Chopper Unchopped (66 page)

On the wall behind the three Supreme Court judges is the Tasmanian coat of arms. There is a large wooden lion on the right hand side and a unicorn on the left. Both are rising up on their hind legs, guarding some sort of smaller coat of arms in the shape of a shield, under this are the Latin words DIEU ET MON DROIT.

I don’t know what it means, but if some of the numb nuts sitting in the back of the court are any indication, it should read: ‘Thalidomide: yum, yum, we love it.’

DAY two of my appeal. My lawyer, Mr Greg Richardson, is still battling away, on his feet all day long. Their Honors, Mr Justice Zeeman, Wright and Crawford appear somewhat confused, amused and bemused by Greg’s legal arguments, but they don’t look terribly convinced.

At this stage I wouldn’t bet money on my chances of winning this appeal. His Honor, Mr Justice Zeeman, asks the most questions and he seems to have a bad cold or a touch of the ’flu, because he pulls out an old, war-torn hankie from under his gown, and blows his nose at regular intervals. I have timed these blows at between 20 and 25 minutes apart. His Honor has a very reliable nose.

A local famous political identity, nicknamed ‘The Mouth From The South’, Mr Michael Hodgeman, came in to watch proceedings today. Mick is a top courtroom punch on artist in his own right. He sat behind Damian Bugg and Buggsy got out of his chair and went and sat with ‘The Mouth’ and they had a little chat. The sad thing was that I had always admired Mr Hodgeman. But a man is always judged by the company he keeps, and here he was taking sides with the prosecution.

There is a local tradition amongst lawyers appearing at the Hobart Supreme Court that I call the ‘courtroom two step’. Whenever TV camera crews are seen hovering around outside the court the lawyers get ready. When the luncheon adjournment arrives, barristers can be seen racing out of the court and up and down the Supreme Court steps, in the hope of getting their starved heads in on the action.

It is not unusual to find the lawyers quite out of breath after the luncheon adjournment. There is one well-known gun lawyer from Launceston who is famous for the courtroom two step, popping his head up in front of the TV cameras like ‘Dicky Knee’.

Bloody lawyers, they’re a class act, aren’t they?

The game continues.

THE third, and last day of my appeal. Their Honors, Justices Zeeman, Wright and Crawford, have reserved their decisions, so now we play the waiting game, until they come back with the good or bad news.

Greg Richardson did a top job and I can only thank him and praise his efforts. Come what may, he is a good style of a bloke and a bloody top lawyer.

I am relieved to report that Mr Justice Zeeman seems to have recovered from his cold overnight, as there was no appearance today of the offending hankie. I was glad of that, for both our sakes. It was not his fault, but in my view a man in a wig honking into a hankie every 20 to 25 minutes while you are trying to put detailed and complex legal arguments can be a little off-putting.

The only trouble is, I think I caught his cold. I feel like shit while I am writing this on a cold winter’s night. I don’t know if they call this place Van Dieman’s Land or Van bloody-freezing land.

I was wearing my lucky slip-on shoes that Mad Charlie gave me in 1987, a pair of jeans that Big Bill Watson gave me, a shirt that Margaret gave me, and a sports jacket that ‘Al Plonko Ferris’ gave me. I felt like Secondhand Rose, sitting in the Dock. In this gear, I know that I have lost a lot of weight since I was last out.

I think that Greg Richardson may have them on a small legal point. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but we may win this. If I get the breaks on this one, it will still be a photo finish.

All is not lost. And if I do lose here, then I’ll give it a run in the High Court of Australia.

The Buggster is conducting himself in a very civil manner. It was: ‘Yes Greg, no Greg, pardon me Greg’ and so on. I went down to the cells and the screws put on a tasty lunch of toasted tomato, meat, pepper and chili sandwiches, washed down with hot coffee.

After lunch, I got down on my knees and prayed: ‘Dear Lord, please call the wrath of God down on the heads of Sid Collins and Trent Anthony, and their children and their children’s children, and so forth.’

I don’t know if it will work or not, but it certainly makes me feel a whole lot better.

You never know, he may help me.

If God loves a sinner, he must really love me. Ha, ha.

AS I WALK up and down the remand yard at Risdon, awaiting the decisions of their Honors, Mr Justice Zeeman, Wright and Crawford, Psalm 23, verse four keeps coming into my head. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for the Lord is with me, his rod and his staff, they comfort me.’

Like a lot of classic nutters I do tend to invoke the name of God. My strict Seventh Day Adventist upbringing is forever coming back to haunt me. Whenever I enter the field of physical combat, I always recite a verse from the Book of Psalms out of the bible. ‘Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who teaches my hands to wage war and my fingers to do battle’ — Psalm 144, verse one. But my favorite is Psalm 59, verse one: ‘Deliver me from my enemies, oh my God, keep me away from those who rise against me’.

The old rocker and roller, Mr Jerry Lee Lewis was quoted as saying that his head was in heaven, but his heart was in hell.

Well, that old killer and me have that much in common. The devil sits on one shoulder, and God on the other, and I guess I will never shake it.

I know that I outrage and anger a lot of so-called Christians, they ask how a monster like me can invoke the name of God and dare to believe that I have God on my side.

Well, I know that I do and the opinion of others means little or nothing to me. I am not a Christian or a bible basher, I’m just a bloke who believes that when the shit hits the fan, the Lord sees me as the lesser of two evils. Even if God is angry at me, he usually is a damn sight more pissed off with the other buggers I am fighting with at the time.

Guts, Guns and God. In the end, that is all I have going for me. And in the end, that is all any man really needs.

As far as I am concerned, it is a great pity Sid Collins and Trent Anthony didn’t read the bible, Exodus 20, Verse 16. ‘Thou shall not bear false witness.’

Come on God, get me out of this. Ha ha.

WELL, the month of June is drawing to a close and the three wise men of the Tasmanian Supreme Court are still considering my appeal. We are now in the dead of winter and if you have never experienced a Risdon prison winter, then you don’t fully understand the meaning of the word cold.

The jail rests in a sort of a valley surrounded by hills which are covered in snow in winter and it is bitterly cold. It looks like the set from The Sound of Music. God, Julie Andrews must have frozen her tits off on that one.

It snowed here the other day and I stood in the remand yard with snow fluttering down and landing on my head, face and shoulders. I put my tongue out and caught a snowflake. The little snowfall lasted only 10 minutes, but it was a first time jail experience for me, and would have been quite beautiful, if it hadn’t been for the fact I had worn a hole in my right shoe and my two pairs of socks had got wet. My right foot was numb with cold and the left one had gone out in sympathy.

At least I got to go inside when Karen (the White Dove) came to visit me. She now uses the bus to get here rather than her thumb, or at least that is what she tells me. I asked if there was anything I could do for her, or if there was anything she wanted, as her birthday was quite near. She put the bite on me for a lawn mower, so I fixed her up with a new lawn mower. Now I have spent a not-so-small fortune on chicks over the years, but she is the first one who ever put the hard word on me for a lawn mower.

My lawyer Anita’s offsider, Peter Warmbrunn, came to see me after doing some shopping on my behalf. He must have been in a philosophical mood because he asked: ‘What motivates you Chopper?’

It was a deep question which deserved a deep answer. I thought for a while and then put my hand on his shoulder. ‘What motivates me is Irish whisky, sawn-off shotguns and dirty girls.’

Peter stood there for a while and said: ‘Yeah, I guess that would motivate anyone’, then looked at me as if I was a complete mental case, not sure if I was joking or serious. The funny thing is that I’m not sure either.

I have been doing a little bit of legal research and even if I lose this appeal, I think the High Court will listen sympathetically to my case. They are not very keen on majority verdict convictions, and that is the way poor Chop Chop went down on this one.

One way or another I will fight on and win this. I will never surrender. I didn’t do it and I’m buggered if I am going to bend over and drop my pants for these mice.

Meanwhile, I sit in the remand yard catching snow flakes with my tongue.

Ahh, it’s a great life. What a bloody disaster.

MY OLD mate Big Bill Watson came in to see me today. Big Billy has been very loyal to me since I went into the Pink Palace. He said that it was all over town that I would win the appeal. In fact, he said ‘the word around the traps,’ was that I would win.

What a strange expression that is. What it really means is that half the drunken lunatics in Hobart, who have nothing better to do, have spent their days gossiping about whether I will get out. These dream merchants and cretins only knowledge of the law and crime would be when they are arrested occasionally on drunk and disorderly charges.

‘Around the traps’ is an expression used to describe what happens when big noters and wishful thinkers get together for a Saturday night piss up.

But it was good to see Big Billy, and I got a giggle when he told me that if I won and walked free, that he intended to kidnap me and take me to some nightclub in Hobart and introduce me to the biggest and baddest bunch of strippers in town. I have heard about these young ladies and if reports are correct, I could see myself suffering a physical injury.

Mary-Ann, the lady from the Tax Department, also wants to see me, if I am lucky enough to walk free, and I know for a fact that the White Dove has hatched plans for me which could leave a bloke in a wheelchair before morning.

But I also got a message from an old mate I shall call Johnny Z, who is a master gunsmith. He would also like to see me on my first night out. The thing about being in my late 30s is that I am no longer filled with the youthful madness that hits young blokes, as in: ‘Who will I plonk first when I get out of jail?’ To quote my old Dad: ‘Women come and women go, but the love of a good gunsmith lasts forever.’

So, if God does smile on me and my prayers are answered, my first night out will be spent with a bottle of Irish whisky, in front of an open fire with Johnny the gunsmith. First things are first and one must never stand up a good gunsmith, although I must admit that Big Bill’s strippers don’t sound half bad. As Dave the Jew always says, if you are going to spend money, you may as well buy in bulk.

I WAS all set to go back to the Supreme Court today to appear before the Master of the Supreme Court over a criminal injuries compensation claim, or hearing, lodged by guess who? Sid ‘never tell a lie’ Collins and his wife Simone, that’s who.

I received a note that if the Crown had to hand over any cash to Sorry Sid and company then the Crown would try and recover the money from me. Let me simply say that in my whole life no-one has ever recovered any money from me.

Well, didn’t Anita spit the dummy when she heard about this. She ranted and kicked items of office furniture and told the Crown in no uncertain terms that this was not on and we would fight the matter vigorously.

Mind you, while all this bullshit was going on, my appeal was still being considered. So, in my view, any suggestion of me paying compensation is a wee bit premature on Sid’s part.

We were all set to get in for some serious legal body and head shots when the call came through that I was not needed and they would sling Sid his compo, and no attempt would be made to recover it from my good self. That was the good news and I take it as a small victory.

As for Sid, his health can’t be that crook, for my spies tell me that he has launched into a major keep fit campaign and health program. He has turned into just another middle-aged hoon searching for the fountain of youth. I can only wish him well and when he finds the fountain, with any luck he might find his missing kidney floating in it.

As for his nice new compo cheque? I know Simone, his new wife, quite well, and I am confident that she will have that little lot spent in no time flat.

No, 1992 certainly wasn’t Sid’s year. He got shot and married. He managed to keep a straight face while giving Crown evidence in my first two trials, but let’s see how he goes if there is a re-trial. This fight is far from over.

STILL no word on the appeal. I suspect I probably won’t get an answer until August. Oh well. Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be. I bet when Doris Day sang those lovely words, she wasn’t facing life in the bin for allegedly shooting some dirt bag would-be bikie named Sid Collins.

But I digress.

Mary-Ann came in to see me again today, and I was surprised to learn that she was also born into a strict Seventh Day Adventist family, and left the church in her late teens. She used to go to the same church my Mother still attends. It is indeed a small world.

I got a letter from ‘Sherrie Sinatra’, the bad girl of ladies’ wrestling. I met her years ago at Bojangles nightclub in St Kilda. She was one tough chick and a nice lady. I got another letter wishing me well from a lady kick boxer, named Gloria, from Brisbane. She trains six young girls in kick boxing and they call themselves Chopper’s Angels. Isn’t that cute?

My little mate Tauree wrote to me to say she had my motto ‘Je Ne Regrette Rien’ tattooed on her bum. It is really good to see the cultural effect my literary works are having on the general public. They are going where no work has gone before.