Chopper Unchopped (44 page)

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?