A Shrink in the Clink Page 3

  ‘Brave bloke’ was the theme of prison-yard gossip. ‘Smart fella, but frankly, mate, he’s gotta be fucked,’ opined another crook who visited my office, not so much for therapy as to share the concern of the inmates. Les was highly popular and deeply respected. I held my counsel, but deep down, I feared the worst.

  I heard of his acquittal the morning following the verdict. Late at night, Les was discharged and walked along its sombre corridors and through the imposing doors of the Supreme Court to freedom. A new beginning.

  Les was an exceptional man. His brilliance and dogged determination was beyond question. And yet, in this regard, he is not alone. I have encountered a number of criminal geniuses, the so-called ‘Lex Luthors’ of the underworld, over the years. Men and women with gifted intellects, extraordinary IQs but, for a variety of reasons, fatally flawed.

  An individual whose IQ falls within the top two percent of the population qualifies for membership of Mensa. This global organisation was formed to provide a platform for the highly intelligent to meet, share ideas and socialise. Its threshold is an IQ of 132, and is measured via a series of specifically designed tests. For the more elite on the intellectual spectrum there is TOPS (Top One Percent Society).

  At the other end of the spectrum, a person with an IQ of 70 or less is classified as intellectually disabled and is eligible for a disability support pension. Sadly, many of these people fall between the cracks when exposed to the criminal justice system and along with the insane can end up languishing in penal establishments.

  This is because the state is at a loss when it comes to their management, particularly if their crimes are considered to be dangerous. A number of sexual offenders, recidivist thieves and arsonists fall into this category.

  Many years ago, I assessed a father and son who were charged with serial arson offences. True to the adage that the apple rarely falls far from the tree, they both tested with IQs in the mid-60s. They were a fire-lighting tag team, driven by boredom, thrill-seeking and rank stupidity. Their particular pattern of behaviour was highly dangerous, as they liked to ignite residential dwellings.

  The investigating police were at their wits’ end. There was no obvious motivation beyond the fire itself and no predictability in terms of the targets, which were randomly scattered throughout Melbourne. The duo were eventually discovered when an astute fireman, who had attended a number of fires, observed them sitting on the kerb across the road and realised they had been at previous fires.

  For them, the thrill was not only the execution of the fire, but also in the anticipation of the arrival of the fire engines and the associated pandemonium they had created. They loved the sound of the howling sirens. True to their intellects, they had not considered that their regular appearance would inevitably lead to their detection and incarceration.

  Prisoners such as these require protection in jail. As mainstream crooks, they are continuously stood over and exploited for goods, food and sexual favours. The dynamic is further twisted because of the significant drug trading that occurs in jails. Consequently, their already highly compromised ability to problem-solve, let alone cope with the harsh reality of jail life, is further impaired because of the devastating impact that illicit drugs, and in particular ice, have on their cognition.

  While some progress has been made by the courts in recognising this ubiquitous dilemma it is nonetheless a matter of national shame that some nine percent of the general population of the prison population is intellectually disabled, in contrast with two percent of the general population who satisfy this diagnosis.

  Their prospects in the community are equally bleak. In the absence of familial structure, access to support networks and useful supervision, a life of isolation, homelessness and unemployment inevitably leads to a recrudescence of criminal activity and further incarceration. It is a cruel, vicious cycle.

  During the late ’90s I was involved in the assessment of the internationally notorious fugitive and Mexican banker Carlos Cabal. He had fled Mexico in a hurry. Hours before arrest warrants were issued, he had been tipped off that he was in deep trouble and a kindly business associate loaned him his private jet to flee the jurisdiction. Among the allegations was that he had defrauded his country of $700 million, and he became Mexico’s most wanted fugitive. After a period of global hopscotch to evade the relentless pursuit of the Mexican authorities, Carlos arrived in Melbourne with his wife and young children. He was also accompanied by his brother-in-law and his family. They all feared for their lives. Money talks, so much so that Carlos had changed his identity, replete with a new and clearly mischievously taunting name, Señor Rafael Cerit Merrit and a passport issued with the compliments of the Dominican Republic.

  His history was both fascinating and Machiavellian in its brilliance. In the early ’90s he acquired Banco Union, a leading financial institution, from the Mexican Government. By this stage, Señor Cabal had already risen to national prominence through his development of the fresh fruit and seafood industry, becoming a major player both locally and throughout North America. He had considerable business credibility and was well connected to the highest levels of government. A year following the Banco purchase, he merged with Banca Cremi, and in so doing created a financial behemoth, one of the nation’s largest with a capitalisation value of $12 billion.

  With his massive wealth, Carlos peddled significant influence and curried political favour, leading to a series of well-publicised scandals. These included a multimillion-dollar loan to support a favoured electoral candidate in Tabasco, his local province, as well as having significant bad debts covered by the country’s president Ernesto Zedillo. His empire expanded further when in 1992 he acquired Del Monte Fresh Produce at the fire sale price of half a billion dollars. The company was in bankruptcy but still one of the planet’s largest banana and pineapple suppliers.

  Carlos also confided in me that, in a bid to further his influence, he had financially supported a popular presidential candidate, Luis Donaldo Colosio, the Secretary-General of the Institutional Revolutionary Party. Sadly for all parties, Colosio was assassinated in March 1994 while attending a political rally in Tijuana. In an unsurprising Latino twist, it had been suggested that the ruling president may have been responsible. If so, Carlos had backed the wrong horse and, by his account, this was a major factor in the government’s decision to pursue him. He feared that had he remained in Mexico, he might well have been murdered. This issue was pivotal in his strenuous attempts to avoid extradition from Australia.

  With considerable wealth still accessible and always staying one step ahead of the authorities, Carlos was readily accepted by the Melbourne establishment. At the time of his unbecoming arrest, he was enjoying a regular morning jog along the salubrious tree-lined streets of bayside Brighton. By then, he was well advanced in the process of re-establishing himself in the fresh produce game. His kids were enrolled at a prestigious private school with the local grovellers and wannabes, who were oblivious to his past, forming obsequious conga lines to garner a social invitation. By all accounts the family home exuded wealth. It was curious, given his strong desire to evade detection, that he chose to live such an openly opulent lifestyle. As is inevitably the case, the battle between common sense and ego was lost. Pride before a fall.

  I first encountered Carlos at Melbourne’s Port Phillip Prison. I had been briefed by his attorney, George Defteros, with a view to providing a psychological work-up. Although his prospects of being released on conditional bail were bleak, all parties were prepared to roll the dice. A highly charismatic bloke, I was struck by his dazzling intellect. He was 45 years old and had commanded a multi-billion-dollar empire. There was clearly no need to formally assess his intelligence – his accomplishments were enough evidence of that. Notwithstanding the context of our meeting – he was lodged in a maximum security facility – my interactions with him, which occurred on a weekly basis for close to a year, suggested that he still considered himself to be chairman of the board. In stark contrast with his cognitive capacity, his emotional intelligence or EQ appeared to be borderline. There were also, as is so often the case with high-functioning criminals, clear suggestions of a narcissistic personality.

  Cabal was hard work.

  Narcissism is a pejorative term that is often bandied about but rarely understood. To qualify for the diagnosis of a narcissistic personality disorder a number of key symptoms need to be observed. While not exhaustive they include: pervasive, exaggerated feelings of self-importance, a lack of empathy, an incessant need for admiration, almost constant thoughts about success and power, and the manipulation of the emotions of others for personal gain. No doubt in years to come the term may be redescribed as the Trump disorder.

  In denial as to the reality of his plight, Cabal only wanted good news. Consequently, he was busier than a shit carter’s apprentice when it came to hiring, firing and rehiring the same lawyers on a whim. On one occasion he came close to success. After a protracted battle, he was granted Supreme Court bail with a $2 million surety. His victory was short-lived, however. The Crown immediately appealed to the High Court of Australia, which overturned the decision. In the lead-up, astutely realising the value of winning the mind and soul of the public and no doubt the government, which had a keen eye on his case, Cabal engaged a leading ‘reputation management’ firm to oversee his publicity spin and media image. Despite his heroics, in the end it was to no avail.

  In 2001, with all roads to freedom now blocked, Cabal agreed, with great trepidation, to be extradited to Mexico. I still recall the genuine fear he had expressed about returning to his homeland. ‘Señor Tim, they will march me off the plane in Mexico City. I will be put into a car and then, I will be shot.’ Narcissism? Delusional? Nonetheless these were haunting wor
ds. Upon his return to Mexico, Cabal’s irrepressible entrepreneurial skills resurfaced, with him becoming involved in the petroleum industry and ultimately acquiring Hidrosina, which has in excess of 210 outlets. It would appear that he has now disappeared off the radar, but presumably not off the face of the earth.

  No discussion of criminal intelligence would be complete without acknowledging Bernie Matthews, my client of nearly 40 years. Once described by the late Professor Tony Vinson, former Chairman of the New South Wales Corrective Services Commission, as ‘one of the brightest prisoners’ he had encountered, Bernie’s notoriety continues to the present day. We first met in 1978 during my apprenticeship by fire at Parramatta Gaol. The bloke was a prison warrior and an underworld legend. His toughness had been forged through the notorious, institutionalised violence at the hands of the screws, which in his case involved daily flogging by multiple officers using batons.

  ‘You never screamed, mate,’ he once told me. ‘You just copped it sweet.’ To do otherwise would demonstrate weakness. He never cried and he never complained. Strictly old school, he never dobbed.

  At the time, Bernie was serving an eighteen-year sentence for armed robbery and several escapes. On one occasion he eluded capture for six weeks. He was eventually apprehended following a high-speed car chase and a shootout with the cops. Not to be fucked with, his modus operandi during his bank robberies was simply to terrorise the staff. He never intended to harm them, although he conceded that having a machine gun pointed at your head may indeed lead to long-term, catastrophic psychological trauma.

  Bernie ended up at the notorious supermax Katingal facility. Truly hell on earth, Katingal was designed not only to physically restrain the state’s worst, but also to destroy their will. No privacy, regular head counts, 24/7 lighting and CCTV were all integral tools of the sotto voce torture carried out under the guise of rehabilitation. Bernie had been a driving force in describing the daily psychological trauma experienced by inmates when he provided evidence to the Nagle Royal Commission. This overdue enquiry had been instigated following the riot at Bathurst jail, another bastion of eighteenth-century incarceration.

  Katingal eventually broke Bernie and he was hospitalised. We still have contact. He continues to suffer symptoms of raging PTSD which he has carried now for in excess of 40 years.

  Following the closure of Katingal, many of the inmates including Bernie were transferred to Parramatta Gaol. And that is where in a moment of epiphany he discovered his passion and great skill as a writer.

  In the spirit of the reformist recommendations of the Nagle Commission he established a jailhouse magazine titled ‘The Resurgents’. His command of English was extraordinary, particularly for a bloke with limited parenting and even less schooling. His insights into the dynamics of crime were based on decades of institutionalisation. I can still hear Bernie’s poignant description of the effect of imprisonment upon him. ‘Jails are the universities of higher crime’, he would frequently reflect. Bernie had enormous conceptual ability and was also gifted in his capacity to describe and articulate an idea in ‘plain speak’. Here was yet another so-called hardened crook who in a different world could well have been a leading light in any field he chose.

  Arising from his extraordinary creativity and growing reputation, Bernie was commissioned to write a book review by leading journalist Anne Summers, who was working with the now defunct National Times. This was an amazing achievement for a maximum security inmate lodged in arguably Australia’s toughest prison. In 1991, Bernie was extradited to Queensland where he was wrongfully imprisoned on armed robbery charges for which he was ultimately exonerated. During this time he wrote and produced an award-winning play. His reputation and capacity as a writer was flourishing. Upon his release, further honours followed, including his admission in 1993 to the Media, Entertainment and Arts Alliance. Typical of his trailblazing style, he was the first felon to achieve this honour.

  Sadly, however, his ever-lurking demons percolated to the surface and in 1996 he was returned to jail following a conviction for armed robbery. The sentence was a crippling ten years. Undeterred, during this time Bernie commenced a correspondence degree in journalism through the University of Queensland. He was granted parole four years later and returned to Sydney, where his writing career flourished. Bernie then attained substantial recognition and success writing for a range of highly acknowledged magazines and newspapers throughout the country. These include Penthouse, Ralph magazine, The Bulletin and The Sun-Herald. He was nominated for several journalism awards and his brilliant exposé of the misuse of DNA evidence in criminal trials was published in the Griffith Review in 2004. Buoyed by his towering success, Bernie completed his tertiary studies and in 2006 graduated with a Bachelor of Mass Communication from the University of Southern Queensland. Pan Macmillan concurrently published the widely acclaimed Intractable, an autobiographical account of his experiences of the sharp end of incarceration during the 1970s. All this from a bloke the system had written off for decades.

  Bernie was not the only scribe in the system. Another, Ted Rankin – a wily, recidivist prisoner – wrote ‘Who Makes the Inkblots’, a humorous analysis of psychotherapy in jail, suggesting that often prison shrinks are being assessed and beguiled by their patients. In passing, there is clearly some merit to the argument and young players need to be ever vigilant when it comes to working in close quarters on a daily basis with hardened, manipulative psychopaths.

  Sadly, however, despite his magnificent rehabilitation, Bernie blew it all when in 2008, following a detailed undercover operation, he was charged and ultimately convicted of serious firearm and drug offences. Our paths once again intersected when he approached me for assistance. Notwithstanding entering a guilty plea and compelling evidence concerning his rehabilitation and service to the community, he was smashed by the court on sentencing. He has been back in jail for the past decade. With parole on the horizon, we are maintaining regular contact. I sense further publications are also on the horizon.

  While the men I have described are clearly exceptional in relation to their talents, ingenuity and brilliance, I have encountered many other unsung heroes over the years. These include Bert the incarcerated former telephone linesman who completed his training with the former Postmaster-General’s Department. When it came to hooking up and connecting phones, Bert was without peer. He was consequently in hot demand when another prison genius, Carl Synnerdahl, who conned leading ophthalmologists that he was blind in order to avoid a crushing sentence for armed robbery, chanced upon an old Bakelite telephone handset in the jail. Faster than shit out of a shanghai, Bert hotwired the device to the jail’s antiquated system, enabling Carl to conduct business with his outside underworld connections. Never a dull moment.

  Despite his early promise, Les Connolly fell back into a life of crime upon his release. Arising from his profound understanding and firsthand experience of the criminal justice system, he had obtained a special clearance to work as a paralegal with a leading specialist law firm. Strategy and his lateral approach to legal defence ensured he was in hot demand. He continued, however, to struggle with the evil seduction of heroin, ultimately leading to more armed robberies and incarceration.

  In his later years, he mellowed. By then, Les was in poor health. His liver cirrhotic and feeble, his hard drinking and heavy addiction finally took his life. He died in the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital poignantly on Australia Day 2014.