Chopper Unchopped (65 page)

IN 1992, before my arrest on the Collins shooting, wherever I went I had young Trent Anthony with me, carrying my gun. It was Tassie, and I was safe, but that was no reason to become lazy or allow myself to be caught napping. Graveyards are full of people who dropped their guards. Not even Trent’s best friend would describe him as a heavy thinker, but he was a first class fetch and carry boy, and a wonderful lackey. He waited on me hand and foot, collected me in the morning, drove me here, there and everywhere. I would use him for target practice, getting him to hold targets in his hands from various distances while I took pot shots.

In the lackey department, Trent was first rate. However, he proved a total failure in a police station. I think it is safe to say he will never get his job back now. I also think it is time to tell the true story of how Sid Collins was shot.

I didn’t witness the actual shooting, but I knew that Sid had an appointment with a bullet — it was just a matter of when. Why did I know this? Because Sid had his own enemies. He had already asked me to kill one of them, a former Outlaw Motorcycle heavy. I refused the request, but soon after was approached by a man with the offer to shoot Sid. It was all too much. Sid was creating big bother and was going to get shot, pure and simple. It was always just a matter of where and who would be the trigger man.

I was interested in watching what happened, but I wanted no part of the gun play. Everyone knew that Sid and I got around together. I knew that any shooting in Launceston would come back to me. I was consulted re Sid and on a purely hypothetical basis, mind you, was asked my professional opinion on what would be the best weapon. I advised the interested party that the .410 sawn-off shotgun was an old favorite. I was told that Sid was only going to be shot in the leg as a warning. As much as I tried to keep out of it, I was being dragged into Sid’s coming misfortune, whether I liked it or not.

I wasn’t pleased, and I spoke harshly to the bloke who intended to shoot Collins. But mainly, I wanted to know when the deed was going to be done. I added that what he did when I was at the casino was his business.

If it was to happen I wanted to be sure I had an alibi because I knew the police would be looking at me. When the would-be tough guy came back with another bloke he said it had all gone wrong and he had changed his mind. I abused both of them as a pair of two-bob gangsters and to stop trying to involve me in bullshit. I told the nitwit who wanted me to shoot Sid that if he ever mentioned the matter to me again I would shoot him instead. That was about a week before Sid really did cop one in the guts. When I heard he had been shot, it didn’t take me long to figure out what had happened and who had done it.

On May 13, 1992, I had been drinking with Sid. Trent and I dropped him off at number 17, High Street, Evandale, after a light-hearted and happy drinking session at the Clarendon Arms Hotel with mine host, Micky Alexander.

I’d just given Sid $1300 to help pay for his girlfriend’s wedding dress. All was well. The talk of who was going to shoot who was all in the past. After waving Sid good-bye, Trent took me to the casino. I was far more interested in shooting craps than shooting Sid at the time.

Trent left to go back to Evandale. When he came back for me he told me Sid had burst his appendix and that he had driven him to hospital. Naturally, as anyone would, I found this the height of good humor – for Sid to bust his gut a week before he was due to be married. The thought of the wedding night would make anyone laugh. Trent and I left the casino and it was then we blew a welsh plug in my car and pulled into a petrol station for repairs.

We left the car and caught a cab back to the casino. I was still questioning Trent about Sid’s tummy troubles. The cab driver even joined in on the joke about Sid’s burst appendix. Had I shot Sid, I would hardly have been chattering about Trent taking Sid to hospital while we were in the taxi, where the bloody cab driver could hear every word. This was a small point that was obviously missed by the jury. When I was told that Sid had been shot, I naturally suspected the .410 shotty had been used. When I was grabbed by the police, I suspected it. I knew I would be the first cab off the rank. But when the police mentioned the word Beretta, I suspected I was in trouble. I could smell ‘set-up’ from the word go. Sid jumped on the band wagon, then the police found the Beretta that was used in my back yard. It was the same Beretta Sid had given me as a gift.

I know the man who pulled the trigger, but I won’t name him, as it is not the done thing. Sid and Trent wanted me out of the way and in jail. There were other factors. I don’t like drugs, but it was rumored that Sid did not have the same opposition to the illicit product as I did. Foul gossip, I am sure.

I didn’t shoot Sid Collins. It would have been the lime funeral, not a hospital bed if I had. Margaret and I were planning to get married in June, so even I wouldn’t be shooting people in May. I don’t know why they decided to set me up with the crime. Maybe some people were frightened of me. Maybe they thought I would be easy to blame, and maybe some people wanted me out of the way so they could deal in drugs. I am still puzzled.

Pumping a slug into someone’s leg or guts is no big deal in Melbourne or Sydney. If Sid needed a shot in the guts to teach him to pull up his socks, it was none of my concern. He was a mate, but if he was putting a hole in his manners, that was his lookout. But why blame me? Maybe someone told Sid I was behind it all, or maybe I was just a convenient scapegoat. I will probably never know.

As for teaching Sid to pull his socks up, I could have told them that you can’t teach a bloke to pull up his socks if he’s wearing thongs, mentally speaking.

As for Trent Anthony: you can’t put bow ties on Billy goats.

I don’t know. Sunk by nitwits for the only one I didn’t do. Then again, for the ones I’ve got away with I’m still well in front. What a twisted comedy.

ONE very important legal point that people forget about me is that when I am guilty of a crime and the police arrest me, I say: ‘Yeah, so what’, and I freely admit to what I have done. To me it is a game and if you are caught, then it is no use howling and pretending that you are some whiter than white saint who has never done the wrong thing. Many crims eventually convince themselves that they didn’t do it, even when they are caught with the smoking gun in their hands and there are 100 witnesses prepared to swear that they saw the bloke pull the trigger.

I am not like that. If I did it and I am caught, then it’s a fair cop and you do the time without complaining. There are tons of crimes that I got away with over the years and never been arrested for, but that is another story.

The point is, if the police arrest me on a charge I am guilty of, I plead guilty. But if the police arrest me on a charge of which I am innocent, then I will plead not guilty. The rape charge in 1975 was one I didn’t do. I pleaded not guilty and the lady got up in court and said: ‘No, Chopper never raped me. It was Mad Charlie’.

The shooting I was charged with in 1987 was in self defence so I pleaded that and beat the murder charge. Now we have the Sid Collins shooting. I didn’t do it and I will never plead guilty.

I will never surrender. I will fight on in the face of unbeatable odds. I simply will not plead guilty to a crime that I simply did not do. Why should I? Would you? I think not. So why should I be forced to plead guilty on a matter I didn’t do just because I am a career criminal.

I’ve been a crook for a long, long time, but in my own way, I have been an honest crook. I will stand up and say yes, I did that, and I did this, but I didn’t do the other. I expect to be believed.

Bloody hell, I can’t be guilty of everything. Can I?

THE barrister doing my appeal was a Mr Greg Richardson, recommended to me by Anita Betts. If I win a re-trial Anita will be back defending me. But for the appeal she felt a fresh legal mind was needed, and in keeping with strict Tasmanian tradition, we decided to keep it in the family.

Greg Richardson is Anita’s ex-husband. He is also one of Tassie’s top courtroom brawlers. When I first met Greg he reminded me of a cross between a used car dealer and over-the-hill nightclub bouncer. There was a touch of Collingwood about his personality, and once we started talking I knew at once he was a no-holds-barred courtroom streetfighter, and that’s what I needed for the appeal.

I suspect Greg likes to play the role of the small town country lawyer, but the grand a day retainer and the Armani suit pokes a rather large hole in the little charade. Gregory Peck in
To Kill A Mockingbird
he definitely isn’t. He is a rough diamond with plenty of dash. I needed a tough man for the appeal, not some old school tie ‘if your Honor pleases’ faggot who is only in it for the money and not the result.

I’d rather have a lawyer shake your hand with the slight odor of Canadian Club Whisky about his person than reeking of Chanel No 5. I have met my fair share of (how can I say this politely?) screaming queens in the legal profession.

There is one big deal lawyer in Tassie, who I cannot name, who rang Anita trying to get my appeal. No doubt he was a bit anxious to get his name back into the headlines. The only way to describe the bloke would be to call him the fairy at the bottom of the garden. One of the old school tie Mafia, recommended to all the accused by the police.

But I have my reputation to consider and I will not be represented by limp-wristed drama queens and legal bum boys, no matter how good they are or think they are.

Greg Richardson came highly recommended by a wide assortment of local cut-throats and killers. Mad Micky Marlow speaks very highly of him and I like Greg’s style. He is a man’s man, which is rare in the rather effeminate world of the legal fraternity.

We ended up losing the appeal, but I won’t bag the poor bugger.

That’s not my style. Only mugs and poor sports blame their bloody lawyers.

I THOUGHT that before I give a day-to-day account of the legal battle that lies ahead, I should inform the reader about my arch enemy and the man who has placed me in my present legal dilemma, the one and only Tasmanian Director of Public Prosecutions, Mr Damian Bugg.

Now the Buggster is one cool customer. He walks into court followed by various cup bearers, including a young, well-educated lass with a honeysuckle face. She must have been very good at her schoolwork to get where she is.

Buggsy is prematurely grey, no doubt from doing legal battle with the forces of evil, including my good self. I fear that at times, Damian may take himself a tad too seriously when he attacks me so violently. But if goodness is its own reward, then I am sure the Buggster will be well satisfied in another place.

I am in two minds about him. It has been said that a man can be judged by the quality of his enemies. If that is the case, then both Damian and I must be top quality chaps.

‘And now the time has come,’ the walrus said, ‘when all things will be revealed.’

WELL, after more delays than I would care to mention, my legal appeal over the Sid Collins nonsense finally kicked off today. It was supposed to start on May 24 but for assorted reasons it was delayed until today.

Their Honors, Justice Zeeman, Wright and Crawford were in the drivers’ seat. Mr Greg Richardson was representing my good self and as always, the master of mirth, Delightful Damian Bugg, was atop his white charger (the horse, not the car) fighting for truth, justice and the Tasmanian way. The Buggster looked quite dashing as he lined up for the Crown as the reigning champion and local Director of Public Prosecutions.

A motley and somewhat odious looking collection of sticky beaks, retards, courtroom groupies, scallywags and scoundrels, not to mention the clan of giggling half-wits who sit in court waving copies of my book at me, were ready to watch all the legal jibbing and tacking before the three wise wigged ones.

There were a few familiar and friendly faces amongst the giggling crowd in the public gallery. There was Mary-Ann, the chick from the Tax Office, Crazy Joe, and Big Bill Watson, a good old boy, as our American friends say. My leggy lawyer, Anita Betts, was also sitting in the public area. It was quite odd to see her there, a little removed from all the legal action.

All the esteemed members of the press were there, all looking serious, with their ‘We hate Chopper Read and we ain’t gonna smile’ looks on.

They’re a funny lot, most of the press – in public, they look as though they reckon I should get the death penalty, and would like to flick the switch. Yet in private, they suck up to me something fierce. How they love to pretend to hate me.

Whenever I appear in court it is an extravaganza bordering on farce. An appeal is meant to be all law points and legal argument, dry as dust really. Personalities and emotions are supposed to play no part.

Greg Richardson is as good as his reputation as a sharp professional. According to the rules of play we are allowed to bat first, and Greg gets stuck in and bats all day long.