Chapter 4

My Betrayal

When Lewis uttered ‘We’re off’ before he was executed, it was probably a good epitaph for his whole fucken family. There was a time when Lewis would have done something, anything, to get away from a shottie being pinned to his balls. Family tragedy finally outgrew the old bastard. The once fearless slaughterhouse master had finally turned into a timid lamb chop, already dressed for the last dance.

Slaughter and blood sports were all more than familiar to Lewis Moran. He grew up around it. As a young man, he started to practice a little himself. A little older again and he did it a shitload. It was all part of a natural progression sort of thing. Lewis was once a physical tower of strength, always a bit large around the gut but able to carry himself and deal out savage blows to late payers, whether they were a slow trading drug dealer, a mug in need of some respect or an unlucky punter. See, Lewis was an abattoir slaughter man with absolutely no conscience about going in for the kill. But as he came near the end of his days, he was just a weak and pathetic shell. Sure, he still had some pull – but he was stuffed and he bloody knew it.

Lewis was described by one Purana member as blind in one eye and having dollar signs in the other. From countless years of having to watch my change so it did not disappear from the bar into the bastard’s pocket, I can tell you that description is spot on. His early days as a petty pickpocket had never left him – he was still what we call a mollybuzza. Lewis was obsessed with money and no spare coin would escape his squirrel eyes. Sure, there were many times when I enjoyed his company. There was one time when we argued about the location of a long demolished pub in the area and the banter was so lively it made the local press. But the end result just wasn’t worth the ride.

Just my luck not to wake up to the bastard until I was a full-on victim of Melbourne’s gangland war between the Carlton Crew, which was well connected to the Moran family, and another group with Carl Williams and the bad wig fugitive, Tony Mokbel. After one of our friends had a fatal argument with Carl’s favourite hitman, Andrew ‘Benji’ Veniamin, at a Carlton pizza place, my days with the Morans were fast reaching a bloody close. So fast that Williams had the hit on Lewis and me go ahead as soon as possible after Benji’s funeral – the very next day – as a payback. Just as most people with any interest were reading about Benji’s funeral in the papers on 31 March 2004, the gunmen were getting ready to gun us down.

Of course this once again would be a nice point in the narrative to disclose the real killer of Lewis Moran. But I won’t. Maybe because more needs to be said before that, maybe I’m just teasing – or just plain stubborn, a grumpy old man. Fact is, I still fronted for beers with a guy who had a $150,000 contract on him for little more than friendship, and the slim hope that he might repay what I was owed, even after he betrayed me, big time. So I reckon I might just milk the final words of the Lewis Moran death story for all they’re worth. And that’s no crime.

While we were on remand for drugs charges in 2002, Lewis made a deal with the Office of Public Prosecutions, negotiating a plea deal where he would serve five years with a minimum of three. Then he left me in jail to rot, while he, as principal, got bail. As it turns out, he had made statements to the police that implicated me and another co-accused as much bigger players than himself – he lied to get out early. I wasted nine months of my life on remand for drug charges with Lewis. There we are, doing time on similar charges, and the tightarse Morans couldn’t even put $100 in my canteen account. Trying to get bail was onerous, what with the informants stating in court that we were a danger to witnesses, carried guns and the like.

Of course I had a loaded gun. People in our crew were dropping like flies and I was no idiot. It certainly didn’t mean I was about to go out and blast away informers. The only real blazing gun at this hearing, to my mind, was the prosecution itself. A few weeks after my arrest on 25 October 2002, Detective Victor Anastasiadis had sworn an affidavit on the police case, dated 13 November. It is just so irrelevant and without any foundation, it’s almost unbelievable. I invite you to have a good read of the affidavit (see the end of this chapter) and you will find the whole police case against me hung on their belief that I was involved.

What the hell does a sock, supposedly loaded with 1000 eggies, commonly known as ecstasy, and handed to the informant by Moran in Graham ‘the Munster’ Kinniburgh’s car, with the Munster there, and videotaped by cop surveillance in July 2001, have to do with me? The evidentiary slammer was that investigators believed I ‘may have had’ possession of the sock before Lewis allegedly made the deal. The affidavit, particularly in its timing and lack of solid content, was an obvious mad scramble for more cooperation from Lewis as he made a swathe of baseless claims to make me seem a major player in Captain Moran’s Titanic odyssey. But hang on a moment, where were the charges against the Munster and the rest? Funny that. Sure, the affidavit was an attempt to force the taking of my DNA, which I had earlier refused out of good sense, not out of guilt. I knew how easily I could be loaded up and any such consent would just give the arseholes more ammo.

At the end of the day, Lewis got out in August 2003, a few weeks before me, and left me there in the boob with nothing – not even an explanation. When I got out there was still no one there from my supposed crew. No one at all. Not a Moran or any other of the spineless, gutless wonders I was mixed up with. Cowards the lot of them. Lewis really was just another lowlife who had no interest in anybody but himself. And when I was well enough to attend a committal, the charges were all thrown out. The reasons? Corrupt jacks and a lack of evidence about sums it up.

Just to show you how stuffed up things really were, I can tell you that Lewis also actually ordered a hit on another of our co-accused, Angelo ‘Angie’ Visalli, while still on remand. If Visalli went down, then Lewis would be able to put even more blame on the luckless Visalli. I thought, This is a fairytale he is living in. But who knows what would have happened with the corruption and members in the drug squad all seemingly up for grabs?

Subsequently the two young Turks recruited by Jason to kill Angie went to water and could not go through with it. Lewis had arranged for barrister Nicola Gobbo to get bail for Angie, just to be put on the street to be knocked. Not that she would have had any inkling of the Moran’s twisted plan. They did it with Alphonse Gangitano, and wanted a rerun.

Meanwhile, I had nothing to fight with but Legal Aid. But through a magnificent barrister, Richard Backwell, I was finally able to gain my release. There was not even a face to meet me, not even a tram fare from Lewis, as I left the boob. I had to borrow a few bucks off Richard just to have a drink to celebrate my freedom. Richard subsequently beat my committal charges and acted for me in the Goussis trial, where prosecutors had tried to force evidence from me while I was in an unfit medical state.

Fortunately, Justice Betty King, who presided over that trial, saw reason in Richard’s arguments and medical reports to prove I was unfit at the time.

I despise the memory of Lewis Moran and regret ever getting involved with the scumbag. He was a miserly, penny scrimping rat who sold me out after ten years of solid mateship – even longer as an associate – to save himself. Lewis was a coward, a dog and a sexual predator of the lowest order. I’ll never forget the scene in jail when one night, the screws had to lodge a young prisoner with Lewis, ‘double up’ it was called. When the cell doors were opened the next morning the sight of the poor hapless victim of Lewis`s lust bolting to the screws’ desk is one I will carry to my grave. ‘Please, please, don`t put me in there again tonight, boss!’

The affidavit sworn by Detective Anastasiadis following Bert’s arrest on 25 October 2002 (see earlier in this chapter).