Dancing with Demons

by Tim Watson-Munro

  Our discussions were far-reaching. He enjoyed literature and music. He was certainly well read – he particularly loved Oscar Wilde – and told me that he liked to visit bookshops in his spare time. He spoke at length of his love for his family, particularly his two little girls. On one occasion when I walked with him to his car I couldn’t fail to notice a child’s booster seat meticulously strapped to the back seat. It was a poignant moment, reminding me powerfully that whatever people do for a quid, they can have other lives that are seemingly quite normal.

  There were times when the ambience between us was prickly. This was usually after Gangitano had enjoyed a night of drinking.

  Years of dealing with angry men had taught me to recognise the signs – in Gangitano’s case the ubiquitous black rings under his eyes and a pasty complexion. These physical signs, along with short, sharp responses to my questions – ‘Jeez, you get fuck’n paid for this, mate?’ – would generally be sufficient warning for me to back off. ‘Leave it till next time,’ I would silently decide.

  We had discussed Gangitano’s legendary temper from time to time. Indeed, much of my work with him focused on equipping him with skills to better manage his anger. His alleged criminal offences over the years had often been a direct consequence of his hairpin fuse. He knew he had a problem and he knew alcohol was a major trigger. It was a matter of teaching him to recognise the signs of escalating tension long before critical mass was reached. I tried to convince him this would provide him with valuable choices, rather than him reaching a point of no return with his anger, as had so often been the case in the past.

  But he loved a drink and he loved to party. It was a potentially lethal mix – more so for any hapless citizen who might, through unfettered misfortune, cross his path at such times. A volatile combination of alcohol and attitude, either projected or perceived, would invariably lead to some sort of altercation, with violent outcomes. And so, before too long, Gangitano was back in trouble.

  In the pre-dawn on a deserted inner-city boulevard, a hapless driver drove into the rear of Gangitano’s car. The unlucky bloke then decided to alight from his vehicle to remonstrate. Push led to shove before Gangitano allegedly threatened to hunt the bloke down and kill him – not the first time he had allegedly threatened to take another’s life in a fit of rage. This was far more serious than your average episode of road rage. In the end, although the local police became involved, the traumatised driver decided not to pursue the complaint. Although he may have been careless behind the wheel, he was far more focused when it came to his personal safety.

  I came to appreciate the importance of cultural considerations when dealing with men like Gangitano. This related not so much to his Italian background, but to the subculture in which he was so immersed. It was a near-impossible dream that he could ever successfully extricate himself from his peers. His whole identity was integrally wound up in his so-called gangster lifestyle. His progress hence became a matter of attaining realistic goals. I reasoned that, even if he only utilised some of the insights and practical skills he had acquired through me on the odd occasion, then my involvement was worth it.

  George Defteros was a very happy man. His Melbourne office was booming and so was his practice in Western Australia. He was pleased with the work I was doing with Gangitano and a steady stream of new referrals started to come my way. This involved not only his Melbourne clients but also some of the serious players who regularly graced his office in downtown Perth.

  Much of my time was now being spent away from Victoria. I was always happy to oblige any interstate practitioner who wanted my services.

  One of George’s Perth clients was John Kizon, a charismatic and intelligent bloke who attracted undercover surveillance wherever he went. Kizon and Gangitano were mates.

  Over time, I had appeared in the witness box for a number of Kizon’s associates in Perth. I was nonetheless quite startled to see him sitting in the courtroom watching on one occasion when I was strutting my stuff.

  ‘He’s curious about you, mate. Don’t worry about it,’ George muttered.

  Kizon evidently liked my style.

  ‘You’re the fuck’n maestro,’ he exclaimed gleefully during one such visit. ‘You bring a tear to my eye every time you hit the witness box.’

  As a mark of his developing respect for me, Kizon insisted on collecting me at the domestic terminal whenever I travelled to Perth. I initially thought this was a strange thing to do.

  ‘It’s his way of being hospitable, mate, he always collects me too,’ George said when I eventually queried Kizon’s behaviour. And what could I do? Refusal would inevitably have offended him. And besides, I liked his car.

  I believe it was at about this time that the police started to take more than a casual interest in my work and activities. Certainly I suspected that each time Kizon collected me from the airport, my photograph was probably being taken. It didn’t particularly worry me. While he sought my counsel from time to time, Kizon was not my client. I had nothing to hide and nothing to fear.

  And so, I thought nothing of a casual invitation by both Kizon and Gangitano to join them for lunch at the famed Flower Drum restaurant located in Melbourne’s Chinatown precinct. Kizon was briefly in town to discuss a case with George and it seemed an ideal opportunity to have a working lunch. George had planned to join us but cancelled at the last minute due to an urgent new case. What I hadn’t counted on was the police surveillance cameras that had been hastily installed in the bowels of the restaurant, nor the cast of alleged underworld identities who had also been invited to dine with us.

  For a brief time before the full crew arrived, some constructive discussion took place. I even cautioned Gangitano to watch his drinking. ‘Some on-the-spot training,’ I joked. I knew, however, that this was not to be a teetotal occasion. Kizon also gave me progress reports on some of my Perth clients.

  The waiters treated us like royalty. An obsequious bow, humble genuflects and nervous attention to detail was the order of the day. Nothing was a problem, no request – no matter how seemingly trivial or unreasonable – was refused. And the food kept coming. Generous portions of the house specialties, Peking duck and fluffy prawn omelette filled our plates while an array of the chef’s selection of wine crossed our lips. So, too, did a range of curious conversations, before I eventually managed to excuse myself. I sensed that the boys were there for the duration and that an ominous untidiness loomed.

  At the time, I rationalised the situation by convincing myself that it had been a good opportunity to discuss their cases. And in part this was true. Secretly, however, a part of me revelled in the opportunity to dine with these blokes, to live a scene from Goodfellas for a few hours. And perhaps, through the process of developing camaraderie with them, obtain even more work for myself. In my rapacious pursuit of the buck, I had come to view every social situation as a potential marketing opportunity.

  Looking back now, my decision to attend the lunch was consciously reckless and indicative of a growing smugness. I thought I was untouchable. Somewhere within my psyche I was attracted to the notion of flirting with danger.

  Deep down, I sensed that the episode might well have been photographed. The cast at the table was collectively worth more than a century in jail, even if only half of what was alleged against them was true. But at the time, I didn’t care. Even when Carla expressed concern about my growing involvement with such notorious people, I shrugged it off. The trips to Perth, the attention of the media in relation to these blokes, and their reporting of my professional involvement with them, were exciting.

  The attention was ultimately to be a two-edged sword.

  The next I heard about the lunch was about a year later while I was in the witness box giving evidence on behalf of Gangitano. It was put to me in cross-examination that somehow, because I had shared lunch with my client on one occasion, my objectivity had been compromised.

  I was outraged. The traditional approach of my profession is that on
e should not cross the line from the consulting room to social situations but I have never subscribed to the view that the moment you step outside your office with a client, the therapeutic contract in some way must inevitably be breached. In fact, I believed that with hard-edged forensic work a sense of flexibility is essential. These blokes carry a lot of emotional baggage and it generally takes the extra mile of tolerance to break through their psychological barriers. Through experience, I came to believe that much more could be achieved through a helpful comment or word of advice during an informal cup of coffee than would ever occur within the stuffy confines of my office. I considered my approach to be more like an outreach youth worker, dealing with clients from the street, on the street.

  I found the view expressed by some of the plodders among my ranks – that by sharing a joke or two over lunch with Gangitano I had in some magical way become blinded to the seriousness of his behaviour and plight – frankly breathtaking. The reality is that by virtue of the work that a forensic psychologist does, it is inevitable that some sort of relationship develops. It does not follow, however, that these blokes then become your best mates. In the end, it is all a matter of perspective and proportion.

  The timing could not have been worse. The press, who had been abundantly present at court, seized upon the story. Shock, horror! I had given evidence for Gangitano and I had also been photographed with him and John Kizon (once described in The Age as a heroin trafficker, although I’m not sure if this is the case) at the Drum!

  ‘Get a fuck’n life,’ I thought. Adding to the generally sloppy reporting, one newspaper falsely claimed that the late Lang Hancock’s daughter, Gina Rinehart, was also in attendance. ‘What a beat-up,’ I exclaimed to Carla. ‘These fuckwits have the cumulative IQ of a houseplant.’

  She just smiled, no doubt wondering at the time whether my workload was finally getting to me. And yet, despite my vitriolic protestations, I had to concede that it looked bad – particularly in the context of my very active and public involvement with the Grollo case, which was running at the same time. Grollo’s lawyers were understandably concerned that the jury in their case might, because of the article, draw an adverse inference in relation to him.

  Despite my public outrage, privately I kicked myself for my naive lapse of judgement. If there was any upside to the situation, I had seemingly learned a valuable lesson about the power of perception and misconception. It was also the first time that I had experienced the blunt end of adverse media reporting. Up until that time I had never received anything other than very positive commentary in the media.

  ‘You’re only ever as good as your last gig,’ someone once advised me. How true it now seemed to be.

  I was not the only person to cop it from the media in relation to my association with Gangitano. So did a leading bail justice, Rowena Allsop. Rowena had developed a friendship with Gangitano that was causing considerable concern among the attorney-general’s department. She had evidently been photographed enjoying cups of coffee with him in Lygon Street. When she courageously volunteered to speak on his behalf at a Magistrates’ Court plea, Rowena’s friendship with Gangitano became front-page news, causing an abrupt hiccup in the career of a woman who had previously received an Order of Australia medal for her services. (To her credit, Rowena remained undaunted, and at the request of Gangitano’s family, she delivered the eulogy at his funeral in front of a multitude of mourners.)

  The lunch episode caused me to change my dealings with Gangitano. I realised that consulting with him outside of my office had ultimately been to our respective detriment. If it was perceived that my objectivity was compromised, then the power and value of what I had to say on his behalf would inevitably be diminished. This made it difficult to continue seeing him regularly.

  Although we remained on positive terms, my contact with Gangitano lapsed. This was regrettable as it was around this time that his problems escalated, as did the level of violence on the streets of Melbourne. No doubt it was just coincidence. The last couple of years of his life were by all accounts turbulent. Apart from the Sports Bar episode, the gossip mill had linked his name to a number of ‘hits’ in the eastern suburbs. There was also scuttlebutt concerning unpaid gambling debts and a looming dispute in relation to drug distribution territories. It seemed as though Gangitano was running out of time.

  Then came the suggestion that the key witnesses to the Workman murder had been persuaded to return to Australia to testify against him. Gangitano was on edge and under pressure. Like circling wolves waiting for the kill, his enemies were aware of his frailties. It was just a matter of time. Still, no one would have predicted that this Godfather, like so many before him, would have met such an undignified end – caught in his jocks with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

  The account of his murder and who was responsible for it became larger and more fanciful with each passing week. The press fuelled the gossip with seductive, sensational newspaper headlines. Some claimed that it was an underworld payback arising from the murder of Greg Workman. Others were equally convinced that it was all about drug debts and drug distribution rights. Some even went so far as to suggest that Gangitano had been put off by greedy criminal elements within the Victorian Police Force. To this day, however, his murder remains an unsolved mystery.

  *

  Alphonse Gangitano was not my sole underworld client.

  At the time of his murder, no one could have foreseen the orgy of gangland violence lurking in the near future. By the time the so-described Melbourne Underworld War had concluded, thirty promising lives of standover, drug dealing, extortion and generically bad behaviour had been prematurely extinguished. Of those, seventeen at some point had been clients of mine. Jason Moran, Dino Dibra, and Graham ‘The Munster’ Kinniburgh to name just a few.

  It seemed like every week another crook was being knocked. The attacks were also becoming more public and brazen, and were having an impact upon the Melbourne psyche. Salacious media coverage, gruesome evening news footage, the city was gripped and enthralled by it all. It was like a perverse version of a B-grade Al Capone movie. A slow-mo, frame-by-frame rerun of The Valentine’s Day massacre and all that accompanied it in Chicago in the late 1920s.

  But this was not 1929 Chicago. It was twenty-first century Melbourne. Back then locals awoke to grotesque front-page images of the latest hit. With the advent of the twenty-four-hour news cycle, the very public massacres confronted us in virtual real time. Ticker strip announcements at the bottom of the screen; the latest hit competed with footy scores. Melbourne has long held claim to be the sporting capital of the nation. I suspect this confidence dates back to 1956 when it hosted the Olympics. The crowds who brave long, bleak, cold winters to support their footy team amazed me when I arrived in 1981. Melburnians love to watch. And there was no exception when it came to the sickening ritual of hard-edged gangsters exacting their private hatred on their enemies, at times in very public places.

  Some in the criminal law were quietly running a book on who would be next. Everyone had a theory and a point of view. The police seemed powerless, frozen like wombats staring down the headlights of an implacable semitrailer on a country road. People’s confidence in those charged with maintaining law and order was fading. The natural, easygoing rhythm of Melbourne life was being challenged by a crew, which frankly didn’t give a fuck. And with each hit, the confidence and power of the general directing play, grew and grew . . . and grew.

  The quiet suspicion of many – underworld figures, their lawyers, the police and at least one shrink – about who was responsible became an open secret: the hits were the result of bloodlust born of a deep-seated feud, founded when the now late Carl Williams had been shot in the guts by one of the Moran brothers one lazy afternoon. The rest has already been narrated a thousand times and no doubt in years to come, will be a thousand times more.

  I had known Jason Moran for a number of years, essentially through his associates who had been referred to me on a re
gular basis because of their criminal activity. We never socialised and our meetings were generally confined to my consulting suite or his lawyer’s office. Jason Moran possessed a cavalier, outrageous sense of humour. I remember an encounter when I was beating a tactful retreat from Oaks Day at Spring Carnival one year.

  Oaks Day is a huge social event in Melbourne and a highlight of the racing calendar, an opportunity to catch up, have a laugh and, for some, to muck up. The Flemington members’ stand is the place to be seen. No berths for the hoi polloi here. It and the birdcage area is where the gentry mix it up with aspiring ‘wannabe seens’. Champagne, fine food and immaculately groomed sheilas, it has it all. Oaks Day has long been described as ‘Bloke’s Day’ for this very reason. A day when well-fortified, over-lubricated folk leave the rulebook at home.

  On this particular Thursday I noted a continuous stream of male and female patrons revolving in and out of the washrooms. All the usual suspects. Lawyers, bankers, well-dressed crooks who had not been warned off and ubiquitous well-heeled matrons. The ambience was colourful. I also noticed some familiar faces from the police force. Conspicuously dressed in cheap polyester blend suits, painted ties and poorly polished vinyl shoes, they were hard to miss.

  At some point I noticed the return of one in the group who had disappeared for a time. He was breathless, green grass stains dampened the knees of his Zegna suit. His tie was off centre. I interrupted my conversation with a young clean-cut bloke from the better-groomed inner Melbourne suburbs.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I asked the man in the Zegna suit, adding, ‘You look like you’ve done ten rounds with a horse.’

  ‘Better,’ he retorted with welling, panting pride. ‘See that sheila walking off over there? The one with the striped dress?’

  On cue, I glanced in the direction of some nearby shrubbery.

  ‘I just rooted her.’