From the Inside: Chopper 1 (15 page)

It happened in B Division in 1975. From that day on Dennis spent thousands upon thousands of dollars in blood-crazed plots and plans to have me killed. After he got out of jail and proceeded to build a drug and crime empire the plots and plans and money spent on them became larger and larger and more regular. I can now reveal I owe my life to inside information I received.

My secret was that for some ten years I had a spy in the Allen camp. Her name was Tracey Glenda Warren.

Dennis would get into fits of suspicion and paranoia over me and bash, pistol whip and in some case even kill people close to him over his paranoia. For years he searched in vain for the spy. He even thought for a while that I had his house in Richmond bugged, as I was pre-warned of every move he made and every death plot he hatched.

But most people have a weak spot. Dennis did the bulk of his thinking with his dick and Tracey, with her blonde hair and 38-24-34 figure, would ‘console’ him . . . whereupon he would tell her all his troubles. She was never my girlfriend; there was never any sexual relationship between us. She was ten years younger than me and I’ve known her since she was 14. She was, and still is, a friend.

Why did she do it? Basically, Dennis Allen gave her the shits. Also, I suppose, being Chopper Read’s secret spy in such a dangerous world was a bit of a turn-on. Some ladies like the excitement of life and death danger. She would ring me in jail, visit me, send me telegrams and come and visit me. God, I knew every move the Allen family made, or were thinking of making.

I became a phantom Dennis could never kill. In jail, where the place was ruled by drugs, here was the biggest drug kingpin in Melbourne unable to get me killed.

Every time Tracey would visit Dennis she would find rolls of cash on the floor. Dennis would be high as a kite on speed and very paranoid and forgetful. He had more money and drugs than he knew what to do with. He would hide or leave rolls of cash around the house, in bags in the fridge, under the carpet, rugs and cushions, in drawers, cupboards, wardrobes, under mattresses, in the back pocket of his old overalls and runners. She wouldn’t take too much: two or three grand a visit. I was kept in assorted eats and goodies in jail for ages, all on Dennis’s money.

For a wealthy and powerful crime boss, Dennis was a bit of a dickhead. If I needed dough in jail, I would arrange for blokes to approach Dennis with enough personal facts about me to prove they knew their stuff and with a plan to kill me in jail.

Dennis would be highly excited and eager to listen to plots and plans to poison me with cyanide or arsenic, or to put a time bomb in my television.

I pulled heaps out of Dennis without him ever knowing it. My covert agents would plot and plan with him and then be given several thousand to put the plan into operation. My man would visit me and put a nice little sling in my property and then ‘see you later’.

In fact, I made quite a nice little earn over the years by sending so-called hit men to see my enemies with offers to kill me. The deal was always half the dough up front — and half of that went in my pocket. It was too good to ignore.

Mind you, there were real full-on attempts by Dennis and his crew on my life — but Tracey warned me each time.

I needed her sitting on Dennis’s knee with her tongue in his ear, and she did a great job. She is a great girl and a blood loyal friend. She is no longer part of that world or involved with the Allen family, and there is no longer any danger to her in being mentioned. I can’t write my story without mentioning the bravest little spy and secret agent I ever had. To Tracey, I say thanks.

*

In late 1983, I befriended a criminal in Pentridge named Wayne Stanhope, who was due for release. I thought that every crim in Melbourne knew there was bad blood between me and Dennis Allen, so I didn’t even bother telling him about it. When he got out, the poor silly bugger teamed up with Dennis.

I was sent to Geelong Prison and Wayne came down to visit me. He wasn’t allowed in but not long after he was dead as a doornail.

I was told what happened was that he went to the Cherry Tree Hotel in Richmond with Dennis and mentioned he had been to see his good mate Chopper. Dennis was all very nice about it, saying: ‘Oh, I haven’t seen old Chopper for years’.

They then went back to Allen’s place, where poor old Wayne was shot dead while changing a record. Dennis, in his drug-crazed, paranoid mind, must have thought that Wayne was either totally stupid — which he was — or was being insulting and sarcastic and trying to have a go at him.

He may even have thought Wayne was a Chopper Read plant. I often feel sorry for poor Wayne. What a silly bugger.

Chapter 16

The Russell Street bomber

‘I don’t want anyone to think that my friendship with Slim means that I approve of the death of Angela Taylor’.

On March 27, 1986, a stolen car packed with gelignite exploded outside the Russell Street police station. Constable Angela Taylor died from injuries she received in the blast. Craig Minogue was found guilty of her murder and sentenced to 28 years minimum. Stan Taylor, a career criminal, got life.

*

I HAVE always found Craig ‘Slim’ Minogue to be a jolly giant. I know that offering kind words about the Russell Street bomber is about as welcome as the Pope at the Masons’ picnic, but he really has a lot going for him. Sometimes people say I have a weight problem, and I take offence to that, so I stand next to Slim, who is easily 24 stone, and I feel like a graduate of the Gloria Marshall Academy.

Slim was the force behind setting up the Pentridge Legal Resources Centre, which has been a great help to prisoners and helps them understand the law. I suppose because he is the Russell Street bomber he will never get the credit he deserves for that.

Slim has always maintained that he was not guilty of the Russell Street bombing. I have told Slim that nothing is more boring than people forever flogging the not guilty line: ‘I didn’t do it, I’m not guilty, it’s all a foul conspiracy against me,’ and so forth. But I do believe Slim is not quite as guilty as everyone thinks. He was the only man in the dock who truly made no statements whatsoever to police. Personally, I wouldn’t buy a used lawnmower from the rest of that crew. With friends like that, Slim didn’t need enemies.

One of the key people was Paul Kurt Hetzel. Hetzel himself was a one-time member of the Overcoat Gang, but in 1977, in H Division, he was beaten within an inch of his life and expelled from the gang. Jimmy Loughnan and I found Hetzel guilty of playing all sides against the middle. We felt he was far too treacherous for even our company. He lied to us nonstop and passed on false information which nearly resulted in Jimmy being murdered. When we went into battle Hetzel told the screws he didn’t feel well and went to his cell for a lie down where he stayed for a week. So he was beaten and expelled.

Whether Slim is truly guilty or not, only Slim and God would know, but what I do know is that I wouldn’t find Adolf Hitler guilty of farting in a public place on the verbal evidence of Paul Hetzel.

The other star Crown witness was Stan Taylor, an old lag who had done half his life in jail already and didn’t want to do any more. He gave up Slim and still got life.

The other witness, Zelinka, is just a long-haired hippy bikie. If the case had rested on his evidence, Slim would be out now. I am not saying Minogue is innocent, but just not as guilty as he has been made out to be.

Six were arrested at the start, five went to trial and two were convicted. He was the only one to stay totally silent throughout. Did he do it? Who knows.

Slim is also the most rock solid crim I’ve ever met. I mean, he wouldn’t shout inside a police station if a shark bit him. If he had opened his mouth like the rest of them then he would have been acquitted like the rest of them. You can’t count Stan Taylor — he opened his mouth so wide, he fell in it himself.

But I can tell you one rumour about Slim — and that is he might have been one of the last people to see Laurie Prendergast alive.

The rumour that Prendergast got dropped off somewhere along the Great Ocean Road, is just that, a rumour. No-one ever listens to them, do they?

Some people might find my friendship with Slim Minogue to be a bit strange considering that I have no time for the Russell Street bombing.

I know all the bombers, and knew Stan Taylor and Paul Hetzel before Minogue had even met them. Out of the bombers who were pinched, Slim was the only one who didn’t laugh about the death of the policewoman, Angela Taylor.

The others would laugh and make crude jests about her but Slim did not partake in them. I found the jokes about her death distasteful. Real men do not laugh about the death of some harmless girl.

Slim would walk away from those ‘comedy’ sessions when they were in progress, and that is when I first noticed him. After a while he expressed his displeasure at such jokes and they stopped.

I don’t want anyone to think that my friendship with Slim means that I approve of the death of Angela Taylor.

Ted Eastwood said he could remember Angela Taylor when she was on duty during one of his court appearances. He said she was a really nice, polite young woman.

I don’t agree with the Russell Street bombing, either in principle or as a terror tactic. It was ridiculous. It was without stated goal, purpose or reason. A true act of terror requires a man to stand up and say, ‘I did that, I did that for this reason and I have friends who will do it again’.

If it was meant to be an attack on the police to weaken their morale, it failed as it only served to strengthen them. As a tactic, it was a mindless fiasco. A ten-minute warning to clear the street should have been issued. If demands had not been met then a second bomb, again with a ten-minute warning.

But Russell Street, along with Walsh Street, must go down as the two greatest weapons the police have been given in their fight against crime, and the men who did it are blunderers of the highest order.

If an action such as Russell Street was carried out by an IRA unit and the planning officer in charge of the operation forgot to give the ten-minute warning, he would be shot.

If a man kills in self-defence or for revenge, or kills a personal enemy I fully agree, but I will not applaud stupidity.

But there is more to Slim than meets the eye. He is a member of several organisations which are connected to the Middle East. He is a member of one Libyan group with connections in Australia and keeps in touch with the Palestine Liberation Organisation in Canberra.

Some groups try to use prisoners to help them pursue their causes. At one time Slim was running around in prison trying to gain support for an ‘interest group’ on Middle Eastern matters.

He once asked me if I could get in touch with Dave the Jew. He offered to pay for the Jew’s time. I roared laughing. With Slim’s activities with the anti-Jewish groups I would have thought that the Jew would not be interested in helping Slim with anything.

Chapter 17

The Klan and other crazies

‘The neo-Nazi and anti-Jewish ratbag groups are stronger than most people imagine . . . they are playing with the feeble minds of the lost and lonely’.

WHAT has never been spoken of before is the multitude of political activists and crazy nitwit groups who see prisons as recruiting grounds for their ideologies.

These groups go out of their way to try and manipulate prisoners to hop on this or that bandwagon.

The lost, lonely and bored in here are all looking for something to belong to, and so they are a natural target for the various weird and wonderful religious, social and political ratbag groups in society.

Most of these groups are pretty harmless — everything from Left-wing Commie, Save the Nation via the Teachings of Stalin groups, to the Gay neo-Nazi Action Faction.

The neo-Nazi and anti-Jewish ratbag groups are stronger than most people imagine, and prisons are where they recruit some of their more zealous and dangerous followers.

However, the really dangerous groups to watch are the ones from the Middle East. As I have mentioned they are in touch with the Russell Street bomber, Slim Minogue, and a lot of other prisoners.

Slim has a great interest in these matters and is in touch with several groups in Australia connected with the Palestine Liberation Organisation and the Libyan Cultural Centre.

Why? Let’s just say that I don’t see Slim as someone who would get involved in these sort of issues just to hand out pamphlets at the PLO Ladies’ Auxiliary night.

Minogue’s involvement with these groups has been a bone of contention between him and me for some time. No members of the media know about him being in touch with groups sympathetic to the Palestinian and Libyan causes.

The anti-Jewish, racist, neo-Nazi and National Action type groups are very active in prison. These groups send in booklets and pamphlets to help recruit an inmate. Then that prisoner is encouraged to recruit new members in the prison.

Some of these groups can be very helpful. Some of the weirder religious groups send in female visitors to newly signed-up members, to add further encouragement.

Basically, it is playing with the feeble minds of the lost and lonely.

My own view is that the Middle Eastern political groups are wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing. I suspect they have a hidden agenda. Some of the groups that Slim is involved with are worldwide. The Australian-Irish groups are heavily involved in recruiting sympathisers in jail and they could be dangerous too.

The more serious Right-wing, neo-Nazi groups don’t bother dressing in sheep’s clothing. They are hate clubs, pure and simple. You will hear more of them as the racial tension inside jails increases. There will be violence.

Within Pentridge and other jails there are several main groups. There are the blacks and the rice-eaters broken up into their various secret crews, and the neo-Nazis. There is no real Ku Klux Klan as such, but there are a fair few, including my good self, who joined and hold registered membership in the international brotherhood of the KKK. You can apply for membership via the Imperial Wizard, in America. To me it is a bit of a joke, but there is real racism in jails and it is only going to get worse.

Some of the neo-Nazis are really serious and they have joined the KKK.

After I have gone I think there will be big trouble and bloodshed over it all. There is a group called the AB, taken from an American idea. It stands for Aryan Breed or Aryan Brotherhood. Personally, I would join the Methodist Ladies College All Girl Marching Band if it’s to my advantage. In fact, as I have mentioned elsewhere, I always thought it was wise to extend the hand of friendship to some of the future key players amongst the Vietnamese.

In time, the KKK will take on here. What began as a joke will catch on in the minds of men with long terms to serve and enemies to fight. If so, then the KKK, Nazis, and the others will team up against any other group seen as a threat.

For all that, the picture of me taken with the KKK hood in H Division was just a joke. A joke in poor taste, but just a joke. This is a man’s jail, and naturally enough some jokes are in poor taste. If we had a monkey mask we would have worn that. After all, it gets pretty boring in there for all of us, the screws included.

Because of the publicity, some black prisoners have become terrified of what would happen to them if they went to H Division.

In some minds there is a strong KKK out there, but really it is mostly in their minds. But because people have been protesting about it so much and trying to make it into something, the joke will eventually grow into reality and blood will be spilled.

One of the screws photographed with me was Big Peter Prideaux, a bloke with a real Aussie sense of humour, a hard man but a fair man. When Peter and the boys were in H Division the place ran like clockwork. The KKK was a joke created to ease tension. Peter Prideaux will fight anyone toe to toe, fair and square, and is an honest, straight-down-the-line screw with a realistic attitude and that black sense of humour you need to survive in prison. Sadly, his sort are few and far between these days.