‘If it was anyone else in my position, they’d get a key to the city. It’s just unfortunate that it’s me.’
MICK GATTO has made a career out of grabbing his chances as they have come along. From boxer to enforcer to the more sophisticated title ‘industrial mediator’, Gatto has methodically crafted a reputation as a man who can persuade others to see his point of view. In some ways the reputation has grown bigger than the reality.
Media reports suggest the Melbourne identity first came to prominence as a boxer who was close to winning the national heavyweight title. Some even say he won fifteen fights by knockout. This says a lot about sports reporting in general, boxing coverage in particular.
The truth, always elusive at ringside, is that as a heavyweight boxer Mick Gatto was never going to be a genuine headliner. But he would make page one much later for actions more violent than ever could be found inside the square ring. He was tough, with a knockout punch and a big heart, but too slow to make the big time and too bright to allow himself to become another punching bag for young, faster fighters.
Gatto’s official record is modest. Over seven years he fought under Queensberry rules just nine times. The records do not record what happened in the streets. In 1973 he had five bouts, losing one when Mark Ecimovic – a boxer who later fought for the Australian heavyweight crown – knocked him out in the first round.
The following year he fought twice, losing once on points and winning the other by knockout. Strictly a preliminary fighter, he did little for three years until a main event on the then popular TV Ringside threatened to fall over when one of the boxers withdrew.
Enter Big Mick, who entertained the crowd by going the distance in a ten-round fight with Reno Zurek – later to be crowned NSW heavyweight champion. Two years later he again fought Zurek, this time in Griffith in an eight-rounder. Again Mick lost on points but went the distance. It was Gatto’s last big fight, but he was the main event.
Mick Gatto learned much in his journeyman boxing years. He learned that if you are wounded never let your opponent know you are hurt. He learned that when cornered it is best to cover up. He learned that the clinch can be the boxer’s best friend because when you are holding an opponent he can do less damage than if he has room to swing. He saw that big fights are rarely won with one punch and good boxers don’t fight out of anger or fear. They do their homework and anticipate their opponent’s likely moves. In seconds they can calculate the risks and rewards of every option and choose their moment to launch an attack. Hotheads get the crowds cheering but it is the cool ones who more often take home the purse. Unless, of course, the fight is fixed.
Gatto knew that local boys win more than their fair share and given the chance you should fight on your home turf with trusted friends in your corner. He also learned that the men who are truly feared and respected – from lightweights to heavyweights – have one thing in common. When faced with danger they never blink.
MORE than 25 years after leaving the ring Gatto would enter another gladiatorial arena where there could only be one winner – the Supreme Court of Victoria – to face the charge of murdering a notorious hitman named Andrew Veniamin. For several years Melbourne – a sprawling suburbia with a low crime rate, a respected police force and a tendency towards self-congratulation – had been the centre of a vicious, and unusually public underworld war.
Colourful men with strange nicknames, no jobs and unexplained wealth were turning up dead. A man like Nik ‘The Bulgarian’ Radev – a refugee who hadn’t held a legitimate job for twenty years yet managed to maintain a five-star lifestyle – was typical of the victims.
Virtually unknown until his very public murder, Radev was shot next to his luxury Mercedes in Coburg in April 2003. Shortly before his execution he had paid a dentist $55,000 to whiten and crown his teeth, turning them from basic Bulgarian to glitzy Hollywood. It was a waste of money: he was shot up to seven times in the head and body. Fittingly, he was later buried in a $30,000 gold casket with what was left of his million-dollar smile.
Another victim, Mark Moran, was shot dead outside his $1.3million home. Moran was ostensibly an unemployed pastry chef. Usually Melbourne’s main players in the criminal world watched the flashy ones like Radev come in full-on and go out feet first. But this time it was different.
First, the war was public and embarrassing. The police force, which had long fancied itself the best in the country, was beginning to look silly. Indeed, Assistant Commissioner (crime) Simon Overland would later admit police had dropped the ball in investigating organised crime. This meant – as police hate to look silly – there would be a major reaction: they would form a task force called Purana, and it would prove to be more effective than many thought possible. The task force would crack the gangland code of silence and charge 51 people with almost 200 offences. Thirteen suspects were eventually charged over six alleged murders, seven with conspiracy to incite murder, six over guns and 25 with drug-related offences.
The government was also made to look silly and politicians who are seen as soft on crime can imagine themselves losing their seats when voters get their chance at the polls. So the government gave police new powers to call suspects to secret hearings, and seize assets that may have taken years to hide. All of this was extremely bad for business for men who had already learned the ropes.
It had long been a standing joke that for decades Gatto had spent a fortune on flowers and death notices as friends and foes lost their lives in violent circumstances. Some cynics suggest he had the death notice number of the Herald Sun classifieds on speed dial, often ringing before the latest victim’s name had been made public. In the early 1970s and ’80s he paid his respects as gangsters such as brothers Brian and Les Kane were gunned down. But by the 1990s many of his own network were targeted.
Alphonse John Gangitano was a close associate of Gatto’s and police often saw them together. Both were young members of a group known by police as the Carlton Crew. Of Italian origin but raised in Australia, they had some of the mannerisms of the so-called mafia but would spend their Saturdays like many other Aussies, sipping a drink, watching the races and having a punt. When invited to the Collingwood President’s Room at Victoria Park, Gatto spent more time out the back watching the horse races on television than the football in front of him. Gatto and Gangitano both had an interest in Italian food, imported suits, gambling and boxing. In fact Alphonse was a fight promoter and boxing manager for a short time although his form of negotiating deals bordered on the eccentric. Heavily in the camp of local boxer Lester Ellis, he once attacked, bashed and bit champion Barry Michael – an Ellis rival – in a city nightclub in 1987. Even a shark like Don King didn’t chew on his opponents. He left that to Mike Tyson inside the ring.
While Gatto and Gangitano were friends they were not as close as many thought. Gangitano liked his reputation as the Black Prince of Lygon Street and spend a decade in the headlines. Gatto preferred to remain out of the glare of media attention. Gangitano was the show pony, Gatto the stayer. Repeated police investigations found that while Gangitano was a professional criminal he did not have the asset base to justify his reputation as a Mr Big. More style than substance, they believed. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
ON February 6, 1995, Gangitano was at party in Wando Grove, East St Kilda, held to raise bail for a man charged with armed robbery. Not exactly the Salvation Army but it is the thought that counts. The underworld charity bash was not tax deductible but that would not have concerned those present as most didn’t bother to pay tax on their largely undisclosed earnings.
At 4.40am, Gangitano went outside with another colourful Melbourne identity, Gregory John Workman. There was an argument and Gangitano did not like to lose arguments. Workman was shot seven times in the back and once in the chest, which meant he lost both the debate and his life. Gangitano was charged with murder but persuaded two key female witnesses to change their stories and then generously rewarded them with extended overseas vacations. The case against Gangitano then collapsed. But the big man with the bigger reputation didn’t take his second chance and continued to participate in high-profile criminal activities until his violent death. He was shot dead inside his Templestowe home on January 16, 1998.
Present, but not involved in the shooting of Gangitano was Graham ‘The Munster’ Kinniburgh – a man who was a father figure to Mick Gatto. The shooter was said to be Jason Moran, who would himself later join the list of gangland murder victims.
Some say Gatto and Gangitano had grown apart in the years before the shooting. Alphonse drew the attention of the media and police to business matters that people like Gatto felt were best left in private. However, in a rare interview, Gatto said later they were still friends at the time of the murder but he had grown tired of his name always being linked to the dead gangster. ‘Why can’t they let him rest in peace?’
LIKE Gangitano, Mick Gatto did not hanker for a nine to five job. He has been described over the years as a standover man – a claim he hotly denies – a landscape gardener, a professional punter and a gambling identity connected to Melbourne’s once profitable and illegal two-up school. These days he is a consultant for the building industry – a highly paid problem solver. He also has an interest in industrial cranes. He has convictions for burglary, assaulting police, possessing firearms, and obtaining financial advantage by deception. He was also charged with extortion, blackmail and making threats to kill but these annoying matters were struck out at committal.
Big Mick says such immature behaviour is all in the past. He maintains that these days he is, as they say, straight as a gun barrel.
In February 2002, he was invited via a subpoena to appear at the royal commission into the building industry to discuss his growing role as an industrial relations consultant on Melbourne building sites. The commission was interested in an alleged payment of $250,000 to solve some sticky industrial problems for a company that understandably did not want extended labour conflicts. Inquiring minds at the commission found that $189,750 was paid to a company controlled by Mick Gatto and his business partner and good friend, Dave ‘The Rock’ Hedgcock.
When he gave evidence Gatto appeared offended that people could suggest he used threats of violence to solve problems. ‘I’m not a standover man. I’m not a man of ill repute. Fair enough I’ve got a chequered past … but I paid for … whatever I have done wrong.’
Police who know Gatto say he is unfailingly courteous, slow to anger and always in control. He uses body language to ensure that people around him are aware that he remains a physically imposing man. ‘It is not so much what he says but what he leaves unsaid,’ one detective said.
His unofficial office was La Porcella, a large Italian restaurant on the corner of Faraday and Rathdowne Streets, Carlton. Most weekdays he could be found there, often in the company of those he respected – men with healthy appetites and colourful pasts. But he was rarely there at weekends. That was time for the family, he said. It is said that people with problems were prepared to pay $5000 to sit at the table with Mick and discuss solutions. Sometimes he could help and other times he couldn’t. But it would always be a pleasant and entertaining luncheon.
Many police and criminals dine out on Gatto stories and it is often impossible to distil reality from myth because those close to the big man remain staunchly loyal and staunchly silent. Those not so close seem to believe it would not be wise to tell tales out of the old school.
But there are several stories to indicate that while Gatto is charming and does not use violence indiscriminately, he succeeds because people fear the consequences of not seeing his point of view. In one case he was able to jolt the memory of a businessman who owed an associate $75,000.
The debt was paid and Gatto was said to have kept $25,000 as his commission. Everyone was a winner. The man who owed the money is still able to walk without a limp, the businessman did not have to write off the sum as a bad debt and Mick was handsomely paid for two phone calls.
One solicitor once used Gatto’s name to threaten someone who owed him $15,000 and then asked Big Mick to collect the debt. A policeman said Gatto did as he was asked but pocketed the full amount as a fine for the lawyer using his name without permission. Again everyone was a winner – one man learned to pay his debts, another not to use people’s names to make idle threats and Mick’s bank balance received a healthy injection. Another detective said he knew of case of a man who was dancing at a nightclub when he had a nail punched into his shoulder. The reason? He owed Gatto $400.
Yet another policeman said he believed Gatto once shot a man in the leg in Carlton. When police tried to get a statement from the victim, the man not only denied that he knew who had shot him but denied he had been shot at all. When asked why he was sitting in casualty with blood seeping from the wound, he said he didn’t know why his leg was leaking.
Another time a man came asking for help but Mick’s advice was to deal with the matter rather than employ others who might lack the subtlety to solve the problem. This was not a time for the use of a sledgehammer to crack a walnut – or in this case two walnuts. Years later the man could see the wisdom of the advice. Many police had a grudging respect for Gatto as a man who did not go looking for trouble and saw him as ‘old school’.
But the underworld landscape was changing and Melbourne’s criminal establishment was being drawn into a gangland war not entirely of their making. A man was shot in the stomach as a warning over an alleged drug debt. But the victim was not intimidated into doing nothing – in fact, his desire for revenge is thought to have been the catalyst for a violent feud that would cost several lives and change the criminal justice system in Victoria. Some men close to Gatto were to be victims – Mark Moran in June 2000, his half-brother Jason Moran, shot with his friend Pasquale Barbaro in June 2003. Later Jason Moran’s father, Lewis, shot in March 2004.
In each case, Gatto responded with his usual death notices and sympathy cards but it was the murder of Graham ‘The Munster’ Kinniburgh that hit him the hardest.
Kinniburgh was shot dead outside his Kew home on December 13, 2003. He had begun to carry a gun for the first time in years after hearing he may have been on the hit list, but it didn’t help. He was ambushed as he was about to walk up his driveway with some late night shopping.
The death of an old and respected friend distressed Gatto and made him realise that the dominoes around him were falling and he could be next. Within hours of the murder the dogs were barking (wrongly as it turned out) that one of the men who killed ‘The Munster’ was a hot-headed street criminal turned hit man called Andrew ‘Benji’ Veniamin.
VENIAMIN was a small man with a growing reputation for ruthless violence. Like Mick Gatto he was a former boxer, although they were from different eras – and vastly different ends of the weight divisions. Any chances of Veniamin making a name as a boxer ended when at nineteen he badly broke his leg and damaged his knee in a motorbike accident. But all this meant was that he could channel his violent inclinations to activities outside the ring.
Heavily tattooed, with a close-cropped haircut and a bullet-shaped head, the brooding Veniamin looked like a man who could take offence easily and was only a glance away from yet another over-reaction.
According to Purana task force investigators, Veniamin’s criminal career could be broken into three phases. In the beginning he was a street thug in Melbourne’s west. He ran with two other would-be gangsters, old schoolmates Paul Kallipolitis and Dino Dibra, and specialised in run-throughs, ripping off and robbing drug dealers who grew hydroponic marijuana crops in rented houses.
Veniamin had a criminal record that began in 1992 with a $50 fine for the theft of a motor car. In 1993, he was convicted of intentionally or recklessly causing injury and sentenced to 200 hours of unpaid community work. Over the next decade he was found guilty of theft, robbery, false imprisonment, assaulting police, arson, deception and threatening to cause serious injury.
The nature of the modern underworld is that access to drugs – and drug money – means relatively minor players can become influential figures in a matter of months.
While Gatto was known as a man who always looked for amicable solutions, Veniamin was a hot-head who saw violence as the first resort. Pasquale Zaffina was an old friend of Veniamin but that didn’t stop the gangster trying to move in on his girlfriend. When Zaffina objected, Veniamin responded with a surprising lack of contrition. He fired shots into Zaffina’s parents’ house and, apparently unimpressed with the results, left a bomb at the residence and threatened to kill Zaffina’s sister.
To settle matters they agreed to meet for a fight in a park in Melbourne’s western suburbs with seconds to back them up – as though conducting an old-fashioned duel. They agreed it would be fists and no guns. But as they shaped up, Veniamin produced a .38 calibre handgun and aimed it at Zaffina, who managed to push the gun towards the ground. Three shots hit him in the leg but he lived to tell the story – at Gatto’s trial, as it would turn out.
The defence would make much of the Zaffina story, claiming it showed Veniamin could conceal a .38, would ambush and attempt to kill people and did not care if witnesses were present. But that would be much later.
By 2002 Veniamin saw himself as a man of substance (as well as substances) and felt he could associate with men with established reputations. These included members of the so-called Carlton Crew and Mick Gatto in particular.
The younger gun exhibited all the signs of being starstruck and appeared to hero worship the man who was a household name in a certain type of household.
Gatto saw Veniamin as dangerous but extended his big hand of friendship, working on the principle that you keep your friends close and your enemies closer. He knew the new boy was vicious but Veniamin was a man of growing power in the west and Gatto thought that if he needed muscle in the Sunshine area ‘Benji’ could be handy.
Gatto loved to build networks – some good, some bad. Veniamin – twenty years younger – was high maintenance and at times was only just tolerated by the Carlton blue bloods. He was said to have asked Gatto to provide him with firearms and on more than one occasion the older man had to intervene after Veniamin involved himself in mindless violence at nightclubs.
Gatto said in evidence, ‘Well, I remember just one occasion, that he asked me if I could get guns for him, revolvers and, you know, I said I’d ask, but I mean I had no intention of doing that, to be honest, because it’s a no-win situation. And the other occasion I can’t really remember, but he was forever getting himself into trouble at nightclubs and what have you, and I was always sort of getting involved, sort of patching things up.’
But Veniamin was more than just a camp follower. He was already a killer. Police now believe he pulled the trigger in at least four murders and had direct knowledge of others.
FRANK Benvenuto was the son of Liborio Benvenuto, the former Godfather of the mafia-like crime group the Honoured Society, who died of natural causes in 1988. Frank was still seen as a man of influence and was a good friend of the notorious gunman Victor George Peirce, but by 2000 he was said to be in debt to drug dealers. He was shot dead outside his Beaumaris home on May 8, 2000.
Police believe Veniamin was the killer. They also say he was the gunman who killed his former friends and criminal associates – Dino Dibra, who was shot dead near his West Sunshine home on October 14, 2000, and Paul Kallipolitis, whose body was found in his West Sunshine home on October 25, 2002. Veniamin was the main suspect in the murder of standover man Nik Radev, who was shot dead on April 15, 2003. Radev had an appointment to see Veniamin on the morning he was murdered.
But in 2003, Veniamin’s allegiances changed. He swapped camps, moving to become the bodyguard and close friend of a man who was said to have declared war on the crime world’s old guard. A drug dispute and a shooting are believed to have led a group of little-known criminals to plot to destroy the criminal establishment.
The story goes that a high-profile drug dealer was bashed in Lygon Street by a Perth bikie. Gatto was said to have been present and done nothing to protect the Melbourne dealer, believing it was none of his business. Veniamin drove the badly-injured man to hospital and was then persuaded to change sides. That is one version. There are others. But for whatever reason Veniamin became the constant companion of a man who was said to be organising the extermination of Melbourne’s best-known colourful characters. Mick Gatto was one of the men thought to be at risk of being gunned down.
Weeks after the Radev shooting, police established the Purana task force. The task force called for all intelligence holdings on suspects such as Veniamin and was stunned to find how little was known about the vicious killer. Assistant Commissioner (crime) Simon Overland would later use Veniamin as an example of how police had failed to monitor organised crime in Victoria.
Police approached Veniamin in 2003 with a message to ‘pull up’ – warning him his activities meant he was now also a potential victim. It was not an empty statement as to this point at least five shooters in Melbourne’s gangland war had already become murder victims. When detectives told him he was likely to die violently, Benji didn’t seem fazed. He told them he was well aware of the risks and had already told his parents that if he was killed they should honour the underworld code of silence and refuse to co-operate with police. He wrote to one of the authors suggesting publicity at such a delicate time could ‘endanger my life’.
Having changed camps, Benji became blindly loyal to the drug dealer who police believed wanted to kill all his perceived enemies. But there were certain perks in becoming a family friend and constant bodyguard to the new breed gangster. He was invited to share a family holiday with the man, staying in a five-star resort in Queensland. It was a case of the boy from Sunshine spending up big in the Sunshine State. Never the master of measuring risks, he took to dog paddling in the surf even though he could hardly swim. By late 2003 he had moved into a city penthouse and drove a borrowed $200,000 car. Yet he was still registered to pick up the dole.
Veniamin was one of the first principal targets of the Purana task force and police developed a strategy of trying to harass and disrupt his routine so he would not have the freedom to continue to kill. Purana investigator Boris Buick gave evidence at the Gatto trial that police were constantly pulling Veniamin over on the road and raiding his home and those of his friends and relatives. He said this curtailed his criminal activities:
To the best of my knowledge, and as I said, we had saturated coverage of him, he was no longer committing acts of violence and was well aware of our interest in him. As well as essentially saturating the deceased by means of surveillance, personal surveillance and electronic surveillance, we also commenced regularly intercepting him and his associates, specifically seeking to disrupt their criminal activities.
We searched vehicles and other persons, of associates of his, and some other premises that he was associated with. And he was well aware at that stage, and we essentially made it aware to him that we were targeting him and his associates … to prevent further offending, in particular to prevent offences of a violent nature and involving firearms.
Police bugged his home and car and had a court order to bug his telephones. The court order covered the period from July 20, 2003, to May 19, 2004 – coincidentally just four days before he was killed. Veniamin knew he was bugged and complained to Gatto that anyone he spoke to was raided a short time later. But the constant police surveillance helped clear him in at least one case. When Graeme Kinniburgh was shot dead, police were quickly able to establish Benji was near Taylors Lakes at the time – on the opposite side of Melbourne from the murder scene in Kew.
Veniamin loved guns and was always trying to find more, allegedly keeping one cache of weapons at a friendly kebab shop. But with police always near him, he could not always carry a weapon. According to Purana investigator Detective Senior Constable Stephen Baird (who was to die suddenly just months after the trial): Veniamin became paranoid, in fact, about being surveilled by police, both physical and electronic, and also paranoid about being intercepted by police at any time and both his person searched and any vehicle he was being in searched for firearms. So why then did he carry a .38 revolver with him to meet Mick Gatto in a Carlton restaurant on March 23, 2004?
ON December 22, 2003, nine days after Graham Kinniburgh’s murder, Gatto met Veniamin and others at the Crown Casino in what police claim was an attempted peace conference. For police it was an ideal spot as the area was saturated with security cameras and the meeting could be monitored. For the main players, who did not trust each other, it was also an ideal place for the meeting. It was neutral ground and the cameras ensured there could be no ambush. The Atrium Bar at Crown is a world away from a dead-end corridor at the back of a Carlton restaurant.
The cameras even picked up the jockey-sized Veniamin kissing the much larger Gatto with the traditional mafia-style peck on the cheek as a respectful welcome.
Detectives later employed a lip-reader to discover what the suspects said. According to the lip-reader, Gatto chatted to a man loosely connected to Veniamin – a man suspected of organising Kinniburgh’s murder.
He said, ‘It’s not my war. You walk away from this and mind your own business. If someone comes up to you for that sort of shit, if someone comes up to me with the same sort of shit I’ll do the same thing. I’ll be careful with you. You be careful with me. I believe you. You believe me. Now we’re even.’
And walk away they did. But no-one was even. Gatto could only have concluded that it was not a matter of if, only when, there would be an attempt on his life.
The nature of his phone calls to Veniamin changed. The prosecution argued that telephone intercepts showed ‘a growing menace in Gatto’s voice’ that Veniamin failed to pick up. Gatto later argued his phone conversations were never threatening. ‘I just wanted to know what he was doing, what he was up to, and you know, keep your friends close and your enemies closer, you know. It was that sort of thing.’
On December 29 Gatto saw two men drive near his house. The passenger, he said, was a dead ringer for Veniamin. And more disturbingly, the passenger ducked down when Gatto looked in his direction. The next day he rang Benji and was relieved when he found he was in Port Douglas rather than Doncaster.
Police telephone intercepts showed that Gatto and Veniamin spoke regularly, often referring to each other as ‘buddy’ and ‘champ’. An example was a call from Veniamin to Gatto on Friday, March 19 – the last day Benji’s phones were tapped.
Veniamin: What’s doin’, buddy?
Gatto says he hasn’t heard from him in a month and Veniamin replies: You know, I swear to you, mate, every bloke I’ve rung off this phone has been raided.
Veniamin tells Gatto: Mate, I’m still there, mate.
Gatto: Well, mate, that’s assuring. I fuckin’ hope you’re here a long time, buddy. As Gatto probably was not overly concerned with Veniamin’s long-term health it is likely the comment was laced with irony and possibly even menace.
Veniamin, always a literal type, either ignores or is unaware of the subtext: I’ve been meaning to drop into that … that joint where you’re there.
Gatto: Mate, I’m there every day, buddy. Every day we’re there.
Veniamin: I promise you, mate, I swear to you, I’m gonna come. I want to come.
Gatto: Mate, any time you want to, buddy, you know where we are.
Veniamin, who has only days earlier been released from hospital after an attack of pancreatitis says: I’ve just been a bit stressed, I’ve been in and out of hospital the last two weeks, you know.
Gatto: I heard, mate, I heard. He adds: Mate, stay quiet, buddy.
Veniamin: Oh mate, I am, mate.
Gatto: Stay quiet.
Veniamin: But I’m still there, mate.
Gatto: Yeah.
Veniamin: Don’t forget.
Gatto: I know that. I know. All right.
Veniamin: All right, buddy.
Gatto: Take care of yourself, mate, keep in touch.
Veniamin: I’ll drop in there.
Gatto: You’re welcome any time, mate.
Veniamin: Thanks very much, buddy.
Gatto: Take care, Andrew.
Veniamin: See you, buddy. Bye, mate.
Gatto: See you, mate, thanks.
Police would ask later whether the ‘Stay quiet, buddy’ comment was well-meaning advice or a veiled threat. Certainly it is unlikely that Veniamin would have considered that when he said ‘I’m still there, mate’ that four days later he wouldn’t be.
On March 23, Gatto rang Veniamin’s mobile phone and asked him to come to the restaurant. It was about 2pm. What detectives can establish is that Veniamin was in the Melbourne Magistrates’ Court that morning and that when he received the phone call he was in his borrowed silver Mercedes that was bugged by police. A few minutes later he called someone else and said he was about to ‘catch up with someone … the big bloke’. He double-parked the car and walked into the restaurant and sat with Gatto and others at a raised table. Both were in their trademark attire – Gatto was wearing a suit, Veniamin a T-shirt and track pants.
Later he and Gatto walked to the back of the restaurant and entered a dead end corridor for a private chat. One side of the corridor running to the fridge was stacked with cartons of tinned tomatoes. The width was just wide enough for the shoulders of the former heavyweight. Gatto had handed his mobile phone to his friend Ron Bongetti and Veniamin left the keys to his car on the table.
Next moment five shots were fired and Gatto walked out leaving Veniamin dead on the floor. Three shots hit Veniamin at point blank range. One smashed the main artery in his neck, the second severed his spinal cord and the third entered his head near the right ear. There were powder burns on Gatto’s suit showing the two men were next to each other when the shots were fired, the gun virtually pressed against the victim. Gatto later had short-term hearing problems from the shots and thought he may have been nicked on the left ear by one of the bullets.
Police were called and a remarkably calm Gatto explained to them that it was self-defence – that Veniamin had drawn a gun and in the struggle the smaller man was shot. ‘He pulled a gun out … he pulled out a gun and he tried to shoot me and he finished second best,’ he told police at the scene. Gatto was taken back to the homicide squad offices in St Kilda Road, given a legal caution and told he could have access to a solicitor. He didn’t need to be told he needed legal representation. He had phoned a solicitor from the restaurant – and he didn’t need to check the Yellow Pages for the number.
He was swabbed for gunshot residue and later for DNA. Around 11pm a short formal interview began. Mr Gatto said: ‘I’ve had some legal advice and I just wish to say that I’ve done nothing wrong and I’ve acted in complete self-defence, and I’d like to make no further comment at this stage.’
Purana investigator Boris Buick asked: ‘Is that the extent of the statement that you wish to make?’ Gatto said: ‘That’s it.’ Police were faced with a dilemma. They had one very brief version of events – Gatto’s self-defence argument.
The case for murder was weak and relied exclusively on circumstantial evidence. But what if police had freed Gatto and allowed the matter to go to inquest at the Coroner’s Court? There would have been allegations that because Veniamin was out of control and because police lacked the evidence to charge him with the four murders he was suspected of, they had ‘green-lighted’ Gatto to kill him. It would have been hard to explain how the warrant to bug Veniamin’s telephones lapsed just four days before he was killed. And there were issues worth exploring in front of a Supreme Court jury.
Why did Gatto, a self-described industrial mediator, have a body bag in the boot of his Mercedes outside the restaurant? If Veniamin planned to murder Gatto, why would he do it in a restaurant filled with Gatto’s friends, almost guaranteeing retribution? Why kill a man in a place frequented by police and often under surveillance? Veniamin was unaware his phone was no longer bugged and would have believed police had recorded that last conversation with Gatto before he arrived. If it was a planned hit he had virtually no chance of fabricating an alibi. Why did he leave his keys on the table, meaning he would have to return to confront the rest of Gatto’s team before he could escape? Veniamin had stopped carrying guns because police had repeatedly raided him in the previous year. He had been in court and unarmed that morning. When and where did he get the .38 before his meeting with Gatto? Why did he choose a tiny corridor for the confrontation where the much bigger and stronger Gatto could so easily overpower him?
There were many theories, including one that Gatto, using the lessons learned in the ring, chose a moment when there were no witnesses to counterattack. There was a feeling that Gatto was too proud to sneak in the dark to ambush an enemy or pay others to do his dirty work.
Another theory was that such a public killing was a statement to others that if the war was to continue he would come after them. Or did Veniamin, increasingly erratic and more drug-dependent, just lose it, as he had before? Did he react in a way he would not live to regret? Was it, as Gatto has always maintained, a clear-cut case of self-defence?
Certainly, those close to Veniamin had trouble with the self-defence theory. The day after his funeral, Lewis Moran, an old-school criminal and friend of Gatto, was shot dead in the Brunswick Club in what police believe was a direct payback.
IT would take more than a year for the trial to begin and it was a very different Mick Gatto who arrived in court from solitary confinement. Unable to eat in restaurants, he had embarked on a fitness campaign, shadow boxing for hours in his cell. He had lost 30 kilos and was back to his fighting weight. The Supreme Court can diminish a man. Men with reputations as tough guys tend to appear intimidated in the dock. They must look up to the judge, bow when he enters and wonder about the twelve strangers who will decide their fate. They are led in and out by prison guards and those who are aggressive soon learn to at least behave passively.
But Mick Gatto did not appear diminished by the experience. Well dressed, he seemed at home in the combative environment and far from intimidated. He was back on the balls of his feet. During breaks when the jury was not present he would wander to the back of the court to talk to friends and family who attended. It was almost like a royal walk as he chatted to his subjects.
He would talk to reporters and compliment them if he thought their coverage was a fair representation of the evidence so far, evidence that would decide his future. Mick Gatto was 49. If found guilty of a gangland murder he would be looking at about sixteen years minimum prison sentence. If that happened, he would be 65 when released and yesterday’s man.
Robert Richter QC is used to representing the big guns, from business mogul turned cartoon caricature John Elliott to fallen funny man Steve Vizard – those who can afford the best often turn to the veteran Melbourne barrister. Regardless if the alleged offences are indiscretions in the boardroom or gangland killings, Richter’s advice tends to be the same.
In court he is the boss and the client is just there for the ride. He believes that patients don’t tell surgeons how to operate and clients shouldn’t try to run complex criminal trials. When it comes to murder he is of the view that in nearly every case the accused is better off letting the defence lawyers do the talking. Sit up straight and look attentive, engage the jury without intimidating them, don’t look bored and don’t look angry. And, most importantly, shut up.
As with most defence lawyers, his strategy is based on counter punching. The prosecution must prove a case beyond reasonable doubt and the defence just has to find the weak links in the argument. But that proven strategy can collapse when defendants head for the witness box. They are wild cards. No matter how well briefed they can lose a case with one wrong answer. A man charged with murder can lose his temper during rigorous cross-examination and juries can take more notice of reactions than actual words. Much better to leave it to the experts.
In scores of murder trials Richter has allowed maybe only two of his clients to take the walk from the criminal dock at the back of the court to the box twelve paces away. One of the two was Mick Gatto.
‘He somewhat insisted,’ the barrister later remarked. Gatto likes to get his own way. The risk was that as Gatto tried to explain to the jury how he shot Veniamin in that tight corridor he might also shoot himself in the foot. But at least there were no eyewitnesses to contradict his version of events. The only other person present had lost interest in proceedings fourteen months earlier.
At first, the defence team gently took Gatto through his story about how he called Veniamin at 2.01 pm on March 23, and how the little hitman arrived at the restaurant a few minutes later. According to Gatto, he was having lunch at his unofficial Carlton office, La Porcella, and intended to visit his sick cousin at the Royal Melbourne hospital in the afternoon:
Well, when he first come in I was actually shocked that he arrived so quick because it only took him like eight or ten minutes to get there. I actually yelled out to him, ‘Hello stranger’, or something like that. Anyway, he come and sat next to me and there was just general talk about him being in court that day. He was at the court case there in the Melbourne Magistrates’ Court and he was just going through all that.
He said that despite his concerns about the erratic killer he didn’t check Veniamin to see if he had a concealed weapon, no doubt believing he was safe in such a public venue. The two sat with others at a table on the higher level of the two-tiered, large restaurant.
He actually kicked my foot under the table, and he motioned with his head like that, that he wanted to have a chat. And I said, ‘Do you want to have a chat?’ and he said, ‘Yes, I do’. I remember pushing my chair in and walking around and giving the phone to Ron (his good friend Ron Bongetti) in case anyone rang while I was having a chat and I’m not sure whether … I thought he led the way but I’m not 100 per cent sure. And why I say that is I thought we were going to go outside, and actually he pointed into the kitchen, and I said ‘wherever you want to go’, and we walked in there.
Question: Who suggested the corridor?
Answer: He walked in. I just followed him … he turned round and he was just looking at me. I said, ‘What’s doing, mate?’ And he said, ‘I’m sick of hearing this shit.’ And I said, ‘What do you mean?’ And he said, ‘I’m still hearing that you know, you think that I’m responsible for your mate.’ And I said, ‘Well, I have to be honest with you, mate, that’s what I keep hearing, that’s what people keep saying.’
Question: How did he respond to that?
Answer: Well, there was no argument. I mean, we were just talking. Veniamin said, ‘I wouldn’t interfere with you because you’re a mate.’ I said to him, ‘Well, Dino Dibra and PK were your mates, you fucking killed them.’ He said, ‘Well, they deserved it, they were dogs’, or something like that. I said, ‘Look, Andrew, I think it’s better if you stay out of our company. You know, I really don’t believe that you can be trusted. I’d just rather you not come around near us at all.’ He just said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that’, or ‘I’m sorry to hear’, something like that, you know, and I was looking at him in the eyes, and his face went all funny and he sort of stepped back and he said, ‘We had to kill Graham, we had to fucking kill Graham. Fuck him and fuck you.’ … I didn’t see where he pulled it from, but he stepped back and he had a gun and I just lunged at him, and I grabbed his arm, grabbed his arm with my hand, and the gun went off past my head. Went past my left. Actually I thought it hit me. (Grazing his left ear) It was just the loudest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.’
Question: After the gun went off you thought you’d been hit. What happened then?
Answer: Well, I had hold of his hand with both my hands and I sort of pushed it towards him and I … with my hands I sort of … I forced … he had his hands on the trigger and I just forced his hands, squeezed his hands to force him to pull the trigger and …
Question: How many times did the gun go off?
Answer: I know how many times it’s gone off because I’ve heard it in evidence, but at the time I didn’t know.
Question: How fast was all this?
Answer: Just like a few seconds. I mean, I remember nearly falling on the ground on top of him. He sort of pulled me over off balance.
Question: At some point did you finally get control of the weapon?
Answer: I did.
Question: After a number of shots went off what happened?
Answer: Well, I’ll just explain it. When I pushed the gun towards him and I was squeezing his hand he sort of pulled me off balance and I nearly fell over on top of him and the gun was going off. It was just bang, bang. And I mean I don’t know where it went or whatever. I’ve got to be honest, I thought I was a dead duck anyway, I thought I was gone. And like I’ve said, I remember nearly stumbling, landing on top of him. And I just pulled the gun out of his hand because he still had it in his hand. I pulled it out of the grip of his hand and I ran out of the hallway there, out of the corridor, into the restaurant.
Question: From entering that corridor to when you ran out, so from the moment you went in to the time you left that corridor, how long would you estimate that incident lasted?
Answer: A couple of minutes, a minute, it wasn’t that long, you know. I mean, it was just that brief talk and then, you know, he just … I’ve never seen anyone sort of just change so quick. He just went from one extreme to another. I couldn’t believe it.
Question: When you ran out were you holding anything?
Answer: I had the gun in my hand.
Answer: The .38.
Question: It was suggested by Mr Buick (task force investigator) in evidence he had a working hypothesis that you fired a cover-up shot; what do you say to that?
Answer: That’s completely ridiculous.
Question: It was suggested by Mr Horgan (prosecutor) in opening that you shot Mr Veniamin a fourth time as he lay dying on the floor of the passageway. Did you shoot Andrew Veniamin while he lay dying on the floor of the passageway?
Answer: No, I certainly did not. I certainly did not. He always had hold of the gun.
In Gatto’s version of events he then stepped out of the corridor and spoke to the owner of the restaurant.
Question: Do you remember having a discussion with Michael at that point?
Answer: I do, yes. As we met each other, he said, ‘What happened?’ And I said, ‘He just tried to fuckin’ kill me like he killed Graham.’ I said, ‘Am I all right?’ And at that point I put the gun in my pants, and I said, ‘Is my ear all right, because I think he hit me or something?’ And Michael said, ‘It looks a bit red.’ And then we stepped back into the kitchen. Because I was so fat, I had a big stomach; the gun nearly fell out anyway. I grabbed it and I gave it to him, and I said, ‘You’d better take that.’I gave him the gun and he went and wrapped it in a towel or something; I don’t know what he done with it; and put it on the bench in the kitchen area. I thought I was actually shot, you know, I thought the bullet hit me … After that happened, I walked out of the restaurant, and as I walked over to the high level, where the boys … they were all standing up, they didn’t know what was going on … Michael Choucair walked out of the kitchen at that point and he said, ‘What’ll I do?’ And I said, ‘You’d better ring the police and ring an ambulance.’ And then I turned around and grabbed my phone off Ronnie, and I said, ‘You wouldn’t believe what happened. He just tried to fuckin’ kill me, this bloke. He just tried to kill me like he killed … like he tried to kill Graham’, or something like that. ‘He just tried to kill me like he said he killed Graham’, words to that effect.
He said that when the police arrived he told them: He pulled a gun out …he pulled out a gun and he tried to shoot me and he finished second best.
Question: After the shooting, how did you feel?
Answer: Just didn’t know where I was. I was in a state of shock. I mean, I couldn’t believe that I was still alive, you know. It was just my life flashed before me. The whole world was just … it was all over, you know. I thought I was a dead duck.
He explained that he had a gun in his pocket but did not have a chance to grab it when Veniamin launched his sudden attack. I would’ve been a statistic if I’d done that. If I’d tried to pull it out of my pocket, he would’ve shot me straight in the head. I mean, I never had time, it was just that quick. I never had a chance to go for my pocket. If I hadn’t have lunged at him and grabbed him, his arm, mate, I wouldn’t be here today to tell the story. I’d be a statistic.’
Fearing that he would be charged with having an unlicensed gun, Gatto gave his .25 handgun to his good friend Brian Finn saying: ‘Do me a favour, get rid of that.’ And I gave him the gun, and he put it in his pocket, which is a .25 that I had on me, and he just left …I used to carry it in my right pocket from time to time, the pocket of my trousers.
The final three questions by his lawyer were designed to leave an impression on the jury and to cut through the mass of conflicting expert testimony of the events of more than a year earlier.
Mr Gatto, you’ve been charged with the murder of Andrew Veniamin? Answer: That’s right.
Question: Did you murder Andrew Veniamin?
Answer: Christ, no way known. What I done is stopped him from murdering me.
Question: How did Andrew Veniamin die?
Answer: He died because he just pulled a gun at me. He went ballistic. He tried to kill me and I stopped him from doing that and he got shot rather than me. Thank God he did.
At no stage did Gatto make the mistake of trying to disguise his mistrust of Veniamin. As he was to say elsewhere: If it was anyone else in my position, they’d get a key to the city. It’s just unfortunate that it’s me.
This frankness made it all the harder for the prosecution to undermine him. There was not much left to expose. When it was the turn of prosecutor Geoff Horgan, SC, to try to bring down the old heavyweight, Gatto would stand in the box, big fists grasping the wooden rail on either side of the elevated box, pushing his silver-framed glasses back to the top of the bridge of his nose. Refusing the traditional yes-no answers, he would take any opportunity to remind the jury of the lack of forensic evidence or what he believed were the perceived weaknesses in the prosecution case. For a slugger, he was boxing clever.
Asked why he wanted to meet Veniamin in the Carlton restaurant, he said: Just to see his demeanour. Just to get my finger on the pulse with him, just to keep my finger on the pulse with him … there were all these rumours going around that I was going to be next and there was a possibility that he was going to do it. That’s the only reason.
He said he believed Veniamin had killed four or five times before and Horgan asked: But you’re happy to have an acquaintanceship with such a man?
Answer: That’s right … Let me say this, Mr Horgan, I’ve got hundreds of friends and …or hundreds of acquaintances. I’m very well known, and he just fitted that category. I mean, I don’t like to burn bridges; I like to establish networks of people. It always comes…’
Question: What networks would you establish with Andrew Veniamin, this man you believed to be a killer multiple times?
Answer: Well, it comes in handy with the work that I do.
Question: Does it?
Answer: It might be a building-type scenario in the western suburbs and he might know someone that’s there. He runs that part of town. I mean, it’s always … you know, it’s always handy to sort of … I like to know as many people as I can.
Horgan then wanted Gatto to say he hated Veniamin because he believed the hitman had killed his best friend, ‘The Munster’. He wanted to establish a motive to back the claim that Gatto lured his enemy to the restaurant, took him to the corridor where there were with no witnesses and murdered him before setting up the self-defence scenario.
Question: After Graham Kinniburgh was murdered, you were deeply affected by that, weren’t you?
Answer: I was.
Question: Because he was a man, I think you told us yesterday, you loved?
Answer: Yes, I did, I still do.
Question: Did you believe that Andrew Veniamin was responsible for that?
Answer: I did at the time.
Question: Did you come to believe that he’d done it?
Answer: Come to believe, yes, within days. I did believe that.
Question: Believed that he was the murderer?
Answer: Yes.
Question: Of your dear, dear friend?
Question: And because you believed it, did you have a very strong animosity towards Andrew Veniamin?
Answer: Yes, probably you could say that.
Question: You had that same animosity up until the time of his death?
Answer: No, I don’t agree.
Question: What’s wrong with that?
Answer: Well, because we had two or three meetings where he emphatically told me that it wasn’t him … And on two or three or four occasions I was satisfied that it wasn’t him and had an open mind about it.
Question: You would loathe him?
Answer: I wouldn’t have been happy with him, no.
Question: Let’s not beat around the bush … You would have loathed him?
Answer: Yes, that’s right.
Question: So, let’s just clarify the situation. As at 23 March 2004 you did loathe Andrew Veniamin or not?
Answer: I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure.
Question: What weren’t you sure about, whether you loathed (him) or whether he killed Kinniburgh?
Answer: Well, I wasn’t sure whether he killed Graham, I wasn’t sure, but as far away … as far as the way I felt about him, yes, it was certainly changed, yes.
Horgan also wanted the jury to see that the accused man was more likely to try to take justice into his own hands than leave the investigation to police, even though Gatto’s own life was in danger. According to Gatto, task force detectives had asked him about the series of unsolved murders and added ‘Mick, be careful, you could be next’ – a statement police denied.
I said, ‘I don’t know anything and if I did I wouldn’t tell you anyway … I’m not an informer. I’m not a police informer. I pride myself on minding my own business.
Question: You mean you don’t believe that if a brutal murder has occurred where someone has been executed, and you know something about it, and you know the person responsible who’s still running around the community executing people, you wouldn’t tell the police about it?
Answer: Well, you never get into trouble minding your own business.
In response to a series of questions Gatto replied: You keep twisting it and changing it … I’ve told you that when I lunged at him I grabbed at his arm and his hand, but, you know, it happened that quick, the gun went off in my face. I mean, you know, I wouldn’t wish upon anyone what happened to me, and I mean, to try and remember for the last fourteen months, I wake up in a cold sweat every night of the week reliving exactly what took place that day. It goes through my head every night of the week. I wake up in a cold sweat thinking about it … I was squeezing his hand. I was trying to kill him. He was trying to kill me, I was trying to kill him.
Question: So you’ve trapped his hand on the gun, so that you’re capable of squeezing his finger around the gun so that he kills himself?
Answer: That’s right, that’s exactly how it happened.
Question: You’ve got control of his hand which was holding the gun?
Answer: That’s right, I’m squeezing his hand, squeezing his fingers to press the trigger.
Question: So he will press the trigger?
Answer: That’s right.
Question: And your intention was to squeeze his hand till the gun went off, causing him to shoot himself. Was that your intention?
Answer: Of course it was. There’s no dispute about that. I’m very happy about it, to be honest.
JUSTICE ‘Fabulous Phil’ Cummins shows two signs of his personality in the big criminal trials. A judge who does not wear the traditional wig and probably the only one in Australia who wears a sparkling stud in his left earlobe, he imposes himself on trials – much to the chagrin of various defence lawyers. Some judges tend to watch passively, allowing the prosecution and defence to battle in front of the bench – speaking only when asked for a legal ruling. Their turn comes when they address the jury at the completion of the evidence. But Phil Cummins is much more a participant, through pre-trial arguments, cross-examination and closing arguments. An experienced trial advocate before he moved to the bench, he reminds a watcher of a footballer turned coach who would rather still be getting a kick than making the moves from the sidelines.
When the jury is out of the room, Cummins will question lawyers on the direction they are taking, warn them when he disagrees with their tactics and occasionally rebuke them when he feels the need. Some experienced barristers think they are kept on too tight a lead in a Cummins trial.
But when the jury enters his court, the judge’s manner changes. He is both charming and protective of the twelve strangers who make up the jury, and over the weeks or months that trials can run, he develops a bond with those selected to represent the community. He appears to try to build a protective bubble for the jury, repeatedly reinforcing that only they have the common sense to deal with the issues at hand. His well-practised intimacy with strangers appears to be designed to remove the intimidation of the court setting. It is as if he and the jury have stumbled upon some bizarre circus act being performed in front of them by lawyers and witnesses. He sometimes appears to be a tour guide showing visitors the interesting spots in what can often be a dull landscape.
One of the most entertaining distractions in a high-profile trial is jury watching. Lawyers, police and neutral observers gossip about the jury members – how they sit, how they react, how they look at the accused, and how they relate to each other. Like veteran track watchers studying horses before they race, they look for the tiniest sign that could help them back a winner. But juries, like horses, can’t talk so it always ends as guesswork. During the long court days some jury members are obviously bored – only half listening to hours of seemingly irrelevant evidence.
Like students in a classroom, some only truly switch on at the last minute as if preparing for their final exams. In court, the final swotting is listening to the judge’s summary. While the judge is supposed to sum up the law, many jury members look for messages in the judge’s charge to see which way they should jump.
Like contestants on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? they hope there is a message in the delivery that can guide them to the right answer. The judge stresses that he will not and cannot do their job. He will tell them the law, but they must decide the facts.
On June 8, 2005, after a trial lasting nearly seven weeks – short by modern standards – Justice Cummins finally cut to the chase. He spoke to the jury for more than two days – reviewing the evidence and explaining the law. But it was early on day one of the summary that he explained the bases of the case, pure and simple. Who pulled the gun in the corridor? If it was Veniamin he copped his right whack and it was self-defence. If it was Gatto, it was murder: In your decision-making, ladies and gentlemen, you must put aside sympathy and you must put aside prejudice and decide the case solely on the evidence led here in court. Put aside completely any previous publicity. You must not decide the case on prejudice or on extraneous considerations or on sympathy but solely on the evidence led here in front of you in this court, just as you have sworn or affirmed to do.
Proceed in your decision-making, ladies and gentlemen, as you would expect and wish a judge to proceed, because each of you now is a judge, fairly, calmly, analytically and solely on the evidence. Proceed as a judge, fairly, calmly, analytically and solely on the evidence. … In this case, ladies and gentlemen, the accused Mr Gatto, gave evidence in front of you and was cross-examined. Mr Gatto could have remained silent throughout this case and not come forward and give evidence and be cross-examined, and that is because, as I will come to in a moment, an accused person has no burden to prove anything in a criminal trial. The person who has the burden to prove in a criminal trial is the prosecution because the prosecution has brought the charge. So when you are assessing the evidence of Mr Gatto, you apply the same principles as you apply to other witnesses in the case: Is the witness telling the truth or lying? And is the witness accurate and reliable or not? But with Mr Gatto, the accused, you also are entitled to take into account in his favour that he gave evidence in front of you when he had no obligation to do so.
To be convicted of murder, the accused has to kill another person. There is no dispute about that in this case. The accused Mr Gatto says he did kill Andrew Veniamin by forcing Andrew Veniamin’s finger to pull the trigger, forced by Mr Gatto by squeezing Veniamin’s hand and that killed Mr Veniamin. There is no dispute about element number one, ladies and gentlemen. … The issue here is: Who had the .38? The prosecution says Mr Gatto had the .38, he took the deceased out the back, Gatto produced the .38 and shot the deceased repeatedly with it. That is the prosecution case. The defence says the .38 was Veniamin’s. Veniamin arrived at La Porcella with the .38 hidden, and when they both went out the back, Veniamin produced the .38 and was going to shoot Mr Gatto with it. So that is the issue in a nutshell, ladies and gentlemen. No-one has suggested in this case, ladies and gentlemen, that if Veniamin had the gun and Veniamin pulled the gun on Gatto, threatening to kill him, that Gatto was not entitled to act in self-defence. No-one suggested that. If Veniamin had the gun and Veniamin pulled the gun on Gatto and threatened him, you must acquit Mr Gatto of murder. So the issue is: Who had and pulled the gun?
The accused does not have to prove he acted in self-defence. The prosecution has to prove he did not act in self-defence at the time he killed the deceased and must so prove beyond reasonable doubt. That is the burden of proof, ladies and gentlemen. Despite the use of the words ‘self-defence’, the accused does not have to prove he acted in self-defence. The prosecution has to prove, and prove beyond reasonable doubt, that the accused did not act in self-defence.
So, what does that all come down to, ladies and gentlemen? Who had the .38? And that is what this case has been about, ladies and gentlemen. For a conviction of murder, the prosecution must prove beyond reasonable doubt that the accused Mr Gatto produced the .38 at the restaurant and shot the deceased with it. … So, that is what it all comes down to ladies and gentlemen. Has the prosecution proved beyond reasonable doubt that Mr Gatto had the .38? If the prosecution has proved beyond reasonable doubt that Mr Gatto had the .38 you would convict Mr Gatto of murder. If the prosecution has failed to prove that beyond reasonable doubt you must acquit him of murder.
The jury returned with a verdict on June 15, 2005, after less than 24 hours. Gatto stood in the dock, plucking at a thread that had come away from his elegant grey tie in the long minutes before the jury members returned to decide his future. His wife and daughter were in the public gallery behind him. He told them repeatedly that he loved them. He spoke calmly, quietly, assuring them everything would be all right. He and his wife, a pleasant-looking and charming woman, spoke warmly. He appeared to be more concerned for them than for himself. He made an obvious effort to control his emotions, not wanting to increase their concerns. He talked to his daughter gently about domestic matters. She said despite her father’s absence some things hadn’t changed – her room at home was still messy. He laughed.
When his son arrived, nervous and distressed, Gatto smiled again telling him everything would work out fine, trying to remove the building tension. It was hard not to be impressed. If a measure of a man is how he deals with life-defining moments there was no myth about Gatto that day. He told them that the most important words he would ever hear would be from the jury. The foreman would say either one word or two – ‘Guilty’ or ‘Not Guilty’. An observer said it would be two. Gatto responded, ‘I hope you’re right.’ To his family downstairs and his friends upstairs he repeatedly gave a Roman-like salute, right clenched fist across the heart, then fingers to the lips.
The jury of six women and six men filed in. Some were smiling, others emotional. His son had his head in his hands, shaking and close to tears. His daughter’s right leg bounced with nerves. His wife just looked at her husband. As the jury came in he smiled. When the foreman announced the verdict of ‘not guilty’ Gatto showed emotion for the first time, pushing his glasses back as his eyes welled with relief. He then turned to his family. He thanked the judge twice as he was told he was free to go. One lawyer had previously asked him how he had remained so strong during the trial. He said he feared his family would collapse if he gave way.
Outside was the usual media throng and backslappers. Gatto told them, ‘Thank God for the jury system, thank God for Robert Richter, a top barrister.’ His lawyers had every reason to thank their client in return. The rumoured fee for the defence team was $400,000. That night Gatto’s many supporters returned to his house for a celebration with wine, beer and pizza, ending Gatto’s fourteen-month prison-inspired diet. A few days later he posed for a Herald Sun photographer as he relaxed in Queensland. The picture did not impress some friends of the late Andrew Veniamin.
Gatto was inundated with media requests and said he was prepared to talk for a fee to be donated to the Royal Children’s hospital. For years he had donated to the Good Friday Appeal – he even managed to contribute $5000 from his prison cell while in solitary confinement. He told 3AW’s award-winning breakfast team and budding investigative duo, Ross Stevenson and John Burns, ‘If there is a media outlet or a talkback show that is prepared to pay a six-figure sum that goes directly to the Children’s Hospital I would be more than happy to give my input and have a chat – no problem’. He confirmed he had lost 30 kilograms in jail but said he doubted if people would like to follow the program. ‘I have always maintained I would rather have been fat and free. I used to shadow box in my cell because as you know I was locked up for 23 hours a day. They were calling me Hurricane Carter in there. I did it to keep focused and my mind right, otherwise you just go off you head.
‘There are plenty of people in there who lost the plot and went mad. Imagine being locked in your bathroom for 23 hours then you’ll sort of understand. A lot of people didn’t recognise me. Some thought I had fallen ill, but I intended to lose the weight. It was the only good that came out of it. He said that following the verdict he wanted to keep out of the headlines. ‘I just want to be low key and be left alone to do my own little thing. I’m going to concentrate on the building industry … it’s been pretty good to me. I want to forget about all this other nonsense. It’s really got nothing to do with me anyway.’
He said he didn’t feel he needed to look over his shoulder in the future and did not feel in danger while in prison. ‘No, I was never in fear. That was all trumped up. There was never a problem there. I was happy to go out in the mainstream handcuffed. I said “Send me out in the mainstream handcuffed”. I didn’t want to be a hero but I just knew that all this nonsense was blown out of proportion. I’ve got no enemies. I’ve done nothing wrong. The bloke tried to kill me. What am I supposed to do, let him kill me? So at the end of the day I can walk around with my head held high. I’m not worried about anyone.’
Life is returning to normal for Mick Gatto. Two months after his acquittal he chanced to meet one of the authors in Lygon Street. He looked at peace with the world. He smiled and pulled back his jacket to show his stomach and he said he’d put on ten kilograms.