On the 29th of January, at the Downing Street district court, my farce of a trial commenced. I had to wait for the judge to be appointed. Gulp, I got the hanging judge, justice Michael Finnane; notorious for sentencing the Skaf brothers to 55 years jail for gang rape. Hey, they were pack rapists, good on him; but it always struck me as odd. What sort of message are you sending people who are going to rape someone? Dead people can’t talk. So kill them. Even if you are caught. You don’t get 55 years for murder. You don’t even get half that-go figure.
Anyway, we had a judge, we had a courtroom, we had a prosecutor, (not much of a prosecutor admittedly), now all we needed was a jury. And what a feeble, pathetic bunch they were. Only 2 looked like they would dare speak up, the rest were timids who would jump at their own shadow. Boy, was I up against it, the hanging judge and a jury that would not know the first thing about combat, honour and life after 1am in a bloodhouse nightclub. I was as good as gone and not a word of evidence had been presented. Sure enough, within 3 days, the first juror had been dis-empanelled from the jury for talking to the prosecutor. The jury kept annoying the judge for ridiculous things like a computer to play with and a phone to use while points of law were discussed without the jury’s presence.
First problem was that the commonwealth had sent their own barrister as my assailant, oops, sorry, I mean the victim, was part of a top secret anti terrorist group, who conducted special ops and the government was worried that some of these secrets may come out in trial. The government wasn’t worried that one of their highly trained killers was leading gangs of 20 drunk, drugged, highly aggressive fellow commandos and A grade rugby league players on 14 hour drinking binges attacking law abiding security officers trying to implement the laws that the same government, in all it’s wisdom, made-(all witnesses for the crown testified as to the number in the group.)
Second problem was that the police constantly harassed the only truly independent witness, to such an extent, that the judge asked the prosecutor to contact the DPP to get advice as he was considering referring the matter to the Supreme Court. Hennessy was telling witnesses that they had “a video” showing me “coming over the top” and “banging Bullocks head down the stairs”. No such video was ever produced. (T-636-638)
The only thing that saved detective Hennessy (officer in charge) from going to jail (T-645-647+649) was that this man of honour (the independent witness) stated that he would still give his evidence, even though he felt threatened and intimidated by the police. If he had said that he could no longer give his evidence freely, then the trial would have been abandoned. I would have walked free and the corruption exposed immediately.
The witness was clearly a man of some integrity and grit. He is the hero of this story.
The judge even thought that the PIC should become involved. (T-648) Fat chance - not in the real Australia - they appear to be mates with the police who sip their bloodstained martinis together after a hard day setting people up and whitewashing any complaints. Unless of course, enough people hear about it and their hands are forced. Which is why the media have such an important role to play.
Boy, are the police, the watchdogs and the media failing the Australian people. (until 3 and a half years into the struggle when the Southern Courier ran a story before a "trumped up charges" court case in October 2009, which I won; and of course the channel tens News story in their 5pm news also in October 2009. It was third lead story and they presented a very fair view. They even embarrassed the police commissioner who conceded that he had not seen the document. (a link to this can be found near the end of the "malicious harassment since trial" chapter)
The Third problem for them was that the poor old prosecutor only had idiotic liars to work with. How these liars kept straight faces when the CCTV contradicted every thing they said escapes me. (See Transcript - CCTV). Even the off duty police woman, who was lured to precinct DY from Surry Hills by the corrupt Hennessy a month after “the incident”, was caught out by the CCTV. She tried to insinuate that the CCTV was wrong? (See Transcript - Simpson). She said, with a straight face, to the judge, that she was never wrong, even after the CCTV clearly proved beyond doubt that she was.
After the judge had heard the crown case, and my 2 + days on the stand, he offered the jury a Prasad, which means he has heard enough, he had important “circuit work” to do, and this was wasting his time. Even though he very rarely gives them, he did so with very little prompting. For all the faults in our system, this gentleman of a judge gives me some hope that the system can be saved. The annoying thing is that if we had chosen a judge trial instead of a jury trial, (we get to choose), I would have scored a major victory in 2 weeks and it would have given me a spring board in which to launch a crippling blow on corruption. I now have to do it the hard way, the long way round so to speak.
This jury was full of surprises and this decision was no different. They over ruled the judge. They were having too much fun. They wanted to see the man mountain, they wanted to see the movie star. They never wanted the trial to end. This was better than a movie theatre and they had front row seats. My barrister, Peter Lavac, had given the prosecution witnesses their just desserts; a proper flogging. It was ironic; for nearly 3 decades I had been a warrior for hire, a hired gun; then I found myself in a fight where I needed to hire my own warriors, and I got the best. My solicitor, who prefers anonymity, was the perfect foil for the “tear them to pieces” style my barrister Peter used. The 3 of us made an unbeatable team; prosecutor Aitken was totally outclassed; there was one point in the trial where the whole courtroom shrieked in laughter as one at his attempt to show the court how Bullock said he was pushing me. The crown witness Richards said “not poofy movements like that” in response to Aitkens limp wrested charade. It was a good 3 or 4 minutes before everyone settled down. Even the judge had to cover his mouth. I am not exaggerating, people were literally rolling around in hysterics. The circus, I mean trial, finished early that day so everyone could regain their composure.
As I already knew the jury would hang me, which I knew before a word was spoken, their verdict of guilty to the lowest charge came as no surprise, even though we had clearly won every day of trial. The judge stared at them and asked them all if this was unanimous. The 2 sterns predictably nodded instantly while the 9 timids nodded once they saw the sterns nod. A surprised judge dismissed them and a disbelieving but jubilant prosecutor jumped to his feet and immediately asked for my passport. Like I had any money left to buy a plane ticket. The judge asked if I was going anywhere, then acquiesced to the prosecutors demand. Even if I did have money, I wasn’t going anywhere. I had finally found the reason for my existence. I was a born corruption fighter. I was going to stand and fight. I was going to fight till the day I died. I was now a warrior with a cause. The real damage caused by the jury's descision is that it has made it harder for people to listen to the real issue; entrenched, systemic corruption and paper tiger watchdogs.
2 months after trial was sentencing day, or should I say sentencing fortnight. It should have been over in minutes, but all the police came to watch. They came with glares of hate, and it filled me with pride; I had hurt them, and their malice gave me strength. For hours Aitken attacked, and for hours I repelled him. The poor fool never laid a glove on me (See my testimony in the trial and sentencing transcript), either during trial or sentencing. I never hesitated once, my eyes were locked with his; he knew I had been set up, he knew the police had used illegal and immoral tactics, he knew the police had perverted the course of justice, yet he still tried his hardest to put me in jail for life, knowing full well that I was an innocent man.
On the penultimate day of sentencing, the police and the prosecutor read the writing on the wall. They must have had an inkling when, during one of prosecuter Aitkens pathetic attempts to denigrate my honour, the judge interrupted him and said “I don’t like Bullock, I don’t like his wife, and I don’t like his friends; Bullock got his just desserts!" The prosecutor gave the judge precedents for full time jail, egged on by the hissing vipers Mooney and Hennessy. If they did not get the hint then, and after the judge deferred his decision for a week, he told the prosecutor and the police that they “should have other things to do by then”, and “that their presence was not required”. Oh dear, it seems they outstayed their welcome-bye bye. Next week, the learned judge made the following comments (See the sentencing transcript and the "Dirk-no conviction" news article in the media chapter, under the Manly Daily's coverage). That I was “a man of good character”, that I “broke no law”, that I was “doing my duty” and that the lead commando "got his just desserts"
