LIFE BEHIND BARS

NINETEEN-ninety-six: a year to remember. When the two keys turn for
the first time in the steel door of Casuarina Prison, the reality of
what lies before you descends like an overbearing cloud.

As you try to glance through the small steel window, you realise you
will not see the stars or the rising or setting sun for years to come.

There, in your cell of eight feet by six feet with a steel-frame bed,
two wooden shelves bolted to the wall, concrete walls and floors, it
is the reality of your circumstances.

You close your eyes to remember the good things about your family and
friends, and what had brought you to the lowest ebb of your life.

Your mind flashes back to your time in the holding cells at Central
lock-up, the walk up the back stairs with a policeman in tow and, as
the door springs open, being confronted with the eyes of the jury, the
public gallery, the prosecutor and QCs in black gowns and white wigs
and the judge with purple robes looking down upon you.

At that moment, you realise that the justice system purporting that
you are innocent until proven guilty is far from reality.

The jury of your supposed peers 96 not one of them with any business or
legal experience, and some without present employment 96 is about to
judge you on a complicated business transaction that occurred almost
10 years before.

The case is the Crown v. Bond in the matter of the La Promenade
painting. I was charged with not giving Bond Corporation the
opportunity to acquire and obtain 100 per cent profit back in 1984.

Now, in 1996, the prosecutor is convincing the jury that my intentions
were less than honourable. The case itself was very complicated, and I
wonder how a contract prepared by one of Perth's leading law firms,
approved by a board of 12 directors without my voting on it, could
possibly be interpreted adversely.

Well, the verdict of guilty is a matter of record.

The jury was out for 36 hours to reach a decision based on what the
prosecutor described as a circumstantial transaction.

After all, I was in the box, with a policeman sitting beside me 96 and
I couldn't be there if I wasn't guilty.

I was extremely ill during the court case, suffering from infected and
bleeding kidneys, which gave me a feeling of nausea and weakness.

My solicitors and counsel had asserted that I had no case to answer,
so I was devastated when the jury decided otherwise.

After all, I had put up the money to purchase the painting and had
accounted for 50 per cent of the profit to Bond Corporation, in
accordance with the agreement with the company. The problems faced by
the defence team were exacerbated by the death of my dear friend Peter
Beckwith, who could have provided confirming evidence.

Moreover, two other senior executives, Peter Mitchell and Tony Oates,
were in international locations. Although we applied to have them give
evidence by video, the judge disagreed that this was necessary.

IN that first night in a cell, I reflected on the six weeks the court
hearing had taken. Fifteen hours later, the two keys turned in the
steel door, and my first day at Casuarina began.

As a new inmate, I had to discover what I was required to do from the
other prisoners, as there were no briefings by the officers.

I would be counted every two hours. I would be required to work in one
of the workshops, or I could apply for further studies at the
education centre, which included an art school and a computer school.

I would be at risk in the open areas of the prison during the two
hours that were allowed for exercise programs. I would, moreover, be
at risk of being attacked just because I was a high-profile prisoner.

Not one to show my internal fears, I set about a plan that would see
me through this difficult period with the help of prayers and my
man-management skills.

When those steel gates of the prison, surrounded by high brick walls
and razor wire, and the steel doors of my cell closed behind me, I
felt alone, destitute and at the mercy of the system and those around
me.

There was little comfort I could draw from my experiences and my
contribution to society. Nevertheless, if I were to survive, I had to
make a plan and adapt to the situation as best I could.

The first visit day, which I had been looking forward to, became a
further humiliation. For a one-hour visit, I was subjected to a
strip-search, having to stand naked while the officers looked on, then
strip-searched again after the visit. I was given a grey T-shirt and a
pair of tight grey leggings to wear. This was the official dress in
which all prisoners had to meet their families and loved ones.

But without those visits from my wife, Diana, and the family, who
themselves had to endure lining up for possible searches, I'm sure I
wouldn't have survived.

I will always be grateful to my family, friends and many members of
the public who regularly wrote to me with their good wishes and support.

AFTER the first month, I was transferred to the Karnet prison farm,
where the old buildings, held together with paint and where rats
climbed over the beds at night, are laid out against the tranquil
background of a working farm.

There were fewer formalities, a great deal more freedom, and even the
jailers were more relaxed towards the prisoners.

Nevertheless, we were still counted every two hours, and often torches
were shone in our eyes to make sure we hadn't died during the night.

I made the best of this and participated in programs to improve the
facilities for visitors and prisoners alike. A new facility has been
built in the past six months called Self Care, and this is a great
improvement. Without doubt, such raising of standards helps prisoners
prepare for re-entry to the community.

Little did I know that after 12 months, I would be returned for a full
18 months to the Casuarina maximum-security prison, the worst prison
environment in Western Australia 96 a hell-hole where there is little
opportunity for rehabilitation.

In fact, if you attended an educational program or an arts school, you
were considered by many of the jailers to be a bludger.

Fortunately, in that 18 months at Casuarina, I found solace and mental
stimulation in the art school, which allowed me to paint from 8am to
4pm on weekdays and complete a Diploma of Art through TAFE.

After six months, I was able to convince the superintendents to allow
me to run business classes, which included motivation and regaining
self-esteem.

The classes comprised 10 individuals who, with some help, had the
desire and determination to improve themselves for when they were released.

The programs covered were simple: family budgeting; buying and
financing a house; starting and running a small business; and the
functions of the stock market.

Having people focus on a strategic plan for the future allows them to
also focus on their personal needs and aspirations and the work ethic
it will take to be successful.

I can say with some satisfaction that after the 16-week courses, there
was a remarkable change in the attitude, hopes and aspirations of
those who attended. I believe many will go on to be successful in
their future lives.

Unfortunately, the prison system in general fails to recognise that
offenders need a great deal of help to re-establish themselves in the
communities to which they will be returned.

Rather, it tends to foster aggression and disregard for the justice
system that has locked them away as forgotten souls.

Long-term incarceration does more harm than the penalty is intended to
produce. Yes, there are those who cannot be released into society, but
they are in the minority.

The difficulty is that at least 40 per cent of prisoners have
committed drug or drug-related offences, yet drugs find their way into
the prison system, contributing to the erratic behaviour and dangerous
circumstances in jails, where bashings and knifing are
commonplace.

If there are inadequate programs in prisons to help those with
drug-related problems, when they are released they perceive there is
no alternative but to re-offend.

I felt this first-hand when a wire rope was placed around my neck by a
drug-affected inmate. If not for the intervention of a young man, I
fear I would not be here to write this story.