Bali 9: The Untold Story (8 page)

On occasion, if someone was desperate for a marijuana hit, a small band of the youths would walk back across the bridge and into Indooroopilly, where they would meet, after a quick phone call, an Italian man in his forties. He seemed to be able to supply any of their needs. No one knew his name, nor remembered how they were put in touch with him in the first place.

Most of the teenagers didn’t get mixed up in all of that though. No one touched heroin. Most of them, including Scott and Michael, just yearned to fit in, to find out where they belonged. Content with the alcohol they’d brought along, and the joints that were passed around, they’d have their night out, and turn up, mostly anyway, for school on Monday.

As time wore on, the group which swelled to forty members on big nights gradually disbanded. Some parents, previously clueless to the exploits of their young sons, launched a crackdown on their behaviour. Kevin, the guy who’d started the BDR graffiti gang, thought it had all become a bit too serious. He pulled up stumps and ventured north. So too did another lad, caught by his parents one night in a comatose state; he was sent to relatives in the Northern Territory. A girl who, at least one regular says, fell victim one night to a vicious sex attack by an outsider, also left town. And there were others who departed. One of them, known
as Brunswick to his friends, believes he had a narrow escape. His best friend was expelled, and he went in search of other friends.

‘That was the biggest wake-up call for me personally,’ he says now. ‘It kind of put me on the spot and it made me realise they were all wankers. It just started all getting so serious and I took a step back. It wasn’t what it was when it started off, which was just a little rebellious group where you had a few drinking mates and running away from police was part of the fun. You’d still go to school on Monday.’

That was certainly the case for Scott Rush, who, despite whatever else was happening in his life, went on to graduate from Marist Brothers Rosalie, his family proudly by his side.

M
ichael Czugaj and school just didn’t mix. Right from the start. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t bother trying too hard—except at sport. He loved his sport, no matter what kind it was; he played cricket and was on the school football and swimming teams. And he’d play anything else offered in the lunch hour and after class. On weekends he’d never pass up the chance to go for a surf or try his hand at fishing. And he had some pretty good catches to his name. But no matter how much time he spent on the school oval, that never made up for the Monday to Friday, 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. drudgery of class after class.

Sometimes—often, in fact—Michael would leave home with his schoolbag slung over his shoulder, having no intention of walking through the school gates. He’d skive off to sit in a park, wander the local
suburbs or hit one of the local shopping malls until the time came to go home again.

Michael’s parents, Vicki and Stephan, would shake their heads, wondering what they could do about their sixth-born. He was such a good son in so many ways, but he just didn’t like school, and no matter what encouragement his parents offered or punishment they dished out, he wouldn’t listen. It even reached the point where the Czugajs made the decision to move him from Marist Brothers back to the local Corinda State High School, hoping that he would be more inclined to go to school if it was just down the road. They were prepared to try anything, really. But that didn’t work either.

Vicki knew that one of her other sons held a strong influence over Michael and that it was part of the problem. Richard was Michael’s hero, and there was no one Michael wanted to be like more than his big brother. Richard was his role model and mentor, and Richard liked to wag school too, so there wasn’t much chance of getting Michael through the school gates if Richard was doing otherwise. Richard was the leader, and Michael the follower. The two of them would put their heads together and plot their day outside the school ground, wandering around Corinda and Oxley, catching up with friends and hanging out. And there wasn’t much Vicki or Stephan could do about it.

Vicki used to worry about what this behaviour meant for Michael’s future, but one day she sat down and considered what type of son Michael—or Mikey, or Mick, as he was known variously amongst his seven
siblings—was. Sure, he didn’t front class enough, and his grades left a lot to be desired, but that wasn’t the be-all in life. Michael was a good kid with a compassionate personality; he was a good brother and babysitter—teachers remember him rocking his baby sister until she fell asleep. He’d also always be the first to put up his hand to help around the house. As a child, he had an abundance of smiles and friends, and even as a teenager he wasn’t too proud to show his mother how much he loved her. After a hard day at work, Vicki would come home and sink into the family’s couch. Unprompted, Michael would massage her feet and shoulders for thirty, sometimes forty, minutes. He just wanted her to feel a bit better. So, while his truancy played on her mind, it didn’t seem too big of a deal.

Michael was a bit of a family favourite. The Czugajs—Michael was the sixth of eight—were used to fending for themselves, but Michael could always get himself out of a sibling bind with his big, open-faced smile—just ask his sisters. He stood out as the funniest, and certainly the cheekiest. And, with his shirt hanging out the back and his habit of tugging at a clump of hair near his forehead, he was perhaps the most laid-back as a child. And at nine pounds seven ounces, there was little doubt that he was born the chubbiest. A Gemini, he was given Michael as his Christian name, and his grandfather’s middle name, William, as his second name.

Michael’s big sisters adored him from the moment he came out of hospital and he became their Chubby
Bubby, as his Mum would say. They’d cart him around the house, playing happy families, and he’d join in their games, taking in his stride all their doting attention. His big brothers, too, would let him tag along, and Michael enjoyed their company even more than the straggle of school friends who were a constant at his home, especially during his primary school years. He particularly liked following Richard around; that made him feel important.

The Czugaj home was always loud and filled with the colour and drama of one big family where the age difference between the youngest and the oldest child stretched twenty years. It was only when Michael became a teenager that he began to test his parents’ patience occasionally. And that usually related to his wagging school. But he never missed the big family occasions, and, like the rest of his siblings, he would come and go, always welcomed back into the family’s home, a modest house nestled in a cul de sac in the working suburb of Oxley.

To Vicki Czugaj, it came almost as a relief when Michael finally quit school, despite him not finishing Year Ten. He just wasn’t meant to be there, and the pre-vocational course he embarked on at TAFE seemed proof of that. He quickly found an apprenticeship as a shopfitter before moving on to glazing. He dumped some of his friends, more because his life had taken a different turn now. He had to turn up to work on time, and alert. He’d half-heartedly looked around for a job
originally, but now he had one he wanted to keep it. Besides, he liked what he did, and enjoyed his pay packet even more.

Michael finally felt a sense of achievement and a sense of belonging that had eluded him for so many of his high school years. Of course, he kept up the drinking, and certainly still enjoyed a bong—some say too much—but he seemed to have escaped the grip of the group of youths who would spend their Friday and Saturday nights getting wasted. He was pretty much living the life of many other Brisbane teenagers let loose with their first pay packets. Everything seemed under control.

While Michael flatted elsewhere, he made sure he regularly dropped by to see his little brother and baby sister, who were both still at school, often bringing a friend or two with him. His parents lost track of many of his friends as they came and went, but neither remembers Scott Rush, whom Michael had met through the school football team, visiting their home.

‘He went to school with Scott but I don’t think they were close friends,’ Vicki Czugaj says now.

Scott Rush and Michael Czugaj had shared the same big circle of friends who would meet in Indooroopilly each Friday and Saturday night, and that association continued after Michael had swapped schools. Trains ran regularly through Brisbane’s western suburbs, and he would continue to meet up with the rest of the crew at Indooroopilly at the appointed time each week. But once
Michael left school altogether, did his apprenticeship and started work, he seemed to move outside that circle more. Most in the group still attended school, and while that was irrelevant to their weekend escapades, Michael didn’t make it to the gatherings quite as much. He remained a follower more than a leader, but he seemed to be getting on with his life without the same heavy influence of those who had been his mentors along the way.

One friend remembers telling Michael that he had to look forwards, not backwards, and make a go of his life; that it was up to him who he hung around and what course he took. And Michael would nod his head in agreement, despite continuing to drink too much and smoke dope too regularly. He’d while away some of his spare time listening to hip-hop music on the few CDs his friends say he owned.

Early in 2005, though, something changed. One friend noticed it almost immediately. As quickly as Michael had focused on his new life, he turned on his heels and walked away from it. Work was no longer the routine that offered him a direction; it had become a millstone, cutting into his time with friends, and getting in the way of him doing what he wanted to do. He started going out during the week and going home late. And then he started going out all night, friends say. He didn’t seem to care any more about next week, or next month, let alone next year. The only thing that mattered was today.

A few months earlier Michael had renewed his acquaintance with Scott Rush, the smooth-talking, good-looking boy from upper-middle-class Chelmer. Rush had graduated from school in 2002, working in a fruit shop and cargo-carrying company, and as a carpenter, before his arrest.

Rush had also stayed in touch with some of the Friday and Saturday night crew as it whittled its way down to a handful of youths. And despite his private school education and the love and support of his family, Rush also couldn’t see his way forward. His adolescent penchant for alcohol continued, and his life seemed to slip out of his control. He started to mix with a bad crowd. Despite this, people could be forgiven for thinking that Rush was a good influence on all his friends. He always looked good, was charming to everyone he met, and at least one friend joked that he always came across as the perfect son, friend, boyfriend or potential son-in-law.

‘He’s the sort of young fellow who butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,’ says the friend. ‘He’d pull one over you and you wouldn’t even know it’s been done.’

The rekindling of the friendship between Rush and Czugaj could only be bad news for both of them, but probably especially the naive young lad from Oxley who would always find it easier to follow than to lead.

Rush, another friend and Czugaj started to hang out together, frequenting Fortitude Valley’s clubs and mixing with Brisbane’s underbelly. They met new people, and trusted them probably too much. No one
ever saw Michael take drugs other than marijuana, but he would stay out to all hours of the night, often with Rush and a couple of others in tow.

After one night out, when Michael finished up at about 4.30 a.m., a friend tried to find out where he had been and what he was doing. ‘You couldn’t get much out of him; he just wanted to go [home] to bed, you know,’ his friend says now.

Police were also told about the small group of youths who would walk around at all times of the night and day, swearing and carrying on. At least one complaint was aimed directly at the trio, who witnesses say soon became inseparable. Rush and his friend had earnt themselves a bad name, with claims Rush even tried to attack a colleague, whom he believed owed him money, with a pool cue at an inner-city club late one night.

Michael’s life began to lose all direction. One night, he just disappeared. Friends asked around, worried about where he might have gone and whether he was in any sort of trouble. And, like the Czugajs, they were told that Michael had gone to Cairns.

E
very big city has a suburb a bit like Brisbane’s Fortitude Valley. It’s brusque and brash and home to anyone and everyone: the pimps and the prostitutes, the touts and the homeless, as well as the new wealthy who have chosen its homes to gentrify and renovate. Perhaps for that reason, or perhaps because it’s only a bus stop or two from the city centre, the Valley has also become the Friday night host to the young urban set who have spent the week toiling in the nearby offices. The modish clubs and pubs that stretch down Brunswick Mall and hug the surrounding streets are loud and dark, strobe lights playing hide-and-seek with the identities of their young patrons.

Some of the clubs have tough entry standards now,
and you have to look the part before the bulky bloke at the front door steps aside and lets you pass. No one with a tie is allowed in this one, a particular look is not welcome in another. Of course, they don’t say that; everyone just knows and fits in accordingly.

Young people have their favourite venue, and might meet at their regular soon after their office doors close for the week before migrating for a bite to eat in the open mall or one of the many Chinese restaurants that fill the area. After dinner, the clubs swell with sinewy bodies and talk of weekend plans as mojitos, cosmopolitans and Manhattans are downed alongside light beers and house chardonnays.

On this Friday night, in the middle of the Brunswick Mall, a lone busker strums his electric guitar, trying to ignore the light rain as well as the solitary drunk who is standing in front of him, dancing by himself. Young women in skin-tight black dresses, and their partners, in office-issue suits and white shirts now rolled up to the elbows, make wisecracks as they pass by on their way to the next club. They’ll soon pass one of their own—a young, well-dressed twentysomething who forgot to pace herself, stumbling out in search of fresh air. Less than 100 metres away, a group of young people probably the same age sits drinking out of clear plastic bottles, proof of the chroming and methylated spirits drinking problems that have been challenging the local politicians.

In the other direction, a similar distance away, a police shop front stands out, its bright lights in contrast to the
darkened pubs and clubs it sits with. Inside, about half a dozen officers—the same age again—stand around deciding their night’s plan. In just a few minutes they will all go off in pairs, in different directions, stopping the youthful to check the age identification they are carrying, telling the two blokes who have discarded their shirts to dress, and hoping their presence keeps in check some of the exuberance that can challenge them on some nights.

Michael Czugaj, Scott Rush and their friends wouldn’t look out of place here on Friday night, or any other night—it’s young, it’s hip and it’s happening. Neither would Tan Duc Thanh Nguyen, the baker from a family of bakers who lived across the other side of Brisbane.

Wellington Point is a newish area of Brisbane, one of those suburbs hugging a big capital city, where voters targeted by the Liberal government of John Howard in the mid-1990s are making their mark and moving up. This is mortgage-belt country, where the houses are mainly brick and new, and the boats in some of the driveways are testament to the suburb’s growing affluence. The average wage of those living here has been steadily growing, although it still only hovers above $40 000 a year—but many are young and only starting out.

Each year more than 3000 people move into Wellington Point and other suburbs in the local shire area, and the number of babies born in this one suburb in recent years is three times as many as the number of deaths recorded. Young children ride their bicycles to
school during the week and play with their friends in the manicured parks each weekend.

Tan Duc Thanh Nguyen’s family lives in a good street here, in a house like many of the others. The asking price for a house up the street was $417 000, and while it offered ducted air and split-system air conditioning, was much roomier, and boasted Smeg appliances, it was an indication that the Nguyen family had chosen a good street in a good suburb in which to to raise their young clan. They stuck pretty much to themselves, though, their understanding of English much better than their ability to speak it, but they looked the part, coming from and going to work, ferrying their children to school and doing the weekend chores. They just fitted in like the other families who had chosen Wellington Point as their home.

Their eldest son, Tan Duc Thanh, was helping out in the family business, his siblings still at school. Tan Duc Thanh’s car was his pride and joy. He had taken out a loan to buy it, but the flashy, blue Nissan 2000 SX was worth every cent he had, and took pride of place in the driveway of the family home. It was done up to within an inch of its life, and every six weeks or so the car would undergo further enhancement: new side panels, a big stereo, 19-inch wheels. Some of the neighbours wondered what else could be done to it.

That was the picture of the Nguyen family, from street level.

Close up, things were not quite so neat and tidy. The lawn didn’t always get mowed when it should have and
the local throwaways would often remain on the lawn for days; so would the odd cigarette butt. The back yard, too, was littered with children’s toys, and the house was often unkept and untidy. Appearances within the Nguyens’ Vietnamese community were of paramount importance; at home they were not such a high priority.

There were other incongruities in the Nguyen home. One neighbour noticed that a big plasma TV screen filled one wall inside the house, but it seemed out of place against the basic lounge and chairs it surveyed. It looked so new, and so much else looked so old; it was squeaky clean, in contrast to everything that lay around it. But none of that worried the neighbours, who found the Nguyens to be a quiet and courteous family. Their children, especially their well-spoken and respectful daughter, were a credit to their family and didn’t give anyone cause for concern.

As the busy little suburb went about its daily business, neighbours would say hello to each other, the Nguyens joining in the civility. Or sometimes they’d just raise a hand in acknowledgment. They fitted in here, in Wellington Point in Queensland, and, like the hard-working families around them, it had become their home.

Tan Duc Thanh Nguyen was born in the Philippines in 1982, and his family mirrored many others in Brisbane’s ethnic community. His parents worked hard, with the aim of giving their children a fresh go in a new country. Nguyen’s parents were keen for him to do well, as individual success was considered important among
Brisbane’s 18 000-strong Vietnamese community. There, accolades were crowed about by proud parents keen to show off their children.

On the other hand, problems were rarely aired. Sometimes, that made life difficult for Vietnamese youths, pulled between the cultural expectations of their parents and the path chosen by many of their young Australian friends. Many lacked a sense of belonging as they struggled to find their place in the melting pot, and were lured by the sense of freedom others in their school classes seem to boast.

Some people in the Vietnamese community suggest that this is how Nguyen felt. And he might have been like that—or he might not. The Vietnamese community is a closed shop, and parents and children don’t usually speak about their dreams and their fears. The expectation of success is what counts.

As a teenager, some say, Nguyen did not boast the potential of his confident and diligent younger sister, whose maturity and respect for others seemed to stand out. The lure of peer pressure was always greater for Nguyen than for his sister, and his focus in high school drifted. His parents might not have chosen the same friends he had at times, but they believed he was doing well enough and that he tried to be a good son at home. He was quiet; never held big, loud parties; seemed respectful of others; and helped out in the family baking business.

Neighbours watched him come and go in his Nissan 2000 SX—it seemed like his best friend. That’s the way
he treated it. Sometimes the music blaring out of its stereo could be heard along the street, but that didn’t really upset anyone. Tan Duc Thanh always acknowledged his neighbours as he pulled up outside the family home, before disappearing inside to his parents and younger siblings. He’d give them a quick salute, a friendly wave—but he rarely stopped to start a conversation. He was content as long as he could spend as much time as possible with his prized car.

If his parents suspected something was wrong with their son, it was not something they shared with others.

As the crow flies, the Nguyen family lives only a stone’s throw from Kay Danes who, with her husband, Kerry, spent eleven months in a Laos jail after being convicted on trumped-up charges of gem smuggling by a closed court—charges they always strongly denied. The Danes, who were only released and pardoned after intense lobbying by Foreign Minister Alexander Downer, now devote enormous energies to the foreign prisoners’ support service, and Kay has spent time talking and counselling some of those families coming to terms with their children’s black futures.

It was in that capacity that Kay Danes recently went to see the Nguyens and check how they were faring. They had moved out of their home, driven by embarrassment, shame and disappointment, and were staying in the home of an extended family member. But on this day they had ventured back, to their old life in their old street, to spruce up their house. They planned
to sell it. Kay found the Nguyens to be guarded as she approached, not willing to let anyone else into their tormented lives. But she could almost hear their sigh of relief when she explained her role and offered them support. It was an offer, though, that Danes knew probably would never be taken up.

Tan Duc Thanh Nguyen was far from reserved the night he met Michael Czugaj in a Fortitude Valley nightclub. He had met Scott Rush six months earlier, and on this night, while other people in the club tried their hands at karaoke, Rush introduced him to Michael Czugaj. Almost straight up Nguyen asked the Oxley teenager whether he’d ever been abroad.

‘Next, he offered me to come to Bali and I agreed,’ Michael later told investigators.

A few days later, Nguyen came to Michael’s home and asked for his identification, so he could have a passport processed. After Michael and Scott had obtained one in the city, they were driven home to get some clothes and taken to the home of someone in Sunnybank called Chicken. Czugaj took the Bali offer at face value—a free trip at Nguyen’s expense—and listened as Nguyen talked about it over dinner.

They stayed with Chicken for four days and then, again on the generosity of Nguyen, flew with Nguyen to Sydney. They caught a taxi to Strathfield railway station, and were then driven to the Spanish Inn by Myuran Sukumaran. It was the first time they’d met him.