Then, as there is now, there was a sharp contrast between rural post-mortem examinations conducted in the local hospital morgue and government-employed forensic pathologists conducting post-mortems in the elaborate facilities at the Glebe (State) Coroner’s Court complex. They have a heavy workload at Glebe, but have great experience, expertise and, above all, professional standing.
Lance Dawson’s body was exhumed and examined for a second time by Dr Merick O’Reilly, a top Queensland forensic pathologist. He found the entry wound was behind and below the right ear with the exit wound in the top of the skull. Lance Dawson was shot from behind. Dr O’Reilly could not completely rule out the suggestion of suicide but, in his opinion, it was a remote possibility.
In the police’s view, the exhumation of Mr Dawson’s body, resulting in a different medical opinion, had changed the landscape of the investigation. Detective Sergeant Brown notified his superiors in Tamworth, over 200 kilometres away from Inverell. He was outranked by Tamworth detectives, and was no longer in charge of the case.
In early July 1973, Detective Sergeant RG Hole arrived in town to manage the enquiry. His first task was to travel with Detective Brown to Texas, Queensland, where Colleen Dawson and her children were living, and interview young Mary to find out what she knew about her father’s death. The fact that seven-year-old Mary had a speech impediment complicated the police interview with her in that it made it difficult to properly understand what she was saying. Even so, Mary admitted to telling her class and other friends, ‘Mummy shot Daddy’. That was enough for Detective Sergeant Hole.
After interviewing Mary, Detective Sergeant Hole arranged to interview Mrs Dawson at the Texas police station. He informed Mrs Dawson her daughter had told the police she had seen ‘Mummy’ shoot ‘Daddy’. Mrs Dawson crumbled and then allegedly replied, ‘Yes, I did shoot him. He deserved it. He was knocking the kids and me around. I was frightened of him.’
After making a typed, three-page confession, Colleen Dawson was charged with Lance Dawson’s murder. She was not allowed to go back to her children. To the best of my memory, I believe the children ended up in foster care. Mrs Dawson was removed to Inverell, where she was officially processed. She spent time in the police cells while waiting for a flight to Sydney. She would eventually be taken to the women’s prison, Mulawa, near Silverwater, an industrial area in Sydney’s western suburbs. That is where I first met her.
In the visiting area at Mulawa Women’s Prison, Mrs Dawson was bewildered and upset. She was penniless and helpless, dressed in the prison green tracksuit and wearing sandshoes. Understandably, she was anxious about her children. In fact, she was more interested in talking about them than her own terrible predicament. We spent several hours discussing what lay ahead and then said goodbye until the committal proceedings, which were to commence at Inverell the next week.
I saw her next the following Sunday morning at Sydney Airport on my way to the committal. To fly to Inverell all passengers were taken by bus from the terminal to the commercial plane. Not Mrs Dawson. She was escorted by two prison officers, in custody, to the rear of the plane. She had at least been allowed to swap her prison greens for civilian clothes.
The flight north was a bit over an hour. On arrival, Mrs Dawson was taken to the Inverell police station cells. In any custody environment, let alone in an old country police station like Inverell, cells are grim. Of course, they are not meant to rival the Hilton. Mrs Dawson’s cell had no window, but bars, high up, through which sunlight came pale and filtered, a tap, a toilet, but no bed. Instead there was a wooden bench without a mattress fixed to the wall. The magistrate hearing the committal, Mr McMahon, persuaded police to provide an iron bed for Mrs Dawson. The bed took up most of the cell and her confinement remained harsh. Personal hygiene and exercise were an early casualty, simply through lack of facilities. The meals were cold and drab.
The cells were meant only for overnight patrons, and unwilling ones at that. The welcome mat was well and truly in the cupboard. The behaviour of the random selection of residents of adjoining cells did not help Mrs Dawson have a restful night.
My instructing solicitor and I could not see her. There were simply no facilities. A legal visit is useless when both parties are standing and conversing through the hatch in the huge iron cell door.
* * *
The state, which had charged Mrs Dawson with the most serious of all crimes, now provided her, free of charge, with hopefully competent and experienced legal representation (me). When I was briefed to appear for her it was my first case as a Public Defender, but not my first murder brief. As a new Public Defender, I had available to me Mr John Shields and his public solicitor, Mr Jim Doyle, both very experienced men and an example of the value of the Public Defender system. The system has trebled in size since the days of Mrs Dawson. There are now twenty-four Public Defenders. The rights of the poor are as precious as those of the more fortunate. Hopefully, that is also the community view.
When a Public Defender arrives in a country town to represent his client, the police are often cagey and unhelpful. But on this occasion, I was surprised to discover the local detective, Sergeant Brown, was completely honest and straightforward. He even met me at the Inverell airport. In my three decades of legal work, I’d rate him as the most honest police officer I’ve ever met.
The committal proceedings would take place at Inverell before the district magistrate, Mr John McMahon, one of the state’s top magistrates. He was a firm but kindly man who had some prior experience as a defence lawyer while on secondment to the Public Solicitor’s Office. Committal proceedings do not determine the guilt or innocence of the accused person. They are a preliminary hearing before a magistrate to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to commit the defendant to stand trial in a higher court. If there is not, the charge is dismissed. That was not at all likely here, but even where a magistrate does dismiss a charge, the Crown has the right to file an indictment and there is still a trial. A decision by the magistrate to commit for trial is also not decisive. The Crown can elect not to proceed to trial and drop the case altogether. That is called a ‘no bill’. Again, that was out of the question here.
The evidence against Mrs Dawson appeared to be overwhelming. Other than the signed confession, Mrs Marie Kennedy, one of the neighbours who’d shared the evening playing cards, told the police that, a few weeks before the shooting, Mrs Dawson showed her a bullet hole in the wall of the house and said, ‘I done that with a rifle … I missed Lance the first time, but I won’t the second.’ Also damaging was Mrs Kennedy’s claim Mrs Dawson had told her, on the night of the shooting, ‘I think Lance is dead, I shot him.’ Mrs Kennedy’s husband, however, contradicted his wife’s recollection. The Kennedys were the first to arrive at the Dawson home after the shooting and Mr Kennedy told police Mrs Dawson had only said, ‘Lance is on the floor and can’t get up.’ They both gave statements that the rifle was in Mr Dawson’s hands.
On the defence side, Mrs Doris West, the local postmistress, told police of receiving a phone call from Mrs Dawson around midnight saying, ‘There’s been a dreadful accident, Lance has shot himself.’ Mrs West advised her to call for help. Mrs Dawson continued to tell her, ‘Lance was going to shoot me and I went to get the gun and it went off in the struggle.’ That was oddly contradictory. If there were a struggle, perhaps an issue of self-defence or accident would arise.
There was yet another major obstacle to mercy and sympathy for Colleen Dawson, and that was the fact that, an hour before Lance Dawson’s death, the deceased had caught her having sex in a car with Mr McInnes, who would also be called as a witness. Unfortunately for Mr McInnes, the details of his infidelity would be splashed across the pages of the local newspaper, The Northern Daily Leader, its circulation covering the whole of the New England area and most of northwest New South Wales.
On the face of it, the police interview alone was more than capable of convicting Mrs Dawson of murder. The other evidence against her
was purely circumstantial, but many a ‘lifer’ is precisely that because of circumstantial evidence.
In preparing for the hearing, I opportunistically requested all the police notes on the case from Detective Sergeant Brown. It was no problem at all. He handed over all the relevant material in his possession for me to read at leisure at my motel, rather than being under pressure with restricted time at the bar table. Importantly, these notes included the full transcripts of the interview with Mrs Dawson’s children. There was nothing ingenuous about this course of action by Sergeant Brown, it was simply basic fairness on his part. Today, defence lawyers and their clients have a right to view such material, but in the 1970s that kind of cooperation was rare. It was refreshing to meet a detective who possessed a strong sense of justice and duty to the community.
Having all the statements and notes, I didn’t know what I was looking for, or if there was anything to find. At best, I thought, I’d have a full appreciation of the police investigation.
Despite the apparent strength of the Crown case against Mrs Dawson, I noticed a potential defect which, if established, would derail the whole police case. It was this: When Detective Sergeant Hole of Tamworth interviewed Mrs Dawson he told her her seven-year-old daughter had witnessed the shooting. He told her Mary had actually seen her shoot her de facto husband dead. That was untrue, and untrue to the officer’s knowledge.
The shooting took place close to midnight when the children were in bed, it being such a late hour. But that was beside the point. The key problem was Mary had never said, ‘I saw Mummy shoot Daddy’, she had simply said something like ‘Mummy shot Daddy’, and contradicted herself the more she was questioned. The notes also revealed young Tommy had been telling friends ‘Mummy shot Daddy.’ Again, he never stated he had seen it happen.
Section 410 of the Crimes Act was not some obscure archaic piece of legislation. It was designed to protect an accused from bashing or lies or both. It was crucial to Mrs Dawson’s defence. The section was in plain English and meant what it said.
(1) No confession, admission, or statement shall be received in evidence against an accused person if it has been induced
(a) by any untrue representation made to him by the prosecutor or some other person in authority; or
(b) by any threat or promise, held out to him by the prosecutor, or some person in authority.
(2) Every confession, admission, or statement made after any such representation or threat or promise shall be deemed to have been induced thereby, unless the contrary be shown.
This enactment in the Crimes Act was not a bold experiment by the New South Wales Parliament. In fact, it followed, but limited, the common law on rules of the admissibility of confessions. In short, Section 410 of the New South Wales Crimes Act required evidence to be excluded from a trial if it is gained by an ‘untrue representation’. Mrs Dawson’s statement was gained by an untrue representation: if she had not been told her children had actually seen the shooting, she may not have confessed to the killing. The police had, with deception, overstated their case.
As I prepared for the committal hearing it became clear to me that, if the confession stood, Mrs Dawson was in deep trouble. She faced the real prospect of spending many, many years, if not the rest of her life, in gaol and having her children placed in state care, perhaps never to see them again. Mrs Dawson was adamant the statement was not a true account of what really happened nor of the background to the incident. She also made no complaint of being ill-treated or threatened while making the statement.
At the committal proceedings, the fact young Mary had told police, ‘Mummy shot Daddy’, and not that she saw the event, emerged during my cross-examination of police. My exploratory tactic in eliciting this evidence was extremely risky, but there was no jury. These were committal proceedings where the objective was to test the strength of the prosecution case and lay the groundwork for the trial.
Attacking the interrogation was dangerous territory. It had the potential, ultimately, to free my client, but at this stage extreme care was needed. Advance notice to the police of my discovery and its drastic consequences could see a ‘repair job’ of a dishonest kind being attempted.
The evidence given by Mrs Kennedy was also questionable in its timing. She had not approached police with her information until well after Mrs Dawson had been arrested and the news hit the headlines. The fact Mrs Kennedy, for no apparent reason, had suppressed her information told against her credibility, and I made much of that in cross-examination before the magistrate. Not to mention her husband contradicting what Mrs Dawson had said on the night of the shooting.
Mrs Dawson was a person of good character. She had never had any prior dealings with the police, or even seen the inside a prison. She was now in desperate straits. As soon as she was charged with Lance Dawson’s murder, she was refused bail. She ceased being a mother and become a prisoner. Why was bail so abruptly refused? Where could she flee? Where could she hide if she ran away? In the early days of the committal, Mrs Dawson was brought, handcuffed, to court from the police cells in the back of a caged truck known as the paddy wagon. Eventually, Mr McMahon bowed to my entreaties and granted conditional bail. Mrs Dawson faithfully observed all the conditions imposed upon her. On release, she took up residence in a local caravan park. It was all she could afford. But she preferred that simple life to the custody to which she did not want to return.
My primary aim during the committal was to unearth evidence to prove senior police had bungled Mrs Dawson’s interrogation by deceiving her with false information. It was, however, not the responsibility of the magistrate to rule on the admissibility of the confession, which was left to be decided at trial. If the three-page confession were admitted, Mrs Dawson’s prospects, to put it mildly, were bleak. If not, she had a real chance, if not of total freedom, then perhaps of a merciful reduction to being found guilty of manslaughter. My role in these committal proceedings had proved significant, but it was now concluded. The real action would be the trial.
* * *
In August 1973, the Supreme Court paid its annual visit to Tamworth, Australia’s country music capital. Justice Simon Isaacs, resplendent in his regal scarlet robes, was presiding. He had been a criminal law specialist while at the Bar.
The Crown Prosecutor was the New South Wales Deputy Senior Crown Prosecutor, Vincent ‘Vin’ Wallace, QC rank. He had then been a barrister for almost three decades. He was experienced, rugged and uncompromising, but highly respected and admired.
Mrs Dawson was now capably represented by John Shields who, at that time, was not yet a QC. Acting as a Public Defender for two years, he had been the leader of the fifth floor of Chalfont Chambers. He was not short of experience, having been heavily in demand as a solicitor advocate all over western New South Wales, except Broken Hill, which, particularly in those days, was a separate kingdom ruled by the Barrier Industrial Council (BIC). Mr Shields was confident the material unearthed by me before the magistrate was good enough to exclude the signed confession altogether. He warned Vin Wallace so, and asked him not to tell the jury about it in his opening address.
The accused, Mrs Dawson, was arraigned and, in a soft voice, pleaded not guilty to the charge of murder. Despite having given the confession, Mrs Dawson, understandably, refused to plead guilty. There was no benefit to her in that course of action. Murder carried a mandatory life sentence. Mrs Dawson was a woman who had survived a turbulent domestic relationship; she was tough and determined to fight right to the very end. Standing in the dock, she was a tiny, solitary figure surrounded by a sea of blue uniforms.
At the invitation of the judge, Mr Wallace QC outlined the Crown case to the jury. Wallace dismissed Shields’ warning and opened it high, wide and handsome: Mrs Dawson had shot her de facto husband in the back of the head and had confessed to the murder and that was the end of the matter. Plainly, Mr Wallace was confident of the admissibility of the confession.
The opening address was a typical per
formance from Vin Wallace QC. Forceful and confident, yet simple. Wallace appealed to juries. They liked his style. The seventies were no different from any other era; then, as always, the top half-dozen Crown Prosecutors were formidable masters of their art.
John Shields challenged the admissibility of the confession on the basis Mrs Dawson had been misled by the untrue representation her daughter had actually witnessed the shooting.
To deal with Shields’ objection to the confession, the experienced Justice Simon Isaacs asked the jury to leave the courtroom. Then followed a strict prescribed formula; the judge heard the police evidence in the absence of the jury and read the confession himself. Under cross-examination, Mr Shields painstakingly established the untrue representation. Despite Detective Sergeant Hole telling Mrs Dawson it was a fact, neither child had witnessed the shooting or saw her—‘Mummy’—fire the fatal shot. This was forbidden trickery by Detective Sergeant Hole, which was specifically outlawed by Parliament in Section 410 of the Crimes Act.
Justice Isaacs was plainly reluctant to reject Mrs Dawson’s police interview, but finally relented and did so. Having ruled the confession out, the judge was faced with an insoluble problem: the jury had heard from the prosecutor there had been a confession, but now Mr Wallace wouldn’t be allowed to call that evidence.
At every jury trial, after the jury is empanelled, the Crown Prosecutor makes an opening address. That is done to outline the evidence that will be called against the accused. If there is doubt about the admissibility of any of the evidence, as there was here due to what I had uncovered before the magistrate, the wise, indeed proper, course is not to tell the jury about it. Mr Wallace elected to do so. Justice Isaacs had little choice but to discharge the jury without verdict. He conceded that, no matter how emphatic they were, no directions, even by this particularly eloquent judge, could undo the damage. In other words, this Tamworth jury, although themselves completely devoid of blame, could no longer give Mrs Dawson her right to a fair trial.
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