All Fall Down (71 page)

Lewis noted that Wright seemed to have ‘plenty of money’ and that he had purchased $100 worth of foodstuffs and confectionaries. The two would later converse. Wright told Lewis that any book he might consider writing would be a ‘blockbuster’, and that the former police commissioner’s enemies were actually within the National Party. Wright further made the observation that he thought the media had allowed Lewis to receive a fair trial.

He assured Lewis that he had befriended the ‘heavies’ in prison and had only two unwelcome incidents with inmates. Wright said, too, that Lewis had a significant number of supporters within the Queensland Police. Soon after, Wright – a former teacher and Baptist preacher – asked Lewis to attend his Church Fellowship meetings. Lewis declined.

On Sunday 10 July, wife Hazel and daughter Lanna came to visit. It was a cold and wet day. Later, Lewis’s lawyer, Rick Whitton, encouraged him to record in his prison diaries his thoughts and feelings, saying it would be nearly impossible to accurately recreate them in later years. The suggestion seemed to trigger Lewis’s melancholy. He noted that he had worked as hard as he possibly could for 37 years, which in turn had denied him quality time with his family. He wrote that he had had many plans for the future, one of which was the construction of the new house on Garfield Drive, which he and Hazel had hardly had time to enjoy when the Fitzgerald Inquiry was announced. His other dreams for the future had disappeared like a ‘mirage’.

Lewis recorded in his diary that his blood pressure was tested in the prison hospital and the mention of the word ‘politicians’ shot it ‘right up’. A nurse asked him about Sir Joh and he told her he was ‘an outstanding Premier’. Another nurse said she had heard of many unlawful things done by Russ Hinze. Lewis refused to comment.

In August, Tony Murphy again visited and talked about his recent trip to the Seychelles, off the east coast of Africa, which was ‘good but very expensive there – $500 per night for hotels, $48 for carton of beer, [a] millionaire’s holiday there’.

On Saturday 20 August, the
Courier-Mail
published a report on the outcome of all court cases stemming from the Fitzgerald Inquiry that had been running for several years. It began: ‘They were the men and women who changed Queensland. Some corrupted it with greed and betrayed public trust. Others, like heroes, cleansed the state with scrupulous integrity that helped Queenslanders regain lost faith in public officials.’ The article described Police Commissioner Lewis as ‘rotten to the core’.

Lewis fought back in his diary entry for that day, saying that it caused him ‘terrible heartbreak’ to read the frequent articles saying what a dreadful person he was, and that he was not in a position to defend himself. He hinted that his fight back was yet to come and that in time he would expose the ‘conspiracy’ that was the Fitzgerald Inquiry. He hoped Tony Murphy would help him out, given that his friend had a sharp mind, a great knowledge, and that he was ‘tenacious’.

In late October, Lewis was again moved, this time to Palen Creek Correctional Centre near Rathdowney, south of Beaudesert. He had been downgraded to a low-security classification. The Queensland Corrective Services Commission Chairman, Professor Patrick Weller, told the press he didn’t expect a prisoner like Lewis to be any threat to the public. ‘Lewis is being treated exactly the same as any other prisoner,’ he said.

Tilley, Civilian

Former brothel madam Anne Marie Tilley had pleaded guilty to two charges of official corruption and had been sentenced to five years in prison.

On her eventual release she opted to stay in Brisbane. She conceded that the Fitzgerald Inquiry ‘basically’ got to the core of the corruption. She said the ‘Sydney connection’ probably wasn’t adequately explored. ‘I wouldn’t fuck with people in Sydney,’ she says. ‘They don’t tell you. They don’t threaten you. They just do it. I was glad it was all over.’

Local human rights advocate and lawyer Debbie Kilroy gave Tilley a job on her release from prison. ‘I didn’t have much choice,’ says Tilley. ‘My daughter was in foster care. Deb had helped my daughter. Deb was the only one I knew to ring. When I had to get parole, I needed a parole address. Deb said, “Put my address.”’

Adjusting to life on the outside was a challenge. Tilley admits she found it difficult. She had only known one thing – prostitution. ‘When Deb employed me, I knew nothing,’ she recalls. ‘Up until then, I’d never lived straight in my life.’ She had to learn how to keep house, how to pay the electricity bill, how to start a bank account. ‘I didn’t want to go near anyone [after the inquiry],’ she says. ‘How could it just be Jack Herbert [who got away with it]? He was retired, sitting up in his [expensive] unit [in the city]. It’s ridiculous.’

In the Joint with Hector

Anthony ‘Tony’ William Corrigan came from a good and respectable family in Melbourne. He was well educated and had a natural intelligence, particularly for numbers, but conventional suburban life never appealed to him. He preferred to be out on the streets, checking out the action, or on the move, ‘having a look around’ and travelling where the whim took him. As a youth he got into some minor trouble on the streets of the Victorian capital before he set out on his travels.

He did a stint in Sydney, where he worked as a strapper for the renowned trainer, Tommy Smith, before heading to Adelaide. He successfully studied accountancy, putting his talent for numbers to good use, before eventually returning to Sydney. He got married and started working for a large health food company then seriously damaged his back lifting palettes of goods in the warehouse. A not unreasonable compensation cheque came his way, and flush with cash he decided to move north, to Queensland. Life was looking good for Corrigan. He bought a house in Petrie, north of Brisbane, and after a few false starts he landed a senior position with the Black and White taxi company.

In the early 1980s, he was amused at how business was conducted in the country’s northern state. ‘There was a fuel roster in Queensland,’ Corrigan recalls. ‘In the Brisbane metro area, only one or two garages were allowed to be open on a weekend. Taxi companies were allowed to be open to deal with their members. If you wanted fuel off the roster you had to go to Carseldine, the taxi companies traded illegally. We made a fortune.

‘Every Monday, the Department of Transport would come in and say they observed so and so buying petrol. We were facing 77 summons and fines of $10,000 for illegal trading.’

He soon learned there was a simple way to make all those problems go away. ‘To keep going, each of the taxi companies put in about $1000 each,’ says Corrigan. ‘I remember writing cheques and charging it to spare parts. On behalf of all the taxi companies I took it to [Transport Minister] Don Lane’s electoral office in Merthyr. I took it in a brown paper bag. I did it a couple of times.’

As soon as World Expo 88 came to town trading hours were opened up. ‘[Premier Sir] Joh had all the fines wiped. We were heavily supported in Cabinet by Don Lane and Joh Bjelke-Petersen. They cancelled them all.’

What Black and White didn’t know was that Corrigan was siphoning off funds for his own personal use. He was soon living in a splendid house in Bridgeman Downs, north of the city. He bought some classy trotters and imported racing greyhounds. He had new cars. A boat. He was rolling in money. In all, he says he took about $1.86 million. It brought Black and White taxis to its knees.

Corrigan was subsequently charged with the fraud and pleaded guilty to 103 misappropriation charges. On 13 May 1993, he was sentenced to ten years in prison. It was there, in Borallon Correctional Centre, west of Brisbane, that he first met Hector Hapeta, star of the Fitzgerald Inquiry and in prison on drugs charges. (Hepeta had been charged with heroin trafficking in 1998 and was also serving eight years after pleading guilty to six charges of official corruption stemming from Fitzgerald Inquiry findings.)

‘He was just an affable bloke,’ remembers Corrigan. ‘He was interested in what you were doing. He didn’t sort of suffer fools. He’d say hello to everybody. It’s hard to have a bad word for him.’

The two yarned about their respective pasts. Hapeta told Corrigan how he got into crime. He was 16 years old and working on the wharves in New Zealand. On a day off, he drifted into a local pool hall and struck up a conversation with another man. Do you work? Hapeta asked him. No, the man replied, you don’t have to work.

‘He introduced Hector into crime,’ recalls Corrigan. ‘He met some girl and he was the first man charged in New Zealand with living off the earnings of a prostitute.’

Later in Sydney, Hapeta told Corrigan, he worked as a nightclub bouncer. ‘His advice was to never pick on the little guy, and always give a person an honourable out, because with the little guy if you don’t do that, you give him no option but to come back with a gun.’

Hapeta talked often about the time leading up to the Fitzgerald Inquiry and the inquiry itself. He allegedly told Corrigan that when the commission was announced he [Hapeta] and other crime figures discussed murdering The Bagman, Jack Herbert. ‘They knew that if they killed Herbert, they’d be okay,’ says Corrigan.

‘Well, no one was going to kill him. No one had the intestinal fortitude to do it. They relied on [Sydney businessman and Mafia-connected] Jack Rooklyn. They thought Rooklyn would do the job.’

Corrigan also recalled an incident where Hapeta got involved in a fight over the city’s illegal gambling casinos and trashed one of them in frustration. ‘Hector was hopeless on the drink,’ says Corrigan. ‘He got upset because he wanted a share of the gambling. Hector got drunk and had a blue and destroyed the place.’

Days later, Hapeta was ‘called in’ by Jack Herbert and ‘chastised like a school kid’. Hapeta said Herbert had to fine him for his poor behaviour. They permanently confiscated his motor boat.

‘Hector laughed, he said it cost him a boat,’ says Corrigan.

He said Hapeta ‘did it easy’ in gaol. ‘He didn’t cause any trouble in gaol. Everybody sort of looked after him. I used to cook his meals at Borallon. I got him down from about 170 kilograms to about 97 kilograms. We talked and walked and talked and walked. Talked shit most of the time. He wasn’t a liar. He wouldn’t tell you a lie. He simply wouldn’t answer the question.’

Did Hapeta give up all he knew in relation to the Fitzgerald Inquiry?

‘I don’t think anybody did,’ Corrigan says. ‘Hector did indicate that Bellino paid the same [to the police]. Might have been other rorts, I have no idea. You’re talking $80,000 to $100,000 a month … there were that many coppers who were dirty and their names were never mentioned. Nobody’s ever heard of them.’

Hapeta had little to do with Terry Lewis, although at one point they were both in Wacol at the same time.

‘I think there was some respect for him [Lewis] because he never opened his mouth. It’s hard to open your mouth and not implicate yourself,’ says Corrigan. ‘The minute you know something … it’s only a crime if two people know. They gave him credit because he didn’t open his mouth.’

As for Hapeta, it was all fun while it lasted. ‘Hector ran businesses for the coppers and they all made a quid,’ Corrigan reflects. ‘He wasn’t a killer. It was hard not to like him.’

A String of Deaths

While Lewis was contemplating his own mortality – prisoners had advised him that the best way to bleed to death was to cut the flap of skin under your tongue – he would soon be rocked by a string of deaths on the outside.

His dreams remained vivid: ‘Attempt to kill the Queen … I fired five shots and Queen helped me to remove shells and reload revolver.’ And life in gaol continued one slow week at a time. His lawyer Rick Whitton called, urging Lewis to come to a decision on legally fighting for his superannuation. Whitton suggested he forfeit it.

‘Said I did not want to as I owed them nothing,’ wrote Lewis. ‘Rick said you cannot beat them as they do not have to prove guilt but I would have to justify innocence. How do you prove something that did not happen?’

On 1 December his old police mates John Meskell and Patrick Glancy dropped by. ‘John brought four chocolates, three novels and four bottles of water,’ recorded Lewis. ‘Many sent their regards.’

Lewis’s new duties at Palen Creek included washing and wiping up crockery and cutlery, sweeping all of the administration and the store area, unloading bread and milk on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, refuelling vehicles, unloading cartons of soft drink, unloading fruit and vegetables, faxing purchase orders, answering the telephone, dividing loaves of bread into three portions and dividing sugar.

On New Year’s Day, 1995, he awoke from a nightmare that included a ‘male maniac chasing the Queen’ and a ‘big male cooking a number of human bodies and eating them’. In the coming weeks he would dream of Murphy, Glen Patrick Hallahan and crooked Sydney cop Fred Krahe.

In the third week of January, it was stormy and gloomy outside. Lewis could hear some of the younger inmates shouting out ‘Good night for a murder.’

Come 12 March, Lewis received the news that former Transport Minister Don Lane, had died. He simply recorded in his diary: ‘Don Lane, heart attack yesterday, dead.’

In 1990, before Lewis’s trial, Lane had been sent to prison for 12 months after being found guilty of misappropriating public funds, the money spent on meals, hotels, car hire and wedding gifts for his staff and close contacts. At just 59, Lane dropped dead on his property at Warwick, 155 kilometres south-west of Brisbane.