A rape, a rape,
You have ravished justice.
John Webster, 1612
3 May 1994
It’s three years since Bond’s business empire finally collapsed with debts of around $5 billion. And Alan has brought sandwiches for lunch.
They’re in a green plastic bag he clutches in the dock. The press are impressed. Poor old Bondy.
He’s sitting like a zombie, staring into space, popping the occasional pill, as if he’s nigh on brain dead. We’re in the Federal Court in Sydney, and his interrogator is asking about bank accounts in Switzerland, companies in Panama and an accountant’s office in Jersey. He seems surprised that the questions are for him.
On occasion, he pauses for a minute, then asks for the question to be repeated. He’s trying hard, but he keeps on losing the plot. The trouble is he can’t recall. There were so many companies, it was so long ago, and he’s not been well.
He shuffles out of court, a small figure in a crumpled raincoat, bent and pale. A shadow of his former self.
Round a couple of corners, he’s out of sight of the pursuing press. He steals a look, straightens up and tosses the bag away.
Later, he’s at the Sheraton Wentworth, making the phones run hot. He’s calling Switzerland, Singapore and the USA. Dealing, dealing. Doing business.
The next day, I decide to test his memory. Surely no man can forget whether he has millions of dollars overseas. Surely this is an act?
I catch him walking up the street to the Federal Court and hand him a business card. ‘I’m Paul Barry from Four Corners. Remember me?’ He stamps on it, dances on it, grinds it into the pavement, and tells me to keep away. ‘Keep right away.’
‘So you do remember me,’ I say, ‘you do remember me.’
Back in the court, the questions continue. Bank accounts in London in the name of A. Bond, transfers to Switzerland in 1989, a few million dollars here, a few more million there. No. It doesn’t ring a bell to Bondy. He can’t recall a thing.
15 April 1995
One year later, and it’s just like old times. Australia’s greatest salesman is back with his 10,000 kilowatt smile. His skin is glossy, and he’s rude with health. He’s plump, shiny and prosperous in white tie and tails. He’s puffed up with pride like a black-and-white bullfrog.
If he ever had brain damage, he’s forgotten it now.
Outside Sydney’s Museum of Contemporary Art, crowds of reporters, photographers and camera crews push and jostle to get close to Alan Bond’s new bride. He is marrying a beautiful woman sixteen years younger than him. He has escaped from bankruptcy with the bulk of his fortune intact.
He has a second marriage, a second chance, a second coming. Good ol’ Bondy is back in business. He’s a winner again.
One has to say, he looks better in this role than when he’s being hounded by those reptiles of the press. Adulation suits him so much more. He has always been puzzled by criticism, pained by the barbs of those who don’t believe. It’s been one of his greatest assets, the unshakeable conviction that he’s done nothing wrong.
It can be hard not to admire someone so utterly devoid of guilt and shame, so completely unstoppable in the face of adversity, so consummately good at getting away with it. And as he likes to tell everyone, at least he stayed to face the music.
But there is another view of what Bond has achieved by his remarkable escape from the wreckage of his empire. And it is this. He has made a monkey out of the law and brought the legal system into disrepute. He has shown in the most public way possible that if your pockets are deep enough and your lawyers good enough, you can tie the system in knots forever, or at least until the most tenacious and bloody-minded pursuers give up. Nerve, stamina, self-belief, and access to a stash of cash, are all it takes. As long as you go for broke.
This is the story of how the bankruptcy laws of Australia failed to get hold of Alan Bond’s fortune. And how they will always fail to catch people like Skase and Bond.
It’s also a story about a man whose incredible resilience is, sadly, far greater than his respect for the truth.