By this stage my life had decelerated from Mach 3 to a snail’s pace. Beyond the public opprobrium I had endured, this idle time was the hardest to navigate. My previously fully occupied days were reduced to sitting around, initially feeling sorry for myself, then beating myself up for my stupidity. The boredom was broken by walking the dog. I also became a house father to Nick, our youngest. I was so depressed and anxious that I found this task at times too difficult to manage. My extraordinarily kind and loving father-in-law Hans came to the rescue, appearing each day to assist in child-minding duties. As a consequence, he and Nick formed an extremely close bond, with Nick eagerly looking forward each morning to sharing an ‘Opa sandwich’. (Hans was Dutch and had been affectionately referred to by all his grandchildren as Opa.)
I was supported by close friends who would insist on taking me for bike rides to lift my morale. ‘Why don’t you write a book, Tim?’ one friend suggested. I thought that this was an excellent idea and I began penning a manuscript – one which eventually became the book you are now holding.
Shortly after the news of my deregistration was revealed, I received a telephone call from Professor Paul Wilson, the Dean of Humanities at Bond University. He opened with ‘This is a tragedy, mate . . . what can we do to help you?’ By pure coincidence, an old school friend, Dr John Ritchie, had been working as an assistant professor at Bond, and with the support of these two fantastic people, I was offered two positions. One involved sitting on the Advisory Board to the School of Applied Psychology and Criminology and the other was to be a Visiting Adjunct Professor. My mood soared. ‘At least some people believe in me,’ I mused.
Work with Bond University, however, was slow, involving sitting in meetings and providing lectures on criminal and abnormal psychology. Paul also suggested that I give a public lecture speaking about my fall from grace. Entitled ‘From Fame to Infamy’ it drew a broad audience from the Gold Coast community. I was once again buoyed by the support from anonymous people who admired my courage in discussing and owning my problems, as well as my rehabilitation, which by that stage in October 2000 had been ongoing for twelve months.
Thanks to the title I had been given, I was approached by various firms and organisations within the criminal law fraternity for advice regarding new cases. ‘How can they quibble with expertise if you carry the title of Visiting Professor?’ one QC said. My consulting work involved occasional trips interstate, which put additional strains upon my marriage and family. I nonetheless persevered as it was important to grab every dollar that I could in order to contribute to the family and its welfare.
The mainstay of the family’s income, however, came from Carla. Beyond caring for the five children and a still quite vulnerable though recovering husband, she embraced private practice in addition to managing her longstanding contract with the Melbourne Children’s Court Clinic. I marvelled at her energy and perseverance.
In many ways, despite the punishment, I experienced a strong sense of relief that I no longer had to deal with the pressures of professional life, and the years of stress, which I had carried on my shoulders well beyond my drug use. I decided that I would use the time to fully recover both physically and mentally.
When I ceased using drugs I gained approximately fifteen kilograms in weight and was determined to lose it. My anxiety was still very high, and regrettably a previous addiction to nicotine, which had developed during the years of working in the prison system, resurfaced and continued for about a year before I realised the considerable harm I was doing to my body. Rehabilitation and recovery is a long-term process.
After eighteen months, and following Andrew Fraser’s decision to plead guilty to the more substantive charges of being knowingly concerned with the importation of cocaine, Brian Rolfe suggested that I should reapply for admission. Although I had my doubts, I was nonetheless keen to roll the dice. I hoped that my appointment at the university, my clear demonstration of my continued rehabilitation, my ongoing treatment and my improved judgement would persuade the board that enough time had lapsed.
I was sadly mistaken and, notwithstanding an extensive reprosecution of the case, after a wait of several months I was advised that in the board’s view I had not fully addressed the issues which had led to their initial concerns. Although I was deflated, I was determined to continue with my recovery.
Eventually, in November 2003, I had gained sufficient confidence to reapply for admission to the roll. Once again, I was well supported by my legal advisors and had a broad range of references attesting to my continued and sustained rehabilitation. After an interview which lasted for approximately two hours, I was advised the following day that I would be readmitted on the basis of my willingness to undertake supervision for a period of two years.
I was overjoyed. By that stage it had been nearly three and a half years that I had been unable to work in my profession, and I had been drug-free for nearly five years. My foot was back in the door.
ON THE ROAD AGAIN
Word of my reregistration and return to practice travelled fast. Several days before the long-awaited day when I could finally dust off my shingle and resume practice, I was contacted by the producer of the Sunday Profile program on Radio National, hosted by Geraldine Doogue. A highly esteemed journalist, Geraldine had interviewed me on a number of occasions in bygone years. I was consistently impressed with her intellect, objectivity, sense of fair play and compassion. The ABC had been kind to me with its empathic, non-sensationalist treatise of my professional life and demise on Australian Story. I accepted the invitation to attend the ABC’s Sydney studios in a heartbeat.
It had been a long time since I had graced the halls of a media studio to be grilled during a live-to-air interview. Geraldine was warm, kind and . . . hard-hitting. No stone was left unbruised as we trawled the issues. During the course of twenty or so minutes we traversed the highs and lows of my career and, more significantly for me, my renewed aspirations.
After three and a half long years in the comparative wilderness, I had battled my way back into my profession. And yet I was consumed with self-doubt.
‘Maybe I will be shunned by the broader forensic fraternity, the judiciary and my fiscal life line – the lawyers,’ I thought.
And to an extent my premonition was correct. I justifiably anticipated my return to the front line would hardly be embraced, particularly by those competitors who had so gleefully feasted on the profits which the carcass of my ravaged practice afforded them.
However, as has always been my creed, I was determined to not have my reality and life defined by others. The radio interview was a success and I left the studio fortified and ready to conquer.
Shortly after the Geraldine Doogue interview, I was retained by a Sydney law firm. A senior partner had listened to the discussion with Geraldine and was prepared to give me a chance. It was a big case involving an appeal by a notorious but ageing crook who had once been a player in the Mr Asia drug syndicate. With little else to do, I eagerly grabbed the opportunity and flew to Sydney to meet with his legal team. After nearly four years on the ‘crying bench’ I was somewhat anxious as to my skill set, and nervous concerning the past. The lawyer, however, was pragmatic in his approach. ‘The past is the past, mate,’ he said. He offered me one of the firm’s offices to undertake the interview and assessment the next day and I surprised myself, as the process was relatively seamless and led to a comprehensive report that was used in his sentencing.
Throughout my life I had frequently been described as ‘Tinny’. As part of the rich Australian vernacular, the term describes those who are abreast with good fortune. I sensed that perhaps my luck was returning when, shortly after the Mr Asia assessment, I bumped into my old friends Chris Murphy and Charles Waterstreet. During the 1980s I had occasionally dealt with Chris, a brilliant Sydney criminal lawyer, but the contact was fleeting as the bulk of my work was based in Melbourne. A household name, Chris has the reputation of fearlessly fighting for his clients. A master
of strategy, he is one of the rare breed of attorneys who truly rules supreme when it comes to courthouse duelling. He is also unswervingly loyal to his friends.
Charles Waterstreet equally needs no introduction. An iconic legal figure in Sydney, he is now best known for his central role in the hit TV series Rake, as well as being the subject of the 2015 Archibald prizewinner, a masterful work painted by the artistic genius Nigel Milsom.
Both Chris and Charles were extremely kind. They had followed my case with interest and expressed considerable empathy regarding how I had been treated by the Psychologists Registration Board.
During the course of the discussions, Chris asked me if I would be interested in taking on a number of cases, stating, ‘There’s no real money in it, mate, but it would be a good start.’ I was overwhelmed by his faith in me. The cases involved three major alleged terrorists: Zaky Mallah, Izhar ul-Haque and Bilal Khazal. Khazal and ul-Haque were in custody and were seeking to be released to bail. I was prepared to do the work for nothing in order to re-establish some form of credibility.
Chris then organised for Adam Houda, one of the firm’s solicitors, to formally brief me. Since then Adam has become another of Sydney’s leading lawyers and, like his mentor, has proved to be an extremely loyal ally.
Chris sensed the financial impact which my deregistration had upon me and graciously broke through my pride and offered me a room at his waterfront apartment at Walsh Bay that was unoccupied. I was humbled by his generosity and kindness. As it eventuated I only needed the apartment for a brief time when visiting Sydney, as within a matter of months I was once again self-sufficient. Not only was my work in Sydney well received but, despite some reservations in Melbourne, I was receiving referrals from barristers and solicitors. I was on the road again.
Some of my media contacts were also thrilled to have me back in town. One of my friends was Rhonda Byrne, whose name is best remembered for her controversial book The Secret, which grossed approximately $40 million. She asked me to become the resident psychologist on a series she was producing titled Sensing Murder, which explored unsolved murders around Australia.
I appeared in four of the five episodes. I heard via the criminal grapevine that Andrew Fraser had a conniption when he unwittingly saw my visage on TV while munching on his overcooked jailhouse stew.
It felt good to be back in the saddle, galloping forwards. Hi ho Silver . . .
VERDINS AND RAMAGE
Shortly after my return to work, and not long after my interview with Geraldine Doogue, I was contacted by the prominent Melbourne solicitor Rob Melasecca. The cases I had been referred in Sydney had lifted my spirits and given me a modicum of hope that life, although forever changed by my downfall, may return to normal in terms of my career.
Rob was one of many Melbourne lawyers whom had been generous in his emotional support of me during the dark years and now that I was back, he was one of the first to start referring me work again.
‘Timmy,’ he said (one of the few who gets away with this endearment), ‘have I got a case for you.’ His words sparkled down the phone like mana from heaven. ‘It’s a murder with a twist, there are serious mental issues at play, and I’d really appreciate your involvement.’
This show of support and continuing respect for my professional capacity meant the world to me and has never been forgotten. And wow, what a case.
In September 2003, Mark Verdins, highly depressed and suicidal, murdered his ex-girlfriend, Leanne Elliott, when he shot her twice in the chest. The weapon was a crudely constructed homemade pistol.
Verdins and Elliott had had a long-term, on-again off-again romance dating back to the time when Verdins was completing Year 12. At the time of the murder, they were both twenty-five years old. Elliott had broken up with Verdins about a month before, during which time Verdins’ mental state spiralled out of control. He could not accept her rejection and, in an obsessional frenzy, attempted to establish contact through more than fifty emails and 150 texts. He also attempted to contact her by ringing her phone approximately 400 times.
Eventually, she agreed to meet with him. By that stage, Verdins, overwhelmed by his deteriorating mood, was suffering severe mental impairment, which was further galvanised by excessive alcohol consumption and drug use. He was not so sufficiently impaired, however, that he was incapable of consequential thinking and, to this end, came to the meeting well-armed to deal with the situation if he was rejected.
After shooting Elliott twice, Verdins sped off down the Monash freeway, a major arterial conduit to the outer eastern suburbs. While hurtling along, he attempted to kill himself by pulling the trigger of his weapon while it was in his mouth. He failed, but managed to kill an innocent motorist, Kevin Bertram, a married academic man with a young child, when his car was rear ended at an alleged speed of 200 kilometres per hour. The impact caused Bertram’s car to explode in flames before rolling. He never stood a chance.
There was significant and compelling psychological and psychiatric evidence about Verdins’ mental state, including a report I had prepared, which were tendered at the sentencing hearing. Verdins’ poor mental state, as well as his remorse, were acknowledged by the sentencing judge. Verdins was nonetheless sentenced to twenty-three years with a non-parole period of eighteen years.
The sentence was then appealed, leading to deep analysis and consideration of which matters should be considered by the court when sentencing people with mental impairment. In R v Verdins [2007] the Court of Appeal held that mental impairment was relevant to sentencing in five ways. In summary, it stated that mental impairment could reduce moral culpability, influence the type and conditions of the sentence, and reduce the weight given to deterrence. It also held that factors such as increased hardship of imprisonment due to the mental impairment should be considered, leading to the justification for a less severe sentence where there was a significant risk of imprisonment aggravating the offender’s mental condition.
Collectively these issues became known as the ‘Verdins principles’. At the time, the decision revolutionised approaches to sentencing in Victorian courts and, to the present, they remain the gold standard when pleas for leniency are made on behalf of the offender.
The case, while remaining highly controversial, provided enormous gravitas to the mental health profession, clearly articulating for the first time the importance and relevance of psychological expertise in assisting the courts during the sentencing phase of criminal proceedings. The poignancy of this cannot be overstated because the incidence of mental illness in prison populations is three times that in the general community. In other words, prisons are being used to warehouse the psychiatrically ill. This is unacceptable, particularly at a time when governments are investing increasing sums of money in constructing new jails. If it is accepted by the most superior court in the jurisdiction that mental health is a highly relevant issue to be considered in sentencing, then surely, if mental health problems were tackled in the community, through the greater provision of resources, the probability of these individuals actually deteriorating to a point where they break the law will be reduced. This is where the billions of dollars spent in propping up and expanding the criminal justice system should be spent.
*
At about the time I had been retained in the Verdins case, I was contacted by Philip Dunn QC. He was also pleased to see me working again and sought my wisdom on a very difficult murder case he was appearing in. This case, for very different reasons, would have a profound impact on the criminal law in Victoria, leading to vitriolic public outrage in some quarters and eventually to the abolition of provocation as a defence to murder.
James Ramage had been charged with the murder of his wife Julie. They had been married for twenty-three years, a period of time which, according to some, had been characterised by mental and physical abuse by him towards her.
Outwardly they presented as the ideal, successful couple with a young family. Ramage, an Englishman, had carved out a lucrati
ve career in business. The family led a comfortable if not privileged life in the affluent Melbourne suburb of Balwyn.
Julie Ramage, however, had reached a point of no return and, six weeks before her death, left her husband. Her departure had a devastating impact upon James and he resolved to win her back. A charming, educated bloke, he found it difficult to accept the rejection. As part of his plan, he set about renovating the family kitchen. A woman’s place, by his reckoning, was in the kitchen.
Julie had other plans. During the period following the separation, she pursued her love of horseriding and had established a fledgling relationship with a chap who shared her interests.
She felt alive. Free at last.
On the day of her death, she had reluctantly agreed to visit the family home to inspect the new kitchen. James had reasoned his good works may persuade his wife to reconsider.
Evidence was led to show she had no interest in his efforts nor his suggestion that she return home. It may have ended at that, with some hostility but no death, had it not been for her also challenging his sexual prowess.
It was at that point, according to the evidence, that he lost control and strangled her. His control, however, was quickly restored when he realised what he’d done. Rather than call the police, he placed her body in the boot of his late model Jaguar and headed for the hills. After digging two poorly concealed, shallow graves – one for her and the other for her belongings – James returned to town to have dinner with his kids.
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