Chopper Unchopped (78 page)

THE lawyer handling my appeal against sentence to the Supreme Court, Mr Michael Hodgman QC, Liberal MP, was sacked as Cabinet Secretary by the Premier of Tasmania, Mr Ray Groom, on St Valentine’s Day. Two days later Hodgman announced that he would challenge Ray Groom for the leadership.

All this plus handling my appeal – the mind boggles. Then I turn on the TV to see my lawyer standing in a water fountain fully clothed talking to the gathered media about the political pros and cons of the state Liberal Party and so on, blah, blah, blah.

If Michael could verbally baffle their honors Zeeman, Wright and Crawford the same way that he baffles me whenever I see him on TV, I’ll be sweet, that’s for sure. He has so much on his plate these days it’s a wonder he doesn’t get forgetful. But he never forgets to send me a bill on time. It must be his highly trained legal mind.

Then I read in the
Mercury
newspaper that prisoners detained at the Governor’s Pleasure will soon be free to apply to the Supreme Court to have their dangerous criminal orders lifted under a proposed new law. The Tasmanian Government plans to give up its power to hold people declared dangerous criminals in prison indefinitely.

The Attorney General, Mr Ron Cornish, said the government would soon introduce legislation to take the power away from the Executive Government and place it in the hands of the Supreme Court. Under the proposed new law when a judge declares a person to be a dangerous criminal in relation to a violent offence they will set a minimum non-parole period. The non-parole period must be at least half the sentence.

After that, the criminal can apply to the Supreme Court for a review of the order. Mr Cornish said if the judge found a person was no longer a danger to the community and then discharged the dangerous criminal order, the person would continue serving the normal sentence and be released in the usual way on parole or at the end of the sentence.

Personally, I don’t know if this new law will help me much considering the attitude of a great many people in power towards my good self.

Time will tell. I don’t know whether my appeal will go on because of the proposed new law. I can only sit and wonder if my letter writing protest campaign has played any part in all of this since I lost my High Court appeal against conviction. Friends and supporters from all over Australia and overseas from London to South Africa, have been sending letters of protest to His Excellency the Governor of Tasmania, General Sir Phillip Bennett AC, KBE, DSO.

Every single letter then has to be replied to by the Governor’s official secretary, then the letter sent on to the Attorney General, Mr Cornish. I wonder if ‘lucky Phil’ got on the phone to the Attorney General and said, ‘Listen Ron, I am getting a bit jack of this. Governor’s Pleasure is all very good and well but I don’t want the bugger’s friends and relatives, supporters and general well-wishers writing me a hundred bloody letters a week.’

Aussie Post must be laughing.

Well I guess I’ll never know what happens behind closed doors. But it does seem odd timing that just as my letter-writing protest campaign was really getting into its stride they change the rules. What’s next, I wonder, a letter-writing campaign to the judge who originally sentenced me? Ha ha. I guess I’ll just wait and see how it all goes.

WELL, I went to the Supreme Court to appeal against the severity of my sentence. Michael Hodgman QC, MP, defender of the underdog, the drinking man’s friend and all round good fellow, rose to his feet and put forth my case with verbal expertise second to none.

For two and a half hours he proved himself to be the Godfather of all courtroom verb merchants. He isn’t called the Mouth from the South for nothing. No offence to anyone else, but I bitterly regret not being able to secure his services from the very beginning.

Damian Bugg, the doyen of Public Prosecutors, of course was in attendance with his ever ready legal offsider, Miss C.J. Geason. I’m told Miss Geason is a sharp legal mind in her own right and when not acting as legal handmaiden to the Director of Public Prosecutions, she prosecutes some cases herself. I see her as a sort of courtroom version of Maid Marian, playing to Damian Bugg’s Robin Hood, while poor dear Anita is viewed more as the bride of Frankenstein by her courtroom counterparts, not enjoying a huge degree of popularity because of her toughness in defence.

Michael Hodgman QC, MP, defender of the faith and Liberal Party rock’n’roll star, however, enjoys a high degree of popularity. It’s not hard to see why. When he insisted I wear a jacket, shirt and tie, Anita brought me in a lovely jacket and shirt belonging to her husband who, lucky for me, was my size. But Hodgman himself supplied the tie … an official Liberal Party tie. There’s a touch of comic genius about a politician cum barrister who does things like that.

I said to Michael before the case started when he came down to the cells to see me, ‘Hey, Mick, how did an old knockabout like you ever get into the Liberal Party with that laugh and your scallywag grin?’

He said, ‘Ah, well, there you have it,’ chuckled to himself and off he went. At that stage of the game their honors Mr Justice Zeeman, Wright and Crawford had reserved their decision. Damian Bugg, I must say, did not perform to his best in my opinion. In fact, one could almost be forgiven for thinking that he’d had quite enough of this whole case and would just like to see it end.

Regardless of the outcome, the Buggster was not firing on all cylinders in some of his more recent courtroom appearances against my good self. Even his assistant, little Miss Geason, looked bored and totally disinterested in the proceedings, not like her old self at all. She, as I remember her in past courtroom appearances, always had that fire in the belly look, but on this day she looked as if she had partaken of a large dose of sleeping tablets. Very dozy indeed.

All in all, His Master’s Voice Hodgman was the star of the day, with Anita sitting at his side. The whole thing was ripping good theatre, with their honors Mr Justice Zeeman, Wright and Crawford interrupting at regular intervals to argue or ask questions. I always like to see my judges take an interest in proceedings rather than sit in some sort of senile slumber.

My legal team and I had a good chat in the cells afterwards and I enjoyed a light lunch of toasted ham and tomato sandwiches, with plenty of pepper, and a hot coffee. It may not have been five star tucker but for a man of modest tastes like my good self, it went down a treat.

While talking to Anita alone she had her hand on the bars of the holding cell and I took her hand and pulled it through the bars and put the back of her hand to my cheek, then I kissed it and said, ‘Thank you for everything, Anita. We have fought them all the way and you have fought with me every inch of the way,’ I said. I had tears in my eyes.

Even if I lose this it ain’t over yet but, knock on wood, I might kick a goal this time around. Still, for some strange reason I am unable to properly explain, I believe that I will walk free again. I still do not believe that all is lost. As I said to Michael Hodgman, ‘They are saying that I shot Sidney then rushed him to hospital, thus saving his life, then they declared me a dangerous criminal. Well, if what the Crown is saying is to be believed then if you have to be shot by a dangerous criminal then Chopper Read is the dangerous criminal to be shot by. Ha ha.’

Whenever he comes to see me Michael Hodgman looks the very model of a modern major general in his suit and Liberal Party tie. As I’ve mentioned above, the tie is an absolute fashion must in Tassie. They won’t let you into the better parts of town without one, not to mention the golf club, the yacht club, the bowls, gun club, the classic car club, the private gaming room at the casino, the assorted old boys clubs … and, of course, the more upmarket massage parlors.

Why, I’m told that even members of the Labor Party and Green Party masquerade after dark wearing Liberal Party ties. If you want to live in Hobart unmolested, joining the Liberal Party is a must. And if Michael Hodgman QC, MP can get me out of this, I’ll join the bloody Liberal Party myself. I wouldn’t be the first disenchanted Labor Party ratbag to go over to the other side. At least the Liberal Party have the good taste not to ponce about the place in bloody Italian suits.

Me and Michael were standing during one break in the court proceeding in front of the welfare office and a very stern lady welfare worker came out and chastised both of us for talking in loud voices and smoking, and told us to take our loud voices and our cigarettes downstairs. Hodgman said in a whisper, ‘Who’s she?’ and I said, ‘A welfare worker.’ Then I laughed and said, ‘She’s a feminist academic,’ and he said, ‘My goodness gracious me.’

We then got on to the topic of Mary-Ann, and Michael said, ‘She’s a lovely girl. You have a good one there, my boy. A bloody good scout. A bloody good scout, indeed.’ And I said, ‘Yeah, Michael. I’ve always had a lot of luck with women and used cars. Ha ha.’ And Hodgman cringed and put his finger to his lips and said, ‘Shush, my boy. If the stern young Miss upstairs hears that tone of conversation she’ll have our guts for garters.’

Hodgman is a very polite gentleman of the old school and was very polite and apologetic when the young miss scolded us, yet he has an Aussie rough-as-guts attitude which comes through the pomp and ceremony he seems to be surrounded by. He was telling me that he was a good friend of Mary-Ann’s uncle, and I thought to myself, Tasmania, you can’t escape from it. They are either related to a friend or the friend of a relative. One way or the other everyone seems connected. It makes you wonder about Tasmanian juries, doesn’t it? None of the people on my jury was a friend or relative of mine, but it makes me wonder who they were related to or friendly with.

As for my appeal, Hodgman feels confident. I hate to quote Kylie Minogue, but ‘I should be so lucky’. Ha ha. Somehow I don’t think so.

A little mate of mine from the old neighborhood of Prahran, born and bred a stone’s throw from Surrey Road, Michelle Wilson, recently sent me a photo of herself standing in front of a dilapidated Bojangles Nightclub on the Lower Esplanade in St Kilda.

The joint was closed by the St Kilda Council in 1987 after the killing – self-defence shooting death, that is – of Sammy the Turk, Siam Ozerkam. Evidently the place is still closed. One day it might open again, but one thing’s for sure: Sammy is going to stay dead.

The odd part is Michelle’s photo of herself standing in front of the old rundown joint is about the 50th Bojangles Nightclub photo I have been sent. It seems that people from interstate and overseas who have read my books and who are travelling to Melbourne on holiday, for some strange reason make their way to the old rundown nightclub on the beach and stand in front of it for a snapshot. It is kind of like people travelling to London on holiday and having themselves photographed standing in front of the Blind Beggar Pub in London’s East End, where Ronnie Kray did the so-called ‘lager and lime’ murder.

I don’t want to put shit on myself but the shooting of Siam ‘Sammy the Turk’ Ozerkam outside Bojangles Nightclub in 1987 was probably the most unimportant and non-event murder case in Australian criminal history, and Bojangles was the lowest blood-and-guts dive in Melbourne, but I’ve received letters and photos from everyone from South African backpackers to international air hostesses who have visited the joint for a souvenir snapshot.

Some people send me photos of themselves standing in, on or near the exact spot where Sammy got shot dead. Perhaps me killing that nitwit has been good for the economy. Just think of it as the old Chop Chop doing his bit for tourism in Victoria. Maybe Jeff Kennett could thank me by leaning on his mates down here in Tassie to give me a break. I promise to keep up the good work by spending heaps in his new casino. And I’d keep some of the vermin out of the place.

It is all very strange. When Dave the Jew, Terry the Tank, Cowboy Johnny Harris and myself met for our secret meetings to discuss our teenage battle plans we would often get on the phone and talk in our numb nut code, flattering our stupid selves that the phone was tapped. We’d say something highly secret like ‘meet you at Squizzy’s place this afternoon, two o’clock’.

This meant we would meet up at the Melbourne Cemetery in Carlton at Squizzy Taylor’s grave. This happened half a dozen times and me and the Jew used Squizzy’s grave site as a meeting place in 1977 and again in 1987. We would convince ourselves that the phone was off tap or that we were under surveillance, and we would simply ring each other and say meet you at the spot and the time and would meet up at Taylor’s grave. Generally it was after dark, which was spooky, as Dave would always get there ahead of me and hide, then sneak up on me from behind. Which shows how mad he is. He could have got himself accidentally shot.

The point of this rave is, has Bojangles now become a meeting point for the mentally ill? The people who used to go there when it was open were not exactly well units, but those who go there now it is closed are clearly unbalanced.

It would be a bit black and spooky loitering around that area after dark, but it seems that for some the old nightclub has become a meeting place, a morbid tourist attraction for the crime buffs or the Chopper Read buffs.

It is a funny old world we live in. I know that Dave the Jew regularly places flowers on Squizzy Taylor’s grave and has sat on the front steps of Bojangles Nightclub. Poor old Dave gets a bit lonely these days.