There was much more to this case than met the eye. Costigan had attained a degree of notoriety through his mishandling of the Royal Commission into the Painters and Dockers Union, when in a monumental overreach he leaked his findings to the press, suggesting that the late Kerry Packer, codenamed ‘Goanna’, was a crook. Packer was represented by Malcolm Turnbull, who was then employed as the in-house counsel for Consolidated Press. He denounced Costigan, describing his behaviour as ‘one of the worst misuses of investigatory power ever to occur in this country’. Costigan was slammed for lack of fair play and the proper discharge of authority and confidentiality. Consequently, Costigan was keen to clear the slate through a big win on behalf of the government in this case against the Family.
When news of my favourable report concerning the Family came to light, it did considerable damage to the government’s case and consequently to Frank Costigan QC. As it eventuated, the government was ultimately forced into a humiliating back down.
Eventually, after a bitterly contested bail application, the children were released into the care of their parents. But the government, through its representative Dr John Paterson, the Director-General of the Human Services Department, vowed to press on with their prosecution of the Family.
Shortly after the children were returned to their parents, a solicitor from the Victorian Legal Aid Commission contacted me. In light of my previous work, and no doubt my favourable recommendations at the time, I was retained to undertake a full psychological work-up of all of the Melbourne children, their parents, their living arrangements and their education. Once again, I was asked to provide an opinion as to whether there was any evidence, from a psychological perspective, which could either prove or refute the claims made against them. Due to my earlier report, the Family trusted me to an extent, but in the wake of what had happened and what could happen to their kids, they were still initially wary of me.
I realised that some time and effort was needed to reinforce their trust in me. This was vital if I was to obtain a comprehensive and reliable picture of their lifestyle and values.
It was with some trepidation that I arrived at their home in Panton Hill, outside Melbourne, to commence my observations. It was a huge task as twelve families lived there. ‘All under the one roof – they’ll be living like sardines,’ I thought. How could they possibly maintain hygiene and discipline?
I was also anxious that they would try to flog me their special brand of religion. Although my suspicions concerning the Family had been largely allayed by my involvement in the earlier case, I was yet to fully resolve my paranoia. These people are fanatics, I had reasoned, they are going to try and convert me for sure. Visions of long-haired, bearded Jesus freaks resplendent with Dunlop-retread sandals and cheesecloth robes occupied my thoughts, even though the parents had been conventionally attired when I had met them in my city office. I braced myself for a long Saturday afternoon.
The house was amazing, blending beautifully into its surrounds of abundant gum trees and plentiful lawns. It had a relaxed, calming atmosphere, and my tension eased somewhat. I was greeted at the door by one of the children. She was well dressed and appropriately friendly. Following a brief introduction, I was welcomed inside and taken to the communal kitchen, where a number of kids and adults were preparing the evening meal. I was immediately taken by the fresh, bright cleanliness which exuded from every nook and cranny. After being offered a traditional cuppa, I was escorted on an extensive tour of the house. The children shared bedrooms, utilising bunks to optimise space. Every bed was made and every floor was clean.
‘Probably a pigsty an hour ago,’ I mused. I simply couldn’t escape my cynicism.
And the journey continued. Before long we arrived at the classroom. In their quest to maintain religious autonomy, the Family insisted on educating their children at home. They were concerned that traditional state-run schools would corrupt the children’s thinking and values. The department had vigorously contested this issue because they were concerned that denying the kids an opportunity to interact with different people in society would give them a jaundiced view of life. The department was also concerned about their levels of literacy and numeracy.
The Family’s attitude to schooling troubled me a little too. I had assessed many kids over the years who had been raised in ultra-orthodox religious homes while attending equally rigid schools. ‘How are these people so different from them?’ I wondered. But as my assessment was to ultimately reveal, their levels of social comprehension, verbal and numerical reasoning and ability to communicate were in many ways equal, if not superior, to many others in the community. Classroom theory was complemented by regular excursions to places such as the Melbourne Zoo.
So far I had found no evidence of brainwashing or psychological abuse. I decided to leave any discussion of the more doctrinaire aspects of their belief system to another day. I wanted them to get to know and trust me better.
The next visit was more relaxed. It seemed as though they had decided that I was probably a ‘good guy’. It seemed to be a good time to ask about some of the more contentious aspects of their lifestyle and, in particular, the thorny issues of alleged sexual promiscuity and ‘flirty fishing’. I was struck by their candour. Contrary to my expectation that they would attempt to duck and weave, they instead provided a well-reasoned and logical account of the evolution of their moral position from the ‘flirty fishing’ method espoused and utilised by some Family members in the early 1980s to a more conservative, family-oriented lifestyle.
If anything, their lifestyle seemed to me to be rather bland and not one that I would particularly relish. I had witnessed more dysfunctional households in some of the better suburbs of Melbourne. The great irony to it all was that because of their relative isolation, the children were in fact spared from many of the potential evils which confront other children in the community. There was, for example, no suggestion of illicit drug use, they were spared from the tedium of relentless television violence, and in its place were taught the virtues of love, understanding and compassion. And yet it was this very process that had caused the government so much concern. I came to realise over the time that I spent with these people that although their lifestyle had deserved the criticism it received in the past, in the present they were very much the victims of misinformed prejudice. Paradoxically despite the allegations that had been made, the Family had evolved into an essentially boring group of middle-aged eccentrics. Their hopes, fears and aspirations for their kids, when it was all said and done, were not that different from those of most parents. It was when this insight came to me that I really decided to go into battle on their behalf.
My anger, coupled with my growing arrogance, inevitably led me onto the public airwaves. I would seize any available opportunity to criticise the government’s handling of the case and the Department’s Director-General, Dr John Paterson. In retrospect, this was regrettable. After all, Paterson believed in what he was doing and no doubt genuinely felt that the children were at risk. He was also hamstrung because of his position and consequently was unable to respond to my attacks upon him and his department. In contrast to his dignified silence, my brash arrogance back then knew no bounds.
Eventually Dr Paterson’s patience wore thin. And who could blame him? He was copping it from all quarters. The strength of his exasperation was driven home to me one morning shortly after I collected my mail. Among all the flyers, bills and remittances lay a letter from the Psychologists Registration Board with an attached letter of complaint from none other than the director-general himself.
The impetus for this missive had been a television interview I had undertaken at the Richmond studios of GTV Channel Nine. The show’s host was John Jost, a former anchorman with Channel Two’s 7.30 Report. He had also been the editor-in-chief of Playboy when it was first introduced into Australia. I had known John for years due to my regular appearances on Channel Two. A gifted and somewhat unorthodox man with a passionate hatred of fascis
m, he had called me in to discuss another case involving the Department of Human Services. Ours was a mischievous performance, which as sure as eggs had stirred the ire of Dr Paterson. Not only did he lay a complaint against me but he also complained to the relevant authorities about the conduct of Channel Nine. In a deft stroke of brilliance, Channel Nine retained Robert Richter QC to manage its defence.
Eventually all charges against Channel Nine were dismissed and my registration board held that I had no case to answer. It was clear that a cancerous acrimony was creeping into the proceedings and it was time for me to pull my head in.
The Children of God case seemed to drag on forever with direction hearings, adjournments, more evidence to dissemble, and ongoing conferences with the swag of attorneys involved. Stagnation was in the air, and I began to hope for the sake of the Family that perhaps the government was losing its stomach for the battle. But until a truce or compromise was signalled, preparations were earnestly maintained.
And so I continued my contact with the Family. As the months progressed they had relaxed considerably in their reactions to me. Indeed at times, as an indication of their developing trust in me, they would seek my counsel on issues like the children’s education or how the community perceived them. I found the children to be a delight, ever-friendly and in due course quite open regarding their lives.
It became apparent to me that the proceedings were quite traumatising for them, particularly the raid and ensuing interrogations. The children’s anxieties were compounded by their ongoing fear that the government may yet again forcefully remove them from their parents and all that they loved. This time for good.
Many of the children of the Family, and even some of the adults, reported experiencing disturbance – nightmares for some with themes of death and abduction, and a heightened awareness of their surroundings and the potential for danger. None of this was surprising. What I did find to be truly surprising was the depth of the Family’s faith. Their collective support of one another was truly inspirational. I realised that whatever comforts and advice I could offer them from a professional perspective were feeble in comparison to the strength their faith in God and his ultimate care for them provided.
‘We are in God’s hands, Tim,’ they would frequently say. ‘No harm will come to us. We pray. And we pray for you too.’ I was genuinely touched.
It was apparent to me that no matter how misguided the perception of these genuine people looked from the outside, once you were welcomed into their domain you could not for a moment imagine that they would in any way harm their children. And in essence this is what I reported back to their lawyers, many months after the process had begun.
The problem, however, lay in convincing the powers-that-be that this was the case. The Family was distrusting of anyone who was in any way connected with the Department of Human Services. This made it nigh impossible for the department’s team of social workers to obtain a detailed and holistic view of the Family’s world and, more importantly, how it impacted on the children. Neither side was prepared to budge. The parties were at a stalemate.
And then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, the case settled. In exchange for a period of minimal supervision, the department would not proceed with its application to have the children removed. It was a humiliating backdown, and one which was certainly rejoiced by all on the defence team.
The reasons for the government’s change of heart were never revealed to the public. It was always going to be a difficult case for the prosecution. During the period of waiting for the matter to proceed at trial, the children continued to live with their families. No doubt to the surprise of many, their psychological sky did not fall in, further bolstering the claims by their defence team that the concerns expressed by the department were unfounded. It would seem that, in the end, the government opted for a quiet face-saving retreat, rather than placing itself in a position of considerable political vulnerability by continuing. Although this came as a relief to most who had been involved with the case, the manner in which the matter was settled leaves many unanswered and troubling questions. Among some of the more esoteric in the community there remain reasonable concerns that they are still potentially vulnerable to religious persecution if a government, in its wisdom, feels there is political mileage to be gained.
On the night of the announcement I was contacted by a number of media outlets for comment. Savouring the moment, I declared that this was a case that should have never arisen and that it was a disgrace that it had been allowed to drag on for so long. Adding to my sublime arrogance at the time, I then called for the resignation of the poor besieged director-general.
It would take years before I really pulled my head in and truly woke up to myself.
BONDY
‘Watch out for that fuck’n truck, will you, you imbecile! We’ll all be killed!’ My bellicose co-passenger in the Perth-bound taxi was one of the nation’s leading criminal lawyers, Andrew Fraser. Even at his best, Andrew had difficulty in relinquishing control. This was particularly the case when travelling by taxi. We’d worked closely together for years by then and I’d seen these moods before; consequently I knew precisely which buttons to press in order to rev him up.
‘Relax, Andy, we are visitors to the West and I’m sure that this gentleman from the Orient will drive us to our hotel both safely and expeditiously.’
‘This cunt couldn’t drive a finger up his own arsehole,’ Andrew lamented with characteristic impatience.
Andrew had a reputation for enjoying the fine life, the fruits of over twenty-five years of hard work honing his skills as a criminal advocate and strategist. While some would say it was the quality stitch of his suits that caught the eye, those of us who knew him well had always argued that it was his one-liners that caused him to stand out. This day proved to be no exception.
‘Easy, bloke,’ snorted Queen’s Counsel, Philip Dunn, awkwardly perched between his ‘junior’ Simon Minahan and me.
The atmosphere was tinderbox electric as we three older chaps, behaving like wayward louts at a school assembly, burst into laughter. Minahan sat mute. This was his first big brief and, as the expression on his awestruck face reflected, he was not used to such high jinks.
And, indeed, our spirits were high. It was December 1993 and there was only one more week until a well-earned Christmas break.
Earlier in the day, sprawled across the front row of our Ansett flight, our gang had enjoyed a sumptuous feast. After devouring a range of hors d’oeuvres and prime beef cuts lightly garnished with a secret sauce, we proceeded to the ‘main’. This comprised a selection of fresh lobster, prawns and abalone. The afternoon luncheon was rounded off with handpicked berries served with gourmet ice-cream. Our parched throats were well lubricated between bites as we eagerly and relentlessly consumed the airline’s dazzling array of wines. The meal was signed off with rapidly guzzled rounds of port and French cognac. There simply was neither room nor time to sample the fine cheese platter.
‘Ah, there’s nothing like travelling Bondy style,’ I quietly mused, as we commenced our descent through the golden West Australian sky.
After being forcefully ejected by our disgruntled cabbie we checked in at our city hotel. The remainder of the afternoon was spent continuing the grog fest while luxuriating by the pool. We could afford this self-indulgence, comfortable in the knowledge that we were well prepared for the inevitable stoush that was poised to erupt the next day.
Before our mid-flight banquet we had loosely mapped out the strategy for the following day’s session in court. We were there to save our client, the hapless Alan Bond, who in the past six months had become the anxious quarry of the West Australian Director of Prosecutions.
My introduction to Alan Bond had occurred on a chilly winter afternoon six months earlier at my Melbourne office. Andrew was Bond’s lawyer and was deeply concerned about Bond’s mental state. Neither Andrew or Philip Dunn could make any sense of Bond’s instructions and his memory was shamb
olic. An assessment of his cognitive ability was called for.
The year before, 1992, had been a brutal year for Alan Bond, with a public declaration of his bankruptcy and the ignominy of spending a sobering three months in Karnet Prison. He had been convicted for receiving a secret commission, which had arisen from his involvement in the financial rescue of the failed Rothwells merchant bank. During his time in the slammer, Bond had been regularly stood over and deprived of his blankets each night. His health had failed and, shortly after his early yet tearful release from jail due to a successful appeal, he had endured life-threatening open-heart surgery.
But 1993 had not improved much on the previous year. New criminal charges had been laid against Bond, relating to ‘funny business’ concerning his acquisition of Manet’s The Promenade (Bond had a longstanding interest in art and indeed purchased Van Gogh’s Irises in 1987 for $54 million, the most expensive acquisition of art on record at that time), and then deceptively stripping Bell Resources of $1.2 billion to prop up his failing Bond Corporation.
In the back of Bond’s mind he was aware of the seriousness of his plight, so he was well overdue for some psychotherapeutic relief.
During the first session I found him to be surprisingly open about the recent misfortune in his life and keen as mustard to place as positive a spin as possible around his circumstances.
Despite his affable presentation and his attempts to minimise his problems, my suspicions were aroused when he appeared at times to be struggling to recall names of close friends, time sequences and details regarding his immediate past. Frankly, I had expected a more polished performance from such an accomplished person. As the clinical hour drew to a close, I challenged him regarding his memory.
Dancing with Demons Page 11