spoke.

The young bloke repeated himself, whereupon Lewis allegedly produced a gun and shot him. Fortunately, the young bloke saw the gun being pulled out of Lewis’s trousers and ducked. The momentum of him falling forward in one direction and that of the bullet going in the other caused the slug to plough between scalp and skull, down behind his ear, exiting at the back of his neck. It was a very nasty scalp wound but nothing more. There was blood everywhere.

In the ensuing mayhem, Lewis quietly left the hotel.

The young bloke raced out to the public phone, rang his mum and told her he had been shot by Lewis Moran.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ she said, ‘don’t tell the police that … and get the hell out of there!’ So the young bloke and his girlfriend jumped into their car and drove some miles further down the road to the Earl of Lincoln. Only once safely there did he call the police. By that time, the Prince of Wales was clean as a whistle with no evidence of blood anywhere and no shell casing or bullet. Everyone in the pub, too, kept mum, although someone must have said something because Lewis was soon arrested and again charged with attempted murder.

I suggested that he get a senior QC on the basis that if he was convicted it would be ugly, but he was adamant that I appear for him. We went to the committal and, as anticipated, no witness saw or knew anything of any shooting. Everybody had either been on the phone (which was located between the bar and the bottle shop with no view into the bar), or they were in the toilet or the bottle shop or out the front having a smoke. Not one person saw or heard a thing. What a surprise.

I clearly remember the magistrate being monumentally unhappy with me and the way I ran Lewis’s defence. We had adopted a take-no-prisoners approach and every witness in the box was given a thorough going-over by yours truly.

The magistrate walked to the bench to deliver her findings and began with the words: ‘Mr Fraser’s cross examination unfortunately raises more questions than it answers.’

For my part, I would have thought that was exactly what I was supposed to do. From that moment on, I knew Lewis could walk. He was subsequently discharged with an order against the coppers for costs. Not surprisingly the boys in blue were very unhappy.

The first of the Moran family to get into the drug trade was Tuppence. I remember Tuppence telling me when I was still only a young lawyer that he was importing buddha sticks from Indonesia. Buddha sticks are cannabis leaf and head rolled on a thin stick and at the time sold for about $20 each. It surprised me that Tuppy was going to all that trouble, risking importing from Indonesia. Nevertheless, he had done the mathematics and was happy with his little smoke sideline.

At the same time Lewis got into a bit of receiving (aka debt collecting), but essentially he still held out against involvement in the drug trade — that was until son Jason and stepson Mark started getting into the cannabis business and then, most significantly, the ecstasy trade. Lewis could see the amount of money they were making was mind-boggling for very little outlay or physical input and he ended up in the drug trade himself. That decision was to turn out to be, quite literally, the death of him.

In any case, as the years passed Tuppy took a real interest in growing dope hydroponically. Around that time he kept introducing me to all sorts of people who had been pinched with growing dope in their houses. Seemingly benevolently, Tuppy paid their fees — but what was really going on was that he had Mr Average grow dope in an ordinary suburban house and would then share in the profits if the crop was successful. If not and they were pinched, I would appear on their behalf and Tuppy picked up the tab. One of his mates told me on the quiet that Tuppy had up to ten houses going at any one time.

That was a modest business though, and around this time amphetamines started to become incredibly popular. Interestingly, too, the raw materials to cook (as is said in the trade) them were still relatively easy to obtain. Tuppence and a mate of his worked out a method whereby they could easily obtain the necessary chemicals without having to disclose precisely who they were. But they also knew that the coppers were watching them.

In an effort to circumvent this problem they decided to build Australia’s first mobile amphetamine laboratory. They set up a laboratory in a secondhand truck on the pretext that it was a mobile gold refining plant and that they would be operating in the Victorian goldfields area around Bendigo and Castlemaine.

Things went swimmingly for a time until, as is always the case, they got caught. This pinch was a big deal not only locally but in the capital city’s press; they were in real danger of not getting bail. I appeared for both of them at Bendigo court. I was able to get them both bail but ultimately they ended up in the nick for the manufacture of amphetamines.

Not to be outdone by Tuppy, Lewis and longtime mate Graeme Kinniburgh imported a container of hashish. The Munster was another old-school crook who always swore he would have no part in the drug game but was seduced by the big money to be made.

The coppers knew the container was on its way but then Lewis and the Munster received news that the container was ‘off’ — that it had been singled out for special surveillance and that when somebody came to collect it they would be arrested. Of course no one came to collect the container.

After some time with no movement the container was moved to a secure spot where the police could watch it twenty-four hours a day, and this they did. This was supposed to be a high priority observation with no gaps. How then the container disappeared from right under the very noses of the cops is beyond me, but that’s exactly what happened. Retired police officers have since strongly suggesed that the container disappeared because of corrupt customs blokes on the wharf and corrupt coppers. How else could a shipping container vanish into thin air? It’s also worth mentioning that Lewis and the Munster met when they worked on the docks together many years earlier so my bet is they knew what was what.

And just because a container disappeared from a secure surveillance area didn’t mean Lewis and the Munster had no access to it. Some years later, hashish started turning up on Melbourne streets wrapped in newspapers that were ten or fifteen years old. The hash was dried out and by now of very poor quality, but Lewis was selling it, as was the Munster. You didn’t have to be a genius to work out where it had likely come from, though how they got the hash off the wharf I do not know. I never asked and I was never told.

Unfortunately, Lewis was arrested for selling ten kilograms of this hash to Malcolm Rosenes who was, at that time, an undercover operative in the Victoria Police Drug Squad and that’s what sent him to jail, bail refused. This was at the same time I was serving my own sentence at Port Phillip Prison. At my own hand I had fallen from being Lewis’s lawyer of many years to that of fellow crook and inmate. And yet this change of circumstances did not alter our friendship one jot.

The so-called Melbourne gangland wars had started before I went to jail. In October 1999 Jason had supposedly shot Carl Williams in a park in Melbourne’s western suburbs. Jason and Mark ran one gang, Carl the other. They were two opposing drug operations whose main focus was manufacturing ecstasy tablets. It was essentially a turf war, but once Jason shot Carl Williams, all bets were off. Carl made it his lifelong goal to eradicate the Moran family in its entirety. He attained his goal.

Before the war broke out with all its disastrous conse-quences, Lewis told me he had had a meeting with George Williams, Carl’s dad. ‘This is madness,’ Lewis had said to George. ‘The boys have got to be pulled up. There’s plenty for everybody … why don’t we shake hands and go our own way.’ Lewis then suggested divvying up areas for distribution, which George agreed with. Unfortunately, though, none of the boys would listen.

The incentive for the war was and still is the obscene amounts of money to be made from the drug trade. To succeed here you don’t need a university degree, you don’t have to be particularly smart and you certainly don’t have to be a good bloke. If you know how to make ecstasy tablets it might just be a shortcut to massive wealth. I recently interviewed one of Jason’s runners from the old days who used to supervise their sales team in Melbourne nightclubs back in the mid-80s and early 90s. He told me that even back then he was taking $25,000 a night out of one club. Now that raises a number of questions. First, how do you get that amount of drugs in without somebody knowing, and how do you get all that cash out of the same place without somebody knowing? You couldn’t possibly carry $25,000 in loose notes around with you so it would require several trips outside during the night. The answer is inescapable: whoever was running the nightclub was in on the rort as well.

Lewis was in jail at the same time as me awaiting bail on the hashish charge. But just before he was charged, and I hit my own hurdle, Lewis told me he had moved his money — all of it — to a firm of accountants in Brunswick. There was a lot to be moved. I don’t know how much and I was never told and, by the way, I never asked. When Lewis died, wife Judy was also under the impression that there was a lot of money somewhere, but the accountants said it had all gone on a failed business venture. Frankly, I’ve never believed that.

For many years I hassled Lewis to make a will but he thought to have one was bad luck. Eventually though he came around and named Tuppy as his executor. I don’t think Judy received anything — which would have made her very unhappy. The one thing Judy really likes is money. She had been prepared to turn a blind eye to all Lewis’s goings-on in return for a lifestyle of wealth and privilege. She did this and she kept her mouth shut. But when Lewis was bowled the dough stopped. Lewis once said to me that he told Judy absolutely nothing because, to quote him, ‘she’s a loudmouth and an imbecile’.

Tuppence was the only person who would have known where the money was. Judy kept hassling him for particulars and what she claimed was her share of it. But like Lewis, Tuppence despised Judy, and for her to suggest as she has that she had a good relationship with both of them is complete fabrication. Judy married Lewis after she left Johnny Cole and she already had one boy, Mark, known around the traps as ‘Handsome Harry’. And, as many of you already know, Lewis and Judy had one child from their marriage, Jason. Lewis was devastated when Jason was killed even though we all knew it was coming. Mark’s murder was more of a surprise and Lewis blamed Jason and himself for Mark’s death.

No money was forthcoming from Tuppence for Judy after Lewis’s death so Judy decided to get even. What beggars belief here is that the only person who knows the whereabouts of the money is killed. Now if that’s not the dumbest thing ever I don’t know what is. But that’s how Judy operated — she conspired with others to have Tuppence killed and she was successful in that enterprise; he’s dead and she’s doing a very long sentence. The burning question of where the money is has gone to the grave with Tuppence.

A lot of what I have written here has focused on Lewis’s public persona — that he was a hard man given to violence and ruthlessness, especially where money was concerned. The Lewis I became friends with over many years was a very different person and I am pleased to say that I counted Lewis as a close friend. I was brought up to take people as you find them, and I could never fault Lewis in that department.

Our socialising came about gradually, and our first evening meal together would have been a few years after we first met. It was an interesting night: we chatted and drank too much. I liked his company but always let Lewis make the running as to when we caught up. We ate at the Flower Drum about twice a year and Lewis always shouted. One criticism often levelled at him was that he was a tight arse. I never found this to be so. He was clearly very well known and respected at that establishment. No sooner had we sat down than a champagne bucket filled with shaved ice and half a dozen ‘Clown Rarger’ arrived. The first was opened and the rest were left with a bottle opener. Lewis did not like to be disturbed with the constant fussing common in many Chinese restaurants. I never looked at a menu with him; we were fed and fed very well. I am a red drinker and Lewis was not, however an excellent bottle always arrived at the table as if by magic. Another thing that I remember very strongly about Lewis was that he had the most impeccable manners. Something like that you never forget.

We would talk about all sorts of things. He was a smart man. He was very well read and would like to talk about politics, and footy (he loved bloody Collingwood), and our families. He confided in me about his concerns for the boys, Jason in particular, and where they were both heading. Lewis could not pull Jason up. No matter how hard he tried Jason wouldn’t listen and ended up dragging the entire family into the public spotlight, a place Lewis never wanted to be. On reflection it’s fair to blame Jason for the demise of the Moran family and I reckon Lewis would agree.

As for the drugs, we didn’t discuss my use much, even though it was obvious I was using. Only once did Lewis look me in the eye and admonish me, saying, ‘Don’t get high on your own supply.’ That day he told me to pull up. The coppers he was doing business with told him where I was buying and I was off the air. This revelation rattled me but when you are addicted the scare soon wears off and you go out and score again. I knew Lewis was now in the drug business but we didn’t discuss it and I never scored from him.

My drug use was one thing I should have listened to him about (if only I could have). He was right on another matter, too.

As I said earlier Lewis was responsible for the bulk of my practice. His referrals started not long after our first lunch and lasted until I went to jail. Even the referral of the biggest case of my life, Alan Bond, can be traced back directly to Lewis.

He was extraordinarily loyal. He told me not long before I moved practices that my new partners had taken him to lunch a few weeks earlier and tried to snaffle him as a client, giving me a bagging at the same time. He told me not to join them. In his view they were not to be trusted. His assessment turned out to be correct.

Once our relationship was well established and the work was flowing I had the feeling Lewis took some pride in my practice and my success, and a lot of this had to do with his unwavering support. He went even further, suggesting that I go out on my own. Frankly, I never had the heart to do that. I think I have always been driven by the fear of failure and lacked the ticker necessary to make that jump.

Perhaps my abiding memories of Lewis the man have to do with his manners. He was always unfailingly polite to office staff, other lawyers and myself. It was rare for him to ring outside of office hours and if he did, as with the Kane case, it was always bloody urgent. If my then wife answered the phone Lewis would always introduce himself and apologise for disturbing us. He was good at small talk with my wife too, always asking how the kids were and how she was. He never swore. Once I got on the phone he would apologise for disturbing us a second time, a rare trait among my clients.

Once Lewis and I ended up in the same prison we worked out we were in adjoining units and we could talk to each other at the end of the dividing fence. The screws were awake to this and would move us on soon after we started chatting. Not to be deterred, later in the day we would usually meet in the library and continue our conversations.

The last time I saw Lewis alive he had just been granted bail and was being released. He hugged me, which was unusual for him. ‘This is goodbye,’ he said.

‘No, no. We’ll catch up as soon as my sentence is finished,’ I said.

‘No, mate. This is goodbye.’

Lewis knew full well his name was still on the hit list and being the creature of habit he was it was a simple task for his killers to locate him and bowl him as they did. He knew it was coming but with his boys dead he was happy to go too.