Chapter 2

Rest In Purgatory, Scumbag

I have long said Carl Williams would get his right whack in the boob.

And there would have been little more than a mangy, cowering whimper from the jelly-gutted maggot as a metal bicycle stem repeatedly cracked his skull at Barwon Prison. As one eloquent character of the underworld so insightfully reflected only hours after he died, Williams was no more than just a dead dog. He was only that. A filthy flea-infested mongrel who died as he traded information with the cops. As the media crews continued to arrive and take up posts near the gates of the prison that warm early evening, a tortuous chorus of canine howls could be heard from dozens of inmates to say the dog had got his due.

News of the dog’s death was the lead item on every media outlet. It was bigger news than Prime Minister Kevin Rudd’s national health plan crisis summit, bigger than the grounding of planes across Europe after a volcano in Iceland had spewed thick ash across the continent.

Attacked at 12.50pm on 19 April 2010, and pronounced dead just under an hour later, at 1.47pm, Carl’s execution had been brutal but swift. Within hours of his death I was besieged with calls from radio stations, newspapers and television. I gave a scattered collection of outlets a few morsels of what a dog Carl was, even threw in a red herring for a Perth radio station, with the host most titillated by the tip-off that a murky relationship and lovers’ tiff may have been involved. Channel Nine was champing at the bit for a chunk of the action and even went national with an hour-long program, Baby Faced Killer: The Carl Williams Story, featured my comments about Carl and the Morans extensively.

Of course, the footage of me had been shot several weeks before, as part of a miniseries, Australian Families of Crime, that was to be screened at a later date. Already being promoted by Channel Nine before Carl’s killing, the program was hastily rescheduled to air that night to beat competing media. And it would soon appear to the public as though Baby Faced Killer: The Carl Williams Story, a chapter from the series, was a standalone program produced within hours. Channel Nine producers dumped an episode of The Mentalist from the 8.30pm slot, replaced it with Baby Faced Killer: The Carl Williams story, and hit the promotions button. Melbourne’s The Age newspaper breathlessly reported online at 5.01pm, about three hours after Carl’s death, that Channel Nine had produced what ‘must be one of the fastest television shows ever made’, featuring archival footage. It was indeed a television coup more than worthy of the station’s former owner, the late Kerry Packer.

The program went to air still titled Australian Families of Crime, but this flashed on screen for barely more than a second, while the chapter Baby Faced Killer: The Carl Williams Story lingered for a solid six. As far as I knew, or had been told, I had been interviewed for a program called Australian Families of Crime, but after watching myself for a little on the television, the very first advertising break promoted the series premiere of Australian Families of Crime the next Sunday. I watched Baby Faced Killer with some amusement. Being one of the main subjects in the program, I was starting to wonder myself whether I had been interviewed for an entirely separate program on Carl Williams and had forgotten about it.

The average punter could be forgiven for thinking Channel Nine had thrown untold human and financial resources into trying to fathom Carl’s demise at such a cracking pace. Especially if they had read about the program in The Age online that afternoon. Channel Nine had already made a ratings killing with the Underbelly television series. The book franchise was being continued on air, with a sequel subtitled The Golden Mile already being broadcast, highlighting NSW police corruption. The series was even cross-promoted on 60 Minutes, with an interview featuring former prostitute and NSW policewoman Kim Hollingsworth, the previous Sunday. There was still an advertising fortune to be made on any related material.

Baby Faced Killer: The Carl Williams Story was a program set for ratings glory even before it went to air. And, certainly, The Age could reasonably be expected to be sympathetic to the station’s promotions plug, as two of its senior crime writers had authored Underbelly books. While these Age writers, John Silvester and Andrew Rule, had not of course penned the online promo report, they did report a few days later, on the subject of suppression orders, that they had a commercial interest in the Underbelly television series.

What the fuck does all this matter? Well, a massive amount. Between the crafty moves of television executives, the cosy commercial relationships between newspaper journalists and television producers, and the huge dollars in advertising involved, some facts can easily get clouded. Dollars dictate convenient continuity at the cost of what I would call correct context or the real truth. History is not just something stated, it’s created. To take a perfect case in point of the truth being twisted to suit the needs of television producers, the Australian Families of Crime program also had footage of John Silvester giving commentary on the Morans, neatly placed between takes of me on the same subject. The average viewer could easily have thought we were in complete agreement about everything, in particular what happened on the night Mark Moran was killed.

Believe me, I would have the opportunity to thank a dozen virgins for their indecent offers before I agreed with John Silvester. I especially disagree with what Silvester has written and said about the night Mark Moran was killed in 2000, when Lewis, myself and others had met at what he called a ‘war council’ – including who was there, how many now survive including myself (he incorrectly claims one), a list of suspects, and the naming of Carl Williams as one of them. My memory may be a little shot on some things but I can tell you for certain Silvester was nowhere to be seen when we met that night. Yet he spoke as though he were there, no source credited.

I should say however, that I had agreed to be taped and broadcast, and was paid $2000 for the interview. So I am no innocent and have dealt with various media many times. But I certainly had no idea it would be cut between takes of Silvester, especially to make it appear as though we were in agreement. I just thank Christ there are other outlets such as this book to totally and emphatically repudiate Silvester’s war council account, and many other Underbelly myths. Much like the illicit drug trade, the media and entertainment world is one where a great deal of money can be made in a very short time by some players. Both worlds lack a little integrity. And both have players who know it’s important to get in first. It’s commercial reality and for the sharks that is all that matters.

Now, in my very first newspaper column for Melbourne’s Herald Sun on 20 April 2010, printed the day after Carl Williams died, in the ‘Jail Hit’ special edition, I had the opportunity to say what a gutless oxygen waster Carl had been most of his life. As I’ve said before, and it was no real revelation, Carl was nothing more than a Moran gopher until he made moves. It was a dubious honour though, to have my words printed on the same page as the editorial – that splendidly virtuous column always penned by faceless and, I am told, monastically pious writers; the same page often used to peddle the views of Andrew Bolt and other right wing colonial outpost rejects. But hey, so what! There was cash on the table and that meant I could then afford a beer to celebrate.

In fact, the journalist who was credited with the column above mine, Keith Moor, is in my opinion one of those who perpetuates the public perception that some journalists are so unprincipled they are ambulance chasers who would feed their own young to the sharks. And this is why I again feel compelled to put context into order here and state I had no prior knowledge of Moor being placed on the same pages. I certainly do not in any way endorse his comments, despite yet another example of what I consider deliberate media distortion, where his column and my own appear alongside each other. The layout was such there appeared no question that I agreed with all Moor had to say. Aside from my actual words, I viewed the two-page spread as an absurd show piece to promote the crime credentials of a person with very few. There have been and still are many worthy reporters on the Herald Sun, but in my opinion Moor is not one of them.

Both columns were underpinned by a loud blue banner, with white type posing the question: ‘Do you agree with Keith and Bert or are you angry?’ The average reader could be forgiven for thinking Keith Moor and myself were the best of mates, on first name terms no less. Even that Moor had organised my contri­bution, while the journo for whom I at least had a little respect and had inveigled me to cooperate remained uncredited.

Nonetheless, my article was sprawled across pages 24 and 25, with the headline, ‘A fat bumbling fool who has been consigned to the rubbish tip of history’. That was how I described him. It was my tribute to the three friends of mine this clown had killed: Mark Moran, Jason Moran and Paddy Barbaro (Pasquale, or Pat Barbaro). Of course I also blamed Carl Williams for my own shooting, because he had commissioned the executioners who struck me and Lewis Moran in 2004. As I mentioned, the night we were shot, we had known for weeks we were targets. It was hard not to, with phone calls from Carl night after night after night saying: ‘I’m coming to get you, you fat bastards.’

But of course, being familiar with the ways of the tabloid media, and a newspaper that often extols Underbelly as something other than fiction with a few facts, I kept the best information for this book. Both of the daily Melbourne newspapers continue to print gangland war material that I and everyone in my milieu consider absolute crap. This here is the real deal. This is the untold truth, from a person who has stared down the barrel of a gun. Holding hands with death as a result of living the experiences that others have chosen to fictionalise. And as surely as I cannot escape the spectre of death by execution – no matter what the location – the many scribes who have lived large on the war continue to cling to myths they have been fed. They speak with great authority on subjects they know nothing about.

Related to Carl Williams alone, I can give you the exclusive mail on the third man in the prison yard who supposedly described the death blows on Williams as another prisoner attacked. Sure, his name had already been reported far and wide as convicted murderer Tommy Ivanovic, 35. But to me he is a good mate, Tommy Ivanovic, the man to whom this book has always been dedicated. And should you ask was I the person Tommy had given what one scribe called a ‘TV Ringside’ blow-by-blow account of Carl having his head turned into pulp, well I hate to disappoint, but no.

Tommy is a true legend, well known to many of Australia’s hardest. But before I describe him further, let me just say there are many aspects of the Carl Williams story yet to be told. In this book already, with this chapter recently inserted, there is much more on who controlled Carl Williams and his exact role in the killing of Mark Moran. Then comes the exclusive clincher: Carl’s intimate childhood connection to a corrupt cop who was one of Victoria Police’s most celebrated drug officers. In terms of news value, you would have to rate that a little higher than his former wife’s reaction to Carl’s death. Roberta Williams was paid up to $100,000 to detail her little story for New Idea magazine, which the magazine denied of course, while I got $500 from the Herald Sun. Luckily I had only detailed what was to be expected from me, as a bloke Carl had tried to kill. No great revelations at all. And if the Herald Sun chose to provide me with a literary stage to do a celebration dance on Carl’s grave, so much the better.

Back to the real story though, and my trusted friend Tommy. I would much prefer to take a bullet for Tommy than Lewis Moran, the fat arse informer who returned years of my loyalty and legal earnings with nothing but a knife in the back. The authorities are probably going to try to involve Tommy in Carl’s bashing as well, even though he had nothing whatsoever to do with it at all. If it was me in that situation I’d be shittin’ bricks. Tommy Ivanovic, as I stated in the dedication, is the forgotten man, until very recently at least, by virtue of being near Carl when he got his due. Much like me in many respects, Tommy was never properly acknowledged by those who owed him most. And a toff.

So I get shot dead while having a beer with Lewis, yet hate his memory. And Tommy is reported by many media outlets as previously believed to be one of Carl Williams’s best mates, yet – if the reports can be believed – is happy to relay the attack on the phone as it happened. There was a time when Carl and Tommy were close, very close, because Carl had asked him to be godfather to his daughter Dhakota. And isn’t it interesting how all the media columnists prattled on about Dhakota’s future, as a nine-year-old when Carl died, for a few days as some sick moral pretext to publish photos of her sucking on a dummy two years before at her grandmother’s funeral?

As things turned out though, Tommy was in the boob before the christening, so he missed the gig. Most people would have to feel some sympathy for Dhakota though. Although the Herald Sun had been quite right, I believe, to publish the report on how police paid $8000 in taxpayer’s money to fund Dhakota’s private school education. The report had appeared on the front page the day Carl died, a fact well noted by other media. But on my information the story was only a half truth. I am told the police deal went a whole lot further than just a term or a year – it covered the whole of Dhakota’s school life.

All I can say about Matthew Johnson, Carl’s killer, is that those who organised the hit had picked an assassin known to be someone who could be easily manipulated. As for Tommy, well, Carl Williams had paid for one of Melbourne’s fiercest and most respected criminal barristers, Robert Richter QC, to represent Tommy in 2003, but he didn’t get off. Richter, coincidentally, was noted for once describing the Herald Sun’s journalist Keith Moor with affectation similar to mine, and my co-author Brett Quine. I think Mr Richter’s words were ‘journalistic minnow’. In any case, Despite having Richter on side, Tommy still got 18 years for shooting dead a motorcyclist.

Within days of Carl’s potato head being turned to mash, the Victoria Police formed Task Force Driver to investigate. As I had predicted, the task force would focus on Tommy’s links to former detectives and whether corrupt prison officers may have been influenced to be a bit slack. One murder trial hugely important to any real progress on police corruption was thought to be near collapse as soon as Carl died, because the fat boy himself was about to testify against former ally and police drug squad detective, Paul Dale. Carl was to give evidence that Dale, who resigned in 2005 and of course denies any improper behaviour, had approached him to arrange the killing of police informer Terence Hodson. Regardless of whether Carl was approached or organised the hit or not, Hodson and his wife, Christine, ended up shot dead in their Kew home on 15 May 2004.

However, the Crown confirmed the murder trial would continue and on 30 April a suppression order was lifted to reveal underworld barrister Nicola Gobbo as the previously secret key prosecution witness against Dale. A day later, Gobbo’s great distress as a result of police cooperation – wearing a bug in 2008 to tape her client Dale – was reported across the nation. She said she lived in fear for her life and had suffered financially and physically since she agreed to become a police witness. As she told ABC television: ‘I was required to give up my home, my security, my sense of life as I knew it.’

Gobbo said she had given up practice in March 2009 as police relocated her to Queensland, with the police response to any security threat being ‘run for your life’. It was not only spectacular reading, it was a soothing mental elixir in this sea of madness, for Gobbo had filed a Supreme Court action against those both she and I believe ultimately responsible for Victoria’s pathetic witness protection programs: the State of Victoria, police Chief Commissioner Simon Overland and his predecessor Christine Nixon. It also soon emerged that Gobbo also believed there was a $150,000 contract on her head, though of course she stated it was not necessarily related to her role as a police witness.

In the lead up to his death, Hodson, a drug dealer himself, had agreed to give evidence against Dale and Detective Senior Constable David Miechel over their alleged attempt to steal $1.3 million of drugs from an East Oakleigh house. The case where Hodson was a key witness against Dale had collapsed soon after Hodson was killed. Dale was 39 in February 2009 when he was charged with having Hodson killed to prevent him testifying. Paul Dale was held in custody at the same place where Carl met his end, Barwon Prison’s high-security Acacia unit. A psychiatric nurse told an appeal court Dale believed he was going mad, and by September 2009, Dale became one of the very few people ever to be released on bail while facing a murder charge.

Dale’s release came after two failed bail attempts and despite very pointed, perhaps prophetic, warnings against such a move from the Crown. The prosecutor Gavin Silbert SC, told the court Dale had contacts in the underworld and police force that he could use to harm a crucial witness who corroborated the evidence of a gangland figure, who would give evidence that Dale solicited him to arrange the Hodson hit. According to a report in The Age on 12 September 2009, the day after Dale won his release, Mr Silbert had said, ‘To put it crudely, organising an execution from prison has to be more difficult from prison than outside.’ Ominous words indeed, it may seem. Yet they are fatally flawed, as it is far easier to arrange a hit from the inside.

Among the many followers of the gangland war activity, it would not have gone unnoticed that a news report in May 2008 claimed drug boss Tony Mokbel had advance knowledge of plans to murder Hodson and his wife Christine. And of course, in the days following Carl’s death, the media had soon twigged to the fact Paul Dale himself, while still a serving officer, had been ready to testify for my mate Tommy at his murder trial in 2003. Richter had asked that Dale be called, but trial judge Justice Philip Cummins ruled against it. And while the media could report on Carl’s links to colourful police, Dale’s name could not be mentioned owing to a swag of suppression orders around his trial. Going beyond the associations even hinted at by media, Dale did not only have a long-standing friendship with Tommy but also with Carl himself.

The sensitivity around mention of Dale’s name and other suppressed matters was intense. So much so that the Victorian Director of Public Prosecutions investigated the national magazine Who for publishing an article about Carl Williams that mentioned several matters suppressed by the courts. The magazine’s ‘Death of a Gangster’ cover story, in the 3 May 2010 edition, was on the retailers’ shelves about a week before the cover date. However, according to reports, once the magazine became aware of ‘a potential legal issue’, it had instructed retailers in Victoria on 27 April to remove the issue from sale. And while I’m on the subject of that Who story, I would like to put my comments quoted there into more appropriate perspective. While I did say ‘I’d have no compunction killing him’ and it is quite true, this sentiment is borne of the fact this dog tried to kill me, and did kill three of my good mates. I did not make that comment merely because I was a Moran associate, as some may have thought.

And no, that comment cannot be taken as any form of admission that I may have actually had anything to do with Carl’s wondrous demise.

Also the subject of suppression orders at the time was Dale’s co-accused in the Hodson hit, the trigger man and a much feared career criminal, who can’t be named, as we live in the suppression state. The Duke, as l’ll call him, was arrested by Hodson murder investigators on Task Force Petra in early June, 2008, the Duke was charged and convicted of the murders of Ray and Dorothy Abbey, who were each shot in the back of the head in their West Heidelberg home in July 1987.

Melbourne’s legal fraternity went into a spin over the repercussions of Carl’s hit. Both Paul Dale and the Duke seemed set to walk on the Hodson charges. And it is not just that case that could have collapsed, I happen to know a lot of cases are in danger of collapse. Another thing to consider in all this is Roberta, has Roberta rolled over to be an informer like Carl? People are already asking in light of the two car charges against her being dropped at Heidelberg Court just a few weeks before the hit. Why does not any one of Australia’s well cashed crime media fraternity simply put it to Roberta that she was the callow shrew who in my view incited mass murder, as she allegedly screeched: ‘Kill the Morans – and all their crew!’

Of course, the person who first told of Roberta’s bloodlust war cry and who was one of several motley assassins gathered at the Williamses’ kitchen table that fateful night also happens to have his identity suppressed. Yet this in no way prohibits a simple question being put to Roberta. And either way, whether she admits it or denies, the story is still there. There is no need to refer to Mr Suppression, who incidentally is not the Duke, whom I believe was also at the table. Roberta served six months’ jail in 2004 for helping to traffic around $450,000 worth of eggies, or ecstasy, and is far from an innocent. But it is obvious from media coverage that she has tried to distance herself from the killings. My question to Roberta, with a lie detector strapped to her, would be: Did she or did she not, in the company of assorted criminals at the Williams kitchen table, say: ‘Kill the Morans – and all their crew!’?

I reckon she did, and in so doing also signed my death warrant. Just like Judy Moran until finally caught with metaphorical blood all over her hands, Roberta is treated as though she is some blessed, blithely unaware innocent, seemingly by virtue of outrageous stupidity and of being female. Accompanied with a picture of a pregnant Roberta, the front page for the Sunday Herald Sun on 19 December 2010, claimed Roberta had offered an apology to the Moran family by saying: ‘I do feel sorry for their [Morans’] loss.’ However, perhaps told this could be viewed as an admission of guilt, perhaps misquoted, Roberta claimed in May 2011 that she did not apologise to the Moran family at all. She claimed to have had no prior knowledge of Jason Moran’s execution in 2003, for which Carl had pleaded guilty.

 

For more than a week after Carl was killed, police had still not spoken to me about it at all, as they normally would on such matters. But the coppers didn’t come near me. Many commentators were saying soon after that surely there would have to be some aspect of police involvement, with the levels of security at Acacia and so forth. It worries me too, let me tell you. It worries me immensely. Of course there will be much more to emerge in the future, as it always does. At the moment though, especially in the few weeks after Carl’s death, it seemed the bad guys had taken a huge jump over the manipulators of our drawn out procedures of justice. And we all wait with bated breath.