Dancing with Demons
Page 22
I immediately contacted Brian Rolfe, who organised an urgent conference for the following day.
Brian had prevailed on Remy van de Wiel QC to look at my case.
‘This is very serious,’ Remy told me the next day.
‘Really, Remy?’ I responded. I remain eternally grateful to Remy for taking me on, but at the time I could barely contain my sarcasm.
‘What does the law say about people in my situation? I received a non-conviction bond. People with drink-drive charges are convicted for their offences,’ I hissed. ‘There’s blokes practising at the Bar right now with convictions for assault. Let’s try to keep this in perspective, shall we?’
The thrust of the letter from the board related to the issue of my character. In order to approve an applicant’s suitability for professional registration, the board must be satisfied that the person is of ‘good character’. In order to refuse an application the board didn’t have to make a finding that the applicant is of ‘bad’ character but merely that their character is in some way flawed.
‘Who do you know who would be prepared to testify as to your character?’ Brian gently enquired.
‘We’ll need a busload of them,’ advised Remy. ‘They’re baying for your blood!’
‘I have thousands of acquaintances and hundreds of friends,’ I said. ‘My oldest friend Graham Ellis is a general practitioner who I started kindergarten with. I’ve known him for over forty years. I know judges, I know hundreds of lawyers, academics, clients . . . Christ, they’ll all come and speak to the board if necessary.’
‘Good. Get them organised. There’s no time to waste.’
The board also had raised questions concerning the length and intensity of my addiction and the type of treatment I was undertaking, as well as a concern that I had in some way misled them at the earlier hearing by not announcing that I was using an illicit chemical.
My team sprang into action.
‘If it’s your character that’s the issue then we’ll show them through far-reaching evidence that you are a fit and proper person to continue practice,’ said Remy, clearly steeling himself for the inevitable battle which confronted us.
‘What about your treatment?’ interjected Anita Bryce. ‘We’ll need to hear from your shrinks and anyone else who may have counselled you along the way.’ Anita worked for Galbally and Rolfe. An exceptionally bright and capable young lawyer, she had won my confidence a long time before this meeting. She was highly professional, organised and, most important to me at this vulnerable point of my life, a compassionate human being. My anxiety lifted somewhat in the knowledge that I was in such capable hands.
‘Have you done any urine screens?’ asked Greg Lyon, another loyal and supportive mate who also had made available his time and expertise to help me.
I had toyed with the idea of undergoing random urine tests, but steered away from it. ‘What do I need this type of validation for? If I use again I’m only fooling myself,’ I had reasoned. I firmly believed in my unshakeable resolve to beat my addiction.
I had not recognised the need for some external proof of my abstinence. It was clear that I had no credibility with my peers. Why should they believe that I was drug-free just because I said it was the case? Cocaine is a notoriously addictive drug with a high level of relapse among recovering addicts.
‘Nah. But I’ll start tomorrow. You wanna come and watch?’
I was sickened by the thought of this final humiliation – standing in a queue at some clinic waiting my turn to piss in a bottle while Nurse Ratchet leered on.
‘Just fuck’n do it, Doctor,’ chided Rolfey. ‘We’re pushing shit uphill right now.’
By the end of the week more than thirty witnesses had volunteered to bear testament to my character.
Meanwhile, I was trying to resurrect my practice. I would drive off to work each morning, in the full knowledge some days that at best there would be only one client to see. I would spend the rest of the day staring from my office window to the street below, wondering time and time again how it had all come to this. Cigarettes, coffee and loneliness were my constant companions. I also found out that a couple of disgruntled former clients had seized upon my misfortune by writing to the board suggesting that the results of their court cases should be investigated and overturned. And yet, despite all this, I believed that with time, true grit and tenacity, I would survive.
A small trickle of work started to arrive early in the new year. This work came from loyal solicitors who had worked with me for many years and perhaps could see that I was making a fist of my recovery. Although the volume of referrals declined, I was nonetheless making a living. There was an atmosphere of forgiveness, both from the bench and my traditional work base. The media, too, was sympathetic. At the beginning of that year Australian Story aired a feature on my fall from grace. It was well received. By the time the hearing commenced in March 2000, I had been drug-free for six months and my recovery was gathering momentum. So too was the significant improvement in my mood. I was exercising, eating well and sleeping better. In other words my prior behaviours, which understandably would cause the community and my regulatory body concern, had resolved. I was rehabilitating.
However, my anxiety regarding the board hearing was, at times, too much to bear. Consequently I would spend days at a time paralysed with the fear of the unknown.
Remy and the team were initially of the view that I should not give evidence in the board interview.
‘How can you speak to your own character?’ they had argued.
The board saw things differently. This was clear from the moment that we arrived at the hearing room on the tenth floor of their Collins Street headquarters. The mood was sombre – nary a smile or welcoming nod to be seen. One table was set up for the five board members who had been allocated to ‘interview’ me. We sat at the other. In case we became confused as to our identities, crisp little nametags sat in front of us. I realised at that point that the ‘interview’ would be more like a plea for my life and that, as with the previous enquiry, we would be gracing the room for months to come.
‘Settle in for the duration,’ I thought as I slumped into my chair.
Our first witnesses came from the professional ranks. The solicitors, QCs and one County Court judge patiently waited in the foyer for their turn to provide evidence of my character to the board. The theme of the evidence was consistent: that notwithstanding my recent problems, I had always discharged my professional obligations. To a person, my character witnesses expressed how shocked they were to learn of my addiction, their bewilderment being heightened because it had never been reflected, apart from an occasional tardiness in sending advices, in the quality of my reports, nor indeed my courtroom appearances.
Significantly, none of the witnesses who were called on my behalf had been anything more than professional colleagues. I had not dined with them nor indeed had they ever attended long Negroni lunches.
This evidence was vital.
Understandably, the board had expressed a concern that my drug-taking may have affected my professional judgement. Not a skerrick of evidence to support this contention was ever presented.
My team also raised how I had presented myself to the police, that I had never been arrested and, perhaps most importantly, that I had made many disclosures concerning the length and intensity of my addiction which were not previously known to the police. Their investigation, after all, had only spanned a month or so. I told them everything about my drug use over the preceding years. I was determined to make a clean breast of things in order to put it all behind me and move on.
Despite this, the board seized upon these disclosures and then, in a convoluted contortion of logic, was ultimately to suggest that I had been less than frank and that I was in denial! I was clearly on a hiding to nothing.
Following the first night, the matter was adjourned for a week. In closing for the evening, the board indicated that they were very keen to hear from my doctors.
‘This should give them some comfort,’ I mused. ‘I’ve had more psychotherapy in the last fifteen months than they’ve had baked dinners.’
Professor Schweitzer was also grilled at length. True to his intellect and dignity, his responses were measured, logical and supportive of my position.
Alan was treated with complete disrespect. Despite being an acknowledged expert in his field, he was cross-examined at length in an attempt to undermine his credibility. Ridiculous questions such as ‘Do you weigh your patient, Doctor?’ were asked in response to him stating that my weight had ballooned as a result of no longer using stimulants. He had suggested on the basis of his vast experience that this corroborated drug abstinence. Following the hearing, Alan rang me. He was incensed by what he perceived to be the lack of professionalism by the board and the way he had been treated. He shared Remy’s opinion that the board had already predetermined the outcome of the hearing.
How the months dragged on. Already it was June and I still had not given all of my evidence. In the interim, I continued to work. It had now been nine months since my recovery had started.
While I was still suffering from anxiety and depression – aggravated by proceedings before the board – my mental state was far improved because of my abstinence from cocaine.
The volume of work being offered to me was also picking up. Despite my initial concerns at being cross-examined, I had provided verbal evidence to both the County and Supreme Courts. One case involved the bribery of a policeman who, in exchange for money, had kindly provided the keys to the compound where the police kept all drug seizures. This was a widely reported case that, for obvious reasons, had attracted the attention of very senior police within the force. Not once did the Crown challenge my character or professionalism.
And then in June my mood dipped. The strain of the board hearing was starting to wear me down. Professor Schweitzer was concerned and eventually suggested that, until matters were resolved, it would be wise to double my medication. More nausea, fluctuations in appetite and sexual dysfunction. I was rapidly tiring of the charade.
One of the board’s concerns was the potential conflict of interest that had existed because of me using drugs with a lawyer who also supplied me with work. This, they believed, could have in some way compromised my professional objectivity. In my defence, a number of prominent practitioners, including in my opinion Australia’s foremost criminal QC, Robert Richter, were asked whether in their perception I had ever ‘gilded the lily’ in terms of my evidence. Nobody thought I had.
Similar questions were asked of Judge Robert Kent QC. The judge had known me for nearly twenty years. Again, the evidence was clear that as a witness I had always been objective. Noel Ackman QC described me in his evidence as a ‘compelling witness’, adding that I was always listened to and taken seriously by the bench.
And yet, in the fullness of time, many months after the board had made its determination, I came to see that their concerns were legitimate. No matter how hard I tried to separate my professional and personal boundaries, quite apart from the illegality of my behaviour, I should not have accepted work from a supplier.
Towards the end of the hearing, evidence concerning the totality of my career was produced. Certainly, my drug using was reprehensible. There was no argument. This recent and now departed aspect of my life, my team argued, needed to be considered in the overall context of the preceding twenty-two years of practice. Naively, we thought that in assessing the issue of my character, my contributions to the community and the profession before my illness developed might help the board to find a sense of perspective about my more recent fall from grace.
By the time all of the evidence had concluded, I was an emotional wreck. It was close to the end of June, some four months since the hearing had commenced. It seemed I had spent the past four months locked into defending myself against the board and I could sense that my health was again failing me. The only ray of hope that gave me both courage and strength was the fact that, despite the strains, not once had I been tempted to pick up the phone to a cocaine dealer.
In the end, my execution was swift. After an adjournment for seven days we reassembled with the board on 28 June. Their mood was glum. I was beyond caring. I had spent the preceding night, sleepless, pacing the floor, more anxious than a turkey on Thanksgiving Day Eve.
‘Just get it over with,’ I thought to myself as the president announced that he would read the board’s finding before circulating their reasons for the decision. And then the guillotine fell. Just like that. By virtue of my ‘flawed character’ I was stripped of my professional title and in essence all that I had worked for in the preceding twenty-two years.
THE TWILIGHT ZONE
I had worked my arse off for over two decades. It was not unusual for me to put in 100 hours a week, seeing clients, reading depositions, writing reports, going to court in Melbourne and other parts of Australia as well as regular media appearances. On a fairly regular basis, I would also write feature articles for major newspapers such as the Melbourne Age and the Australian. Although my referral rate had diminished, I had still been in regular demand to provide TV and radio interviews concerning major crime around the country.
The media work, however, had caused my lawyers severe angst. During the registration board’s inquisition of me, my lawyers had insisted that I pull up as they feared the board members were becoming increasingly hostile about my continued public profile. No doubt, they felt I should have crawled under a rock. In my view, I was attempting to maintain my profile to demonstrate my continued recovery.
By 6 a.m. on the day following the board’s decision, there was a stack of calls banked up on my answering machine; requests for interviews from my old mate Derryn Hinch and Steve Liebmann from the Today Show as well as interstate radio.
While I was tempted by the offers, I felt it was better to be cautious in my approach. I was still considering an appeal to the Supreme Court. I sought the advice of senior practitioners and listened to those closest to me.
‘Why not have some time off, Tim? You’re exhausted . . . They can’t kick you out forever . . . maybe a year . . .’
I was emotionally and physically spent. So I listened to them and declined further media approaches, foolishly believing that with good works, continued treatment and recovery, the doors to my profession would open for me within a year, two at most.
I misread the venom in the board’s decision.
The emotional and financial hardship my deregistration imposed on my family beggared belief. Nicholas was less than twelve months old, I had four other children to feed and the older two had lost their mother to cancer ten months earlier. As a family, we were reeling. What were we to do?
In my early forties, I was already a millionaire on paper, with a property portfolio which included my home and various investment properties and magnificent artwork. Following my fall, I realised that if I was to have any hope of survival at a financial level, then I would need to divest myself of all my assets and abandon leases I’d taken out over the years in relation to the business. I sold my beloved antiques and paintings. Our German cars were replaced by a couple of Holden Commodores. The family home was sold and we moved into a modest rental accommodation.
My two younger daughters, who like their older siblings had enjoyed the privilege of attendance at a leading Melbourne private school, were transferred to a local public school. At a philosophical level, I had no difficulty with this and indeed felt that their exposure to a broader public education would ultimately be character enhancing. I was, however, concerned about the psychological impact on them in terms of moving home and having to adapt to a new school and new friendships. A number of dear friends had offered
to loan me money so the girls could continue at school. Although I was grateful for this, I declined their generosity. The children adjusted to their changed circumstances with great flexibility and indeed stated that they enjoyed being involved in a school that was less psychologically stifling than the one that they had attended for several years beforehand.
Although later on I found the divestment of these assets to be one of the most liberating feats of my life (my Holden came to remind me of my earlier days as a student), this was certainly not the case at the time. Instead, it seemed an acknowledgement of defeat. Initially, I found it near impossible to surrender most of what I had worked for over the years. It wasn’t until I had reached a turning point, through months of therapy, that I came to realise that these goods and chattels had only served to encumber my life. It became clear to me that in my haste to be seen as successful I had unwittingly constructed a psychological prison for myself, needing to constantly work in order to service my debts and my lifestyle. To my dismay, I realised that over the years I had become little more than a highly qualified pigeon, constantly pecking away for positive reinforcement for my ego through the relentless acquisition and display of expensive objects.
Once the nature of this entrapment became clear, the decision to free myself fell into place. I was now faced with the issue of raw survival. I had five children to feed. I had decided not to appeal the board’s decision as the strain of further court was too much to bear. Instead, I rallied some of my friends in the legal profession who kept offering me support. ‘You could really help, if you started to send Carla work,’ I suggested.
Fortunately for the family, Carla was very well regarded as a clinical psychologist in her own right. While there was initial pushback from some – she was not known or used in the private forensic scene – my good mate Brian T.D. Cash was prepared to roll the dice. Brian is a Melbourne legend, uncle to tennis player Pat Cash and a one-time golden gloves champion; he has a fearsome reputation for taking no prisoners. ‘I’ll give her a try, mate,’ he replied and my heart and gratitude went out to him. And so Carla’s practice grew. She had also for many years been retained as a consultant to the Melbourne Children’s Court Clinic. The clinic’s director, Dr Patricia Brown, was wonderful with her support, increasing the number of referrals to Carla each week so we could survive. A number of my own clients also sent work to her. For all this, I was extremely grateful.