Badfellas

by Paul Williams

  As tensions rose, Cahill and his gangsters met the following morning and decided to take retaliatory action. The General decided to organize a counter-protest and hurriedly formed the preposterously named Concerned Criminal Action Committee (CCAC). The 60-strong criminal group then marched on the homes of several CPAD members to intimidate them. The following night the homes of a number of CPAD members, including Humphrey’s, were smashed up. Armed and masked men then ambushed two other activists in St Theresa’s Gardens, shooting one of them in the legs. The General had declared war.

  The CCAC gave press interviews as the area became a tinderbox. Foley and Hogan, who acted as spokesmen, complained that the CPAD pickets and marches were affecting the activities of ‘ordinary decent criminals’. Cahill gave an interview to Irish Times journalist Padraig Yeates, on the understanding that he would not be identified, commenting: ‘I hate drugs; they have ruined members of my family.’

  After a number of other confrontations, meetings were held between the CPAD, represented by the Provo John Noonan, and the CCAC spokesmen Foley, Hogan and Gaffney. At the peace talks it was agreed that any further incidents would be sorted out, with each side carrying out its own investigation into the source of the problem to prevent an escalation. The gangsters left, happy that they had secured a truce. But the terrorists had other ideas.

  On 11 March, Tommy Gaffney was abducted by a four-man IRA gang, outside the Park Inn pub in Harold’s Cross. The General’s friend was taken out of Dublin and brought to a safe house, where he remained handcuffed to a chair for 12 days. He was repeatedly questioned about the drug trade by the cash-hungry Provos. But they were more interested in Martin Cahill and the O’Connor’s loot.

  The Gaffney kidnapping seriously escalated an already tense situation. Extra Gardaí and Special Task Force units were drafted into South Dublin to avert an outbreak of all-out warfare between the two sides. Hogan and Foley were taken in for questioning about the shooting of two CPAD members. The CCAC also marched on the homes of anti-drug protesters. Threats were made and shots were fired at the homes of republicans suspected of involvement in the abduction. As the days went by, with no word about Gaffney, Cahill believed that the IRA had murdered him. The General took the precaution of moving between safe houses, to avoid an assassination attempt. Then the Provos launched another strike in the simmering war.

  On the morning of 22 March 1984, Martin Foley was in bed at home in Cashel Avenue, Crumlin, when four IRA men burst into his home. The super-fit gangster put up a ferocious fight with his attackers. After a violent struggle, the IRA men managed to put handcuffs on Foley and drag him to a waiting van. The Provo kidnap gang included university graduate and self-employed butcher Sean Hick from upmarket Glenageary Avenue, Dun Laoghaire. Twenty-two-year-old Liam O’Dwyer, from Castleknock, was also university-educated and from a family, later described by his defence counsel, ‘of impeccable respectability’. In contrast, the youngest member of the snatch squad was Derek Dempsey, a petty criminal from Raheen Drive in Ballyfermot who was a recent recruit to the IRA. The leader of the team was 33-year-old bar manager James Dunne, from Finglas, north-west Dublin, a long-standing IRA member.

  As the kidnappers drove onto the Crumlin Road, they were spotted by a Garda patrol car that had been alerted to the disturbance in the area. The cops followed the van as it drove at the speed limit in the direction of Sundrive Road. Other Garda cars joined the slow-moving convoy. When a squad car moved to stop the van on the South Circular Road the IRA gang tore off, sparking a dramatic high-speed chase. By then, all nearby police units had been alerted about the Foley abduction. They joined in the pursuit as the van drove towards the Phoenix Park. As it sped through the main entrance from Conyngham Road, Dempsey and O’Dwyer fired shots at the pursuing patrol cars. Two unarmed officers had a narrow escape when a bullet bounced off the windscreen wiper in front of them. The van was eventually hemmed in on Wellington Road by all the squad cars that had descended on the area. The gang got out and tried to drag Foley with them but abandoned the idea. They fired shots at the police as they made a run for it, down steps leading onto Conyngham Road. But they were out-gunned and out-numbered, as over a hundred Gardaí arrived on the scene. The gang surrendered when members of the STF returned fire on them with Uzi machine-guns. Twenty-five minutes after it had begun, the kidnap drama was over.

  Foley, who was still in his underpants, was battered and bloodied, but safe. He was brought to hospital and treated for a fractured jaw and several cuts and bruises. For the first time in his criminal career he was glad to see the police. It had been a fruitful day’s work for the Gardaí – an entire IRA Active Service Unit had been caught red-handed. But it was a devastating blow for the Provos, who had already lost five members in another shoot-out with the STF seven months earlier (see Chapter 12).

  Later that night, the Provos released Tommy Gaffney. Before they set their hostage free they told him they were releasing him on the condition that he told the Gardaí he had been abducted by a group ‘concerned about the chronic drug problem in Dublin’. Shortly after midnight on the morning of 23 March he was left near Abbeyfeale, County Limerick.

  Gaffney’s release, Foley’s rescue and the capture of an IRA cell brought one of gangland’s most dangerous episodes to an uneasy end. An all-out bloodbath had been avoided, but the Provos also told Gaffney to deliver a final message to the General: ‘Tell Cahill that we will never kidnap him – we’ll stiff him on the street.’

  Shortly after the incident, Cahill gave an interview to the Irish Times in which he claimed that the crisis had been caused because the Provos wanted a share of the O’Connor’s loot and that it had nothing to do with drugs: ‘They can’t go out and rob for themselves any longer. They have to rob ordinary criminals who have done the work and taken the chances. There’s nothing lower than someone who robs a robber.’ Cahill confirmed that he had been prepared to go to war with the Provos in Dublin. He was telling the underworld that he was afraid of no one. The General’s exploits gave him an air of invincibility. His reputation was reaching legendary status in the underworld. His attack on Dr James Donovan, his war with the police, facing down the Provos, the crucifixion and the O’Connor’s heist had all made him seem untouchable.

  As tensions eased Cahill got back to life as normal. He used some of his ill-gotten gains to buy a four-bedroom detached house at Cowper Downs, an upmarket corner of Rathmines. It was the last place anyone expected the General to live, but it was close to his beloved Hollyfield. Although officially on the dole, he paid £80,000 in cash – approximately ten years’ dole money and almost €250,000 in today’s values – for his new home. And there was nothing anyone could do about it. He registered the house in Noel Lynch’s name. Cahill was also a keen pigeon fancier and he paid tens of thousands of pounds for racing birds and, much to the chagrin of his neighbours, built a large loft in the back garden. The General’s pets were an unwelcome sight in the quiet, middle-class neighbourhood but no one was in a position to complain. Life was good for the General, but he still faced the prospect of a lengthy prison sentence.

  Martin Cahill and Christy Dutton stood trial for the Clondalkin armed robbery before Judge Frank Martin in May 1984. The General was still determined not to go down without a fight. For the first two days of the four-day hearing, gang members crowded into the courtroom to try to intimidate the jury. At one stage two of Cahill’s men suddenly began shouting abuse. ‘Martin Cahill, ye’r only a dirt bird drug-dealer who killed my sister,’ one of them roared. ‘Ye’r a murderin’ bastard,’ shouted the second heckler, as they were both herded out of the court by Gardaí. It was a blatant stunt to have the trial aborted, on the grounds that the comments would prejudice the jury. Cahill had pulled a similar stunt during the 1970s. On that occasion a man stood up in the public gallery and confessed to the judge and jury that he had committed the burglary and not Cahill. It worked and Cahill eventually won an acquittal. But this time, Judge Martin saw through the blatant stu
nt and allowed the trial to continue. Next Cahill sacked his defence team and tried to conduct the case himself, cross-examining Garda witnesses in the box. After a half-day on his feet, however, he realized that he was no ‘Rumpole of the Bailey’ and re-appointed his legal representatives.

  The most dramatic moment in the trial came when Dr James Donovan was called to give the evidence which had almost cost him his life. Ironically this was to be his first appearance in court since the bomb attack and the significance was lost on no one, especially Cahill. James Donovan had courageously returned to work several months earlier. The tough Cork man was determined to show the gangsters that they had not won. In October 1982, evidence from his laboratory had helped to convict Eddie Cahill and Harry Melia, when they were tried in the refurbished Central Criminal Court. They’d each received seven years.

  There was total silence when the heroic public servant entered the courtroom. He was flanked by his armed Garda bodyguards, who were now with him round-the-clock. Despite being in agony from his injuries, Dr Donovan was determined to deliver his forensic evidence in this particular case. As he hobbled on his crutches to the witness box, he passed Cahill sitting in the dock with Dutton. The General was studiously avoiding making eye contact with his victim. Judge Frank Martin broke the silence and conveyed to the scientist the court’s sympathies for his injuries and congratulated him on his courage in returning to work.

  In the end neither a bomb nor intimidation helped Cahill to win his freedom. When the case for the State closed on 1 June, defence counsel for the two gangsters argued the technical legal point that the State had failed to prove a vital ingredient in the charge of armed robbery – in her evidence to the court, the victim of the robbery had not been asked if she had been put in fear of her life during the heist. In the circumstances Judge Martin was left with no option but to acquit the two men. Cahill couldn’t believe his luck. The law had worked in his favour.

  Afterwards Cahill celebrated with his henchmen in the Tilted Wig pub, across the road from the Four Courts. He sat grinning at the downcast members of the Garda investigation team who had come so close to ending Cahill’s criminal career. As he got up to leave, Cahill spotted his adversary, Detective Inspector Dick Murphy, who was in charge of the case. Murphy had been the first, and only, cop who ever got Cahill to admit to a crime. With a beaming smile Cahill shouted across the bar: ‘Hey, Murphy! Get up ya. See ya again.’ Then he gave the detectives the two fingers and walked out. Martin Cahill’s reputation had grown to almost mythic proportions in gangland.

  Two months later, on 3 July 1984, the four IRA members went on trial in the Special Criminal Court for kidnapping Martin Foley. They were also charged with shooting at Garda Tony Tighe, possessing firearms with intent to endanger life and using them to resist arrest. In the three months since his abduction, Foley had been placed in the rather awkward position of receiving 24-hour armed police protection. It was a situation that both sides could have done without. Foley had declared his determination to testify against the men who he believed had intended murdering him. When his INLA friends suggested he might develop amnesia about the incident, he’d stubbornly refused. In the hours after the abduction he formally identified the four Provos on an identity parade. Gardaí had to pull him back when he’d spat at the terrorists and tried to punch one of them. He’d also made three detailed statements. In the meantime, however, the Provos had sent him a message. If Foley didn’t keep his mouth shut he would receive another visit, but this time he wouldn’t be going for a drive.

  By the time Foley was called as the principal prosecution witness, he had suffered a complete change of attitude. When prosecuting counsel asked the Viper to recall the events at his home on the morning of the incident he replied: ‘I was half asleep and I can’t remember what I did. I don’t know if I was standing up or still in bed. I remember some noises in the bedroom. What I remember after that was sitting in a patrol car in dense fog with, I think, a lot of police around me. I was on a tarmac road in dense fog and there were fields and trees and a lot of uniformed Gardaí around.’ When asked if he recalled making a statement to the Gardaí he replied: ‘I don’t remember. I remember one of the Gardaí telling me that I had been kidnapped or something.’

  The court agreed to an application from the prosecution to have Foley declared a hostile witness so that they could then cross-examine him. In criminal trials counsel cannot cross-examine their own witnesses, unless they have been deemed to be hostile. When pressed again about his signed statements, Foley claimed: ‘I was in court when it was read out and it is completely untrue.’

  In Foley’s original statement, he had been very clear about what had happened during the incident. ‘The van stopped and one of them dragged me on to the roadway and he wanted to bring me with him, but my legs were taped and I fell on the ground. He [one of the Provos] ran away from me, the tape was down from my eyes and I could see everything. I was in the Phoenix Park. I could see the four men running to the left of the van, going down a hill, towards the wall of the Park. They were firing shots. I could see uniformed guards running after them. There were detectives there with guns in their hands. It was foggy but I could see everything that was happening.’

  In any event the prosecution had overwhelming evidence with which to prove their case against the Provos. On 26 July, they were found guilty of kidnapping the cowardly gangster. Derek Dempsey received a nine-year sentence; Sean Hick and James Dunne got seven years each and Liam O’Dwyer got five.

  With the case out of the way, an uneasy peace returned to Gangland and it was business as usual for the mobsters. A week after the trial Martin Foley married his girlfriend, Pauline Quinn. Both the Provos and criminals stood back from the brink and got on with their separate wars. But the Provos would not forget the former burglar from the rundown tenement who had humiliated them. For his part the General was on top of the world, and could barely keep the sneering smile off his face.

  11. Murder in Gangland

  The drug trade transformed Gangland and, in the process, undermined the old ethics of so-called ‘ordinary decent criminals’. As former professional armed robber and drug-dealer Dave ‘Myler’ Brogan once lamented: ‘When drugs came everything changed. There was no loyalty and people who had once been friends started turning guns on each other because one thought the other had ripped him off. Fuck it, it just wasn’t worth the hassle any more.’

  The smashing of the Dunne criminal organization was a victory of sorts. But while they’d been taken off the stage, the demand for heroin had been consolidated and so had the supply network they’d created. Putting the family out of business had created a new problem – and pushed Gangland to a different level. The Drug Squad’s John McGroarty, the man who played a major role in the Dunnes’ downfall, explained: ‘Putting away the Dunnes led to a fragmentation of the drug trade and led to a multiplicity of gangs, who saw this as an opportunity to get into the big time. It ushered in a new phase in the story of organized crime in this country.’

  As a steady stream of mobsters decommissioned their balaclavas and getaway cars for the much more lucrative narcotics trade, a new gangland phenomenon was created – the contract killing. The prodigious profits from the trade made people greedy and they began using violence and murder to protect their interests. The gun became the corporate tool of choice for the ambitious gangland businessman.

  By comparison the armed robbery gangs which had previously dominated the crime scene had little to fight about, as long as the proceeds of a job were divided up equally. Any rows were generally sorted out with a ‘straightener’ and the number of criminals being murdered by their counterparts was very low. Their preferred victims were the Gardaí, security guards and innocent bystanders.

  In the early years of the drug trade, the small number of gangs involved observed the equivalent of gentlemen’s agreements when it came to business and territory. The Dunnes rarely used guns to sort out issues over drug patches – as there was ple
nty to go around for everyone. Former Irish Times journalist Padraig Yeates was one of the first reporters to cover the emerging gangland in the early 1980s, at a time when the media, like the Government, was preoccupied with the Troubles. Yeates commented on the arrival of the contract killer: ‘Dublin was still quite a small place and everyone knew everyone else. If there was a row over turf the criminals knew each other and could meet to sort it out. But as the years progressed there was a proliferation of gangs and the scene became much more fragmented and violent.’

  By the time Larry and Mickey Dunne made their dire predictions about the underworld’s violent future, the first gangland executions had already taken place.

  In 1983, a hash-dealer called Gerard Hourigan officially became the first victim of a professional gangland hit man. A small-time crook from Ballymun, Hourigan was typical of hundreds of other young men who would perish in gangland in the years of bloodshed that followed. He was brash, ambitious and didn’t mind whose toes he stood on, as he made his way to the big time. The 25-year-old from Balcurris Road was in charge of distributing hashish and heroin in the grim flats complex for Myler Brogan. Ballymun, once seen as a revolutionary new approach to public housing in the 1960s, had become a haven for junkies and their suppliers. The estimated 1,000 heroin addicts living in the concrete wasteland added to the grinding misery of its inhabitants. But for Hourigan’s boss this was a hugely lucrative patch and one that Brogan would not give up without a fight. Myler, who was in his thirties, was a former member of Saor Eire and a key member of a large drug-smuggling network that controlled the narcotics trade in North Dublin.