Hits and Memories: Chopper 2 (13 page)

Chapter 18

Tone-deaf kidnapper hits wrong note

‘Mr Eastwood did not arrive at Pentridge on a wave of popularity’

EDWIN John Eastwood is one of the most notorious criminals in Australia.

Eastwood was jailed for 15 years for kidnapping six school children and their teacher, Miss Mary Gibbs, from the Faraday Primary School, near Bendigo, in 1972. Five years later he escaped from Geelong jail and kidnapped nine chidren and seven adults from the Wooreen Primary School.

Eastwood demanded a ransom of $7 million and was shot in the leg and recaptured after a high speed car chase with police. He was sentenced to 21 years for the second kidnapping.

In 1979 Eastwood completed a religious course run by the Seventh Day Adventist Church, in 1982 he did a bible study course and in 1985 he was baptised in jail. But religion didn’t stop him getting into trouble: in 1981 he was charged and acquitted of killing standover man Glen Joseph Davies in Jika Jika.

In 1990 he was released on parole but was convicted of a factory burglary, sentenced to 12 months and had his parole revoked.

In Read’s first book he said he felt that Eastwood had reformed and would not commit any further crimes when he was eventually released again.

Read described him as a ‘true gentleman, and a loyal friend.’ However, Read did write that Eastwood loved to play the guitar and that he drove other inmates crazy by strumming the instrument for hours. ‘What we had was a tone deaf kidnapper with visions of taking to the stage one day. The first stage out of town, I was hoping.’

Here the kidnapper replies:

Dear Mark,

I recently received a letter from a reporter asking me to comment on various aspects to do with you.

I just thought I would let you know that I won’t be replying to him as I don’t wish to have anything to do with you ever again in any manner, shape or form.

I read in utter disbelief the personal attack you made upon me in your book. I am pretty naive, I guess. I thought we were on reasonably good terms and yet you turned on me in your book with lies, just like a snake.

I have done what you have always suggested that I do and have written a book of my own, due for release soon. When I read your book it took me three weeks to remove all I intended to say about the Mark I thought I knew and replace it with a smaller summary of the Mark you obviously are.

Your book has obviously taken priority over everything in your life to the point of sickness. I look back now on that day in H Division labor yard when you tried to snap my neck.

I realise now, with sadness, that you sought to take my life, not through the slightest hint of real malice, but merely as something that would make good subject matter for your future book. I left that incident out of my book, merely out of respect for the good side of you that you seem so keen to stifle.

I wish you well for your sequel, but I want to make it quite clear that I don’t want to have anything to do with you ever again. With mates like you, who needs enemies?

Do yourself a favor and seek psychiatric help.

Ted.

WHEN I received this letter from my old mate, ‘Tedwood’, Ted Eastwood, I could tell he was not at all pleased with me. The only thing I said about Ted in my book was a comical reference to his musical ability.

Like so many crims, Ted can tend to take himself a little seriously and he sees his ability with the guitar as something akin to Eric Clapton.

I don’t remember ever mentioning my nearly snapping his neck in a playful wrestling match in H Division. Perhaps I should also mention that if I had wanted to snap his neck, purely in self defence mind you, it would have been heard all the way to Faraday.

Ted also forgets to mention that his friendship with me, many years ago, kept him alive for a long time. If I may be crude enough to bring up the past, Ted is, in fact, the kidnapper of small children – not once, but twice. Let me assure you, therefore, that Mr Eastwood did not arrive at Pentridge on a wave of popularity. His friendship with me helped keep his neck in one piece and it certainly didn’t do anything for my popularity.

I suppose I must now sadly admit our friendship is over. For the life of me, I still can’t work out what I said to offend the poor bugger.

Even so, it must be said poor Ted still can’t play the guitar.

PS: I did go to the psychiatrist once, and when I went to leave the doctor said. ‘Send in Ted Eastwood.’

Ha, ha.

Chapter 19

The Prince of Pain (or why I hate dentists)

‘He broke several teeth, then dug in like a Welsh coal miner’

A TRAINED observer might notice that I have half the teeth missing from the top of my mouth. This is a little memento of a visit I had to a prison dentist in the 1980s. I use the term ‘dentist’ loosely. The man is no longer there and I cannot remember his name, but if he was to walk over to me in a pub and introduce himself, I would not be responsible for my actions. And after hearing the full story I don’t think any jury in the world would convict me. In fact, I am sure they would find that it was a clearcut case of justifiable homicide.

This dentist was a man with a weak wrist, he was not physically strong and he had a nervous disposition. I suppose looking inside the gobs of psychopaths didn’t help his mental state.

I went to see him in handcuffs. Personally, I thought they had the cuffs on the wrong bloke. I still don’t know why he was nervous. Surely, it wasn’t the crack that I didn’t like dentists, that I wanted any treatment to be fast and painless, and if it wasn’t I would be forced to do something rash. It was was only a joke, but he turned pale and gave a nervous laugh.

While he was giving me one of four injections he dropped his syringe on the floor, picked it up, and said with a little giggle, ‘nothing broken’ and then put it back in my mouth. There would have been something broken if I could have got my hands free, I can assure you.

I knew I was in terrible trouble. He pulled 11 teeth, three from the bottom back and the rest from the top — and he only injected the top.

He had trouble with each one. He broke several teeth, then dug in like a Welsh coal miner. I said as I pulled his hand away, spitting blood on the floor, ‘are you a real dentist.’ I was sure he had broken my jaw. He had one knee on my chest and the other on a chair to get leverage.

The prison officer guarding me screwed his face up as he saw what was happening. My jaw felt as though it had been dislocated for several months. I will remember that man’s face until the day that I die. He would have been a great asset to any torture gang. A gas bottle blow torch or the boltcutters pale in comparison. That man was the Prince of Pain.

*

DUE to the lamentable lack of bar service at Pentridge, I was often forced to enjoy a drop of aftershave and coke. A cheap bottle of aftershave and an icy cold can of coke.

I would fill up a cup of aftershave then down it really quick and chase it down with half a can of cold coke. It got you roaring mad drunk in about 90 seconds, fighting drunk in my case. But it did give you sweet smelling breath, even if it did cream off half your brain cells.

It was a dangerous and desperate drink and I would not recommend it. I put some very large holes in my manners under the insane influence of aftershave and coke. It really is the devil’s brew, believe me.

In Jika Jika we used to get large, very cheap bottles of some floral smelling French afershave, made in Hong Kong. But for special occasions we might crack a bottle of Brut or Old Spice. The top shelf, a cheeky little drop with a good nose. Ha ha.

*

JEFF Lapidos is a well-meaning bloke who heads the Prison Reform Group. He was the head of the Prisoners’ Action Group, but there was a split and now there are two groups.

What these people do is a mystery to me, but both groups love to hate The Chopper, which is a never-ending source of amusement to me. Lapidos and his motley collection of do-gooders have a radio program on community radio. When I was in Pentridge, I would hear my good name mentioned on the program regularly. Some of them seemed to hate me with such venom that it was comical.

While the do-gooders desperately want to help some of the inmates, the amount of prisoner support in jail for them is very slight. A small group of malcontents worship Lapidos and they would want him as their president after ‘the revolution’. But the vast majority of prisoners see it all as a giant yawn.

The Vietnamese can’t understand the prison reformers and the neo-Nazis don’t like them because some scallywag told them Lapidos was supposed to be Jewish. The rest of the jail population are too drugged out to even listen to the radio, leaving the reformers to deal with a small group with political aspirations. That mob would think Mao Tse Tung was a Chinese brand name for one-minute noodles in a cup.

I see Lapidos as a harmless Lefty. Peter Reid, who was acquitted of the Russell Street bombing, thinks the world of him.

*

WHEN it comes to Pentridge, one fellow I must mention is Henry. I will not mention his real name because of legal concerns. I have known Henry for some 20 years. We have been in the same divisions over the years and never a cross word has passed between us.

I have been disgusted over the past three decades to see the hard men of the crime world over-run by drug running wimps, but Henry stands out as the exception, one of the few who will not change his ways.

You won’t see any big stories about him but he is one of the quiet, hard men of the criminal world and the prison system. He would rather do someone a good turn than a bad one. Yet I know that he is a very violent man when he is crossed, or in matters of criminal business.

Henry is from the old school and wouldn’t give anyone up. He didn’t try to involve himself in the politics of the prison system and the various power struggles. And he doesn’t involve himself in underworld feuds on the outside. He has always been desperate to keep a low profile, but I have seen him upend some of the biggest gangsters about, much to my amusement and delight.

He is a fair dinkum tough man and although we are not close friends, I have always liked his style.

*

MY first book has brought all the criminal whackos out of the woodwork. Once upon a time, all prisoners dreamt of escaping . . . now they dream of best sellers. Jails all over Australia are humming to the sound of typewriters and word processers as assorted nitwits, junkies and lunchtime legends pound out their life stories and their tales of woe.

Ted ‘call me Eric Clapton’ Eastwood is writing his life story. I understand my old sparring partner, Keithy Faure, is writing his story. And the Hoddle Street killer, Julian ‘pass the ammo’ Knight, is writing his memoirs. And these are just the sane ones.

Well, there has been a book done on Walsh Street. And I suppose there will be one on Russell Street, Hoddle Street and Queen Street as well. As for the rest of the mental retards, if they have to they should all get together and combine their life stories . . . they could call it
Sesame Street for Psychos
. My God, what have I started, having mentioned these retards in my book. They now want to write their stories.

So it has come to this: from gang wars to publishing wars. Like it or not, I’ll win this war too. Keep banging away, you pack of dream merchants.

THE LUNCHTIME LEGENDS

He’s the lunchtime legend from a gangster comic,
The man who could not lose,
The boss of all bosses, who got his guts from booze,
He hasn't got a story, so he ‘II tell a heap of lies,
A man of broken dreams, he goes to his cell and cries.
He could never beat the Chopper, none of them ever could,
He’s got the mind of a rat but the heart of a plastic hood,
So now with his typewriter he plots his big reply,
None of them could beat me, or make me fall and die,
Face to face, I beat the lot; All it took was a dirty look,
So now he plans his comeback, the nitwit is writing a book.
Well, I hope he goes real well, and gives it a real good burst.
But just remember, arse wipe,
The Chopper got there first.

Chapter 20

The Beach Ball didn’t do it

‘He killed a Turk one day with just one punch, and he was found not guilty’

IN October, 1991, Read’s close friend in H Division, Frankie Waghorn, was convicted of the murder of smalltime drug dealer John Turner, 41.

The Supreme Court was told that Waghorn and another man repeatedly stabbed Turner as the victim pleaded for his life.

The court was told that the pair stole Turner’s jewellery, valued at $10,000, before burying the body in a backyard rubbish heap.

Waghorn shared the house with Turner before the murder.

The Crown alleged that a woman in a nearby bedroom heard Turner say, ‘Please no, there must be some other way’.

An autopsy showed that Turner was stabbed 38 times in the head and chest.

The woman said she heard a voice say: ‘Give me your knife; these other knives are breaking’.

Waghorn was convicted of the murder, but he appealed and won a re-trial. He was convicted again at the second trial and sentenced to 17 years with a minimum of 13.

I HAVE mentioned that one of the few men who has stuck with me is Frankie Waghorn, the big bald beach ball who, I reckon, could punch the teeth out of an elephant. I have said before that the number of sooks in jail who cry that they are innocent can be numbered in their thousands. They all say they were innocent but there would only be a couple I have ever met who have a legitimate case.

Now Frankie may be a mate, but let me say that I believe that Frankie is one of the few who can rightly claim he has been hard done by. I know for a fact that Frankie had nothing to do with the murder of that two-bob junkie gangster, Johnny ‘Beeper’ Turner.

Far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, but Turner was a junkie, a bigmouth, and a rat. And they were his good points.

His only claim to fame was that he was the nephew of the old time heavy Joey Turner. Big deal. Joey was only a fetch and carry boy for a big time crook called Jack Twist.

If Frankie Waghorn had backhanded Johnny Turner, then Turner would have been in a coma. Frankie could stop a raging rhino with a left hook. Frankie has never needed weapons; he is the last of the true bare knuckle men. The hardest puncher I have ever seen, he is bloody deadly with a punch in the mouth.

He killed a Turk one day with just one punch, and he was found not guilty. To think that Frankie Waghorn would need to repeatedly use a knife in order to kill a physical flea like Turner is laughable.

Frankie Waghorn is doing life over this rubbish and I will scream long and loud that he is not guilty.

Junkie false pretenders told lies about him and he got life. Frankie is no angel. He is a crook, but whatever he has been guilty of, he did not kill Johnny Turner, believe me.

He is the only truly innocent man convicted of murder that I know. Mind you, if you listen to blokes inside, there’s not a guilty man in any jail in Australia.

*

MAYBE Johnny Jones could tell the real story. Johnny Jones is a two-bob thug and crim who had big dreams of being a tough guy until the spoon and needle got the better of him.

He has done time for various crimes of violence, including a manslaughter charge where he buried the victim in the backyard. Now he is doing a life sentence over the murder of Johnny Turner. Surprise, surprise, Turner was also buried in the backyard — but this time at Frankie Waghorn’s house.

Both Turner and Jones were house guests at Frankie’s. Jones got arrested on an armed robbery charge, then asked for bail and promised that he would tell police about a murder. He then told them that Frankie Waghorn had put Turner off.

After several changed statements and assorted stories, Jones was charged with murder, but he wanted to bring Frankie along for the ride.

Jones is now in strict protection in Pentridge because if Frankie tosses just one punch at him it will be lights out forever, believe me. Jones is just another example of how drugs can pervert, corrupt and destroy the very soul of a man.

In return for trying to help Jones and Turner and trying to get them off drugs, all Frankie got was cruel betrayal.

FRANKIE

Frankie got the lot,
So tell me why and for what,
Pinched on a set-up murder blue,
What was said in court wasn’t true,
Yes, I know he’s not a saint, and he’s no wimpy cupid,
But he’s too bloody smart to have been so bloody stupid,
Frankie’s not a mug, or some two-bob learner,
And I know for a fact, he never put off Turner.