Chopper Unchopped (38 page)

EDWIN John Eastwood is one of the most notorious criminals in Australia.

Eastwood was jailed for 15 years for kidnapping six school children and their teacher, Miss Mary Gibbs, from the Faraday Primary School, near Bendigo, in 1972. Five years later he escaped from Geelong jail and kidnapped nine chidren and seven adults from the Wooreen Primary School.

Eastwood demanded a ransom of $7 million and was shot in the leg and recaptured after a high speed car chase with police. He was sentenced to 21 years for the second kidnapping.

In 1979 Eastwood completed a religious course run by the Seventh Day Adventist Church, in 1982 he did a bible study course and in 1985 he was baptised in jail. But religion didn’t stop him getting into trouble: in 1981 he was charged and acquitted of killing standover man Glen Joseph Davies in Jika Jika.

In 1990 he was released on parole but was convicted of a factory burglary, sentenced to 12 months and had his parole revoked.

In Read’s first book he said he felt that Eastwood had reformed and would not commit any further crimes when he was eventually released again.

Read described him as a ‘true gentleman, and a loyal friend.’ However, Read did write that Eastwood loved to play the guitar and that he drove other inmates crazy by strumming the instrument for hours. ‘What we had was a tone deaf kidnapper with visions of taking to the stage one day. The first stage out of town, I was hoping.’

Here the kidnapper replies:

WHEN I received this letter from my old mate, ‘Tedwood’, Ted Eastwood, I could tell he was not at all pleased with me. The only thing I said about Ted in my book was a comical reference to his musical ability.

Like so many crims, Ted can tend to take himself a little seriously and he sees his ability with the guitar as something akin to Eric Clapton.

I don’t remember ever mentioning my nearly snapping his neck in a playful wrestling match in H Division. Perhaps I should also mention that if I had wanted to snap his neck, purely in self defence mind you, it would have been heard all the way to Faraday.

Ted also forgets to mention that his friendship with me, many years ago, kept him alive for a long time. If I may be crude enough to bring up the past, Ted is, in fact, the kidnapper of small children – not once, but twice. Let me assure you, therefore, that Mr Eastwood did not arrive at Pentridge on a wave of popularity. His friendship with me helped keep his neck in one piece and it certainly didn’t do anything for my popularity.

I suppose I must now sadly admit our friendship is over. For the life of me, I still can’t work out what I said to offend the poor bugger.

Even so, it must be said poor Ted still can’t play the guitar.

PS: I did go to the psychiatrist once, and when I went to leave the doctor said. ‘Send in Ted Eastwood.’

Ha, ha.

A TRAINED observer might notice that I have half the teeth missing from the top of my mouth. This is a little memento of a visit I had to a prison dentist in the 1980s. I use the term ‘dentist’ loosely. The man is no longer there and I cannot remember his name, but if he was to walk over to me in a pub and introduce himself, I would not be responsible for my actions. And after hearing the full story I don’t think any jury in the world would convict me. In fact, I am sure they would find that it was a clearcut case of justifiable homicide.

This dentist was a man with a weak wrist, he was not physically strong and he had a nervous disposition. I suppose looking inside the gobs of psychopaths didn’t help his mental state.

I went to see him in handcuffs. Personally, I thought they had the cuffs on the wrong bloke. I still don’t know why he was nervous. Surely, it wasn’t the crack that I didn’t like dentists, that I wanted any treatment to be fast and painless, and if it wasn’t I would be forced to do something rash. It was was only a joke, but he turned pale and gave a nervous laugh.

While he was giving me one of four injections he dropped his syringe on the floor, picked it up, and said with a little giggle, ‘nothing broken’ and then put it back in my mouth. There would have been something broken if I could have got my hands free, I can assure you.

I knew I was in terrible trouble. He pulled 11 teeth, three from the bottom back and the rest from the top — and he only injected the top.

He had trouble with each one. He broke several teeth, then dug in like a Welsh coal miner. I said as I pulled his hand away, spitting blood on the floor, ‘are you a real dentist.’ I was sure he had broken my jaw. He had one knee on my chest and the other on a chair to get leverage.

The prison officer guarding me screwed his face up as he saw what was happening. My jaw felt as though it had been dislocated for several months. I will remember that man’s face until the day that I die. He would have been a great asset to any torture gang. A gas bottle blow torch or the boltcutters pale in comparison. That man was the Prince of Pain.

DUE to the lamentable lack of bar service at Pentridge, I was often forced to enjoy a drop of aftershave and coke. A cheap bottle of aftershave and an icy cold can of coke.

I would fill up a cup of aftershave then down it really quick and chase it down with half a can of cold coke. It got you roaring mad drunk in about 90 seconds, fighting drunk in my case. But it did give you sweet smelling breath, even if it did cream off half your brain cells.

It was a dangerous and desperate drink and I would not recommend it. I put some very large holes in my manners under the insane influence of aftershave and coke. It really is the devil’s brew, believe me.

In Jika Jika we used to get large, very cheap bottles of some floral smelling French afershave, made in Hong Kong. But for special occasions we might crack a bottle of Brut or Old Spice. The top shelf, a cheeky little drop with a good nose. Ha ha.

JEFF Lapidos is a well-meaning bloke who heads the Prison Reform Group. He was the head of the Prisoners’ Action Group, but there was a split and now there are two groups.

What these people do is a mystery to me, but both groups love to hate The Chopper, which is a never-ending source of amusement to me. Lapidos and his motley collection of do-gooders have a radio program on community radio. When I was in Pentridge, I would hear my good name mentioned on the program regularly. Some of them seemed to hate me with such venom that it was comical.

While the do-gooders desperately want to help some of the inmates, the amount of prisoner support in jail for them is very slight. A small group of malcontents worship Lapidos and they would want him as their president after ‘the revolution’. But the vast majority of prisoners see it all as a giant yawn.

The Vietnamese can’t understand the prison reformers and the neo-Nazis don’t like them because some scallywag told them Lapidos was supposed to be Jewish. The rest of the jail population are too drugged out to even listen to the radio, leaving the reformers to deal with a small group with political aspirations. That mob would think Mao Tse Tung was a Chinese brand name for one-minute noodles in a cup.

I see Lapidos as a harmless Lefty. Peter Reid, who was acquitted of the Russell Street bombing, thinks the world of him.

WHEN it comes to Pentridge, one fellow I must mention is Henry. I will not mention his real name because of legal concerns. I have known Henry for some 20 years. We have been in the same divisions over the years and never a cross word has passed between us.

I have been disgusted over the past three decades to see the hard men of the crime world over-run by drug running wimps, but Henry stands out as the exception, one of the few who will not change his ways.

You won’t see any big stories about him but he is one of the quiet, hard men of the criminal world and the prison system. He would rather do someone a good turn than a bad one. Yet I know that he is a very violent man when he is crossed, or in matters of criminal business.

Henry is from the old school and wouldn’t give anyone up. He didn’t try to involve himself in the politics of the prison system and the various power struggles. And he doesn’t involve himself in underworld feuds on the outside. He has always been desperate to keep a low profile, but I have seen him upend some of the biggest gangsters about, much to my amusement and delight.

He is a fair dinkum tough man and although we are not close friends, I have always liked his style.

MY first book has brought all the criminal whackos out of the woodwork. Once upon a time, all prisoners dreamt of escaping … now they dream of best sellers. Jails all over Australia are humming to the sound of typewriters and word processers as assorted nitwits, junkies and lunchtime legends pound out their life stories and their tales of woe.

Ted ‘call me Eric Clapton’ Eastwood is writing his life story. I understand my old sparring partner, Keithy Faure, is writing his story. And the Hoddle Street killer, Julian ‘pass the ammo’ Knight, is writing his memoirs. And these are just the sane ones.

Well, there has been a book done on Walsh Street. And I suppose there will be one on Russell Street, Hoddle Street and Queen Street as well. As for the rest of the mental retards, if they have to they should all get together and combine their life stories … they could call it
Sesame Street for Psychos
. My God, what have I started, having mentioned these retards in my book. They now want to write their stories.

So it has come to this: from gang wars to publishing wars. Like it or not, I’ll win this war too. Keep banging away, you pack of dream merchants.