by Gary Jubelin
As a detective, you can’t ignore someone just because you can’t find their fingerprints. Sometimes, it’s only by eliminating people from an investigation that you can move forward.
I breathe out slowly, unable to say anything.
The magistrate continues: ‘The inability to make concessions in his evidence about the way he went about the pursuit of [Paul] does impact upon the determination I’m about to make about Mr Jubelin’s reliability and truthfulness as a witness.’
Breathe in.
The magistrate looks up and pauses, so that what he says next will ring out in the almost empty courtroom.
Breathe out.
He says my version of events is ‘untenable’ and ‘unbelievable’.
He’s calling me a liar.
I haven’t lied. You’ve got the evidence in front of you. I’ve been as honest as I can be, to the point where it was painful.
He says my version of events failed to pass the test of cross-examination.
Instead, he says, I was pursuing a strategy at any cost. ‘This was above and beyond legality. This was, “I am going after [Paul].”’
That was my job. I needed to be certain before ruling Paul out. Anything else would have been betraying William, and his parents.
The magistrate says he finds me guilty.
I have become a criminal, like all of those I spent a lifetime fighting against. I slump forward, weighed down by the burden of this judgment. It’s one more load to put on the scales beside the loss of my career, my reputation and the promises I made to victims’ families which got broken when I left the police force.
I told them I would not give up, and now I can’t go on, not as a detective.
The scales are tipped against me. There is no place for people like me now in the New South Wales Police Force. The force has changed. During my trial, each of the three Bowraville families received a letter from the Police Commissioner saying, ‘As you are aware, all applications, appeals and court proceedings are now currently exhausted.’
Instead, the children’s murders will be ‘subject to the new Unsolved Homicide Review Process’ introduced by Scott. ‘The review will be subject to quality control and ratified by the Unsolved Homicide Review Committee . . . If a reinvestigation cannot be commenced, the matter will continue to be examined every six months.’
Like the family of Theresa Binge, whose murder was also taken off me by Scott and subject to the same process, the Bowraville mob no longer have the name or phone number of a detective they can call, day or night. William Tyrrell’s foster parents, whose son’s disappearance was once thought so important the State Premier promised every resource that I needed to solve it, have written to the Police Commissioner and made repeated phone calls to his office. He has not replied or returned their calls.
The magistrate stands. I stand. We bow. He leaves the court.
I shrug and try to smile at my legal team.
I’m still wearing the same black suit, white shirt, black tie I wore as a detective. It’s now a crook’s outfit.
Leaving the court, I think about what I’ve put my family through, during this trial, in recent years and, when I think of my children, throughout their whole lifetimes. I wonder if this verdict will change the way they see me.
It nearly breaks my heart to think about my kids. Apart from them, this job was the one thing I was proud of. The one thing I was good at.
Walking outside, I watch the TV cameras surge forward. Already, I am paying the price for what I’ve done. Yet, somehow, I look up, over the wall of microphones and lenses and realise that, really, I’ve been fortunate.
I’ve seen so many things. Seen death up close. Seen people at their weakest and at their strongest. It’s all because I joined the cops – and it’s all there for anyone who takes on the job, providing they want to push themselves and take some risks and experience some pressure.
If any of these reporters were to ask me what I’ve done in my career, I’d say I played a part, along with the Bowraville families, in overturning the double jeopardy protections, so that someone who’s been found not guilty of a murder can now face trial again, if there is new evidence. I played a part in breaking down the right to silence, when we offered Michael Atkins a deal: immunity from prosecution if you tell us where you buried Matt Leveson. I played a part in raising the reward offered by the State of New South Wales for information about a murder to $1 million, hoping to find William. There are now a swag of other murder cases in New South Wales for which a $1 million reward is offered. I’m proud of that.
I hope some other cop will come forward and finish the jobs I started. But in my quiet moments, I will look back and think, Fuck, yes, I made a difference.
* * *
But if these reporters ask me, ‘Do you wish you hadn’t recorded those four conversations?’ Then, yes, I do. At the time, it was the right decision, but looking at everything that’s happened to me since, I wish I hadn’t made it.
That’s the burden you’re given when you join the police force; the decisions you may make in a moment, carry consequences that can last for years, for the victims, the suspects, their families and for you, also.
I made that call. And I never made a secret of those recordings with Paul.
I did that. It’s cost me everything, and that’s the truth, the whole truth.
I own it.
* * *
The interview is over. The journalists turn off their cameras, pack away their microphones and start typing out what they will say on the evening news and in tomorrow’s newspapers.
Later tonight, when I get home, Axeman will call me and say he’s just had the word ‘Dog’ spray-painted on his door and his house shot up in a drive-by attack. He’ll say he’s tooling up and is going to go after them.
‘Don’t be stupid, keep your head down and call the cops,’ I’ll tell him. ‘By the way, I’ve had a pretty shit day too.’
Yeah, he’s seen that on the news and it’s no good, Axeman will tell me, but if I end up being sentenced to prison he’ll come in and look after me. I believe him. Right now, I do feel close to him and Rocco – my best, and worst, criminal informants.
In the eyes of the court, I have crossed the line between policeman and criminal. Both of them crossed a line when they agreed to cooperate with the police.
Later tonight, Axeman will tell me how, when he decided to become an informer during the Bowraville investigation, he went to see his criminal mates, sat down and put a pistol on the table, loaded with a parabellum round that explodes on impact. He challenged them, ‘If you think I’m doing the wrong thing, then shoot me.’ They didn’t.
This was three children murdered. He’d done the right thing coming forward.
Or take Rocco. He’s out of the bikie gangs and living life the right way now, working hard and paying taxes. He could have a hell of a lot more money if he lived the way he used to but he says his outlaw days are behind him. I trust him, so much so that I once said, in another life, he should have joined the cops.
With my days as a convicted criminal just beginning, Rocco sends me photos of his son, saying he hopes the boy will join the police when he’s older.
* * *
Walking away from the court with my lawyers, we stop at the traffic lights, watching the cars roaring past us down Liverpool Street. A male voice yells, ‘You’re going to be fucked up when you go inside! The boys are waiting for you!’
I turn. He’s two metres away from us, his finger raised, ready to throw another threat at me. He looks grubby and vicious, like a petty crook. This is what being out of the cops means, I think. I’m on my own and that makes me vulnerable.
There are plenty of people I have put in prison who are now out and living in this city, or who will be released in the coming years. Many would love to see me again, without an entire police force around me. The Perish brothers among them.
I know the TV cameras are still up on the top of the courthouse steps, ready
to start shooting if I make a scene here, so I have to be careful.
The grubby bloke’s still shouting, ‘We’re going to fucking do you!’ He’s expecting me to walk away, so I take a step towards him instead and he falls silent. We stare at each other, and I can feel the anger building inside me at everything that’s happened.
The seconds pass.
I am not going anywhere.
He looks down at the footpath and retreats.
I turn back to the road, putting the courthouse behind me. The lights change. I take a step forward.
POSTSCRIPT
On 8 April 2020, Gary Jubelin was ordered to pay a fine of $10,000 for recording his conversations with Paul. He has appealed against his conviction, saying he would rather go to prison than pay to do police work. His appeal was yet to be heard at the time this book was published.
At the time of writing, the inquest into William Tyrrell’s likely death had been adjourned and was due to resume within months.
Bill is taking legal action against the New South Wales Police Force, claiming malicious prosecution, false imprisonment, misfeasance in public office and collateral abuse of process.
In June 2020, police searched an area of bush on the New South Wales Mid North Coast, near where Frank Abbott was living at the time of William’s disappearance.
The inquest has not yet established what happened to three-year-old William.
To date, no one has been jailed for the Bowraville murders.
Gary’s greatest regret on leaving the New South Wales Police Force is those cases where he has been unable to tell grieving families what happened to their loved ones.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My story would not have been told without the support I’ve had throughout my life from my family and friends. Over the years, their generosity and sacrifice have allowed me to selfishly throw myself into my career, and given me the confidence to pursue my passions. They also helped to pick me up when I was down. To each and every one of them, I want to give my thanks.
Throughout my police career I have been humbled by the faith shown in me by the many victims’ families who trusted me to investigate the deaths of their loved ones. Their resilience when confronted by tragedy has taught me so much about love, life and death. Their support has also given me the confidence to write about these experiences, and for all of this, I want to thank them.
I would also like to thank the dedicated police officers I was fortunate enough to work with, particularly those who taught me my trade and, later, those who trusted me to lead them when the pressure was on. My story is their story also. A special thanks to those serving and former cops who stood strong beside me when I was put under investigation and sent before the courts.
There are also other people in my life who shaped me and whom I would like to thank, many but not all of whom are mentioned in this book. It is as honest an account of what I’ve learned from each of them as possible. To achieve that, where possible all dialogue, particularly in the interviews with suspects and witnesses, is taken from police records, court documents or other contemporaneous reports. In places, these have been edited for clarity. Other dialogue is how I remember it.
My departure from the New South Wales Police Force was not what I hoped for, and afterwards many people felt an understandable degree of caution about dealing with an ex-cop who had been criminally charged. Amid all this, Helen Littleton, Claire Harvey and Kathy Lipari were three people who believed in me and, between them, helped me to find a way forward, which included writing this autobiography. They gave me my confidence back. I cannot explain how important that was.
It is a confronting experience telling your life story. At HarperCollins, Helen first reassured and encouraged me, then guided me. After more than three decades as a policeman, though, I could write a good set of fact sheets but still needed help turning my life into a book.
I’d known Dan Box for years as a crime reporter, particularly through his work on the Bowraville murders, and knew that his reputation was based on his integrity. The other thing I liked about Dan is that he would call me out if needed and challenge me to ensure the full story was told.
I am in awe of the professionalism Dan, Helen, editors Barbara McClenahan and Emma Dowden, Pam Dunne, Graeme Jones and the others working with HarperCollins have brought to this project. The generosity shown by News Corp Australia in allowing me to concentrate on the book is also greatly appreciated.
Thank you all for helping me tell my story.
PHOTO SECTION
Age 4, playing at being a soldier defending the family home.
Who is this Santa character? With my sister Karen, 1964.
Finding freedom on a surf trip, age 17.
Endless Australian summer, holidaying on the coast.
Some academy mates (I’m on the right). We had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into.
With my parents on the day I passed out of the police academy in 1985.
With Debbie at the academy on the same day, also my 23rd birthday.
Training to deal with the worst of the worst, 1998.
With Jason Evers outside Buckingham Palace, during a trip to London in 2001 to investigate the death of Caroline Byrne.
Tony Byrne in 2012, holding a photograph of his daughter Caroline.
Stephen Cooper / Newspix
With my kids, Jake and Gemma. Teaching them to find the same sense of freedom I have in the water.
At my wedding to Tracy in 2011, which coincided with a flash flood.
Speaking to the media after the Perish brothers were sentenced over the murder of Terry Falconer, 2012.
Simon Alekna / Sydney Morning Herald
The families of the murdered Bowraville children march on Parliament House, Sydney, 2013.
Dan Himbrechts / AAP Image
NSW Police Commissioner Andrew Scipione apologises to the Bowraville families, 2016.
John Feder / Newspix
Flowers left outside the Lindt Chocolate Café, Sydney, following the fatal siege in 2014.
Dean Lewins / AAP Image
The boxing ring exposes any weakness. Gary Jubelin v Mark Bouris, 2018.
Robert Gibbs / Beaches Images
With Matt Nable (from Underbelly) and some of the Bowraville mob, after fighting in a police boxing event, 2017.
During a 2015 search operation in the bush near Kendall, where William Tyrrell went missing.
Nathan Edwards / Newspix
Speaking at one of the events to mark the first anniversary of William’s disappearance.
Nathan Edwards / Newspix
Finding Matt Leveson’s body, with his parents, Mark and Faye, 2017.
Dean Lewins / AAP Image
I’ve learned to find the same sense of peace while surfing and through meditation.
Practising qigong in the Blue Mountains, outside Sydney.
Surfing mates on a trip to Lombok.
With Gemma and Jake, as adults. I am most proud of my relationship with my children.
Leaving the Downing Centre Local Court in April 2020, having been found guilty.
Joel Carrett / AAP Image
Starting a new career after the police – working in media.
About the Author
GARY JUBELIN was one of Australia’s most celebrated detectives, leading investigations into the disappearance of preschooler William Tyrrell, the serial killing of three Aboriginal children in Bowraville and the brutal gangland murder of Terry Falconer. During his 34-year career, Detective Chief Inspector Jubelin also ran the crime scene following the Lindt Café siege, investigated the death of Caroline Byrne and recovered the body of Matthew Leveson. Jubelin retired from the force in 2019. This is his story.
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Copyright
All dialogue and other direct speech in this book are taken from publicly available records tendered during the relevant court proceedings or, in some instances, from the memories of those involved. In particular, the dialogue wi
th Gordon Wood is taken from records tendered during his 2008 trial. The material described as having been captured on both authorised and unauthorised listening devices used to record Paul is taken from records tendered in the local court proceedings involving Gary Jubelin during February 2020.
Dan Box is a Walkley Award–winning journalist who has worked for The Australian, as well as London’s The Sunday Times and the BBC.
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First published in Australia in 2020
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Copyright © GKJ Phoenix Pty Limited and Dan Box 2020
The right of Gary Jubelin and Dan Box to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.