‘Surprise, I’ve got a present for you, Doc,’ he said with a wicked Burl Ives smile, before producing two beautiful silk Moschino ties. One was red, the other blue.
‘Take your pick, bloke,’ he said.
Both ties were decorated with a silk embossed quarter-pounder, thickshake and the McDonald’s insignia. From that day forth, we would both regularly wear our ties to court. No doubt the jury thought we had lost our marbles. We became known as Zig and Zag the Armani twins, because of our pinstriped Armani suits and complementing ties.
If Brero’s trajectory seemed to be wobbling, so did mine. For many years I had travelled in a fairly secure financial zone, the rewards of my hard work and entrepreneurial spirit. Our family lived in a beautiful Toorak home, and each year the family would leave Melbourne for weeks at a time for holiday breaks in Australia or overseas. I worked hard and, when time permitted it, I played hard. But the books always balanced. I never made foolish decisions about how to spend and invest my income.
Never, that is, until the vagaries of the Grollo trial bombarded my sensibilities with all the ferocity of a force ten hurricane. Brero’s little joke with the ties was trivial in contrast to my own unravelling. I started to spend money in an indiscriminate, almost capricious manner.
Meanwhile, back at the court, the trial was becoming increasingly unmanageable. The mood of counsel, the judge and the jury was fraying. We all were starting to believe that the trial would never end. In an attempt to accelerate the process, leading defence counsel Con Heliotis QC made an application to have the Major split off from the proceedings. The basis of the application was simply that he was mad. The merits of this proposition seemed obvious since at the time he was lodged in a ward for the criminally insane as a certified patient. But the trial had taken on ugly dimensions. Despite the thin veneer of camaraderie between the sides, the hostility between the prosecution and the defence was at times quite palpable.
Even though it would have been in the interest of all parties for the application to be heard unopposed, the prosecution, in a deft stroke of brilliance, decided – even though it had been at their insistence that the Major be lodged in the loony bin – to voice their opposition. In an extraordinary convolution of logic, they expressed a view to the judge that even though the Major was certifiably mad, he was nonetheless sufficiently sane to understand what was occurring each day in court and to competently instruct his lawyers.
By this time, as a further example of the depths of his illness, the Major had unceremoniously sacked his counsel, Philip Dunn QC. Philip, with the assistance of his more-than-able junior, Greg Lyon, had more or less nursed the Major for years beforehand. He was integrally involved in the formulation of his defence and knew the facts and issues of the case backwards. The Major, for reasons only known to him, could not be dissuaded from this absurd course of action. Had it not been for the ability of Greg Lyon in picking up the pieces and managing the Major, disaster would have quickly ensued.
In order to sort the matter out, the judge presided over a so-called ‘Presser Hearing’. This was effectively a trial within the trial where the jury heard specific evidence, concerning the sanity or otherwise of the Major. Their task was to make a finding, based solely upon the evidence, as to whether or not the Major was mentally fit. The hearing assumed the dimensions of some wacky Fellini film, with the prosecution calling the psychiatrist who had certified the Major in the first place. She was the person responsible for his hospital care and the regulation of his anti-psychotic medication. And yep, you guessed it, she argued that he was, in her opinion, fit to continue. After hearing the evidence from both sides, the jury agreed.
We fell into a four-week vacation over Christmas with relief. I spent much of the Gold Coast holiday with my family simply sleeping.
The Major, who had been released on bail (with strict conditions), had relished his freedom and had managed to maintain a position of comparative sanity. His treating psychiatrist, Dr Dinesh Parekh, had worked miracles in getting the balance of his medication right. Indeed, the Major had spent his time productively training for the next Melbourne Marathon!
And so the trial continued relatively free of incident. After several months, with all of the witnesses dispatched, the hearing entered its final critical phase involving counsels’ addresses to the jury. The power of the oratory was amazing. Afterwards, the jury retired to consider its verdict. The wait was interminable. It is quite an experience to be sitting around with counsel for days at a time speculating, workshopping and dissecting a trial. This was no exception. The strain of waiting was incredible. But it was nothing compared to the moment of the fateful telephone call to counsels’ chambers announcing that, at long last, the jury had reached its verdict.
The court was packed with family, friends, well-wishers and the ubiquitous press, but you could have heard an ant walking across the judge’s table. I have never experienced such tension. The atmosphere was electric as the verdict concerning all three accused men was read by the foreman of the jury.
‘Not guilty,’ he boomed. And the court erupted with an explosion of cheers.
And so, in the twinkling of an eye, one of the longest criminal trials in Australia’s convoluted legal history was over. But my troubles were just beginning.
GODFATHERS
I first learned that Alphonse Gangitano had been murdered on the 6 p.m. news. He had been my client for a number of years, although it had been several months since I’d last seen him on a professional basis. I had been kept abreast of his life though, thanks to regular media items about his alleged behaviour in and around Melbourne.
Gangitano had been due to face a tough committal hearing a day or so after his death, arising from allegations that he and Jason Moran had viciously attacked a number of patrons at the Sports Bar nightclub. This club is situated in the notorious King Street district of inner Melbourne, a place where piss and bad manners occasionally clash with fatal results. The alleged offences had occurred quite some time beforehand. Both men had entered pleas of not guilty, and true to the form that I had come to know over the years, Gangitano had bunkered down for what was expected to be a long legal fight.
His very able barrister, Lillian Lieder QC, must have had some form of premonition the day before his death – by her account she had told him to take care and to watch his back. He should have listened to her because within forty-eight hours he lay dead, ambushed in his own home to die in the family laundry. His assassin had demonstrated a callous disregard for the unspoken rule that you never involve the wife and children in such business. For it was Gangitano’s wife, Virginia, in the company of their two young daughters, who found him lying in a pool of blood with three shots to the head. They had been out for the night visiting friends while Gangitano stayed home to relax. He was evidently in his underwear when his murderer struck. The police felt that Gangitano must have known his killer. How else, they reasoned, would the killer have gained such ready access to Gangitano’s well-fortified Melbourne home?
Without doubt, Alphonse Gangitano was a tough man. He had a fearsome reputation among his enemies – some people referred to him as the Godfather – but he was unswervingly loyal to his friends. I had heard on the grapevine that some in the underworld were concerned about his increasingly erratic behaviour. There was talk of a drug problem.
Even so, I was genuinely shocked to hear of his death that January night in 1998.
Gangitano had first been referred to me by his solicitor George Defteros. A hard-nosed and highly capable criminal attorney, George operated a lucrative practice out of both Melbourne and Perth. George is widely respected by the criminal fraternity but has never been liked by the police, no doubt because of his unwavering determination to represent his clients to the bitter end if necessary. By the time he contacted me, Gangitano had been arrested and charged with the murder of Gregory Workman. It was claimed that Workman had died from multiple gunshot wounds that had been inflicted at close quarters following
a heated exchange at an inner city party.
George asked me to visit Gangitano in jail, calm him down and assess his psychological state. He was facing a very serious charge and only some form of special medical or psychological circumstance would allow him any chance of successfully applying for bail. I prayed Gangitano would not blame me if he were required to remain in prison for a while.
‘He’s not handling it too well, mate – not too well at all,’ said George as he briefly filled me on Gangitano’s recent history. Gangitano was flipping out in B Division, a notoriously tough wing within the Pentridge Prison complex. His behaviour was erratic and he was spooking not only the other prisoners, but also some of the guards.
According to George, Gangitano was withdrawn and at times agitated. He was refusing to come out of his cell, preferring instead to strut about in his jocks. He was also not eating.
I suspected that the screws would be glad of my involvement. While being tough men in their own right, the prison officers were no match for Gangitano and his reputation. Forcing Gangitano to do something could mean encountering a balaclava-wearing, baseball bat-carrying thug in the driveway of their home in the early hours.
‘I’ll see him tomorrow, George,’ I advised. I needed time to prepare for the meeting, and besides, it was already mid-afternoon. It was unlikely that I would gain entry to the prison at such a late hour of the day.
By the time I arrived the following morning, matters had deteriorated. The guards were toey and one or two of the greener recruits had rather jaundiced complexions. They knew of the Godfather and were not about to fuck with him just for the sake of their careers.
‘Tim Watson-Munro,’ I announced with outstretched hand as Gangitano was eventually led into the interview room.
‘Good to see you, mate. I know who you are. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you,’ he said with a grin.
‘Well, I hope that I can be of some good to you, mate,’ I replied. So far the rapport between us was reasonable.
‘Can you get us out of this fuck’n shithole?’ he said in a more sombre tone. ‘The joint’s driving me nuts.’
‘Tell me more about it, Al,’ I said. It was corny but it worked.
A powerfully built man, Gangitano’s ability with his fists was the stuff of legends. He was fidgety and yet I sensed that he was keen to co-operate. His black eyes, encased by equally dark rings, projected an understated menace. No doubt he had endured many sleepless nights since the time of his arrest. He was distracted. His glazed expression and the poorly controlled agitation in his voice said it all. Beyond his initial enthusiasm, the conversation dwindled.
I suspected that he was depressed and slowly trying to come to terms with the magnitude of his situation. I had worked with dozens of gangsters over the years and yet there was something about Gangitano’s presence that made me momentarily feel that I was out of my depth. If I was to maintain his fledgling faith in me, considerable clinical skill would be required.
As he gave me a potted history of his life, every few minutes or so the train of Gangitano’s thoughts were interrupted by the concerned stares of a prison guard peering through the office window. He had been posted there to ensure my safety.
Alphonse’s late father, Phillip Gangitano, was a well-respected Italian businessman who had worked out of Lygon Street in Carlton. Situated between the leafy Melbourne University precinct and the central business district, Carlton is the city’s ‘Italian Quarter’. When I first shifted from Sydney, I lived in Carlton for several years before moving on. I loved the vibrant atmosphere created by its plentiful restaurants, cafes and music stores.
Carlton was Alphonse’s playground as a child, while he accompanied his father on his rounds. He described a strong respect and love for his father, who by his account could be a strict disciplinarian but otherwise doted on Alphonse and his sister. He was greatly affected by his father’s death, which had occurred not long before his current troubles. His expressions of sadness when describing the loss of his father reflected a softer, more sensitive edge to his personality. He also described a profound love for his mother, who at the time was still alive. I realised that Gangitano was about my age.
He received a privileged education attending the De La Salle and Marcellin colleges. His father evidently had big plans for his son which did not, by Gangitano’s account, mesh terribly well with his own.
‘Where’s all this heading?’ he suddenly growled.
It was clear that he was uncomfortable talking about his early childhood. This was personal stuff and he could not see how it was relevant. This reaction was not uncommon. More often than not over the years, I had found that men in prison charged with serious offences could not see the point in talking about long-past events in their life. They wanted an urgent resolution of their immediate problems and could become openly hostile if pushed to provide me with this type of detail. And yet it was essential for me to obtain as much clinical and social information about their lives as I could in order to formulate ideas about when and how their psychological problems had started.
It was also vital to my credibility in the witness box. I had learned years earlier that the omission of one important aspect to a person’s history could spell disaster under cross-examination. This was especially so with Gangitano, where I knew that the gloves would be off in any application for him to be released on bail.
I did my best to explain this and he relaxed somewhat but, sensing his impatience, I then moved on to more current issues. It was clear that he was ‘doing it hard’ in prison. He was severely depressed and highly anxious regarding the future. He reported that he had managed to avoid any physical confrontation but felt that it was just a matter of time. Greg Workman had friends who were doing time, and the possibility of some jailhouse justice was always just around the corner.
‘Some cunt will have a go,’ he sighed.
Sensing his apparent despair, I asked him if he’d ever felt this low before.
‘Yeah, I saw a psychiatrist at St Vincent’s a while back,’ he said.
I was taken aback by his candour. It seemed that, despite his earlier bristling, we were getting somewhere. A prior history of treatment was relevant and possibly helpful to his case, as it reflected a desire to receive help. I sensed that, despite his reputation, I was dealing with an intelligent man who was capable of insight and reflection, two essential ingredients for successful psychotherapy. This case was becoming more interesting by the minute.
As expected, Gangitano’s application to be released on bail was unsuccessful. He was, after all, charged with a capital crime. The judge was unmoved by strong evidence concerning Gangitano’s deteriorating mental state in prison, as well as his prior psychiatric history, which had involved specialist treatment for depression, anxiety and serious bowel issues.
Short of a miracle, Gangitano was now destined to spend at least the next year or so in custody. And if he went down at trial he probably wouldn’t see freedom for a couple more decades after that. I had been around long enough to know that, in certain circumstances, miracles do happen.
Gangitano’s miracle took the form of an announcement by the Crown at a preliminary hearing that their star witnesses had fled the country and were unlikely to ever return. One could only speculate as to the reasons behind their decision to take flight. As a consequence, the Crown advised they would have no evidence to lead of a material nature. The prisoner was free to go.
‘Fuck’n amazing,’ Gangitano said with a chuckle as he left the court.
I fully expected that his interest in exploring his life with me would rapidly dissipate now that he was free. But shortly after his release, he contacted me to schedule an appointment. It seemed as though some slow progress had occurred.
My next session with Gangitano was at my St Kilda Road office. Dressed in an Armani suit with an elegantly co-ordinated tie, he cut a striking figure. But his attire camouflaged the silent danger impatiently lurking within.
&n
bsp; ‘Hard to believe you were on the bones of your arse in Pentridge such a short time ago,’ I mused as I ushered him into my office.
He cut straight to the chase. ‘Look, mate, I want to come and see you, I can talk to you, but I’m not comfortable sitting out there in the waiting area with all those fuck’n loons and crooks.’
I realised immediately that he was concerned about maintaining his image and suggested that it might be better for us to meet on a regular basis over coffee. I knew that some clients preferred the informality of discussing their problems outside the confines of an office. Indeed, some of my best work during my Parramatta days had been accomplished not in my poky office but while I walked the rounds of the prison. ‘I could use the fresh air,’ I joked, and he relaxed straightaway. The next hour was fruitfully spent at the deli across the road from my practice.
For a time we enjoyed regular meetings and I came to know Gangitano better. He was a complex man. The allegations regarding his behaviour over the years were seemingly endless – standover merchant, hit man, drug trader. His criminal history, involving guns and repeated acts of bloodied violence, was appalling. When he was referred to me he had been charged with a vicious and cowardly murder – shooting an unarmed man at point-blank range. And yet these were issues which neither of us really wanted to explore in any depth. I was far more interested in the positive aspects to his personality, which I sensed at some level he was keen to harness.
At one session he spoke rather wistfully about his unutilised potential. ‘I might have been a lawyer, you know,’ he volunteered. Certainly by this stage I knew that he had the intellectual prowess to have made this happen had his life evolved differently.
Dancing with Demons Page 15