Dancing with Demons

by Tim Watson-Munro

  ‘You seem to be struggling a bit with your recall, Alan,’ I commented.

  ‘Is it that obvious? It hasn’t been the same since I had my heart surgery earlier this year,’ he replied.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Everything I want to say – names, times, places – they always seem to be on the tip of my tongue. I just can’t seem to get out the words. It’s quite scary at times.’ There was a detectable edge of panic in his voice.

  I decided that Bond’s complaints warranted a much more detailed investigation involving the use of psychological tests. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I think we should explore this issue more thoroughly. Perhaps at your next appointment I will run you through a range of tests which will firm up the extent of this problem.’ I waited for the anticipated rejection.

  ‘Whatever you feel is necessary, Tim,’ he replied.

  Bond was clearly more anxious about the decline in his memory than he had initially been willing to reveal. The chance to find some answers appeared to have lightened his load.

  After he left the office, I hurriedly telephoned Andrew Fraser to alert him that Bond was presenting with the subtle signs of an acquired brain injury, which may have occurred during his heart surgery. This condition had been frequently reported in research papers studying the recovery rates of open-heart surgery patients.

  Over the course of the next few months, Bond saw me on a number of occasions. These consultations would usually dovetail with meetings he had with his lawyers. He seemed comfortable with the testing process, less so when I touched upon more personal issues in his life. Indeed, he seemed very keen to do as well as possible, aware that the first series of questions related to his IQ.

  Before his spectacular crash, Bond was the richest person in Australia. Apart from his national asset base (which at one time had included ownership of the Castlemaine and Swan brewing chains as well as a substantial array of mining, oil and property interests), his overseas assets included the Chilean telephone network and a US brewing chain. He had also been integrally involved in the privatisation of a cellular telephone network in Hungary. The list of Alan Bond’s business successes seemed endless.

  A man with limited education who had commenced his working life as an apprentice sign-writer, Bond at his peak was the commander-in-chief to more than 45,000 employees worldwide. By any person’s reckoning he was a man of significant achievement. At one interview he had claimed that by the age of twenty-eight he was worth around $25 million. By his account his business, Bond Corp, had reached critical mass in 1984, increasing its annual net profit in the next five years from $5 million to $400 million. During this time, Bond said the annual turnover grew to a staggering $10 billion in 1989.

  Bond was also establishing an international presence through his involvement in the America’s Cup challenge. He had been involved in four unsuccessful bids from 1970 before the successful Australia II challenge, the final race of which brought Australia to a standstill in 1983 and turned Bond into a national hero. More recently he had established the country’s first private university, situated on Queensland’s sunny Gold Coast. Quite an impressive rollcall, and yet, in the wake of his collapse, Bond had been described by some of his detractors as little more than an overachieving dunce!

  Over the years I had assessed many senior managers and chief executives. Their portfolios of responsibility and their personalities and management style had varied, but all had shared one common attribute: a superior to very superior level of intelligence. Typically the IQ spectrum for this group of leaders lay between 125 and 150 plus. I expected Bond’s IQ would fall, at the very least, somewhere in the Superior category (120 to 129). I formed this opinion on the basis of the exceptional forward planning skills, the need for protracted task focus and general conceptual ability that his business success would have demanded.

  The standard test instrument for measuring intelligence is the Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale (WAIS). It is considered to be both valid and highly reliable. It also provides a wealth of information concerning a patient’s range of abilities. Some people, for example, may be more capable with tasks involving visual–spatial ability than those requiring verbal strengths. In a vocational setting, such an individual may prosper as a draftsperson or architect, but would be consigned to doing legal aid briefs if they were to choose advocacy as a profession.

  In the WAIS there are six sub-tests used to measure a person’s verbal IQ, through arithmetical reasoning, comprehension, vocabulary and so on. Then five sub-tests are used to determine a person’s non-verbal or performance IQ through tasks involving visual–spatial reasoning, visual sequencing and non-verbal memory. The aggregates of the verbal and performance tests are combined to yield what is known as a ‘full scale IQ’.

  Bond’s verbal IQ was assessed as 109 while his performance IQ was nineteen points lower at ninety. His full-scale IQ was found to be 100 – squarely in the Average category. I was quite alarmed by these results!

  I was also troubled by the large difference between Bond’s verbal and performance results. A difference of fifteen IQ points or more is deemed to be suggestive of brain damage.

  Bond had unquestionably been an astute operator in the past, but not even this ability – had it still existed – could have allowed him to feign his answers in order to obtain a fake result. Rather, the pattern of his sub-test scores tended to confirm at a scientific level all that he had been complaining of.

  In cases like Bond’s where there is a suggestive pattern of organic impairment, the WAIS allows the examiner to estimate the person’s pre-injury level of performance. When I applied the method for estimating Bond’s pre-morbid level of functioning by using the vocabulary and arithmetic sub-tests, he yielded an IQ which fell within the top 2 percent of the population. Bingo. This equated to an IQ of about 130, placing him in the Very Superior range, consistent with my hypothesis. This meant Bond was in real trouble, with the results indicating a fall of at least twenty IQ points, probably since the time of his surgery earlier in 1993.

  Bond was also suffering from major depression. He had been stressed for at least five years beforehand from a series of difficult life events. There was his heart condition, and then the pressures associated with the stock market crash of 1987. Although Bond Corp had survived that calamity it was saddled with crippling debts. Bond claimed that the late Peter Beckwith, who had been employed as Bond Corp’s managing director, had made a number of flawed decisions. Unbeknown to the parties, Beckwith was suffering from a brain tumour, which was ultimately to kill him.

  Within two years of the crash of Bond Corp, Bond had lost his mother and then his close friend of twenty years, Ben Lexcen, a man who he had tearfully described to me as being like a brother. Lexcen is perhaps best remembered for designing the controversial radical wing keel that assisted enormously in Australia II’s victory.

  Bond’s marriage to his childhood sweetheart Eileen had also failed and his pride was decimated when he was jailed in 1992. Bond not only had to deal with the prospect of further imprisonment down the track for alleged fraud in relation to the sale of a Manet painting but, in addition, ongoing appearances in the civil courts in relation to the decimation of his empire and attendant bankruptcy. And although he had not yet been charged, dark clouds were brewing in relation to the alleged asset stripping of Bell Resources to the tune of $1 billion. Little wonder the bloke felt so fucked!

  All of these factors had a significant impact upon Bond’s judgement and, in the lead-up to his court case, his capacity to adequately instruct his lawyers. Paradoxically, his legal team expressed some relief when the full truth of his condition came to light.

  ‘Jeez, the bloke’s not such a bullshitter after all,’ Andrew said. ‘I’ve been wondering whether or not he’s the full quid for months now. I just haven’t been able to keep him on task and his instructions are woeful. Well, that gives us enough to get his committal hearing adjourned. Doc, what do you think?’

  ‘I think it
would be sensible to retain a neuropsychologist to firm up on these preliminary results. Right now on the basis of his condition, I feel he’s not fit to proceed. My eight-year-old has a better attention span than this bloke. Let’s wait and see.’

  Over the next few months, Bond’s condition deteriorated. Meetings with him became increasingly laboured – particularly when it came to trying to tie him down to dates, times, people and places. I was also concerned about his emotional state. He was severely depressed but attempting to mask it by pretending that it was business as usual. His lawyers were having problems trying to get Bond to focus upon the voluminous material that was presented to him for consideration. His instructions were equally woeful when it came to recalling conversations and his intentions in relation to various transactions.

  The eminent Perth neurologist Dr William M. Carroll had also observed Bond. On specific testing, he had observed Bond’s short-term problems with recalling events but no significant arithmetical problems. Carroll had noted Bond’s difficulties with comprehension and vocabulary, and performance problems with visual–spatial perception.

  Carroll believed that Bond’s performance indicated cortical abnormalities and he recommended further tests to exclude, among other problems, the possibility of brain damage. It seemed as though the emerging clinical picture clearly pointed to the need for further assessment and tests before Bond’s case could proceed.

  That night in Perth before Christmas, I felt confident that, based on the merits of the evidence, the adjournment application would succeed.

  After polishing off a final bottle of Bollinger with the boys, I opted to retire early to bed. We had scheduled an early morning conference with Bond and I was keen to be refreshed and alert in anticipation of the long and potentially trying day ahead.

  The intrusive chirping of the telephone next to my bed interrupted my fitful sleep.

  ‘Wake up you lazy cunt. The client will be here in twenty minutes,’ chimed Andrew Fraser.

  ‘Look at your watch, you fuck’n drongo,’ I curtly replied. ‘It’s scarcely six a.m. He’s not due for another hour.’

  ‘There’s been a change of schedule. Bondy has decided he wants to officiate at the media launch of the Endeavour.’

  ‘Well, that proves it as far as I’m concerned, the bloke must be brain damaged. Does he remember why we’re here today?’

  ‘Look, I’ve tried to explain it to him but his brain’s like over-stewed porridge at the moment. The bloke just can’t be told. You of all people know what he’s like, fucking impossible.’

  ‘I’ll see you in twenty minutes,’ I replied before ringing off.

  As I was to learn over the ensuing months, Bond had lost the ability to appreciate the power of nuance. We were in Perth to argue that he was not fit to proceed with his court case and Bondy had decided he’d attend a press launch to show off his latest project, the construction of a magnificent boat which was an exact replica of Captain Cook’s Endeavour. Both events would no doubt be well televised and lead to the misperception by the public that our punter was not as sick as we said. Bond would repeat this behaviour on a number of occasions.

  The breakfast meeting was uneventful. Bond was brimming with excitement at the prospect of the launch, which he saw as an opportunity to partially resurrect his shattered reputation. He seemed oblivious to the clear paradox that confronted us as we gorged on overcooked flapjacks and strong coffee.

  ‘Sure seems brain damaged to me, doctor,’ quipped Philip Dunn as Bond briskly decamped the hotel in his crisp white motor which, judging by its appearance, had been given extra spit and polish in anticipation of the launch.

  ‘Nothing that a stone in his shoe and a tub full of Rohy’s won’t fix,’ I joked, noting the concern in Phil’s voice.

  Philip’s comment highlighted the type of reception that we could expect at the Magistrates Court of Western Australia later in the morning. I had experienced some difficulty in getting our own legal team to grasp the notion that because Bond was not in a vegetative state, it didn’t follow that he wasn’t ill. His problems were far subtler than that. It was apparent that the damage – if it was found to exist – was having a soft impact upon cognitive issues such as Bond’s forward-planning ability and the capacity to intelligently anticipate the consequences of certain types of behaviour. There was little doubt that this latest stunt could only reinforce our fears: that Bond at times appeared to have the judgement of an idiot savant.

  My clinical observations of Bond over the time I spent with him and the startling results of his psychological test profile suggested that without strong advocacy and expert evidence concerning his condition, he was about to suffer a grave miscarriage of justice. My ever-increasing sense of self-importance was heightened in the knowledge that the boggling evidence that was to be revealed would soon be national front page news. There was, after all, only one ‘Bondy’.

  The brief taxi ride to the courthouse was mercifully less punctuated than the ride from the airport the preceding day. Upon our arrival we were confronted with the customary gaggle of folk – members of the public along for a day of titillating voyeurism, clerks, press, and of course, the Crown. The Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions, we were told, was vigorously opposed to allowing the defendant any leeway. Bond was facing very serious charges of alleged fraud subsequent to the sale of The Promenade. This painting was the property of the Bond Group and, as such, it was to be argued, the windfall from the sale should rightly have been passed on to the company’s shareholders. The DPP believed Bond had been given more than ample time to prepare his defence and this was a committal hearing where he would not actually have to take the stand. His declining health and the reality that he had been unable to adequately instruct his lawyers was, for them, frankly irrelevant.

  We had hoped that their attitude might have been more conciliatory. Bond had been advised some months before of his test results. He was understandably concerned that the very personal issues relating to his health and mental state should remain private if at all possible. Our legal team agreed that my findings were only to be presented as evidence to the court in the event that other legal arguments relating to his application were found to be insufficient. Sadly for Bond, it became increasingly apparent as the morning wore on that this would be the case. Pent-up hostilities between the two sides were given voice, with bitter barbs being hurled like putrid prunes across the Bar table.

  ‘These cunts wouldn’t know shit from Shinola,’ muttered Andrew with rising exasperation. ‘Looks like we’ll need you as sweeper after lunch, mate. Fuck ’em.’

  Andrew’s fuse was shorter than a bull ant’s dick when it came to intransigence from the opposition. But on this occasion I agreed with him. It seemed as though the prosecution was taking the whole matter a little too personally. It was consequently decided that I would hit the box immediately after the lunch adjournment.

  Naively, we had hoped that by the afternoon session the media may have tired of the incessant droning of learned counsel and, as such, would be sparsely in attendance. However, the prosecutor had already delivered some inkling of the bombshell that was poised to explode that afternoon. It was standing room only when we returned to court after an intense working lunch.

  ‘The shit’s gonna hit the fan now,’ I muttered as we negotiated our way through the hordes into the chamber of the court.

  ‘Silence. All rise,’ boomed the Clerk of the Court as he signalled the entrance of the presiding magistrate, Graeme Calder.

  After some preliminary legal discussion, I was called. The tension was rising. I noted various members of the media, pens poised, waiting for the words which would start a frenzied flurry to officially confirm Bond’s condition on the evening news. They were not to be disappointed. After running me through the standard format of my qualifications, official appointments and years of experience as a practising forensic psychologist, Philip proceeded to examine me about my patient. How long had Mr Bond been in
treatment with me? What was my provisional diagnosis? Which psychological tests had I used? And so on.

  And then it was the Crown’s turn to cross-examine. Each of the points I had raised concerning Bond’s condition was questioned ad nauseum. My patience was being sorely tested. I was keen to make my point so we could catch the late flight back to Melbourne.

  Eventually the moment arrived, innocently enough through a series of hypothetical questions relating to a mythical person’s IQ and, under certain circumstances, his capacity to cope with his environment.

  It’s time, I thought. Pausing just long enough to draw breath, I locked and loaded. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve asked me that question, Mr Prosecutor. Let me put it to you this way, at this stage my client Mr Bond is not fit to run a corner store.’

  I knew in that moment, as the words fell quite deliberately from my mouth, that I had guaranteed not only the adjournment we wanted but also banner headlines.

  As predicted, in light of this evidence the magistrate granted the adjournment, ruling that Bond should be allowed sufficient time for further treatment and tests before being compelled to attend court again. Consistent with my advice to the court, Bond was given a six-month reprieve.

  ‘Better call the punter and give him the good news,’ Andrew exclaimed jubilantly.

  But our client was nowhere to be found. It was not until we had high-tailed to the airport that the awful truth of his whereabouts was revealed. There he stood on the 5 p.m. news, resplendent in his smart-casual sailing ensemble, wrenching the microphone from an intrepid reporter who had dared to ask him about his suicidal tendencies and brain damage.

  ‘When the going gets tough, the tough leave town,’ I said to my mates as we hurriedly boarded our plane.

  The return to Melbourne was swift. As is often the case, we were assisted by a strong tailwind, which shortened the journey by at least an hour. I had sensed that my evidence had been nothing less than spectacular both in terms of its impact upon the presiding judge, who had granted the adjournment, and the local media. By the time the wheels touched down at Tullamarine Airport, the News Limited printing press had been working overtime to churn out the morning news. As our taxi proceeded down Exhibition Street past the headquarters of the paper, I was mesmerised by the oversized headline of the day above a picture of me, delicately framed on a grilled sandwich board on the footpath: ‘Bond could not run a corner store’. From that point onwards, I knew there would be increased interest in my professional and personal life.