‘Heinrich Himmler’s brother-in-law has been appointed jury foreman. I think I am in deep shit.’
AFTER Read’s first trial over allegedly shooting Sid Collins finished in a stalemate, both sides went off to prepare for the rematch. Read was one who would never give up a legal fight, no matter what the odds. In fact, he loved the cut and thrust of a legal joust. After all, he was the man who had shot and killed Melbourne drug dealer, Siam Ozerkam, outside a disco – in front of several witnesses who were prepared to swear that it was cold blooded murder – yet was acquitted. Read walked on the basis of a legal argument that he swore he killed ‘Sammy The Turk’ in self defence. As he said later, ‘God Bless Juries. I would always rather be judged by 12 than carried by six’. It did not seem to worry Read that over a two week period in October 1992, his whole future would be decided by the 12 people who would make up the jury in the Supreme Court of Tasmania. It was time for him to fight for his life … legally.
WE are now ready for the second trial. The Director of Public Prosecutions, Mr Damian Bugg, atop his white horse, with the sword of justice in his hand, is ready to mount the steps of the Supreme Court to slay the mainland monster.
To me this is a matter of the highest trivia, but Mr Bugg knows he must protect the good people of Tasmania. He is ready to do battle with the forces of evil.
On my side is the lovely Anita Betts, my lawyer. I am sure we can all look forward to about two weeks of legal fun and hilarity.
The Crown case, if you can call it that, seems to be based on a story hastily put together by two men I once trusted, Trent Anthony and Sid Collins. According to them I hunted Sid down for four days to murder him on the orders of the Hell’s Angels in Melbourne.
I then wounded Collins and rushed him to hospital in a mercy dash, then raced home to bury the weapon in my own back yard.
If Collins and Anthony are to be believed, I am the only gunman in Australia who provides an after sales service in the form of a medical plan. What rot.
*
THEY have just sworn in the jury, eight woman and four men. I nearly had an all-female jury, but the Crown challenged so we ended up with four rather dull-looking gentlemen.
I thought I was in luck when one chick, a big girl covered in jewellery from neck to ankle and dressed to thrill, walked in with her girlfriend. Both of them got the chatters and the giggles as they looked in my direction, but the Crown challenged them.
So now I have eight ladies ranging from a glamorous blonde, a big-eyed gentle looking lady, a couple of young girls, one who looks quite smart and the other seeming to be wondering why she is here, a woman who looks like she is from the Save the Gay Whales Movement, a couple of housewives and a pig ugly cow, who looks like she wants to fight me. The blokes are a collection of oddbods. One looks like Heinrich Himmler’s brother-in-law. Ha ha.
So, all in all, your pretty typical jury. I have my false teeth in my pocket in case I am called upon to smile broadly. I believe in the jury system and trust I will get a fair go. I would rather be judged by 12 than carried by six any day.
Anita is adopting her convent schoolgirl approach, as a female jury can be a bit harsh on lady lawyers. Meanwhile, I sit in the dock with Edith Piaf’s famous song No Regrets dancing in my head. I am ready to do battle.
*
I KNOW it must be terribly boring for people to hear Chopper Read say. ‘Hey. I didn’t do this one.’ I know it would be more fun for me to say, ‘Yeah, yeah, I shot another one,’ and then go into the blood and guts details of how I did it.
However, even if I am convicted of this shooting, I won’t be able to say I really did it.
I wish I had done it, because then we wouldn’t be going through this courtroom drama as Collins would simply be on the missing list. The point is that I did not shoot Collins in the back of my car and I did not drive him to hospital.
I didn’t shoot Sid Collins, or anyone else for that matter, with a 9mm Beretta, and I have my doubts that he was even shot with a Beretta.
I know that Chopper Read saying he didn’t shoot someone is a first. However, regardless of the fact that everyone seems to take my guilt for granted. I must deny involvement in this whole fiasco. I don’t know what more I can say about this matter.
As this case unfolds, some of the people who are convinced of my guilt may begin to suspect some funny business. They may as well hang me on the wall and call me Mona Lisa, as they already have me framed.
I sincerely believe I can win this and expose the truth, but I know that with my record and my luck, I could be found guilty.
It is a novel experience for me to actually tell people I didn’t shoot someone.
THE game has begun.
One of the housewives on the jury has bailed out so they got some old rough nut in as a replacement. That makes it five men and seven women.
Sid ‘never tell a lie’ Collins is spewing out his evidence. I suspect that he has been to some Crown witness charm school as he has improved from the first trial. He is all smiles and appears to be relaxed and polished. I almost believe him myself. However, the polish may tarnish when Anita, the human vampire, bites him on the neck. She drew blood last time. But, watching her now, she looks really pissed off.
The funny thing is that although my neck is on the chopping block, I must admit I love every second of it. I really enjoy a good court room battle. I’m a war monger and I love a good shit fight and so does Anita Betts. I can hear her teeth grinding with rage as she sits there with her legs crossed, waiting to attack.
This is no longer a simple court case. I love it all.
TODAY Sid ‘Trust Me’ Collins was still in fine form until Madam Lash ripped into him in no uncertain terms and did indeed tarnish the polish. He told the court he had consulted a lawyer re the possibility of suing me through the civil courts. I suspect he has dreams of putting his hands on Captain Chopper’s treasure. Yo, Ho, Ho and a bottle of rum. The poor deluded fool.
Then came Trent ‘I’m on Sid’s side’ Anthony, who told the court that the reason his memory had improved was that he had been reading up on his notes since the last trial.
I don’t know if young Trent is a nightmare or a blessing. The kid is not known for deep thought. He continues his evidence tomorrow.
As for Collins, he denied to the court that he had ever asked me to kill the Groper, and said he had been on the phone to him only a week ago. The plot thickens.
PS: Heinrich Himmler’s brother-in-law has been appointed jury foreman. I think I am in deep shit. Ha, ha.
DAY three finished yesterday and I have the weekend to reflect on the future. I am laying back enjoying the thin Tassie sun in the remand yard.
Kelli, Mad Micky Marlow’s girlfriend, came to visit. She said the two of them were thinking of me last night as they frolicked in the spa bath, guzzling champagne and playing funny buggers with the baby oil.
I hope they drop the electric hair dryer in the bloody spa. I hate these ‘having a good time, wish you were here’ remarks when you’re in the middle of a life-and-death court battle. I sometimes lose my sense of humor.
Anita had a go at Trent Anthony yesterday and I thought turned him into a gibbering mess of confusion. He was last seen fleeing the court steps with his police minders. I have no idea why they keep him under such strict control. One feels they think he may run into a Jewish problem.
We whizzed through six more Crown Witnesses. The police witnesses, forensic and ballistic evidence begins on Monday. Anita and her all-female staff are all firing up in the defence. Chopper’s Angels, God bless them.
There is a sweet old lady who sits in the back of the court every day. She was there all through the last trial. Some people mistake her for my mother as she is always smiling at me, bless her heart.
The police have returned all my guns to my father, just before the re-trial. That’s Tassie: mad one day, totally insane the next.
I was asked to autograph three books during an adjournment. I don’t know whether I should laugh or cry. If you told a donkey this, it would kick you in the head for telling tall stories.
I LOVE the smell of a court room in the morning. Ha ha. It is Monday morning and it is day four of the trial and I am off to court. I am almost physically ill with worry.
I rang Margaret and she feels the same. For her, it is the worry of losing me. For me it is the worry of being beaten by these mice. The thought of that is so humiliating.
We are scoring more points that we did in the last trial, but I am still concerned.
As I was getting to leave, the remand yard comedian yelled out: ‘Chopper, Stop!’ I looked around and he was putting on a mad drag act, a fairly good impression of Diana Ross singing Stop In The Name Of Love. Falsetto voice and swinging hips, the lot.
He looks like a cross between an unmade bed and five miles of bad road. I am embarrassed to say that he also comes from Melbourne. It was, however, a very funny sight.
The other day he told me that Adolf Hitler had a fake arm he kept so that he could give the fascist salute at big rallies without getting tired. I was amazed until everyone began to laugh, the bastard.
But now it is back to the worry of the court. This case is changing me. I am starting to feel the emotion of anger.
The people doing this to me are not forward thinkers.
*
MARGARET puts Mr Nibbles, the world famous staffy-pit bull cross, on the phone to me and he barks. With no children I suppose Mr Nibbles is the next best thing.
Margaret told me that Billy The Texan has been taking her out. They go ballroom dancing. She sits and watches and old Billy trips the light fantastic. That would be a sight I would love to see.
Day four of the trial is over and the only friendly faces in the courtroom are those of the little old lady at the back and my old mate, Big Bill Watson, who has been in every day.
Anita remains confident but I sense impending doom. The jury has taken on a high moral tone and are starting to look and dress like invitation-only guests at the Bishop’s tea party.
I just don’t know what to make of them.
Damian Bugg is a man possessed. He reminds me of God’s avenging angel. With his lofty position and the players on his team that he has to call on, he has the courtroom appearance of a master craftsman.
I don’t know what Mr Justice Cox is making of all this. I hope he is not as confused as I am. Anita only gets better under pressure and the pressure is on now in a big way.
Day five tomorrow. The Crown has cut back its witness list, some of the duds from the last trial have been fired.
The game continues.
BY the end of the day I am nearly punch drunk from listening to the never-ending evidence from the Crown. One copper did agree that I was one of the old-fashioned criminals who didn’t give people up in police stations and that I had denied the offence. This seemed to contradict some other evidence that had been given earlier.
Trent Anthony claimed that while drinking at the Clarendon Arms Hotel with me and Collins he had placed a bet through Mick Alexander’s telephone account on a certain horse at a certain time. He said it won and he had been paid out. But a TAB lady called by the Crown on some other matters brought records showing that the horse had not won. It was only a small point for use, but he used it as a time gauge, so that was a point for us. I just hope the jury wasn’t as punch drunk as I feel, and that they noticed the point.
This trial is like a mental sledge hammer.
Interesting to note that the police have said that they found the gun in my backyard while I was in custody as a result of information received. Trent Anthony has admitted that he told the police where to find the gun.
I suspect the trial is beginning to take its toll on little Anita. But she keeps telling me to cheer up and not to lose my temper.
DAY six of the trial is over. The sweet old dear who sits in the back of the court every day is named Beryl, and she is a lovely old girl. Anita went cross at me for not having a shave, so I have to be all cleaned up tomorrow for when I give evidence.
Anita and Damian Bugg seem to be talking to each other in a civil manner. In fact, old Buggsy is acting like a thorough gent. I don’t like it at all. I prefer evil looks and cold hate rather than fake politeness and forced civility. I said to Anita today, ‘What is he trying to do, sink us or sell us a used car?’
The DNA expert took the stand again today. DNA should be kept to the Family Courts to decide which kid belongs to which dad and so on. But in the criminal courts, it is a waste of time.
‘The blood stain marked Exhibit A could belong to Mr X or five to 15 per cent of the population.’ Every nitwit scientific idea that ever came out of America, Australia grabs onto like it is the miracle cure.
DNA is high class voodoo, witch doctor stuff. I have been losing hope, but Anita tells me we could get up on this, wait and see. Anita and the people who work with her are far from fools, believe me.
There is a fine scientific point that I have brought to Anita’s attention, involving the angle of the bullet entry and exit points in the car. I have been allowed to check the car personally. I suspect I have them on a good scientific point, but science is a contradiction. Trying to get a Crown scientific or ballistic expert to answer a straight question is like trying to pull chicken’s teeth.
DAY seven of the trial is over. I had the judge, the prosecutor, the ballistic expert for the Crown and Anita all down in the Supreme Court garage crawling in and out of the car, pulling out the back seat, poking probes in here and out there to test angles of entry.
I was trying to prove that the angle of entry and exit in the back seat of the car proved that he could not have been shot by anyone sitting in the front left hand side. The prosecution objected and the judge didn’t allow it. At any rate the back seat was ripped out of the car, thus making the test pointless. I gave up the idea. I hope the jury got the point.
I am now giving my evidence. I told the jury that had I shot Sid Collins, I would have shot him in the driveway, as he came home late. I would have used the same method as was used to kill the Australian Federal Police Assistant Commissioner, Colin Winchester, in the driveway of his house. I told the jury it was an old trick but a goody.
I told the jury that my preferred weapon was a sawn-off .410 shotgun. Trent carried one under the front seat of the car. The jury seemed to be lapping it up. I talk straight and I talk sense. Win, lose or draw I will give them something to think about.
I suspect that the police, the Crown, the Judge, and definitely the jury, have never seen anything like me before. Ha, ha.
A court battle is a massive game of chess, and Damian Bugg is no Bobby Fischer. As for Trent Anthony and Sid Collins, they couldn’t beat me in a game of snakes and ladders.
I am not beaten yet.
IT’S Friday, and Buggsy had me in the witness box all day. At the luncheon adjournment I gave him a shifty wink and a smile and he replied with a nod and a sly grin. After the adjournment we again exchanged nods and sly smiles, like two battleworn veterans who had fought each other to a near standstill.
My anger, hate and rage had turned into a sort of sneaking regard. The summing up begins on Monday and I no longer hold ill-will towards Mr Damian Bugg. Win, lose or draw he went for the kill and didn’t weaken. Guts, brains and dash — he went in on me boots and all, and I respect that.
I’ve been playing poker with him and all his Crown witnesses. They have all held a fist full of aces, and I have held no cards at all. But I’ve given Damian Bugg a courtroom battle he won’t soon forget.
I am prepared for a guilty verdict. It’s the fight that counts more than the verdict. It has been a bloody great fight. When that one great scorer comes to mark against our time it is not if we won or lost but how we played the game. If I win this, it won’t be Buggsy’s fault. If I lose, it won’t be Anita’s fault. Buggsy spent half the day using my own book against me. That’s what General George Patton did before he went against Rommel, ‘the Desert Fox’. He read Rommel’s book. The cunning swine.
*
I HAVE always been a bit superstitious. I believe in good luck and bad luck. Sid Collins was shot on the 13th of the fifth month, and the jury looks like being asked to go out and consider their verdict on the 13th. I don’t like that. Also, one of the young girls on my jury looks like, and reminds me of Miss Lina Galea. Young Lina went missing in 1987. I didn’t kill her. Nor did I bury her mortal remains, despite some unkind rumors. But Ricky Parr and Lina Galea, a Maltese drug addict, went on the missing list because they were a part of Phillip ‘The Iceman’ Wilson’s neo-Nazi fun club.
I didn’t know Lina, but I briefly met her once in January, 1987. She was a sad cross between a hippy, peace-freak, love child – and a drug-crazed junkie. When I met Lina she was crying and in trouble. She had this sad look in her eyes. This chick on the jury has the same face and eyes as young Lina. It is very spooky. It is as if the ghost of Lina is sitting on my jury. It is bad luck.
Why should Lina’s ghost be dirty on me. I didn’t kill her. Then again, I could have helped her. But I could have, and I didn’t. I don’t like to sit in court, look at the jury and see the face of a dead person.
*
I AM told that Sid ‘Never Tell A Lie’ Collins has packed up his bags and baggage and taken his new wife Simone, young son, dogs and cats and cocky in a cage and fled to parts unknown. I am reliably informed that he is no longer in Tasmania, but has left his friends who stood by him in this outrage against my good self to remain behind and either live in hiding or fight the good fight should I win my court case.
Cowards die a thousand deaths, but there will be no fight. I don’t have to lift a finger. Their own paranoia will cripple them. As for Mr Collins, he will spend the rest of his days wondering, waiting and watching — forever on guard in a nightmare world of paranoid suspicion, panic, tension and stress. In his dreams at night he will hear my voice behind him in the dark. ‘Hello Sid, how’s your kidney?’. Ha ha.
I did not shoot Sid Collins but he does know that if I ever see him again that I could take a turn for the worse and demand that he donate his remaining kidney to medical science. May he run far and hide well, living his life in paranoid hell.
I may be found guilty, but at least I can look myself in the mirror while Sid Collins will live his life waiting for the axe to fall. I am one man alone. I have no army to call upon. The only soldiers I have are the phantoms I command to dance in the paranoid minds of my enemies.
News of Trent Anthony is rather ordinary. Still in the Launceston area, with police minders on tap if needed, his idea of hiding is a pair of dark glasses and a long rain coat. Ha ha. It’s all their own doing.
WITH day nine of the trial over Buggsy and me exchanged polite nods of the head again. Then he launched into a closing address that would have hung ten men. Last time around he gave it a lick and a promise; this time he left no stone unturned. I suspect that, but for the grace of God, Damian Bugg would have made a bloody good toecutter. The man has a cold-blooded attitude that I admire.
As for Anita. What can I say? She put her heart and soul into a closing address full of emotion. No lawyer has ever fought a case as hard as this woman, and come what may I owe her a great deal. She is a great lady and with only five or so years as a lawyer under her belt, she is on her way up, believe me.
His Honor, Mr Justice Cox, is summing up. He will be done by tomorrow, the 13th, when the jury will be sent out. He calls me ‘Read’ and I doubt he’s running for president of the Chopper Read fan club. God help me. Anita’s closing address was heavy on logic and common sense. A woman can grasp logic and common sense quicker than a man.
Damian Bugg’s closing address was more a case of ‘Look, members of the jury. There’s Chopper Read. Quick, lock him up’. Crude but effective.
Several members of the jury appear to be falling asleep. Or they’re on medication. Ha ha.
TODAY is October 13. One way or the other I reckon I will receive the jury’s answer today. The Lina Galea lookalike stares at me, and the 13th has always been the devil’s day for me. I doubt that Bobby Fischer could get himself out of this chess game. This is the most important legal battle of my life, as it will in many ways decide my life. If I go under it will draw the curtain on my relationship with Margaret. I will always love her, and I will keep in touch. But I will have to let her go to live her own life. Loving me has only brought her torment and pain.
I can tell you that I didn’t shoot Sid Collins. Yes, I suspected he was going to get shot. Yes, I even feel I know who pulled the trigger. I even know why. But I did not know that my own gun was to be used, or that it would magically appear in my backyard, or that Trent Anthony and Sid Collins would twist the plot and do an Alfred Hitchcock on me. Ah well, as old Ned said, such is life.
For all the ones I got away with, am I now to go under on the only one I didn’t do? I will soon know.
I have found that master legal craftsman Damian Bugg has a stern young female offsider who has yet to understand the subtleties of legal jousting. She gives me icy looks of disapproval like a Sunday school teacher in fancy dress. Cute, if you like that sort of thing.
Anyway, if I do get a jail sentence out of this, I’ll try to get a job in the prison kitchen. I’ll whizz them up a curry that will burn their bums so bad they will feel like ‘blue-eyed boys’ in a Turkish prison.
*
I ESCAPED the 13th without harm, so it’s back again tomorrow. When the jury went out to consider the verdict at 1.20 pm today (and they have been sent to one of Hobart’s better hotels for the night) they were still arguing the toss. Being locked away for the night is not a common happening down here. Juries are generally back with a verdict in two to six hours. Some onlooker asked Anita today why I didn’t get one of the local, heavyweight lawyers — a rather insulting remark, I felt. In my experience all or most of the top legal talent and all or most of the talent in the Department of Public Prosecutions are all part of the local old boys’ network … same private schools, same golf clubs, same charities or committees. In Tassie, like everywhere else, it’s a case of the Good Old Boy Network. Hiring Anita was a tactical move on my part because of a healthy distrust of the old school tie network. We have fought the case pure and simple with a pocket full of nothing. My only defence is that I didn’t do it. I don’t know what to think any more.
The screws at the court tell me that the girls in the Supreme Court typing pool believe that I didn’t do it, bless their little hearts. Come what may. Anita and me have given these buggers a hell of a fight.
One pleasant thing is that while waiting in the court cells I have a lovely fisherman’s basket with all the trimmings and extras for my evening meal. Very nice indeed. Much better than curry in H Division.
THE jury went back to the hotel again tonight ready for the 12th day tomorrow. I think they are all playing lounge chair detective – deer stalker hats, the lot. The men think they are Sherlock Holmes, the ladies are in their Agatha Christie mode.
I can’t believe it: my only defence is that I didn’t do it. I wasn’t there, and I’m being set up. So the honesty of Collins and Anthony must be in question. Anita and her legal secretary Narelle spent several hours with me downstairs in the cells — I should say in the legal interview room — just to keep me company. We talked cops and robbers, legal tactics and strategy and general courtroom comedy. I enjoyed myself.
I no longer know what to think. I feel that yes, maybe I could win. But then I say to myself: why should I be so lucky? I pace the cell haunted with the thought of this case and the thought of the jury returning with a guilty verdict. Well, I will see what tomorrow brings.
My one ray of sunshine is the thought of Buggsy pacing his office as pace the court cell. Ha ha.
IT’S over. The foreman of the just stood up and said ‘guilty’. I felt more sorry for Anita than I did for myself. I’ve never seen any lawyer put up a tougher, harder fight than that wonderful lady.
As for me, finding me guilty is all very well. Sentencing me to jail naturally follows. However, in the state of Tasmania they don’t have a jail — they’ve only got Risdon — so a miscarriage of justice is followed by a total comedy. Shaken, but not stirred. Ha ha. I’ll tell you this for nothing. With only one kidney left and a drinking problem, Sid Collins won’t outlive me, that’s for sure. Ha ha.
Damian Bugg jumped to his feet and asked the judge to consider giving me an indeterminate sentence under the Dangerous Offenders Act. Call it what you will, ‘Governor’s Pleasure’ or ‘the key’. While my eyes remain dry, my heart cries for little Margaret. She’s heartbroken. Well, it does seem the ghosts of my criminal past – crimes unsolved and crimes unpunished – have gathered together to get me for the one that I didn’t do. Bloody marvellous.
The cute little Lina Galea lookalike had a sad look in her eye as I stood in the dock. She was one of the ‘not guilty, I’m sure’ brigade. When I got back to my cell at Risdon, I had a letter waiting for me from Renee Brack wishing me all the best. She’s a nice lady.
I have had a pair of lucky socks I wore at the last trial. I burnt them on the heater in my cell and had to toss them out before the second trial. Fantastic.
*
GOD doesn’t like drug dealers. He might forgive a junkie, but he won’t forgive a drug dealer. I could kill a thousand of the human mice and still walk through heaven’s door. A lot of people who believe in God have grown very la de da. I’m more of an Old Testament man myself, with a leaning to fire and brimstone. What’s a blowtorch on the feet compared with the fires of hell. Damian Bugg expected me to hang my head in shame, because I’ve killed a few scumbags.
Did I do the wrong thing? Not likely. My only shame is that I didn’t get to kill more of the arsewipes. The killing and torture of these vermin should not only be made legal, it should be made compulsory. Murder should be a five bob fine when it comes to the topic of drug dealers. Forget the dealers and the assorted mice for a minute and think of the children of the nation. They are killing themselves in the gutters of the cities, or selling their bums in the backlanes and streets of our suburbs, all to make the rats of the drug world rich and powerful men.
Ashamed? Of course I am. Because I’m inside and there’s many of them still out there. I should have killed more of the scum when I was in the underworld. For that, and only that, I beg humble forgiveness.
Damian Bugg, and prosecutors in general, see themselves as protecting society from people like me. But, in the end, who are they really protecting?