Dancing with Demons

by Tim Watson-Munro

  With indecent and exuberant haste, I asked the driver to pull over so that I could buy the first edition of the paper, which went into considerable detail regarding my evidence.

  Andrew crowed, ‘Mate, from now on you’ll be known as the fucking general . . . you don’t have to do another thing to prove yourself.’

  Lacking the maturity to constrain my ego, I muttered, ‘This will bury the competition.’

  I also failed to recognise the considerable anger which my evidence had created on the other side of the continent. Despite his heroic status among many in the West, Bond’s crown had become increasingly tarnished with adverse press and the criminal charges he was facing.

  *

  The flight to Perth in June 1994 was less extravagant than the one six months earlier. There had also been some fine-tuning at the top end of the legal team, with Philip Dunn being replaced by Tony Howard QC. Tony was a highly regarded Melbourne-based silk, whose courtroom style, though less flamboyant than Phil, was nonetheless just as effective.

  During the first part of the year, Bond’s condition had continued to deteriorate, culminating in his February admission to a private hospital for severe depression under the care of treating psychiatrist Dr Dennis Tannenbaum. In the preceding month an independent psychiatrist appointed by the Federal Court had examined Bond to determine whether or not he was fit to be questioned under oath in relation to his bankruptcy. The opinion of the court-appointed specialists differed markedly from our own. In essence, they felt there was no indication of subtle brain damage and suggested that Bond was well capable of moving forward with his case. In the end, Bond agreed to give evidence in Sydney that May.

  Bond had also been subjected to further tests by a range of specialists, including a world expert in the field of magnetic resonance imaging, Professor Lesley Cala. We were all of the view that he was continuing to suffer profound problems with his cognition and hence required a further adjournment of his committal hearing.

  The stage was set for a battle royal. I anticipated that this next round of legal jousting would be far more heated. The Crown, too, was better prepared.

  A surreal atmosphere engulfed the courtroom. The first witness to be called was Professor Cala. The chamber lights had been dimmed in order to allow the magistrate to view scans of Bond’s brain while the good professor, pointer in hand, revealed in devastating detail the sites of the lesions. To the keen eye, reminiscent of an old Popeye cartoon where a bird is seen flying around the empty cranial cavity, one could see the faint outline of Bond’s profile bordering each slide.

  Adding to the air of travesty, Bond had been compelled to attend the hearing. Seated in the body of the court, he was flanked by the press, who had arrived in their droves to record his public humiliation. I had spent an hour with him at his office beforehand. He looked like shit. Grey, pasty and mumbling, Bond was on the verge of mental collapse. I held grave fears regarding his capacity to withstand the anticipated onslaughts upon his integrity, his privacy and his health, which the Crown would deliver. And then, the inevitable happened. Bond broke down. A brief adjournment was allowed while his doctor was hastily summonsed to the court.

  An ashen Dr Tannenbaum soon arrived and, after a brief examination of his client, he announced that Bond was poised to suffer a major stroke. He would need to be immediately hospitalised. Needless to say, Bond was excused from any further attendances at the hearing. This was just as well. Bond had become increasingly difficult to manage and quite erratic in terms of his behaviour. It was apparent to me that his emotional state was rapidly declining and a period of rest and recovery in hospital would be of benefit to both him and his legal team. As it eventuated, I was to fly between Perth and Melbourne on at least four further occasions before I eventually hit the witness box. Towards the end I felt completely exhausted by the endless delays and adjournments of the case.

  In the interim, our case for an adjournment roller-coastered. A number of highly qualified and well-regarded experts were called, including forensic psychiatrist Dr William Barclay from Sydney. Bill’s resume read like a volume from Ripley’s Believe It or Not! The bloke’s qualifications and experience were without parallel – simply unassailable. So was his ability in the witness box. Dr Barclay had initially been asked to assess Bond in relation to his capacity to cope with an oral examination concerning his bankruptcy. He had diagnosed a major depression and had raised the possibility of brain damage. His findings were based upon an extensive examination of Bond. Like me, Dr Barclay held grave concerns for Bond due to his constant feelings of emptiness and thoughts of ending his life. Dr Barclay also made note of Bond’s chronic insomnia, difficulties with his appetite and his incessant ruminations about his very public fall from grace. Who wouldn’t be depressed with all of this going on?

  The mood of the court had certainly swung our way by the time Dr Barclay had finished, with the magistrate then calling stumps for a couple of weeks.

  I spent the period of the adjournment brushing up on my notes about Bond and reviewing the evidence of the other experts. I was again the sweeper, the one who came in to tidy up the scene and leave a lasting impression with the judge. By the time we arrived back in Perth, I felt confident that I was au fait with all the relevant clinical issues. However, nothing had prepared me for the bizarre twist which awaited us all the morning the case resumed.

  Brian Martin QC rose slowly to his feet.

  ‘Before Mr Watson-Munro is called, Your Worship, we would seek the Court’s indulgence in permitting the interposing of a new witness who, with considerable effort, has travelled from Queensland today in order to assist the Court.’

  ‘This is highly irregular, Your Worship,’ interjected Tony Howard QC.

  ‘With respect, Your Worship, it is the Crown’s position that the evidence of this witness may significantly impact upon that of Mr Watson-Munro. Certainly there are aspects to the evidence of our new witness which we would seek to cross-examine this expert about.’

  ‘What are these pricks playing at now?’ asked Andrew sotto voce.

  ‘Dunno, anything’s possible when you have an unguided missile for a client,’ I replied.

  After a few more grenades were hurled between the parties, the magistrate allowed the submission.

  ‘I call Mr Peter Berck,’ Brian Martin QC quietly requested.

  Nothing in the preceding sixteen years I had spent appearing at court cases prepared me for the spectacle which was then to unfold. The silence of the court was disturbed by the unmistakeable sound of rollerskate wheels. The door to the chamber opened but no one was to be seen. The noise became louder. I craned over the pews and finally saw the witness, who through some cruel hand of fate had suffered a bilateral amputation of his lower limbs. He skilfully negotiated his roller board, darting and weaving through the room to the witness box.

  The witness was thanked profusely by the Crown for making himself available under such difficult circumstances, before being examined about his association with Bond.

  ‘Where’s this all heading?’ muttered Andrew, as the witness advised that he was resident and co-proprietor of St Bees Island, a picturesque enclave off the Queensland coast.

  ‘All the way to the tip,’ I responded, noting the self-satisfied glances from the opposition ranks. Advocacy is war. The gloves were removed, slowly, deliberately, as Berck – with the expert guidance of the QC – proceeded to describe in detail how, during the recent adjournment, Bond had accompanied his son Craig to St Bees Island to assist in negotiations concerning its purchase. By Berck’s account, and that of others, Bond was as sharp as a tack and took a leading, even aggressive, role in attempting to browbeat the vendors into dropping their price.

  ‘This case is over,’ I cursed, wondering how I was going to deal with the inevitable line of questioning that Martin QC would now direct my way.

  And then my turn arrived. I had been cross-examined countless times before by highly competent counsel. Sometimes for days. I h
ad a reputation for being ‘cool under fire’. However, on this occasion, I knew I was dealing with one of the best in the business. I had been observing Martin’s style for a while. And I sensed with uncharacteristic anxiety that I would need to muster all my skill to deal with the pending vivisection.

  I knew that Bond’s behaviour in a perverse way confirmed what we all had observed in the preceding year. No rorter could possibly do something so stupid. Surely, if anything, this irrevocably demonstrated his impaired judgement. Despite this, I had little room to move as Martin in his precise, surgical manner peeled away the premises of our case. Bond ultimately had been hoisted with his own petard and we had been powerless to stop him. It was ruled that he was now fit to endure the rigours of a committal hearing.

  In August 1996 Bond was convicted and sentenced to three years in jail. In the end, he served four years in jail for this and other convictions.

  Years later, Bond penned a mediocre account of his life in the self-titled Bond memoirs. In it, he was scathing of Andrew Fraser, as a person and as a lawyer, making repeated reference to his coke-addled judgement and associated mental issues.

  Bond was finally released from prison in March 2000. After a partially successful resurrection of his career, more tragedy befell him on 28 January 2012 when he made the gruesome discovery of his second wife, Diana Bliss, drowned by her own hand in the family pool.

  Sadly, Alan Bond died on 5 June 2015 from complications arising from a further heart valve replacement on 2 June 2015. Ultimately my assessment of this issue was 100 percent correct. The first valve operation had scrambled his brain for a time and in the end, killed him.

  THE MAJOR

  It was Halloween, 1996, and I was in the middle of a session with a client who had survived the Port Arthur Massacre when an intrusive buzz from my telephone interrupted us. I was quietly furious. I had left clear instructions with my secretary that under no circumstances was I to be interrupted. After months of delicate groundwork, the client sitting in front of me was poised to turn the corner to an at least partial resolution of a significant post-traumatic stress disorder.

  ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ I said. ‘This must be an emergency.’ I picked up the receiver.

  ‘This better be good,’ I whispered down the receiver to my long-suffering secretary.

  She had been the eyes and ears of my busy practice for many years and knew the significance of these situations.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Tim, but I have Michael Brereton on the line. He says its super urgent. The Major’s finally snapped.’

  ‘Put him through,’ I growled.

  ‘Apologies, Doc,’ Michael’s voice came on the line, ‘but we have a real crisis on our hands. It’s the Major. He’s just fled from Court 13 ranting and raving about settling the score. We need you immediately. The judge is levitating and the cops are in hot pursuit. We’ve gotta find him first and get him back to court. There’ll be a bloodbath otherwise.’

  Michael sounded uncharacteristically agitated.

  John William ‘Flanno’ Flanagan, or ‘the Major’ as he had become affectionately known among his legal team, was no ordinary bloke. He was a highly volatile co-accused in a high-profile criminal trial. An SAS-trained army reservist, he was a walking time bomb. And he required velvet glove clinical management to keep him sufficiently sane to withstand the chronic rigours of the trial, which by now had run for many months.

  Now it appeared as though we had lost the battle. According to a number of bystanders who had witnessed him barging his way from the court, the Major had last been seen screaming off in his clapped-out Mitsubishi towards the Williamstown Rifle Range, a mere bazooka blast west of the CBD.

  I was in a quandary. I was in the middle of a breakthrough session with a distressed client, who was clearly at a significant point on the long road to recovery. If I ended the session I ran the risk of destroying months of work. But the Major had threatened to ‘go out with a splash’. If I stayed and failed to locate and talk down the Major, the lives of others could be lost. It seemed that I had no choice but to end the session.

  No amount of delicacy seemed sufficient in the circumstances.

  Fortunately, my patient graciously understood all too well the gravity of the moment and we scheduled another appointment for the following day.

  Twenty minutes later, I found myself a passenger in Michael Brereton’s convertible BMW as we zoomed over Melbourne’s West Gate Bridge. Michael had wound back the roof in order to enjoy the springtime afternoon, but the beams of sunlight warming our faces did little to relieve the dark clouds which were gathering on our respective horizons. Flashes of death, mayhem and imminent destruction soured the moment.

  The car stereo was blasting out an AC/DC tune. Instinctively ‘Brero’ cranked up the volume as a means of easing the tension.

  ‘It’s a long way to the shop if you want a sausage roll,’ we screeched as we sped towards our quarry. Just another day at the office.

  The Major was a co-accused in the protracted trial of Bruno Gordano Grollo, a Melbourne property tycoon. In the company of Robert Howard, a long-serving and devoted employee of Grollo, they had allegedly conspired to derail an investigation and possible criminal prosecution by the Australian Tax Office by attempting to bribe a federal agent to lose the file.

  The trial was now in its sixth month and everyone was suffering from litigation overexposure and a bad case of jaded nerves. This was especially true for the Major, a manic-depressive who had also been locked into his own private war with his former employer, Telstra. A small matter of unpaid worker’s compensation, which was due and payable for a number of years, was buzzing around in his head like a recalcitrant bush fly that just can’t be swatted away. It wasn’t just the money. It was a matter of principle and wounded pride for this part-time SAS soldier. No amount of counselling could persuade him to abandon his mission.

  The day had started badly. Was it mere coincidence that it was Michael’s birthday and, to boot, Halloween? The Major, flushed with excitement, announced on Michael’s arrival in court that morning that he intended to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ when the judge and jury reconvened.

  ‘Not a great idea, Flanno,’ Michael said. ‘The judge may not appreciate it.’

  ‘Whaddaya mean? You saying I can’t sing Happy Birthday to my fuck’n mate on his fuck’n birthday?’

  It was apparent that the strain of the trial was becoming too much for the Major. He was becoming increasingly unpredictable. The night before, the Major had plugged himself with booze and over-corrected on his meds. He was clearly hungover, fractious and ticking.

  Sensing trouble, Michael had suggested that the legal team not adjourn for morning tea that day. He was worried it might give the Major the opportunity to ‘stretch his legs’ – that is, to do a runner and not come back.

  Michael recognised the Major’s early warning symptoms better than most. For the past two years, along with me, he had been tasked with managing the Major. Michael is an exceptionally skilled individual beyond his brilliance as a lawyer with a prior client list that included Men at Work, Bruce Springsteen, Whitney Houston, Peter Allen, Madonna and Tina Arena. In addition, he had produced a number of musicals, including Sweet Charity and The Buddy Holly Story. It was felt that his artistic, creative flare would appeal to the Major who was well versed in rhythm and blues. Michael covered the Major’s generic care, while I tended to the delicate nuance of his unhinged mind.

  Michael’s suggestion was an astute but sadly neglected one. Regrettably, all parties decided that morning tea was in order. Also regrettably, the break occurred shortly after the judge had flung a severe judicial admonishment at the Major. For the Major, this was the final straw, with him then bustling out of the County Court house.

  We were in a state. It was less than a decade since the dual mass murders of Hoddle and Queen streets, and we were terrified that the Major was about to go out with a bang.

  Our concerns were legitimate. For
the preceding two years, we had been attempting to stage-manage the Major who, among other stunts, had threatened to abseil the glass walls of Telstra’s headquarters in order to obtain a face-to-face audience with the company’s CEO, Frank Blount. He was also prone to sleeping bivouac-style in Melbourne’s Royal Botanical Gardens in order to save on petrol money. His Bendigo home was a couple of lonely hours’ drive from Melbourne, but due to chronic unemployment and no compo, the tariff at times was beyond him.

  Eventually, we discovered that, in all the panic, part of the message about the Major’s whereabouts had been lost. He was in fact last seen drinking at the Williamstown Rifle Range Hotel.

  ‘Just as dangerous, Michael,’ I said. ‘God knows what he’ll be like when we arrive.’

  We would have to locate the Major, calm him down and then, with a good deal of divine intervention, persuade him to peacefully ride back to the court where his bail would without doubt be revoked. His Honour Judge John Barnett had finally reached the end of his tether as far as the erstwhile Major was concerned.

  We eventually arrived at Williamstown, a small bayside village about twenty minutes from the city. We spied the Major’s car alongside the hotel. ‘Telstra sucks’ was inelegantly sprayed with shaving cream on the rear window. Inside the hotel, we could see the Major singing drunken ditties with a mate. The tables surrounding them appeared to have been urgently vacated.