Dancing with Demons Read online

  Carl quickly became a great asset to my work within the prison; partly because other prisoners noticed that he was spending time with me, and also because he persuaded those prisoners he said were ‘barking mad’ to come and see me.

  After several months, Carl felt sufficiently comfortable with me and one afternoon while I was enjoying a cup of freshly brewed jail issue Gibson’s coffee with Carl, he started to tell me his story. His early history was, in comparison to his adult life, fairly unremarkable. Born in December 1942, he was one of five children. After a brief stint at two Sydney primary schools, he ran away to Brisbane, where he secured work in some stables. He remained there for several years before returning to Sydney, where he lived on the street and became involved in criminal activity in order to survive.

  His first conviction, for stealing a car and robbing a garage, was at the age of nineteen. He received a four-year sentence, during which he became apprenticed to the more subtle yet serious aspects of criminal activity. Upon his release he committed further offences, with more time in jail following each court appearance. He eventually graduated to armed robberies.

  Following a series of brazen hold-ups, including one where the staff of a bank was locked in its vault, Carl fled overseas. He was able to do this because he had acquired, through nefarious means, no less than eleven separate passports. His destination was Japan, where he lived a successful life for a time as an honest citizen, teaching English to supplement the dwindling proceeds of his ill-gotten gains.

  Regrettably for him, however, Interpol was aware of two of the identities he was impersonating and were ready to pounce. It was all just a matter of time. The inevitable occurred when Carl was returning via Hong Kong to Japan, having enjoyed a well-earned rest in Bali. Within a brief period he found himself behind bars at Sydney’s Long Bay prison complex awaiting trial.

  Poor Carl, what was he to do? His prior record as a recidivist prisoner, coupled with the nature and context of the current offences, more or less guaranteed that he would spend well in excess of fifteen years doing time. Each night he would pace the floor of his tiny cell, seeking some form of divine inspiration. And then one night, his prayer for salvation was answered: ‘It all happened in a flash, mate . . . the light bulb in me cell blew and I was surrounded by darkness. And I said thank you God, for it had come to me. I’d con the dogs into believing I was going blind. No judge could fail to be moved by such a sad tale of woe.’ His laughter was infectious.

  Carl spent some weeks figuring out how he would play his next card. His street intelligence cautioned him against sharing his plan with another soul. No, this was to be a solitary mission, and one to be executed with military precision. He opted against presenting to the prison doctor with a complaint of deteriorating vision. That would be too obvious. Instead, he pondered what it would be like to truly be going blind. Fearfulness and denial of the severity of the problem, he reasoned, would be powerful psychological determinants in shaping his behaviour if he were really going blind. Indeed, like many who suspect they have a terminal illness, such as cancer, Carl would avoid seeking a medical opinion. He’d wait for the authorities to notice the deterioration in his capacity to cope with his environment and, yep, ultimately it would be them who would drag him under protest to the specialists, who would then sadly deliver for all to hear the tragic news that he was blind.

  Carl had used his time overseas constructively. One of his accomplishments was mastering the skill of meditation. By placing himself into a meditative trance at the time of being examined, he reasoned, his pupils would not necessarily respond to light stimulus. This could only help. However, to be successful would require intense and enduring self-discipline.

  It all started innocently enough. At intermittent times Carl would seemingly misjudge the distance when placing his peas and mash next to the bangers, causing his plate to crash to the floor. On other occasions, he would walk right past his cell door at muster time. ‘Just nerves,’ the screws would muse.

  But then as time progressed, his behaviour seemed to become more consistently bizarre – regular episodes of stumbling into prisoners and their keepers, tripping down stairs and, with predictable irritability, requesting assistance in relation to door signs. All of this came to be noticed by his wing officers who, despite his protests to the contrary, suggested that Carl at the very least should see the jail doctor and arrange an eye test.

  ‘Go and get fucked, ya dogs’ was his reply to their concerned ministering.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my sight! You’re the blokes who should be worrying about losing your vision with all the mutual chain yanking you get up to on the night watch.’

  And so the charade continued until, much to his horror, an appointment was made with a leading Sydney ophthalmologist, the late Dr Fred Hollows. According to Carl, many hours of tests were undertaken before a grim-faced Dr Hollows returned to the room to deliver the sad but inevitable news that Carl was suffering from a rare disease of the retina which would ultimately cause him to become totally blind.

  ‘I was fuck’n shattered, mate,’ he howled. ‘The cunts couldn’t figure it out but thought that maybe I contracted it in Japan from some sort of bat.’

  At this point of the narration, the coffee in his mouth sprayed across the room with his contagious mirth.

  ‘And then what?’ I enquired, wiping the tears from my eyes. ‘What happened next, Carl?’

  ‘Well, some of the fuck’n screws didn’t believe it. Some blokes were full of compassion, very decent really. Others were arseholes who said I deserved it. I could cop that, but not those turds who didn’t believe it, because I knew they’d try and tumble me in some way to expose the rort.’

  And indeed it would seem that this is what occurred. Carl described how some of the screws had attempted to sabotage him, for example, by deliberately putting stools in his way knowing full well that if he stumbled, he would shatter a bone. As an indication of his willpower, however, Carl would collide with the object and cause himself serious injury rather than expose the truth. Eventually, his perseverance paid off and these vicious games ceased for a time.

  Slowly, as news of Carl’s plight spread, deputations of crims would arrive at his cell to offer their condolences. ‘Hard lines, mate,’ they would say, with some of the most hardened crims leaving with tears in their eyes. They all expected courage under fire, but nothing had prepared them for the stoicism of this plucky little bloke.

  ‘They’re the breaks, fellas,’ he’d say.

  Old enemies also visited Carl in his cell, moved by the tragedy of his situation and keen now to bury the hatchet. A blind bloke clearly would not pose any threat to their territorial ambitions within the jail. And, besides, they reasoned, it was probable that the ‘beak’ (the judge) would let him go home in order to get on with his new life as a severely incapacitated invalid.

  As part of the plot, Carl had skilfully managed to have his day of reckoning at court adjourned several times. He was determined to optimise his chance of receiving a non-custodial sentence by being certifiably blind at the time of sentencing, enabling his barrister to extract maximum leniency for him through a heart-rending plea.

  Months elapsed, during which time various testimonials as to Carl’s character, as well as medical reports concerning his condition, were collated. When the big day dawned, Carl arrived at the court under escort. Even for the hardened screws who accompanied him that day, he must have cut a pathetic sight as, white cane in hand, he tapped his way into the court. His eyes revealed nothing, delicately covered as they were with dark sunglasses. His barrister, unaware that he was about to perpetuate the great hoax, was well prepared to deliver the plea of his life. It was a rare day that pathos such as this could be used in a plea for leniency.

  After a brief outline of the accused man’s circumstances and the context of the crimes before the court, the barrister proceeded towards his ace – the trump card, which he hoped would shave years from his client’s pote
ntial sentence.

  According to Carl there was scarcely a dry eye in the court as the barrister described what life for his client would be like. No more would he see the rising sun, or indeed the fresh buds of spring. Clearly, watching television was out and even the simple joy of watching a lover remove her clothes would be nothing more than a fading memory. Life in the community would be hard enough. But how could Carl possibly be expected to cope as a blind man with the harsh realities of prison life?

  And besides, Carl was a changed man. He had seen the light (pun intended) and was using his time in a far more constructive way by developing new friendships with law-abiding citizens. Indeed, a group of his new friends had already raised funds so he could keep and love a little Labrador puppy, which could be trained to be his companion and eyes. The community could unquestionably rest easy, secure in the knowledge that this former menace to the state could no longer ply his evil even if he had been so inclined – which of course he wasn’t.

  Compelling stuff indeed. But the judge, although clearly moved, nonetheless still felt obliged to give Carl a whack and sentenced him, albeit to a significantly reduced term of imprisonment. The authorities breathed a collective sigh of relief as Carl tapped his way out of the courthouse to a bleak and uncertain future. Their relief was to be short-lived.

  The next chapter of this farce commenced shortly after Carl was transferred to a less secure prison at Cessnock. No doubt the authorities reasoned that Carl could settle into studying braille and adjusting to his condition in this more hospitable environment. Carl, however, was already tiring of the considerable self-discipline that the maintenance of the charade required. He was also growing weary of the handful of residual doubting Thomases who continued to try to trip him up. In order to save his soul, he started to frequent the prison chapel and attend a full service each Sunday. The authorities viewed this tangible demonstration of contrition with cautious optimism. ‘Maybe he’s changed after all,’ they mused.

  Always looking ahead, Carl had grander visions than merely demonstrating his remorse. He had heard about the considerable amount of money that evangelists could command on the public speaking circuit. Church presented the perfect opportunity for him to demonstrate a documented miracle by having his vision divinely restored during a Sunday morning service and for him then, upon his release, to travel the world for a big quid.

  ‘I just wanted to do the Jimmy and Tammy Bakker rort, Tim,’ he chuckled.

  Sadly for Carl, the miracle never arrived. This was the consequence of his own human frailty when confronted with the vicar’s beautiful wife. This genuine man of God was so impressed with Carl’s sincerity as a reformed man that after a while he invited him each Sunday to share afternoon tea at the vicarage.

  Carl told me he was at a low and vulnerable ebb of his life at the time. The enormous psychological and physical energy required to maintain the farce of his blindness had taken its toll. Adding to his strain, he had not been able to share his masterful deception with another soul.

  Always a ladies’ man, Carl was keen to impress the vicar’s wife, who had displayed considerable kindness to him, in the belief, no doubt, that he was truly a reformed sinner. And so, in a moment of weakness, he confided to her that all was not as it seemed in relation to his sight. She had no choice other than to report his perfidy to her husband. Carl eventually confided in me that in fact his friendship with the vicar’s wife had rapidly escalated to sexual interaction. He realised the considerable dissonance and conflict his behaviour had created for the woman with whom he had expressed a strong level of respect. He also realised that the highly successful con relating to his blindness would be exposed and consequently the roost was up for Carl. On impulse, and in a state of panic, he escaped through the jail gates. He managed to hitchhike to Sydney, whereupon he scheduled an exclusive interview with the Daily Mirror (‘I just wanted to stick it to the dogs, mate,’ he chortled to me). He was charged with escaping lawful custody and was given the maximum penalty of two extra years. No doubt they had wished to give him an extra thirty but the penalty was not available to them. The increase in his sentence, however, led to a change in his security classification. And so it was farewell to Cessnock, hello to maximum security for Monsieur Synnerdahl.

  Always the battler, Carl decided shortly after sharing his tale with me to write a book about the whole sordid business. Titled Hoodwink, the manuscript was turned into a film script. The movie starred John Hargreaves, and Carl earned a motza.

  Carl made contact with me again in the mid-’90s, many years after I’d left the prison. He’d followed my career with interest, he told me. After many years of crime-free life, he was back in trouble, a small matter relating to the alleged cultivation of marijuana. In the interim he had been married and divorced. The crop was a substantial one, and yet again, he was looking at a lengthy custodial sentence.

  Aggravating his woes, he had recently been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease. His prognosis and life expectancy was poor. He had organised an appropriate letter from his specialist to this effect and was wondering if there was any way that I could provide a report to the court, outlining his sorry history. I was only too happy to oblige and, in addition, I managed to persuade one of Sydney’s top criminal lawyers to take on Carl’s case pro bono – ‘Trust me, mate, you won’t regret this,’ I chuckled.

  A heart-rending plea was then delivered at the Newcastle District Court, with a spectacular result. Instead of being sentenced to years behind bars, Carl was reprimanded by the judge and sentenced to three months. Evidence of his ill-health had made all the difference. Compassion ruled.

  And miracles do happen. Within a year of his subsequent release, Carl rang me.

  ‘I want you to be the first to know, mate,’ he said. ‘The fuck’n doctor can’t believe it but my scans are all clear. The Hodgkin’s has gone – I’m cured.’

  Fact is inevitably stranger than fiction.

  SI TOUS LES CONS

  Si tous les cons volaient, on ne verrait plus le soleil. Loosely translated, this surreal French adage, popular with the military, proclaims: ‘If all the fuckwits were flying, you wouldn’t see the sun!’ It captures perfectly the cynical contempt of staff and ‘clients’ when reforms are proposed for an inert or corrupt institution, such as the New South Wales prison system was in the 1970s.

  Indeed, the Department of Corrective Services was a shambles in the ’70s. There have never been votes in prison reform and consequently much-needed funds and public focus had for decades been diverted elsewhere. All this changed when the well-entrenched Liberal Party was voted out and replaced by a Labour Government, headed by the astute and articulate Premier Neville Wran QC. At about this time, the findings of the Nagle Royal Commission into the New South Wales Prison system administration were released in the wake of the 1970 and 1974 prison riots. It was a scathing document, articulating corruption, violence and abuses of power among prison officers which had been enabled by a shroud of secrecy and non-accountability. Nagle argued for increased public scrutiny, as well as a greater focus on rehabilitation and treatment, revolutionary arguments at the time.

  To effect these changes Bill Haigh, the new Minister for Corrective Services, instigated a top-down agenda of reform and a new board.

  As everything changed the new board and its agenda was met with considerable hostility from the rank-and-file of the prison officer union and those on the ground.

  The prison staff’s venality was matched by their abuse of human rights through the brutal and degrading treatment of prisoners who could, if troublesome, be made to ‘disappear’ within the system. The fate of these ‘intractables’ had passed into jail folklore and was summed up in one word: Grafton. The evils associated with the former regime are best imagined through the documented cruelty that occurred at this prison.

  Grafton is roughly 600 kilometres north of Sydney, in the ‘Big Rivers’ region of northern New South Wales. Set amid lush tropical country, Grafton served
as the railhead and abattoir for the surrounding sugarcane growers, cattle farms and small dairy holdings of the local district. Drowsy and impoverished, the town was suspicious of outsiders. Opportunities for employment were limited. For those who could tolerate, or even welcome, a life of boredom, a government position on the railways or as a jailer was perfect, with prospects of steady, if minor, advancement and a solid pension on retirement. Its remoteness from Sydney meant that Grafton Gaol was beyond the horizon of senior management. Staff tended to be recruited locally, on the basis of family connections, friendship or favour.

  Over time, an exceptionally sadistic culture took hold at Grafton, which became a kind of Siberia in the New South Wales gulag, a prison of last resort. Hardened men who refused to kowtow to the rigid discipline of maximum security were sent to Grafton to be broken. The method was simple. Roused from their cell in the middle of the night, they were roughly put into a transport van, dark and airless. During the grinding trip north through the night, the huddled and chained crims selected for ‘special treatment’ would brood and speculate on their fate.

  Arriving at dawn at the gates of Grafton Gaol, the prisoners alighted from the van to be introduced one by one to the ‘reception committee’. Stripped naked, the prisoner passed up and down a gauntlet of baton-wielding warders to be flogged repeatedly until he could no longer pick himself up, whereupon he was dragged to his cell. Ritual torture and humiliation was his daily fare from then on. The process was relentless and brutal. Every opportunity was taken to remind prisoners of their isolation and dependence on the vicious and unpredictable thugs in charge.

  Months and years went by. There was no recourse, no appeals. And it worked. Prisoners became spiritless, meek and defeated, ready to toady to the merest whim of authority. Grafton was the ‘dirty little secret’ that lurked in the heart of the prison administration, only discovered through the investigations of the Nagle Royal Commission.