When Hodgson first broke the news, we counted how long Tech Ventures might survive, and took bets on how long it would take for Johnson and his mates to satisfy themselves that their nonsense suspicions were unfounded. Days became weeks and weeks became months. Ultimately, Fran lost patience. She wrote to the Commissioner of Police and Federal Attorney– General demanding the investigation proceed immediately and threatening class action by shareholders if delays caused the company further damage.
I was delighted when two detectives arrived at our office. I welcomed them warmly, rejecting their advice to call a lawyer and giving them open access to files, computers and staff. Detective Sinn replied that he ought not to be surprised by the reception. Fran had somehow managed to have a minor investigation prioritised over investigations of drug importation and prostitution rings.
More months passed. Endless police interviews exposed no clue to Johnson’s motives or purpose.
“Mr Johnson’s claimed concerns remain a mystery to me, Paul,” Sinn declared. “I can find no irregularities, and I’ve told him so, but his department is my client and without his agreement, I can’t close this matter.”
Johnson steadfastly refused to let it go.
“I’d like to do something a little unconventional, but only if you and Fran agree. It might be uncomfortable for you, to say the least,” Sinn said in a phone call one late May morning. “I’d like to bring Mr Johnson to a meeting at your office and ask him to question you directly. Tell you exactly what his concerns are and let you respond.”
Fran and I replied that we would relish the opportunity to challenge our specious accuser.
#
On June 3rd, 2003, Robert Johnson entered the Tech Ventures boardroom with his head bowed. Refusing my extended hand, he pushed right past the others to take a seat at the end of the table and stare intently at a carving of a maple leaf on the edging around the boardroom table. Detective Frank Sinn of the Australian Federal Police followed him, greeting us with hearty handshakes and a broad smile.
There were four on the Tech Ventures side of the table. Dan, the lanky but distinguished looking ex–politician had taken over from me as chairman a year earlier. Dylan, our fresh–faced young technical director, sat beside Fran and I along the east side of the room, facing a row of Dobell prints and with framed company registration certificates, partner agreements and award certificates behind us. Fran wore her red power suit and I suppressed a smile, admiring her. At 55, she was still slim and attractive, with just a hint of salt in her hair giving her a mature, distinguished look. She had a reputation as a kind, gentle woman until crossed, but a potent adversary and one who inevitably had right on her side and would not tolerate evil.
“Well, Mr Johnson,” the detective said, when all were seated with introductions complete. “You may now begin your questioning.”
Awkward silence. Johnson continued to stare at the maple leaf, colour rising in his neck.
“Mr Johnson?”
Heavy silence. Fran’s eyes blazed at Johnson and Sinn’s face worked in an uneasy contortion of frustration.
“Mr Johnson, I warned you this would be your last opportunity to ask these questions you say you need answered. At the end of today’s meeting, I am going to close this investigation.”
Silence. The detective fiddled with his notebook.
“Mr Johnson,” Fran addressed him now, and her tone caused me to draw breath sharply. “You have made a very serious accusation and ─”
“There was no accusation made, Mrs Wilson,” said Detective Sinn. “Mr Johnson raised concerns.”
“Concerns? Concerns?” she shouted. “Let me tell you about our concerns, Detective Sinn.”
I kicked her under the table and Dan made a face at her, but she ignored us.
“Mr Johnson comes in here just when we are about to close a $100 million deal and accuses me of falsifying a government grant application. Grounds for accusation? I have no idea. He interviews me twice and then goes away without a word. The next thing I know there are police interrogating us and our staff and searching our computers and files for heaven only knows what and our business is frozen. Instead of closing an amazing deal that will make all our shareholders rich, we are struggling to survive until Mr Johnson satisfies his claimed ‘concerns’, which he will not articulate and which it appears, from his behaviour today, were never valid to begin with.”
“I didn’t cause your business to be frozen,” Johnson sniveled, without looking up. “You were free to keep marketing product.”
“We are a research and development company, Mr Johnson. The product the company was founded on became obsolete due to web technology changing the landscape in computer programming. We turned our focus to music copy protection --- the product that underpinned our public offering --- because it promised our shareholders a return of 20 times their investment. We were on the verge of finalising a deal when you intruded.”
“So what stopped the deal?” Sinn asked in a tone that implied genuine curiosity.
“It was subject to the addition of several product features. We had an investor willing to fund the research to add those features, but he pulled out because the due diligence process uncovered Mr Johnson’s allegations. We couldn’t secure investment capital to fund the necessary further research until this matter was resolved.”
Sinn nodded, then addressed Johnson again, this time in a forceful tone. “Mr Johnson, I consented to arrange this meeting because no matter how many times I tell you I can’t find any evidence of irregularity, you keep telling me your concerns are not satisfied. I am giving you one final opportunity to ask questions. You have exactly five minutes, sir, and then this meeting, and my investigation, is over.”
Johnson continued to stare in sullen silence at the maple leaf.
Your name should be Simms, I thought, suppressing a murderous rage and reminding myself that I had yet to exact that long–planned revenge.
“Tapped phones, bugs in our living room,” Fran shouted. “God, you have put us through hell, Johnson. And now you sit there like a pathetic, wimpish little schoolboy who was caught out lying and ─”
I kicked her harder this time and motioned to her to be quiet. Sinn frowned. “The police didn’t bug your home or your phones.”
“Someone did,” I said. “An amateurish attempt too. A bug fell out of the overhead light in our living room.”
Johnson reached for a folder in a pile on the centre of the table, upsetting the pile in the process. He began thumbing through it, seemingly without any real purpose.
“If I could just take some of these files away with me --- ”
“Absolutely not! Those files are company property and valuable,” Dylan roared. “Tell us what you are looking for and we will locate it and copy it for you.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. His purpose seems to be to cause total disruption and he’s achieved it. He’s killed $100 million deal, wiped out a business, and caused shareholders $5 million in losses. And now he’s sitting there dumbstruck and unable to think of a single legitimate question to ask.”
Fran was on her feet now. I feared any moment she would go right across the table and punch Johnson.
“I’d like to leave now,” Johnson said in a sheepish whisper. “I feel like I’m being railroaded.”
“Railroaded?” Fran screamed. “You feel like you are being railroaded? You sniveling little bastard! Do you have any idea how much damage you have done with your careless accusations and stupid baseless assumptions?”
Sinn closed his notebook and put it and his pen in his top suit pocket. “I think we are done here. I am very sorry to have imposed on you and I thank you for your co–operation. I will file my report.”
Johnson bolted from the room without even pretence of courtesy. Sinn lingered a while and I noticed Johnson pacing nervously about the parking lot, obviously impatient to make his escape.
“I must say, Mr and Mrs Wilson, it was quite an experie
nce for me, meeting you. When I announce myself, most people can’t get to the phone quickly enough to call their lawyer. An offer of coffee and an open invitation to inspect files and computers at my leisure was not what I expected at all.”
“When one has nothing to hide, Mr Sinn, there is no need for lawyers and no reason not to assist an inquiry in any way possible,” Fran replied.
“And Mr Wilson, thank you for introducing me to the internet Wayback Machine. It will prove very useful in future investigations and it certainly made it easy to respond to Mr Johnson’s incorrect claim that Market Tactics never existed.”
I wondered again how a senior detective with the Australian Federal Police could not know of the existence of a website that archived nearly everything ever published on the World Wide Web.
Sinn shook hands then and apologised again for the intrusion. It wasn’t his fault, of course, and he had done his best not to cause disruption. I stood at the window and watched them drive off.
It was finally over. Months of police visits, interviews, employee questions, stress and living under a cloud of suspicion, and we still hadn’t the faintest notion what it was all about. Johnson never gave even a hint of the reason for his suspicions and Sinn was far too professional to disclose why he had been called in. The thickset, greying detective with kind eyes questioned us politely, asked to see documents, apologised constantly for having to intrude and disclosed absolutely nothing. Johnson drove away in a sleek black sedan, taking all our hopes and dreams with him.
It was over; all of it. The resolution had come too late. Tech Ventures closed down, the liquidators claimed the last of the cash reserves and assets in payment of their claimed fees. Their invoice exceeded their quote by a factor of five and totalled, coincidentally, precisely the amount they calculated the company was worth at the time of closure. Harry, the company accountant, said that was normal practice.
The $600,000 debt the company owed Fran and I in unpaid salaries was written off, along with debts to other directors. There were no other creditors. The shareholders were politely advised their shares were worthless and they may be entitled to claim a tax loss.
My fingertips had touched the brass ring, but a shiny–arsed bureaucrat snatched it from my grip and removed it to dangle seductively just beyond my reach. I cursed my stupidity for forgetting who I was and what I was destined to be.
All that I desired… black car departing.
I was left with that old sensation of emptiness --- that same hollow ache I recalled feeling when the black car left me at St Patrick’s all those years ago.
Cold. Naked. Exposed.
All my tomorrows lay out in front of me like paving stones forming a path through the gauntlet: a tortuous, purposeless path without any end.
#
Dan phoned the following Wednesday.
“I had a call from Mr Johnson’s boss. I’ve been making some quiet inquiries, Paul, using my connections. I want to know what that inquiry was all about.”
“And?”
“I’m meeting with him at 10:30 today. I told him I wanted you and Fran with me, but he was emphatic that he wouldn’t speak to me with either of you, or Dylan, present. I think it’s disgraceful, but I want to question him so I’ve consented to go alone. I just wanted you to know. He’s cautioned me that everything he tells me is absolutely confidential and I mustn’t breathe a word of it to you or Fran. I’ll play his game just long enough to get to the bottom of this. I’ll stop in on the way back from the meeting.”
He arrived at our house just after noon. Fran made chicken and salad sandwiches for lunch. Dan’s demeanour gave nothing away, but there was keenness in his greeting and when Fran asked if he cared to eat first and talk later, he was quick to state his preference to talk while we ate.
“So,” Fran said when we were seated, “What did you find out?”
“When East and Johnson came in for the second interview, did he ask you where Market Tactics conducted their seminars?”
“Yes, and we told them we didn’t know the address off hand, but would look it up for them if necessary. They said it wasn’t important.” I answered.
“We gave them the taxi vouchers from the hotel and back, and we described the place in some detail.” Fran added.
“Hmmm.” Dan paused to sip his coffee before continuing. He looked somewhat careworn now, as though the morning meeting had been too much for him. “Fran, apparently the invoice from Market Tactics had an address on it which included a suite number.”
“It did. In the U.S., they often quote a suite number when using a post office box or a secretarial service for receiving mail. Market Tactics sold out just after we went over there. They closed their Boston office and relocated to the buyer’s offices in New York. They used a post office box address to finalise collection of payments, etc., because they no longer had a physical address.”
“Did you tell Johnson all that?”
“Absolutely. Why?”
“Because Johnson wrote in his report that he asked you if the address on the invoice was the address of the place the seminars were conducted and you confirmed that it was.”
“That’s a lie and I can prove it. Check our records. The meeting was fully minuted.”
“Well, it seems they flew a detective to Boston to check --- twice --- and he took photos of a post box. Johnson then sent the photos to the Federal Police with a statement that you were claiming to have attended seminars in a post office box.”
I prepared to restrain Fran. I don’t know what I expected her to do. She liked and trusted Dan. None of this was his fault. He had been wonderfully supportive throughout. He could have done as Johnson’s boss made him promise to do --- not tell us what he had discovered. I knew, though, Fran was furious enough that if Johnson or East were here now, they would be in mortal danger.
“And that’s the sum total of his claimed ‘concerns’?” I asked Dan.
“Apparently. Combined with the fact that Market Tactics didn’t exist at the time he started assessing the claim.” He shifted in his seat.
“They had sold out already. That was fully explained also.”
“I’m sure it was. I’m satisfied both Johnson and East were thoroughly incompetent, and I said so, but unfortunately there’s very little we can do about it now. I doubt they’ll even suffer any penalty. It’ll be put down to an unfortunate mistake.”
I didn’t trust myself to respond. I had suffered too much as a result of pencil–pushing bureaucrats’ unfortunate mistakes.
Dan shook my hand warmly, and hugged Fran. “I don’t know what to say. I wish there were words to help you feel better about all this.”
“It was good of you to tell us, Dan. I know it wouldn’t have been easy to make a promise you had no intention of keeping.”
“It was a promise they had no right to ask for. I will never consent to supporting wrongdoing and I won’t apologise for doing what I have to do to try to make things as right as they can be. I just wish I could fix the mess these fools have created with their incompetence.”
“Not incompetence, Dan. Lies. Johnson knows what was said in the interview.”
He didn’t respond. He had been part of the system for a long time. He knew how it operated, and he was no ordinary politician. His integrity had cost him dearly in that profession.
He turned at the front gate. “By the way,” he called back to us, “It’s small comfort, I know, but they’ve approved the claim. Of course nothing will be paid now that Tech Ventures is no more, but at least no–one can question your honesty.”
~~~~
46: THE TRUTH REVEALED
DECEMBER, 2007
I didn’t watch the news on December 11, 2007. Once almost addicted to current affair shows and documentaries, I had long since lost confidence in reporters who danced to tunes played by commercial interests and distorted truth for the benefit of lobby groups and power clusters. It wasn’t until sometime later, in conversation with a friend, that I
heard of newly installed Prime Minister Kevin Rudd’s momentous announcement that an apology would be made to Australians who were stolen from their homes as children.
I did watch, tense and angry and with gut churning, at 9:30 the following February 13th when Kevin Rudd made his very public address to the Australian Parliament, apologising for the profound grief, suffering and loss suffered by stolen Aborigines.
On the morning of February 13, I was forced to again relive that terrible day in 1956 when everything familiar --- everything safe --- was suddenly snatched away.
I revisited the awful playground in which I stood, lonely and terrified, counting the Sundays, believing that after just a few more I could go home. I suffered, again, the terrible beatings, often for no reason at all, inflicted by the people I was supposed to trust to keep me safe. I relived those days in the schoolyard, branded ‘home kid’, rejected and cast out; and the desperate yearning for home and family --- for the world I was born to.
They had loaded a battered 12–year–old boy and a tiny suitcase filled with shabby, ill–fitting clothes into a sleek black car and taken him far away from his sister --- the only family he had left. My 16th birthday had passed before I saw her again, and but for Uncle Bill, I might have lost contact with her for ever.
They handed me over that day like a freight consignment. I was signed for and duly delivered without a word of attempted comfort or reassurance, after being indoctrinated to believe I was too rebellious to be allowed a home among decent people, and threatened with torture and persecution until I finally conceded and fell into line.
I remembered the horror of signing away eight years of my life at age 15, leaving, yet again, everything familiar in my life for a new and frightening world; a different prison.
I recalled the awkward uncertainty of the day I at last went home, wondering if I would recognise my parents. I had rehearsed my greeting, consumed with fear of rejection and terrified our meeting might validate the nuns’ condemnation of them, and thus of me. My brothers thanked me for my performance that day. No–one would ever know the strain the actor endured, nor the awful struggle whenever I was around them: battling to reconcile my craving for a mother’s affection with a simmering contempt for a woman whom I thought had so dismally failed in her obligation to protect me. Wanting to belong, yet afraid to be part of a world I was taught to shun; wanting forgiveness and to forgive; wanting to know, yet afraid of knowledge. Consumed by undefined guilt and fear, emptiness, and endless confusion.
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