Hits and Memories: Chopper 2 (18 page)

Vaitos told me that I had once shot up a party he was at in Prahran in 1973, and just missed him with a bullet. I don’t remember the event, but Peter swears it was me. I forget. I can’t remember every ‘shoot ’em up’.

Liking Peter Vaitos does not mean that I agreed with what he did. Much to my outrage I was once charged with rape myself. I was acquitted, but Mad Charlie was convicted. I was simply in the house with Charlie at the time. The girl he supposedly ‘raped’ was a prostitute and it didn’t look like rape to me, as I do not agree with rape.

Drago Komljenovic

DRAGO Komljenovic has been considered a major dealer in drugs. In 1992 he was convicted of heroin trafficking. He is better known in the underworld as ‘American Dave’. Police allege that Komljenovic was the ringleader of a syndicate which dealt in heroin for ten years. The gang used an electronic pager system as part of the distribution network around Melbourne.

A MAN they call ‘American Dave’ has been a key player in the Melbourne crime and drug world for many years. His reputation is based more on rumor than fact. He is a high flyer who lived well and certainly gave the impression of great wealth.

He was a hero to half the junkie prostitutes in Melbourne for a long while. As a heavy, his name did not really apply, but his name was well known.

No self-respecting crook was frightened of him. But in the teenage crime scene, with the parlor girls and the street whores, his name was mentioned only in whispered tones. He was considered to be more a high profile street dealer than a top level drug boss.

But whatever the real truth about American Dave, he certainly has built a reputation.

When the son of the Australian country singer, Noel Watson, died of a drug overdose on May 3, 1990, it was rumored to be on the orders of American Dave. It was also rumored that the victim of the overdose, James Watson, owed American Dave more money than he could afford to pay.

Margaret was a friend of the Watson family and had driven James home on the day of his death. She was called to the inquest.

Drugs and the death they bring can touch us all. Big, small, rich and poor.

Peter Walker

PETER John Walker was the man who escaped with Ronald Ryan in December 1965. During the escape a prison officer was shot dead. Ryan was hanged for the officer’s murder. Walker was sentenced to 12 years after being found guilty of manslaughter. He was sentenced to a further 12 years for the manslaughter of tow truck driver Arthur James Henderson, who was killed in an Albert Park public toilet on Christmas Eve, 1965. Walker was released from prison in 1984 after serving nearly 20 years jail. Harold Peckman was convicted of the tomahawk murders of Albert Taylor and his pregnant wife, Kathleen, in 1970. He was released in 1992.

PETER Walker, of Ryan and Walker fame, was in B Division with me in 1975. He spent a lot of time with Harold Peckman, the axe murderer. Peckman’s criminal career before the axe murder conviction consisted of the theft and sale of lawn mowers – and that is not a comical remark. The man used to pinch people’s lawn mowers.

In jail Peckman used to swagger about on the strength of his big axe-murderer reputation. However, as soon as violence broke out in B Division, Harold used to scurry off to his cell, never to be seen, with Peter Walker close on his heels. Walker lived in prison on nothing but the reputation and ‘past glory’ he got from the escape and with Ryan and Ryan’s hanging. The only reason Ryan took Walker with him was that Walker had convinced him that he was a top driver and car thief – a claim which Ryan later found to be not quite true.

An interesting thing about Walker is that he spent a lot of time in the Governor’s office having chit chats. He and Harold Peckman became involved with Craig ‘Slim’ Minogue – and then were quite chatty to police about the Russell Street bombing.

Nifty Nat

‘NIFTY Nat’, is another old Melbourne gangster who built himself a reputation on bluff and bullshit. He was one of the crew that hung on the coat-tails of Brian and Les Kane. When the Kanes passed wind those boys breathed deeply.

Personally, I always considered Nat to be a two-bob comedy criminal who watched too much television. Rumor has it that he was once paid $5000 to kill me and blew the money at the races. Ha ha.

Nat often took the credit for the murder or disappearance of various criminal figures, hinting that he was in the know or somehow involved. I discovered this when I once overheard him take full credit for a missing gentleman I had personally put away. Since the death of the Kanes, Nat has kept a lower than low profile. Without the Kanes he could hardly rely on his own guts and gunfire to survive. I saw Nat and other hangers-on who hid behind the Kanes as a team of mice standing in the shadow of two rats. ‘No-events’, all of them.

Nobody Nick

‘NOBODY Nick’ is another name in the Melbourne crime scene for no other reason than he comes from a criminal family. He is what I would call a ‘mouth’ and a ‘pack runner’. He took Keithy Faure’s side against me during the overcoat war in Pentridge, but only verbally. He is now involved in drugs – meaning up his arm – which makes him nothing to worry about. Not that he ever was.

I think Nobody’s only claim to fame was that he once beat a fairly tough crook in a fight in B Division years ago – but the crook was a shooter, not a fighter. However, in spite of the fact that Nobody is a criminal non-event – a glorified purse snatcher – he somehow built himself a rather large reputation in the underworld, and I’m buggered if I know how he did it.

I kicked Nobody up the bum in H Division and he ran screaming to tell people later on that he punched on with me for over an hour. The only friends he has are whoever has a spoon and a needle. Drugs have done one good thing. They have separated the men from the boys.

I cannot in all honesty remember a single thing Nobody Nick ever did worth mentioning.

Francis Ballis

FRANCIS Heatherington Ballis was another well-known Melbourne crook, a member of the Painters and Dockers and a good friend of Ray Chuck’s. Franny had a violent and feared reputation as a gunman on the waterfront. He wrote himself into local criminal history as the man who pinched the Painters and Dockers ballot box during the elections when Billy ‘The Texan’ Longley was running against Pat Shannon. I think it was early 1973. Jimmy Bazley was meant to be guarding the ballot box, but bullets flew and little Franny pinched it.

The box was recovered, but the strange thing was that it had been stuffed with Shannon votes. Les Kane later said to Billy Longley ‘Not that it matters now, Bill, but you won the election’. The Texan told me later that even though he was most annoyed at the time he was forced to see the funny side of little Franny running down the street with the bloody ballot box.

I got on well with old Tommy Ballis, Franny’s father. He worked as a barman at the Royal Oak hotel in Richmond and he knew blokes who sold me a few guns. Old Tommy is dead now, but he was a good style of a bloke.

The last time I saw Franny he was lying unconscious in the doorway of the Station Hotel in Greville Street, Prahran after being knocked out by Cowboy Johnny Harris in 1973. People were stepping over him to get in and out of the pub. Little Franny could fight, but if the Cowboy got in the first punch it was lights out every time. Poor Johnny Harris didn’t even know who he had knocked out. It was quite a funny sight. However, I will say that Franny Ballis was one chap who had guts and dash and personal courage. Why he backed up Shannon and his crew of nitwits is beyond me. Even Ray Chuck said that taking Shannon’s side proved to be a mistake.

Stanley Taylor

STANLEY Taylor was an armed robber before armed robbery became fashionable. In the 1960s he robbed seven banks in five days. He escaped from jail twice and was a leader in a series of riots in H Division.

Ronald Ryan, the last man hanged in Australia, had asked Taylor to escape with him. Taylor refused and Peter Walker went over the wall in his place.

Taylor was released from prison in 1978 after serving 17 years jail. He became a youth welfare worker and part time actor, appearing in Cop Shop and Prisoner.

On March 27, 19S6, a stolen car packed with gelignite exploded outside the Russell Street police station. A young policewoman, Angela Taylor, received horrendous injuries in the explosion. She died from her wounds. Stan Taylor, the man who said he had reformed and wanted to keep young people away from crime, was arrested as the ringleader of the bombing. He was the brains behind the gang, which had been responsible for a spate of crimes, including armed robberies, leading up to the bombing.

Taylor broke the underworld’s rules and tried to cut a deal with the police.

THERE are a lot of crime figures who rose and fell overnight and yet their reputations linger like the stink that hangs on in a railway station toilet. One of these ‘big-name’ non-events is Stan Taylor, now doing a life sentence in Pentridge over the Russell Street bombing.

I always liked Billy Taylor, Stan’s brother. He had guts and dash. However, ‘big, bad Stan’ was a conman and a bluff merchant with a natural skill at making younger criminals trust in him and hold him in respect. He conned younger men into fighting his fights and doing what he didn’t have the guts to do, and when the shit hit the fan Stan would always turn dog and give them up. That is the game he played and the tactic he used. After the Russell Street bombing his only problem was he was too late . . . his righthand man and old friend Paul Hetzel had got in first and done a deal by giving everyone up.

‘Stan the Man’ tried to battle on, thinking that pointing the finger at one and all would save him. But he outsmarted himself. Taylor was the heavy thinker behind the whole mess, but he got beaten to the punch. He planned to betray the whole crew and now he is doing the lot in Pentridge. There is never ever any prizes for turning dog second. It is first past the post in the lag stake, with no place dividend, and Hetzel got there first. Stan shouldn’t complain because that’s the game he loved to play. Treachery.

Chapter 25

Rematch: the court room diaries

‘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.

Day one

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.

Day two

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

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.

Day four

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.

Day five

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

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

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.