Chopper Unchopped (62 page)

The point is, Mr Jeffery, if the ISU or NCA recommend me for bail, would that bugger up re: my pre-release and parole. Would it be a stumbling block? Wild horses couldn’t keep me from my upcoming court case. I’ve got enough on the scallywags to start a Royal Commission and I intend to dump a ton of police dirty washing before the court. I am unsure of the power of the NCA, but if they agree to release me into their custody, would the parole situation be a snag?

If they strongly recommend bail, could I be bailed considering my pre-release and parole situation. The efforts on my part re: seeing the NCA and release into their custody and bail won’t be a going concern for a month or two yet. I’d just like to know where I stand with the parole and pre-release situation. Hence my letter to your good self as I find it hard to conduct my legal battles from behind bluestone walls.

Please check this out for me.

Thank you — all the best.

Chopper.

MEMORANDUM

To: Mr R Wise, supervisor.

From: Chairperson, H Division Review and Assessment Committee.

Date:
December 6, 1990

Re: Placement options for prisoner (3403) Mark Brandon READ.

Read was received into Office of Corrections custody on this occasion on July 2, 1987, charged with the murder of Siam Ozerkam. The killing having occurred outside Bojangles Nightclub on June 12, 1987.

Upon reception Read was placed in H Division, where he remained until his move to K Division, again being returned to H Division (October 30, 1987) after the closure of Jika Jika. Has remained in H Division since that time.

The reason for Read’s continued retention in a high security environment is that it has been considered that if he were to be placed anywhere else, either he would be the victim of violence or he would use force against others, this primarily as a result of him offending against the criminal world when last at freedom, but also, due to his activities during this sentence.

When received in July, 1989, Read submitted a request for protection which read: ‘protection required from anyone who looks sideways at me — if prisoner Read is provided with a knife, protection would not be required … prisoner Read is unpopular within criminal circles as prisoner Read stands for truth, justice and the Australian way.’

Read readily admits that when last at freedom (from November 26, 1986 – July 2, 1987) and subject to a pre-release permit and while allegedly living in Tasmania, he made frequent trips to Melbourne (he says two weeks out of every month) during which he involved himself in standing over others in the criminal world. He has even alleged that he engaged in these activities on behalf of some members of the police force and that when he killed Ozerkam he was wearing a bullet-proof vest provided by the armed robbery squad and he was driven from the scene by police officers from the Bureau of Criminal Intelligence (BCI), Read described his acquittal on the murder of Ozerkam as a ‘miracle’.

Read is currently serving five years maximum – two years six months minimum for intention to cause injury, which relates to the shooting and wounding of Chris Liapis, and arson and reckless conduct, which relates to the shooting of and the burning down of the home of a drug dealer’s mother. Again Read claims he was acting as a police enforcer in those matters and has made this claim in an affidavit to the Homicide Squad and at the murder trial and at the trial relating to the Liapis shooting and the burning of the house.

Read would have to be considered one of this state’s most notorious prisoners, not because of the management concerns he currently causes but because of his involvement in a series of bizarre incidents, and his bald acceptance of a life of violence and crime.

As you are aware, in the late 1970s Read involved himself in some bizarre mutilations. First, having both ears cut off, later saying he thought (mistakenly) that the operation would be bloodless and that his ears could be reattached, and that while not painful, that the amputation made a ‘very nasty noise’. Second, by attempting to blind himself with a lit cigarette, third, by slashing his face.

Similarly, his offences have been out of the ordinary. He has attempted to kidnap a County Court judge, only to overpowered in the court by the Tipstaff and prison officers. The motive for the incident being that he wanted the release of his friend, James Loughnan from J ward. He has been involved in stabbing other very influential prisoners like Alex Tsakmakis (now deceased) and he has been involved in factional fights which have led to him falling out with prisoners.

With that background (not aided by the nickname of Chopper), Read regularly features in the media and does not shy away from such attention. In February 1990, a series of articles (‘The Chopper Read File’) were published in The Sun newspaper. Read was described as a ‘Bounty Hunter’, who ‘calmly stalks criminals, killing, shooting and bashing as he sees fit’. Also in February 1990 it was reported that ‘Police and Office of Corrections have confirmed the renewal of a contract allegedly of $50,000 on Read’s life, that money being supplied by a drug syndicate’. It was also reported that Judge Dyett in the County Court in December 1989, was satisfied that a contract had been taken out on Read’s life as a result of him being known as a police informer.

Most recently, of course, Read has been mentioned in the media coverage of allegations that a Ku Klux Klan cell existed in H Division (himself being photographed wearing a Ku Klux Klan type hood). As a result of an Administrative Appeals Tribunal into whether investigation documents relating to the Ku Klux Klan activities should be released to the Prison Reform Group. Read has written to newspapers saying that there was no Ku Klux Klan in H Division, and by having the matter aired in public for an extended period the potential existed to actually create a Klan where none previously existed. His views on the matter were again reported to the press.

Against that background the H Division Review and Assessment considered Read’s case on December 5, 1990, at which time the committee exhausted all possible placement options.

For his part, Read expressed his desire to remain in H Division until his release for two reasons. First, he has concerns for his own safety. When previously discussing a Loddon placement he claimed to fear some of the ‘young, up and coming’ prisoners who may well seek to ‘sneak go’ him as he believes he would be an important ‘scalp’ to have on their belt. Second, his girlfriend lives in Collingwood and finds visiting Coburg convenient; he says because her car is in such poor repair that it will only just make the Coburg trip.

Placement of Read at one of the protection prisons (Beechworth or Sale) is, the committee believes, out of the question given Read’s history of violence.

Bearing all the above in mind, the Committee recommends that Read remain in H Division as no other placement options exist for him at this time. As usual Read is extremely happy with this arrangement. Having recommended that Read remain in H Division, one needs to address the issue of preparation for Read’s release.

As is known, not only did Read regress, he was received back into Office of Corrections custody on a Capital charge, close supervision proved impossible given his protection concerns, his continuing offending in the criminal community and his move to Tasmania (albeit on a part-time basis).

K Anderson

Chairperson

H Division Review and Assessment Committee

Review and Assessment Committee

Annual Review.

Name: READ, Mark.

Review

Read was sentenced on 19/12/89 to five years — two years six months minimum.

As usual ‘happy go lucky’ presentation. ‘How’s that, two shootings and I got 20 months, not bad’. Says he wishes to remain in H Division. As usual making jokes and comments about the criminal justice system.

Prisoner to be seen as a review. Was seen by the Adult Parole Board 31/05/91, who have decided that they will not release Read at this time. His case will be reviewed in late ’91. All agree review in three months.

Prisoner seen. Says the Parole Board have indicated he will be released late ’91, however are keen to keep the date quiet. He also said please keep the date quiet. Says he will go to Tasmania upon release and just let anyone come after him there. The ‘Carlton Crew’ (see media) were behind the incident which led to Ozerkam being killed.

That he has sent out material to Carlton Crew showing just what type

of persons they all are. That reports that a $30,000 contract taken out on his life are real, however, it would be hard to collect in Tasmania because anyone trying to fill the contract would be on his home turf and he had many friends/associates in Tasmania.

Says he has prepared for release, has all his money etc.

Remain in H, review on September 4, 1991.

He is only waiting to go home.

As usual, most entertaining, however, underlying all his stories is the constant threat of extreme violence.

July 31, 1991

Name: READ, Mark

Prisoner seen as annual review. Has apparently been given indications by the Parole Board that he will be granted parole in November, 1991, with little forewarning. Happy in H Division and not interested in Loddon, Morwell River release preparation (he already has his identification papers, etc) and his only concern is that he gets a cash advance so that he doesn’t have to cash an Office of Corrections cheque to buy tickets to Tasmania etc. As always, in good humor and speaking totally unrealistically, one expects, of retiring to the good life and not coming back to Victoria.

ONE of the worst beatings I ever received was at the tender age of 12 years. A team of us from Thomastown, aged between 12 and 16, hopped on a train and headed for Collingwood. There was between 15 and 20 of us. It was a long time ago but I can still remember about a dozen of the kids in the gang.

We had a plan, and that was to head to Collingwood and attack the local bucks. I said we had a plan. I didn’t say it was a good plan. The idea was that no-one would be stupid enough to go into the Collingwood boys’ home turf and attack them there, so the theory was we would have the element of surprise and could launch an ambush. It was the sort of brain dead plan that General Custer once hatched, and it didn’t do him any good either.

I went along with the boys in this hare-brained venture with a feeling of impending doom. I knew enough about Collingwood to know that regardless of numbers, or surprise or ambush, you just didn’t go up there for a fight and come away with a victory.

The bunch we planned to attack were about our own ages. I knew them quite well as my father had a number of relatives in the area from Northcote to Richmond, and the gangs included quite a number of my cousins.

I was ill at ease about the whole nitwit idea, but I went along for the ride. We got off at Victoria Park railway station and proceeded towards the Collingwood Football Ground, where we knew the local lads used to hang out. You don’t have to be told … we were ambushed straight away by what seemed to be a million Collingwood kids.

I fought bravely for all of two seconds, until I got smashed to the ground by a kid smaller than myself. I got up and got knocked down, this time by a kid about half my size. I got up again, this time to be downed by a girl swinging a bike pump.

I was woozy, bleeding and out of my depth. I looked up to see a cousin of mine, looking down on me with a big grin. Thank goodness, I thought, a friendly face in a sea of hostility.

I held up my hand and said: ‘Give us a hand’. He laughed and said: ‘Hello, Chop Chop, I’ll give you a hand all right’. Then he kicked me in the face. I said we were related. I didn’t say we were close.

I was dragged to my feet and blindfolded with a hanky which must have belonged to a kid with a bad cold. My hands were tied with what I later found was sticky tape and I was taken prisoner.

Youthful games, you may think. What would they make me do? Eat a tadpole? Eat dirt? No, this was Collingwood and I had been part of a crew that had tried to take them on. I knew that even though we were kids, my punishment would not be kid’s stuff.

I was marched off by a gang of the Collingwood kids, my assorted cousins among them. The rest of the Thomastown kids were being punched into 10 shades of shit, with a few having escaped at 100 miles per hour. So much for the heavy thinking which had gone into this great battle plan. Half the team were bleeding buckets and the rest had run like French poodles. But I didn’t get the chance to slink off into the distance, because I was the prize prisoner.

They took me to a small gravel car park near the footy club.

One of the kids was told to rush home and grab a pillow case. We all stood there, waiting. I tried to talk my way out of the problem but I got a smack in the mouth for my trouble.

The kid returned with a pillow case. They put it over my head and tied it around my neck with an old boot lace. Another bootlace was tied around my wrists, behind my back. I was helpless — and then it started. I was punched in the head repeatedly. I tried to run to the left, and got fists from that direction. I tried to run to the right and got the same again. My face felt warm and wet. I could taste my own blood in my mouth. All I could see were the star-like flashes of light you get behind your closed eye lids and inside your head when you are punched in the darkness.

I was blinded and being beaten for what seemed like ages. I fell to the ground and tried to hide my face in the gravel, but they kicked me in the head. My face was hot and very wet with blood. Then the beating stopped and the pillow case was ripped off my head, leaving the hanky, now red with blood, around my face. I could see a bit, but my eyes were nearly closed. My face was a bashed-in mess of blood.

My hands were cut free and the gang simply walked away. I lay in the car park. I was crying, and the hot salty tears stung my eyes and the cuts on my face. I got up and limped off. The beating had come from kids aged 10 to 15. It had been brutal. Why had I been sorted out for special attention?

The answer was simple. I had cousins in Collingwood, and I had dared come up to Collingwood with a crew from Thomastown to fight my own relatives. I was a traitor and I deserved special attention. I felt like a traitor. And the experience of being beaten, punched and kicked in the head while blindfolded is something I will never forget.

I got back to the Victoria Park railway station and got the train back to Thomastown. My face was swollen and my eyes nearly closed up. I felt like mincemeat. But it taught me a good lesson about violence, pain and bloodshed. It also taught me never to attack anyone on their playing field, or in their own back yard.

It didn’t matter whether it was Thomastown kids going to Collingwood or Uncle Sam going to Vietnam, no-one comes out with a victory fighting anyone in their own back yard. You might win a few sneak attacks but mostly you’ll get done like a dinner. People fight harder to protect what they believe is theirs …

Seven years later I ended up in St Vincent’s Hospital for a few running repairs after me and another bloke had a punch on in a city pub. We both fell through a glass door inside the pub. I had to get some glass taken out of my head and a bit of general stitching. The other bloke had to go into surgery after getting a sliver of glass about two inches long wedged in his right eyeball.

It’s not like the movies, when you fall through a glass door. It can really cuts the guts out of you. It’s a good way to stop a fight. We both stopped immediately. They managed to save his eyeball, and pulled the glass out of me, so all was well. But at the hospital, I was left sitting in the casualty area for about 45 minutes with blood seeping out of my head at a steady dribble, while they attended to more serious cases.

A young nurse named Colleen spoke to me and asked if my name was Mark Read. I said yes and then she said: ‘Chop Chop’. I said: ‘No, Chopper.’

She then asked if I remembered her and I didn’t. She simply said, ‘Victoria Park Railway Station, 1967.’ She then explained that she was the girl who had smashed me over the head with a bike pump and gave me a few to go on with in the car park. She had kicked me in the face while I was laying in the gravel. Hardly the training for a future nurse, I would have thought.

We had a good laugh about it. She was a tall girl, about five foot eleven and as skinny as a bean pole. She had a nice face, but swore like a drunken sailor. I took a dislike to the skinny cow right away, but I smiled and laughed along with her.

I invited her to go out with me and to my surprise she said yes and I picked her up from work two weeks later. We had a good time together, but I was really pumping the grog into her. She was blind drunk, and falling about all over the place, smashed off her face.

If there is one thing I can do, it is drink and still think and stand up. We ended up in a pub in Kensington. I have no idea how we managed that but she ended up passing out in the back of a taxi on the way to Port Melbourne. I didn’t know what to do with her, so I got out of the cab and heaved her over my shoulder.

I had planned to get her drunk and have my wicked way with her. But once they pass out, it’s against the rules, so I was left walking along with her over my shoulder. I had no idea what to do with this sleeping, drunken, Collingwood, bike pump-swinging nurse.

I don’t know how long it took me to get there, but eventually I ended up on the banks of Albert Park Lake. I then did the natural and gentlemanly thing.

I threw her in the drink.

Who said chivalry is dead? She was drunk and fully clothed. Splash. In she went and sunk like a rock, then up she came with a gasp and a cough, mixed with a scream, then down she went again, thrashing around like a drowning cat. The water was only about three feet deep. I reached down, grabbed her and yanked her out.

If she had just stood up she could have got out herself. I said to her: ‘You stupid cow, you fell in the water’. She was in tears, sobbing and spluttering her thanks to me for saving her. Ha ha.

She wanted to be taken home, so we went back to her flat and after a hot shower and a couple of drinks, Bike Pump Colleen repaid me very nicely for saving her life.

Now I know the secret of being a ladies man. Get them pissed and toss them in the drink.

When my ears came off in February, 1978, I went to St Vincent’s, and Colleen was still on the scene. I was being guarded by three screws and she was on the night shift. She came to visit me and sat on my bed, holding my hands. She turned to the screws and said: ‘Do you know this wonderful man saved me from drowning?’

Having just had my ears sewn back on, I was not in good humor, but hearing her say that, I burst out laughing. She joined in and so did the screws, but I was the only one who knew the real joke.

Ah, you wouldn’t be dead for quids. Not with the present interest rates, any rate.

WHILE the pillow case over the head was a horrific thrashing, it wasn’t the only top serve I’d been given as a kid. I got pulled into several crazy plots and plans, and got left posted, resulting in blood hitting the footpath.

In the 1960s there were no weird groups and cults in Melbourne. No punks, skunks, Nazis and brain dead, glue-sniffing creeps out to break into your house to steal the video, shit on your carpet and rape the cat. In those days there were only three gangs, or styles, for the type of youths looking for a bit of action. There were the Mods, with their long hair; the Rockers, with the slicked-back, oiled-up hair, all looking like bad Elvis impersonators, and the Sharpies, with their semi-crew cuts and chisel-toe shoes. The Thomastown boys were all Sharpies, although, now and again, I’d flirt with the Rocker look (I had ears then). But I would always end up back at the barber’s for my old square back, semi-crew cut.

One of the old streetfighting tricks of the day was to get a little kid to taunt and tease another gang with foul abuse about 100 feet away, and when the larger gang jumped in to teach the shrimp some manners, they would be led into a trap. They would chase the little kid around a corner or up a lane way to find that a larger gang was lying in wait for them. It was a classic ambush. I was often asked to be the bait for such ambush attacks.

The Thomastown and Keon Park Sharpies, ages ranging from 15 to 19, would jump on the train and do battle with the Rockers from West Richmond, Preston or Reservoir. A few stupid kids like myself were always conned into coming along. On one occasion in December 1967, when I was 13, about 20 or 30 of the local boys were waiting at the West Richmond railway station for the big battle. Me and another little idiot were ordered to smash a window of a pool room, about two blocks away. We knew it was the local haunt of the Rockers and the plan was to lure them back for the ambush.

We did what we were told. The other kid took one look at the 20 or so tough-looking Rockers who spilled out of the joint and beat a hasty, and wise, retreat. I was on the other side of the road and started to yell out to the gang. I threw out a few choice insults and then started to run like hell. But nothing happened, they just wouldn’t follow.

I mean they weren’t silly, and the trick of sending in a kid to act as the lure was not exactly a secret. The Richmond and Collingwood boys invented it, for goodness sake. But I was too thick to know that so I kept a constant stream of abuse flowing their way, at a safe distance of around 50 to 60 yards. As I got braver, the abuse became stronger, I even suggested that I had been involved in some form of sexual dalliance with their respective mothers. Back in the ‘60s, any reference to mothers of a slanderous nature would not be tolerated, and could not be ignored. I kept it up. ‘Come on you weak dogs, I’ll fight the lot of you,’ I said. I was getting braver by the minute as they still showed no signs of moving in my direction.

I then singled out one of their crew for special attention, a big bloke, about 19, with blond hair and a head like a pineapple. They were calling to him to forget it; ‘Come on Normie, it’s a stooge set up,’ they said. And they were right, but I could see that Normie was getting agitated so I drop a real winner. I suggested to Old Normie that his sister may have been having an affair with an Italian chappie. The fact that I didn’t know Normie from a bar of soap, or whether he even had a sister, had little to do with it, but it worked immediately.

Normie spat the dummy and was off after me with three or four of his crew in tow. ‘Ha, ha,’ I thought as I ran back at top speed back to the railway station, ‘are these wombats going to get it.’

They were hot on my heels, about 20 feet behind and closing fast. I pelted down a narrow street and through the station gates with Normie and his mates in hot pursuit as I got onto the platform.

It was empty.

The Thomastown and Keon Park boys had all gone for a drink after the other kid had run back and said they wouldn’t take the bait. Well, that was what I got told later.

As I hit the empty railway station, my heart sank. Normie and his mates grabbed me, and did I get a flogging. I was kicked to ribbons. But Normie pulled up and said: ‘Leave it, the poor bugger has been left posted’. It was obvious it was a stooge set-up, and Normie and his crew were almost as shocked as I was that I had led them into an empty ambush.

But still, my remarks about their mothers and Normie’s sister, including the very unwise crack about her involvement with members of the animal kingdom, had to be punished. Comments like that should be left to Australian cricketers to make in good natured sledging.